I stopped off at the Chalmette battlefield, where took place the event typically called the Battle of New Orleans – in which General Andrew Jackson repulsed an invading British army as the last act of the War of 1812. Jackson was defending New Orleans – hence the traditional name of the battle – but it did take place in Chalmette, and I think the people of Chalmette prefer to claim something as their own, so the battle’s name is slowly changing.
Live oak and oxalis.
The battlefield is just off the river road, which here is a grubby four-lane divided boulevard. The first thing that greets visitors coming from the south is a military burying ground, where Union soldiers buried their dead while occupying New Orleans. Freed slaves – who I suppose had no burying ground nor money to buy plots – were also buried here. Other war dead were added as our national wars accumulated, filling the cemetery, which is now closed to further interments. Under a spreading live oak beneath whose bows grew a fine lawn studded with beautiful pink-blooming oxalis I found a picnic table, where I parked my bike and took out my lunch.
It was an oasis of calm in a dirty, industrial, urbanized area, but I was still in lower Louisiana: I was not going to be left eating a meal alone without some friendly soul appearing. One of the groundskeepers, a white man with longish hair, came up to me. At first I thought he was going to kick me out.
“Where you going?”
“Eventually, Minnesota. I’m following the river.”
He looked around in both directions, as if to make sure no one was nearby. I thought he was going to sell me something illegal.
“I’ve got a Trek 600.” He looked both ways again. “I used to ride that thing all the time. My best friend used to say she was like my girlfriend, I used to ride her all the time. I want to start riding again. Hopefully… I’ve got retirement coming. I mean, I could retire now, but I wouldn’t have much retirement. I’m 57…” He looked a decade younger. “Hopefully in three years. I wouldn’t do what you’re doing, but just, locally, you know.”
“I don’t know, I recommend this way of seeing things,” I said. “I can’t believe how many things have happened to me just since Venice, and how much I’ve seen. It changes a lot just between Venice and here.”
“Yeah. Uneducated” – he pointed downstream – “more educated,” pointing all his fingers to the ground. He laughed, I suppose thinking of Chalmette as “educated.” So he corrected himself: “This is blue class” – his term – “and down there uneducated. And it will get more educated as you go north.” He looked both ways again. “All right, I’ve got to get back to work.” I suppose that was the reason for his caution. “Hey.” He put one index finger on the other, as if about to count out something important to me. “Robert Plant’s playing Saturday. Eric Clapton’s playing Sunday.” He started walking away. “Jazzfest.” He took a few more steps and then turned around. “If you’re smart you’ll go to that concert.”
He then walked off. I was left to my own thoughts for a few moments. He walked by again, this time on some business. “Springsteen’s playing too. And John Fogerty. In my mind, the biggest rockers there are – I mean, Clapton’s good, some people like Clapton – you know, I saw Led Zeppelin before you were born. I saw them in 1973.”
“That was indeed before I was born.”
“Like I said, if you’re smart.” He then walked away for good.
It was a Thursday. This would be the first weekend of Jazzfest. I sighed to myself. I was already getting lured in. The force of New Orleans was capturing me already – I could feel the place pulling me down the road.
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