Magical Lundi and Mardi Gras!

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The energy and the frenzy are contagious. Although I had never been to New Orleans before, I wondered whether the determination to fill the streets, the care taken that they be clean, and safe, but still vacant, were intensified in the wake of Katrina. What was this celebration just two years ago? What was I seeing? Were the people around me tourists? Were they locals determined to celebrate, as they had been for years, or blase? Was this year special, more treasured, in some way, or could it reveal a forever tarnished future?

So this is the story of my Lundi Gras. Monday night was my introduction, my crash course, into the carnival, and I can summarily report that while writing I was excited for Tuesday. I wish I had planned this section of the trip in advance at all, so that I may have had a less isolated experience.

The best bet for parking during this most busy week is off Poydras St and  on Convention Center Boulevard. The Harrah’s garage is at the Poydras St entrance, and the lots to the Hilton and the Riverwalk marketplace are not far. Had I continued driving, the Marriott and at least one more convention center are conveniently laid out there. I paid $30, and that would have covered a whole day of extravaganza.

I walked up the road back to Poydras, the intersection at the ferry docks, where Canal St begins almost across from Convention Center Blvd. A concert was beginning at the Riverwalk Outdoor Marketplace. Seven older guys were on stage making music and one was singing, addressing the crowd and then bursting into hip-wagging rhythm ‘n’ blues with great Cajun energy. I listened for a time, glad I wasn’t with someone who didn’t want to stay, and smiled around the crowd, sharing the enthusiasm. I continued against pedestrian traffic, but not away from it, walking in towards the heart of downtown. After a few blocks on Canal St I turned to explore the French Quarter while I still had good light. That I was walking between two parades was obvious- people were very drunk and bedecked with bead necklaces, but not walking to get anywhere in particular. These southern, old cities with short, nearly gridded blocks are great practice for people like me without a quality sense of direction.

Somehow, without prompt or sign, Bourbon St drew me in. I turned and was not sure that the street in front of me was THE artery of debauchery, or whether they all look like that in the Quarter. The passage was fairly narrow and above every shop, ATM, and private entry (or at least just about) was a short patio where I expected to see some ladies, but only saw men with bright-colored drinks in large pineapple-shaped containers, calling to me and other passers-by while they sloshed just a bit over the railing. As I peaked into a pub, two men walked by, and generously exhaled from their hand-rolled into my face, and the smoke was illegal smoke! I passed underneath some scaffolding, watching two puddles forming beneath just such a balcony, of indeterminate liquid. But this all is not to say that the street was full, nor abandoned, nor unsafe, or particularly rowdy from what we have watched on Cops! Mardi Gras Edition! No, that must be the tourists at night, when prices spike and the parades are done. This Lundi evening, I have never seen so many pissed parents pushing strollers with toddlers squealing along to Bob Marley and Zydeco rhythms, tanked homeless folk, or red-faced grandfathers.

The air was full of the scents of liquor, roasting sweet sausage, and funnel cakes. I hadn’t been around this many loaded people since my last Phish festival, and although the police were also a peacekeeping force, the crowd was certainly not ‘hippie’. The police presence was calming- they were available, but in order to be so, petty crimes went tolerated. And for good reason! I hadn’t seen this many happy people in a long time! It’s like an urban, adult fair! I thought to myself, except somewhat cleaner and more conscientious. There were politics, and rebirth, fueling this smorgasbord. I wished that I was walking with a native, someone proud to tell me about both the city itself and the progression, the development that these holidays have undergone since Katrina. I was a transient that Lundi, and did not stop to ask some local what it means to be here, today. New Orleans had welcomed me into her ample bosom and I was happy.

I wrote this while I was waiting for my dinner, it sums up my mood nicely:

“If I was on the phone, red faced pedestrians wanted to say hi. If I looked lost, masked crusaders greeted me and wished me well. If I was smiling, I blended in, and after hearing the first notes of a Zydeco instrumental, I never stopped smiling. Sober and swaying with the music, I smiled at the happiest homeless people in the country, and couldn’t help but gape at the contrast in certain areas of the city. The luxury of the Hilton’s new façade across directly from a building missing a wall, one corner crumbling, steel skeleton exposed within the stripped brick.”

******
The next morning I got up and wore lots of colors and headed out, deciding at the last minute to drive, not take a taxi. And that was the right decision. I parked on a street about four blocks up from St Charles, for free. Before I hit myself thinking about wasted money yesterday, I heard some people discussing how the crowd today was different. Hotels had sent out enticing deals that ended after the evening of the 19th. Many tourists had flown home during the greatest parades of all- but then again, maybe they weren't there for Fat Tuesday. So I walked to find batteries for my camera and stumbled across Canal St, where thousands of people were lined waiting for the Rex parade and two others. Many had been there for hours, many had not slept, many were just about drunk, if not already pie-eyed. Settling for a spot on the corner of St Charles and Canal, I realize now that next time some serious observation must be conducted so that you are standing around fun people. The women I neighbored for the next three hours generally dicussed being past their prime, the fact that they are mothers, and whether each was getting an appropriate number of beads each. Oh, and whether it's ethical to show a peak, half a nip, one tit, etc, for the best beads (ok, they were a little fun). They discussed how on this parade the coveted item is the golden coconut. Oh if I only I cared enough to ask them why you want these plastic trinkets. And that certainly does not mean I don't care. I did want to know. But I didn't want to ask the ladies. One, with a particular wide behind, gradually inched me away from my prime window (I was in the second row back from the fence, but the person standing in front of me was a five year old), until I somehow ceased to exist as a person and became a wall to lean on or ignore. If I were a New Yorker I would have said something, but I really wanted to maintain the high spirits around me. And I was transfixed by the upper crust. These members of The Gentry, just like in films, were paired up and wearing Chanel at 10 in the morning on a holiday, and really looking at us on the street like peons. It was so funny! The children were supercute, but the young women- like the chick in red in the picture, couldn't be older than 12- all had escorts. On a balcony! One woman looked like a granmother in her suit and wide-brimmed hat- she's in green- until I caught a glimpse of her face and saw she was younger than me! And the guys, well, guys in suits aren't that odd, but they looked like all the rich guys at my college, bored, making mother happy. The whole group of them were covered in necklaces by the end. I wonder if there's a tradition there.
Anyway, we stood for a while, and then the parade!! Oh what a show! High school bands, Young Marines, Louisiana cavalry, radio stations (my favorite was the Go Booty Go! Dancers for one truck, who mostly looked bored and shakin' it against their will except the youngest, a limber little miss who could girate better than the others, and Ms. Beautiful, who called her boyfriend and sang along to the slow songs while moving her gorgeous behind to the groove), two bands of drunkards who must have paid for their space on the street, their costumes were so random and comical, and then the Zulu floats started. Oh what a show! It took me a few floats to start lifting my arms and letting out my little shrieks for beads, but I got the hang of it (and now my car is ornamented with many beautiful necklaces). The costumes ranged from sloppy to extravagant, and it was just a thrill to be there. I didn't feel alone because the ceremony of the parade, the magic of this famous and elaborate spectacle, was unifying. I took many pictures, and will attempt a greater discussion, but how I felt on Monday continued, and the pictures speak better of my day than me trying to capture the holiday while it all the while remained a bit of a mystery.