Walking Tour with Milton and Presbytere

Saint Louis Cemetery One

Open 24 hours! Hey baaaaaby!

View of Jackson Square from Washington Artillery Park

I struggled to roll out of bed for the early morning walking tour, feeling the pangs of Saturday night out in New Orleans. I managed to arrive in the French Quarter with enough time to stop in to Cafe Du Monde, the coffee establishment with chicory coffee and beignets that are to die for. Gray pigeons with orange legs have no shame waddling onto the beige-tiled floor to find the crumbs and fill their obese bellies with fallen powdered sugar. Bundled up in 2 coats, gloves, and a white-woven scarf wrapped around my head to keep out the wind, I walked the block over to Washington Artillery Park, fighting my fatigue and the bitter chill. The class of twenty people circled around Washington Artillery Park, to meet the tour guide, Milton. He arrived in a yellow jacket and purple hat, an African-American in his 60s, heavyset and a New Orleans native. His personality showed through, as his knowledge was paired with clever traces of humor and charm. He explained that the easiest way to blend in with the NOLA natives is to say "Hey baaaaaaby, how-you-mom-an-em." Milton's personal experiences were even further fascinating, as he lived through segregation, integration, and the racial disparities of New Orleans' past. Artillery Park was raised above two flights of stairs, looking at one end onto the beautiful Spanish-modified architecture of Jackson Square, Saint Louis Cathedral, Cabildo, Presbytere, and the brick-layed and cast iron of the Pontalba apartments; at the other end the mile wide Mississippi reflecting the remnants of a colorful sunrise, a large bridge to allow people out of New Orleans, and an aged barge which may be used to deliver the seafood caught from the river. Milton was a wealth of knowledge that paired with his personal stories of living in the city. As he showed us Coffee Pot and described how the large double doors on each building were once used to allow horse-drawn carriages to enter, he also told us that his aunt works their. It was impressive to meet so many people that had pride in their home, as I can promise I have fewer nice things to say about Illinois. The passion that poured from Milton's description of the city's history was profound. He brought us to the Preservation Hall, the place that was created to preserve classical musicians. The aged brick surrounded the sage green door, a sign hanging above the door with smudged lettering.

We continued to walk, to view the city and its natural morning order of quiet. The most interesting part of the tour was the Saint Louis Cemetery One. Located at the edge of the French Quarter, it was in a rough part of the city. I noted more littering, more beggars, and more police cars in this area, as we passed through. Arrival to the cemetery was coupled with an intriguing sign attached to the rod iron fence "Cannot enter without tour guide". It struck me as odd, can people not visit their loved ones without paying a fee? Milton explained that the vandalism was so high in this cemetery they closed it to the public. You can enter if your family is buried here or if you are part of a tour group. The view of row after row of cement tombs, families entombed above ground, immaculate in their aged stucco and beautiful in peaceful rest. The tomb of Marie Laveau was located here, although controversy exists about which of the three tombs she is actually buried in, within the cemetery. This Voodoo Queen is still sought after today for her powerful spiritual energy and visitors place XXX on her tomb to request her help with a personal matter. If the XXX is later circled, Marie has acknowledged and approved the request. Milton laughed as he explained that a tour guide like himself was likely the one who created this spooky tradition. He also warned us that writing on or stepping on any tomb is a felony offense that he would not recommend. The tour ended in the soul of New Orleans and the birthplace of music, Congo Square. I had researched Congo Square prior to coming on the trip and I was excited to see the grounds that functioned as a marketplace for colored people in the 1700 and 1800s.

Tomb of Marie Laveau

Later in the afternoon the class met at the Presbytere, an old building that was erected during Spanish rule of New orleans, now exists as a museum. The current exhibits display history about Hurricane Katrina and Mardi Gras. My knowledge of Katrina was pretty basic, as the event happened when I was fourteen and I did not frequently watch the news. The most interesting room of the exhibit allowed viewers to watch news stories and interviews from survivors, related to a variety of topics: communication breakdown, superdome, first responders, rescued but stranded, ordinary heroes, hospitals, fear and chaos, etc. The morose image that Milton described of coming back home and every one of your items had a certain gray matter imbedded into it, faired true. The somber image of the exhibit was a teddy bear on display, covered in gray, soot madded into the fur. I imagined the crying child, looking for their best friend. The parents more worried about a home to come back to then a toy, having a difficult time consoling the child.

The tone of exhibits completely changed, as I walked upstairs to view the Mardi Gras history. Actual costumes were the majority displayed, with every color, feather, jewel, and mask imaginable. There were rooms devoted to advertisement posters, invitations, and even the crown and scepter the Rux King and Queen. Mardi Gras was the most elegant and simultaneously the most rowdy and rambunctious event of the year.

After the week of history lessons and visiting historic sites, I felt that I understood New Orleans and its way of life. The strength of the people and the diversity that they share was very welcomed. New Orleans is the place of rebuilding and never giving up. The place of music and art on the streets and supporting the local artisits and their homeless comrades. New Orleans is a place overrun by tourists, like myself, that are consistently introduced into the city each day with friendly smiles and suggestions of where to eat. I was inspired by the intricate past and how they became the city they are today. I was inspired by the many artists who migrated to New Orleans, from a place less accepting of their nonconformism and expression. I learned that this city suffers from similar crime rates and aversions that any other city does, but the difference is they fight back. They acted on the vandalism in the cemetery, as this population has high-regard for those who have passed and their tomb sites are sacred ground. The common thread that combined Katrina and Mardi Gras, a simple fact that people who had become homeless after the wreckage still celebrated Mardi Gras, parading around piles of debris. Tradition is a god to this city. They are innovative and they finish anything they have started. Tragedy does not silence their music or stop their hands from creativity. Instead they breath and live the experience until it shines through as beauty, embedded in their art.