Commuting, Communicating And Why Public Transport Matters In London And New Orleans

Ride New Orleans’ vision for the future of public transport in the city

London’s public transport has been central to the city’s identity in modern times – think of red double-deckers, Hackney cabs, and the Tube, whose presence in London’s idea of itself can be traced back as far as Sherlock Holmes. And as the use of the Tube by the fictional detective suggests, the Tube and other public transport systems have long been part of London’s cultural landscape in their own right and are not merely linking mechanisms between its points of interest.

Then there is also of the popularity of alternative tube maps. I have a collection of these that includes the Tube in tinsel, an Underground map where station names are replaced by smells, and a map with “real” distances, which Londoners find silly and unreal.

The Tube map is also used by cartographers here and elsewhere to represent other networks of significance: relationships between philosophers; the Milky Way; or the global network of fibreoptic cables that the internet relies on. All this suggests that the Tube is not just a transport network but a shared internal logic for Londoners, a deep structure for which they instinctively reach.

There is usually little evidence, however, that public transport might represent anything collective on your average Tube or bus journey, where passengers tend to remain resolutely in their individual worlds. In his great poem The Waste Land, T. S. Eliot said of commuters walking over London Bridge: “I had not thought death had undone so many./Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,/And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.”

One person set out to change this recently by producing “Tube chat?” badges, or buttons if you like, to get Londoners to talk to each other on public transport. It may be relevant that this person is an American – in my experience, people from the US are generally far more willing than Brits, and especially Londoners, to talk to strangers.

People in New Orleans can certainly be highly commended for their willingness to strike up a chat, on public transport and elsewhere. But while the city has some notable examples of useful and beloved public transport facilities – for example, the St. Charles streetcar, or the ferry to Algiers – the city, in thrall to the car for too long like many in America, could do better on this front. Public transport campaigning group Ride New Orleans in particular is doing much to bring about change (see the map above for their vision for the future of the city’s public transport).

The opportunity to talk to people you wouldn’t normally encounter is just one small aspect of the importance of good public transport to cities, which brings shared social, cultural, environmental and economic benefits that stretch far beyond the simple convenience of being able to get from A to B. Some cities need help with communication, some with commuting, but the more we all do to nurture our public transport networks and what they can do for cities, the better.

Meet Me In New Orleans (Without Leaving London)

I attend a New Orleans-themed party in Hackney, east London and hear a song with origins closer to home than you might think.

A warm night, palm trees, people happily chatting to strangers. It could almost have been the Marigny and not Hackney. The dive bar in a dilapidated building certainly had a New Orleans “we just threw this together ourselves” kinda vibe. But then these types of venues are oh-so-Hackney too, which also has a love/hate relationship with a shipwrecked-at-the-end-of-the-world reputation.

Other clues we were in London not Louisiana: the palm trees were plastic, and the temperature outside dropped rapidly once the new June sun went down. But, on the other hand, people were talking happily to people they did not know.

Normal London rules for dealing with strangers, in case you are not familiar with them: eye contact = weirdo; smile = get off at the next stop; unsolicited conversation = run! In New Orleans, on the other hand, strangers will stop in the street to talk, and introduce each other to their dogs.

I was at an event called Meet Me In New Orleans, which took place last Saturday, organised by an excellent organisation called New Orleans in London that aims to bring the music and culture of the Crescent City to the UK’s capital.

I would say their mission is a valid one; all things NOLA are relatively unfamiliar to Londoners. Llike most Brits, they tend to think that the US starts with New York and finishes with California, with not much in between.

But the New Orleans magic was certainly evident here. As well as actually engaging in friendly chit-chat, people were dressed up, with many girls in frocks (a rarity in London). That made this habitual overdresser happy – I had made what I thought was a daring last-minute decision to don my party skirt and purple beads.

The venue had made an effort to show some Louisiana hospitality too, serving gumbo and pralines alongside the standard east London tipples on offer: gin and tonics, Japanese beer. The gesture reflected the slightly mystical affinity in New Orleans between music and food. Somehow they are always connected there, and once you have one, you never have to go far to find the other.

Louis Armstrong always used to sign his letters “Red Beans And Ricely Yours” after the classic New Orleans Monday night supper. In the modern era, Kermit Ruffins, one of the city’s biggest jazz stars, can often be found cooking barbecue outside Bywater bar Vaughans on a Thursday night in between sets with his band, the aptly-named Barbecue Swingers.

Which leads me nicely on to Saturday’s music. It was provided by trad jazzers Dixie Ticklers, the rocking Fallen Heroes and DJ Lil’ Koko. Early on, there was some swing dancing going on. But, as I cannot manage any kind of dancing that requires me to remember the difference between left and right or turn at a set time, I was much happier when proceedings descended into a free-for-all Mardi Gras mosh pit.

We heard classics like Tipitina’s, When The Saints Go Marching In, and even some Mardi Gras Indian-style call and response. But what stayed in my mind most was chief Dixie Tickler Dom James’s rendition of the eerie St. James Infirmary Blues. As I listened, I remembered being in Blue Nile on Frenchmen Street a couple of summers ago where I heard New Orleans trumpeter Irvin Mayfield play it. Afterwards, he said it was strange that, even though the song was so linked to the city, he had never been able to find any trace of the hospital to which it referred.

That is because the St. James Infirmary was in London, a medieval leper refuge that is now St James’s Palace. Though, according to most accounts, this place is not even the true birthplace of the song. It is supposed to have originated in an Irish ballad cycle entitled The Unfortunate Rake. 

My mother’s family come from Ireland, and I can confirm that you can rely on strangers talking to you there, maybe even stopping you in the street. However, the nights, even in summer, are likely to be chilly. So on balance it is probably a good thing that none of us, myself included, are obliged to stop in the place where we started.