Plaquemines Cowboys.

You never know what you’ll find when you turn a corner in New Orleans. I am not the only one who doesn’t drive a car.

I passed Liuzza’s Restaurant while I was headed somewhere. I was impelled to make a quick U-turn. I passed Liuzza’s, on Bienville Street, not the unrelated Liuzza’s-by-the-Track on North Lopez Street, on the other side of Mid-City. You cannot trademark your last name.

There were two horses tied up outside Liuzza’s. They were secured to the posts that are out front, the ones topped by horses’ heads, each one holding a ring in its teeth. The living horses bridles were looped through the metal horses’ rings.

I went inside Liuzza’s to see if I could determine who had ridden into town. It was easy to pick these two out. They were dressed like Roy Rodgers and Dale Evans.

It turns out that they came all the way from Plaquemines Parish. They rode through the tunnel under the Belle Chasse Canal. From there they rode up through Terrytown through unincorporated Gretna, until they reached The Algiers side of the Chalmette Ferry. The crossed the Mississippi River to disembark in Chalmette, where they continued toward New Orleans, taking their time. Their journey started before the sun came up. They watched the quieter fringes of the greater New Orleans metro area wake up, shaking off sleep to start a semi-productive day on the edge of the habitable world.

They paused long enough to place their hats over their hearts, the horses heads hanging dolefully, in front of the Chalmette National Cemetery. That cemetery is not full of the war dead from the Battle of New Orleans. It mostly contains the remains of Confederates killed in the Civil War. May God rest their eternal souls. War is Hell.

The distance between Chalmette Battlefield and Liuzza’s restaurant takes two-and-a-half hours to traverse on slow horseback. These two Plaquemines cowboys were in no rush. The horses walked. They could have galloped but the slow ways are best. This is New Orleans. The counterintuitive way is best.

After that, I hung out in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel.

Every day in New Orleans is a day spent swirling in a kaleidoscope.