Fear and loathing in New Orleans

I decided to presage my upcoming adventure in Argentina with a warmup adventure in these… I decided to presage my upcoming adventure in Argentina with a warmup adventure in these United States.

Last Wednesday, I left Birmingham, Ala., and spent the night in Pulaski, Tenn. Thursday morning, the pastor of the local Presbyterian Church gave me a city tour. It turns out Pulaski is the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan, so he drove me by the building where it all began. For a long time now, a square metal plaque has commemorated the first meeting, but a few years ago when the Klan threw itself a birthday party in Pulaski, the Presbyterians demanded the city take down the plaque.

Pulaski’s city council faced a trying trade-off between history and sensitivity. So, in a triumph of non-Yankee ingenuity, one of the council members straight up bought the building and flipped the plaque around to face the brick wall to which it’s bolted. Now there hangs the mute, blank back of a black piece of steel. I want a celebration to commemorate the Grand Cyclops of Awesomeness who flipped the plaque, cause man, even if you’re a Klansman, you’ve gotta admit that was one of the best ideas ever.

Leaving Pulaski, I headed up some tangle of interstates, wishing the United States had bullet trains, until I got to St. Louis, Mo. There I stayed with my friend Rob at Washington University in St. Louis, and let me tell you something right now: Those kids know their school has a stupid name. If you think you’re clever for lampooning it, you have got another thing coming, and that other thing is a wave of forced chuckles and tired concessions that Washington University is a stupid name for a school in St. Louis.

Rob introduced his roommate.

“This guy created Graffiti, the Facebook application,” he said pointing to Ted. I felt lucky to hang out with such a historic character all weekend, because Barack Obama and Daniel Tosh came to visit St. Louis last weekend, too, and for them it was enough to just chill in the same giant room as Ted. Ted told me, “I like your columns, and I read them online,” which underscores an important point I’d like to make: The guy who created Graffiti likes my columns.

Saturday I saw Barack Obama speak. Because of the event’s historical gravity, I opted to dress smart with my golden corduroy blazer, a scarf and a wool cap. Waiting at the metro afterward, a cute girl approached me wearing a wide, friendly smile like a committed friend.

“Your jacket is totally fabulous!” she said. When I said, “Thank you,” in my lame voice, she fast reversed her conviction that I was super gay – magically, good friend, Bravo channel gay – and mumbled, “I thought this sticker would look good on your jacket.”

Fun fact: St. Louis has America’s second biggest Mardi Gras. But second was one place too far down the list for me, so I left for my next stop: Tulane University.

On the way to New Orleans, in rural Missouri, I walked in a gas station to prepay for the diesel fuel my car eats. The cashier, a gruff-looking, bearded country fellow, stared at me for a second, then asked, “You an Obama man?” in accent strongly Southern for Missouri.

I gulped and looked down to see I was still wearing my jacket – my fabulous, fabulously gay jacket – now with a bright blue Obama sticker affixed to the breast.

“Well, he’s my favorite Democrat,” I said. “But I’m not a big Democrat normally,” I added shortly, because in Alabama, being an Obama man can have repercussions. He furrowed his brow in grizzly distaste at my answer and pulled his beard.

“Me,” he said, “I’m a Hillary man,” and nodded matter-of-factly. I sighed in relief.

Then he kicked my ass.

I went to my first parade Sunday night. New Orleans is an interesting city because you can drink straight liquor in public. Everyone obliges. Standing before a line of three of the best high school marching bands in Louisiana, clutching Popeye’s fried chicken, explaining to a man that, no, I didn’t have enough cash on hand to buy two gold teeth not even for $150 though they’re $95 apiece and, no, I do not believe I can beat that deal elsewhere, I felt at ease with the world in a way that we seldom ever do. Then I headed to the French Quarter.

One of the most interesting things about the French Quarter is that some guy got shot right in front of me. I was walking down the street with an $11 drink, still at ease, when everyone in front of me freaked out and ran backward. In a flash of insight, I connected the stampede to the gunshots ringing out.

“Fancy that!” I thought. My friends and I ducked against a wall. I could see the police had guns pulled on a guy leaning against a building. Suddenly there were about 50 police, many on horses, all screaming, all with guns, even the horses. We could hardly move for the surfeit of guns and horses.

Stay tuned for further adventures in travel. Until then, e-mail Lewis at ljl10@pitt.edu.