After two long years, Jazz Fest beckoned. Could I go?
I wasn’t a fest-every-day type, but I have fond memories of attending with my husband, usually on the first day or locals’ Thursday. After his death, I went with friends or sometimes alone.
Last year, given the long isolation of lockdown, I longed to be in that number but I’d had knee replacement surgery. Even after therapy, I hadn’t walked long distances. Could I manage the Fairgrounds? When the first Friday dawned sunny and breezy, I decided Jazz Fest 2022 was a go.
The first hurdle: Getting there. I’d been using a walker. Could I ride the shuttle bus from the Natchez wharf as I had in the past, now with a walker?
The shuttle staff at the wharf were great. They helped me fold and stash the walker, join a crowded bus and away we went. Arriving, we had a shock.
The line of folks waiting to get in the gate stretched longer than I had ever seen it, even doubling back on itself — hours, it seemed. People standing in the queue said rumor was a new ticket company caused a mix-up. We inched along, and I was glad for my little red walker’s built-in seat. The sun got hot, and only a lone tree offered one oasis of shade. We waited.
Suddenly, a man wearing a blue shirt approached me.
“Do you need help with this line?” Later, I saw others in blue shirts, apparently helpers for disabled festers.
“Well, yes,” I answered.
“Follow me. I’ll be Moses parting the Red Sea.”
He was. We marched toward the gate, him calling “Excuse me, coming through,” me looking straight ahead, not meeting the eyes of jealous queuers stepping aside. In a flash, I was through security and into the Fairgrounds.
Age doesn’t have many benefits. This was one.
Navigating with the walker was different but manageable. I could follow plastic handicapped paths. Off the paths, grounds were solid enough that the walker didn’t stall — mostly. I made it to two food booths, enjoying in my ready-made chair the soft-shell crab po-boy and crawfish bread I’d craved. I maneuvered my walker to the Gentilly stage, the Blues tent and enjoyed sublime music in a shady corner of Economy Hall, a favorite. Between sets, I visited the Grandstand. Everyone seemed to be reveling in Jazz Fest’s revival.
The afternoon waned, and so did I. At the gate, shuttles were still dropping busloads of eager festers, but lines were now short. A kind staffer helped me and my walker onto a bus. After waiting awhile and seeing another bus leave, I asked the driver, “You’re going to Natchez wharf, right?” “No,” she said, “the Sheraton.” Wrong bus.
Apologizing, the same staffer helped me climb down, unloading the walker. I’d missed one shuttle, so I settled on my red walker’s seat to wait. Soon, the regretful staffer returned.
“Follow me,” she said. “This bus is going back. He’ll take you.”
She and the driver helped me into the air-conditioned coach’s front seat, perching my walker in the seat across. We were the only passengers.
“I’ve never ridden a private bus,” I told the driver. He smiled. “Enjoy.”
We sped toward the French Quarter, Jazz Fest a happy memory.
Perry lives in New Orleans.
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