Epilogue

        I suppose I should have called this blog LIVING My 32nd Year instead of Surviving My 32nd Year. Because, for the first time in my life, I feel like I've actually been living. Before my 32nd birthday everything that I did seems as though I were walking in a state of dreaming. I did everything in automatic, more often doing what I should than what I deeply wanted to do. And, through this year's journey I might now, just maybe, have some understanding of my life, my past, and the reason I function the way that I do. An experience is far more impressive when you have to describe what is happening to a mass of people. Everything that I did was a potential story to be passed on so all of my senses felt hightened. Suddenly, I was almost superhuman, I could smell the flowers, hear music in the wind, feel the rocky mountains I had to climb and see the pebbles on the road beneath my feet. Why it took me thirty-two years to wake up, I'm not certain, but I believe that this was always in the cards for me. The world that I knew was always supposed to dissappear forever, like death, and make way for the birth of a new soul in me. Forcing myself to follow my dreams instead of just letting them float around in my brain, has been so fulfilling, and has made me ever more grateful to be alive.

        For those of you who have been following my journey this year, I'm sure you're curious to know how the last few weeks have developed or want to know how it will end, for that matter. Because my 32nd year is soon drawing to a close I've been trying to fill as much of that time concurring a few of those hopes and dreams I've set for this year. Due to this, I haven't been able to sit down at my desk (or corner in a room) to write anything legible enough for anyone to read of my current scribblings, in time to post on this blog before its expiration. However, I've decided to turn Surviving My 32nd Year into book form which include the conclusion of this story, an extension of the posts at the beginning of the blog, as well as an addition of others that I have left out in between. With that being said, look for this extended and unabridged publication of Surviving My 32nd Year, hopefully, before end of 2014. 

        To all of my readers, friends and family...thank you for all of your support, comments, critiques (good and bad) and your tender loving care. You have given me the chance to follow a dream to write and the courage to open my mouth. I never would have had the confidence to continue what I started without you. I've shed some tears, pulled out a few hairs, laughed...a lot and scratched my head at many of the choices that I've made this year, but I regret none of them and I wouldn't have changed a thing. However, with that being said, if at any point of this story I have misrepresented someone, misinterpreted something, or offended anyone, PLEASE let me know so that I may do right by those offenses and/or correct any misinformation. With less than one week left of this wonderful year of my life, I will still continue to be writing for this book to the very end of its story, so that I leave nothing hanging, so long as I can help it. And maybe, just maybe, I'll have something to say in my 33rd year...cross your fingers. Until then, thank you again for your support and feedback and remember to live hard and love harder.

Ciao amici

The bad, brave and beautiful

            Flipping through the colorful pages of my passport, imagining a smattering of inky stamps in place of the empty spaces before me, I could almost picture one particular word pressed boldly on the first clean page of the little blue book in my hand–Italy. The boot shaped peninsula of a country has been a magical place in my mind for so many years I can't remember a time that it wasn't. Nearly seven years ago to date, I can remember myself in this same position, holding this same little book in one hand and a crisp new twenty Euro bill that my grandmother had just shoved in the other, so I could spend on my first venture to Italy. I was about a month away from going on that long awaited journey, when I decided to visit my family in Massachusetts the weekend of my twenty-sixth birthday. While my parents were at work and I was home with my grandmother, she experienced a severe stroke that I had failed to identify in the signs until it was too late to make a difference. After watching her slowly fade away in a hospital over the course of a month, she eventually died of starvation because her body didn't know how to breakdown and digest food anymore. Just like that, the woman who was as much a mother to me as the mother who gave birth to me was gone from my life forever. Italy was the last thing on my mind that summer. I just took that twenty Euro bill, neatly folded it in half and pressed it between the empty pages of my passport where it has remained for the last seven years.

            This weekend I drove home to spend a few days with my parents before attempting another turn at visiting Italy this Friday. I never like to leave for a long trip without a fresh image of my smiling loved ones imprinted in my mind to take with me for the road. As I drove past the Massachusetts state line, mere hours after the marathon bomber had been caught in the neighboring city of Watertown, I noticed high definition electric billboards ablaze along the highway and posters declaring "Boston Strong" hanging on overpasses like crumbs on a trail to guide my way home. In the wake of the events that have happened in Boston this past week, it seems that it has triggered sympathy pains in me and my mind has been taking me back to the pain I felt with the loss of my grandmother. Since her passing I've relived the events of that day over and over in my mind so many times since then, but every time, the pain is just as much there, as it was the day it happened. I wonder...how will these families ever be able to file those gruesome moments away in a healthy place and not let it clutter the spaces of their lives for the rest of time. It would, indeed, have to take a strong person and a strong city to keep moving forward in the same way. People from all walks of life and throughout all of human history have experienced some form of tragedy at one time or another, but I suppose it's a matter of not letting these horrors repeat themselves and learning from them that we can soften these blows and those that are bound to come creeping up on us in the future.

            Through my own tragedy, I've learned a few things that have put my life into perspective. Since I lost my grandmother, I've learned to spend more time with my family, show them every time that I see them that I love them dearly. I've learned to hug my friends more, when I see they need one or just because I want them to know that I'm grateful for having them in my life. I try harder to do what I say I will do and keep all the promises that I make. I've taken the time to appreciate what I have, let go of the things that I don't necessarily need and look for even the tiniest grain of hope, inspiration or optimism in every hurt, wrong turn and pitfall along my journey. In the words that I've written throughout this year, my hope is–if anything else–to touch someone's life in a positive way, even if it's only a single person. If I can or have done that already, I call my life a success. With one month left of my thirty-second year I've decided to finally make that trip to Italy that for so long I've wished to take. I'll visit that ancient Coliseum in Rome, toast a glass of wine under the Tuscan sun, lap up a gelato while fighting off seagulls at Venice's Piazza San Marco, and finally spend that twenty Euro bill I've saved in my passport all these years in my grandmother's name. Then, when I've had my fill of Roman men, (if that can even be possible) I'll jump over to Greece to set my sights on the Parthenon and learn where the civilized world grew its roots. And, at the end, to top it all off, I will fly back to my brave homeland of the United States of America, give my chubby cat Gizmo and good friend Dina a big hug and jump on another plane to spend the last days of my thirty-second year with my fabulous friends who joined me in New Orleans earlier this year. Together we will celebrate and soak up some sun on the beaches of Fort Lauderdale and Miami. And if God wills me to live another day, year, decade...if I survive this thirty-second year of my life...to my mother and father's arms I will go to rejoice and spend the first day of my thirty-third year. All I have to do now is wait patiently to board that plane bound for Roma on Friday and pray that no tragedy falls on me until then.

Tatas for now

            I once went on a vacation to Vegas with my parents when I was at an age when most people stop hanging out with their parents and are more than old enough to be on their own. I, however, have always loved going on vacations with the folks because they're just as adventurous and wide-eyed about the world as I am, so it's exciting to take in another aspect of a new setting through their eyes, as well as my own. However, when you're in Vegas and someone at a casino gives you free tickets to a topless cabaret show, you're likely not to go with the people who raised you. But, when you're in Vegas, all that proper etiquette usually seems to go right out the window and if you hand anything to my mother and say, "it's free," she's going to take it no matter what it is. We knew full well what we were getting ourselves into when we walked into the venue, but it still felt very strange to be sitting in front of a stage while topless woman in skimpy bottoms danced just a few feet from our faces. For the first ten minutes we sat at our table awkwardly looking at the girls, seeing nothing else but the differences of their breast size as they bounced around the stage. My mother and I giggled like schoolgirls throughout the first act but after we got the awkward fidgets out of our system it became as natural as watching a Broadway production of Peter and the Starcatcher.

            Just before St. Patrick's Day, my friend Dina and I were invited by a mutual friend to watch one of her burlesque performances on the Lower East Side. Before this I had only been to that one show with my parents in Vegas and that was not the same thing. This was more like going to a strip club with a cabaret twist in a setting that made me think of the speakeasies from the twenties. I hadn't spent time with our friend Rosie Cheeks since we used to work together a few years ago. We managed to stay connected through our friend Dina who works with her at her full-time job. I knew Rosie to be quiet and reserved, acting and doing musical theater gigs when she could get the work. When I found out through Dina that she was doing burlesque on the side, I think I did a double take and I questioned whether it was the same Rosie I knew and worked with those few years ago. Yup, it was the very same Rosie. I had to see this with my own eyes.

            Walking into the cramped little space at Nurse Bettie, inspired by the legendary pin-up star Bettie Page, I thought for a moment that we were just in the first part of the club and in the back we would find a big stage with tables and chairs to sit on to watch this show, but ten paces into the space we were standing in front of the stage that was as big as a changing room at Macy's. This ought to be fascinating enough just to watch the girls manage a performance in this tiny space. At the end of the L-shaped bar we found our acquaintances and sat ourselves down on the stools next to them. While waiting for the show to begin we ordered drinks when just around the corner, who but "Rosie Cheeks" comes around in her elegant satin green dress, matching opera length gloves and her sparkling red lips to greet us. I couldn't help but admire her cool demeanor and nonchalant sense of self-confidence. I would have been in a dark corner somewhere, shaking like a leaf or throwing up in someone's double D bra if I was about to strip in front of a crowd. I think I'll stick to writing.

            Before the show came to an official start, a voluptuous woman donning a tiny green leprechaun hat and a corset tied snuggly around her waist that sent her large breasts hovering just beneath her chin came out to announce the night's lineup. In an accent that fluctuated between the regions of Northern Ireland, Britain or Jamaica, Shelly, the Singing Siren, was able to incite laughter and excitement from the libidos of wanting men (and possibly, some women) as easily as though she were among a small group of her close personal friends. The room, now completely crammed at the front of the stage like a crowd at a zoo watching lions pace in their cage, was so tightly packed I could begin to smell the evidence of everyone's day on the people circling around my stool. In front of me, a tall, attractive man who looked somewhere in his late thirties, suddenly didn't seem so attractive when I got a whiff of his french fry oil scented clothes, which I'm certain he acquired from his part-time job at Burger King before he rushed over to catch the show. Sitting on the stool to my right I picked up the aroma of fresh garbage from this strange woman with a choppy haircut beside me. It was a potent as if she had rolled around the pile of refuse sitting outside at the edge of the sidewalk before she came in. Then, when a man in a gray hoodie, who looked like a fifteen-year-old boy from his profile, reached over me to grab a drink from the bar, I got blasted with the stench of the dinner he must have shoveled into his mouth just before he showed up. It could have very well been a whopper the other guy grilled from the scent of onions that still lingered in the air around my face after he walked back to the front of the stage. Sheesh, what happened to practicing good hygiene when you went out? Did that die with chivalry too?

            When Shelly the Singing Siren wrapped up her introductions, the first act of the night came waltzing into the room with the same elegance as Grace Kelly and looked remarkably like a young Elizabeth Taylor, which was exactly what she was going for. I couldn't help but watch in fascination at her performance, yet I was wracked with nerves for the girl and her inevitable strip down not far into the performance. Apparently, the first acts to go on were the novices and more like an opening act before a concert. So, I'm sure this was just as nerve wracking for Miss Taylor and my heart went out to her. I assume these girls enjoy doing this because they wouldn't be doing it otherwise. The acting part of the performance is without a doubt, something they must all love about it, but I wonder, beside the fact, do they all feel the same way about the stripping aspect of the show?

            Before intermission began, our very own Rosie Cheeks stepped onto the stage in her lovely green form fitted dress and an unusual bulge in her crotch area that I hadn't noticed before. What is THAT? When Rosie was down to just one item of clothing left to strip down to, leaving her with only underwear and some pasties over her nipples, off came the satin green dress revealing the tiniest plastic cauldron she made into underwear and seductively dug into the cauldron and pulled out gold-foiled chocolate coins and tossed them to the crowd. Nice touch Rosie. That's one way to reach the girls–give them chocolate. One bounce off the top of my head but I never managed to actually catch one. Thankfully Dina caught three and was nice enough to share with her UNdexterous friend.

            Each act that followed brought another unique performance that was not only interesting and alluring but funny as well. I was more intrigued by their humor, confidence and sass than what they were trying to arouse from the crowd, and the crowd was just as fun to watch as the girls. The slack jawed men looked just like puppies in a pet store, with their drooping eyes looking up at the girls on stage while the women in the crowd, if not allured, assessed and quietly compared their body to those they observed before them. This is not where you want to find yourself if you already have self esteem issues or a bad perception of your own body image. Being here only makes you want to starve for a week and take up pole dancing lessons for the next three months to get some semblance of what these girls bring to the stage.

            During intermission, I sat on my stool like a wallflower sipping my Pimm's cup in reminiscence of my latest trip to New Orleans, where I tried one of these for the first time. From my position, I happened to notice grease fry guy talking to the sassy second act at the end of the bar. What on earth could this guy have to say that was of any interest? He was cute to look at but that was all he had on him. He was a fumbling awkward man who stunk of day old French fries. Poor girl. There was no escaping the likes of him, or his cologne. At some point he ended up sitting in the stool next to me while he continued to try to reel in his prospect. This did not sit well with our friend Rene because he happened to have taken her seat when she went to the bathroom. When she returned to find him sitting there she not only picked that moment to accidently jab him in the back, blaming it on the tight space, but also picked up on his scent with a wrinkle of her nose. Like a hound dog hot on a trail, she proceeded to sniff him out from the back of his head and as far down as his rear end to pin point where exactly he was giving off this smell. Her face was so close to him I'm certain the hairs on his neck detected her presence and he turned to look over his shoulder. The girl he was trying to pick up questioned Rene's sobriety with a look of mild amusement, and then seized the moment to retreat back to the other girls and fry oil took off for another hunt.

            Before the final acts wrapped up the show, Shelly decided to play a round of trivia where she picked three contestants out of the crowd and brought them onto the stage for questioning. At the end of the battle, it just so happened that the tiniest and most timid of the three contestants, an Asian girl about five feet tall, had to pull out one of Shelly's colossal breasts from its hiding spot for answering a question incorrectly. From the entanglement of her shirt and the bondage of the corset she had wrapped underneath them, the little thing managed to awkwardly pull one out and bare it for the crowd while the she continued with her stand-up. I think those were the biggest breasts I had ever seen in my life. Unfortunately, I happened to take after my father in that regard, so unless I decide to insert some silicone into my chest I'm stuck with the lumps I was blessed with. I don't know how I've managed to find myself in these social settings lately, faced with looking at tatas wherever I go. But, here I was, after spending Mardi Gras in New Orleans for a week, at a burlesque show–surrounded by boobies once again. I think I need more male friends in my life. I'm beginning to feel inadequate.

Jour sei...Samedi gras

            According to the news report I came across on a copy of Saturday morning's New York Times, New York City was under two feet of snow that had fallen overnight while my friends and I were running amuck in New Orleans like it was the last day of our lives. That morning, the six of us walked from our hotel dressed in sandals and t-shirts for what we thought would be our last day in this incredible city. Although we were all tired, going on our sixth day, we were also not ready to go back to snow boots and winter coats for streets knee deep in snow. Also, according to some of the locals, one of the best parades of Mardi Gras was on Saturday night and we would have just missed it if we left according to schedule. Just one more day, that's all we needed, just one more. Sitting at a large round table at an outdoor cafe, we considered our lunch options while scheming how we could convince United Airlines to reschedule our flight using the conditions in New York to delay our return home and stay another night without paying a ridiculous fee or the cost of a new ticket to do this. Nick was determined to stay another few more days either way so I was tempted all the more to try my luck for one more night. In the back of my head, however, I was sure we would be on a plane back to the city before the end of the day, so I didn't have my hopes up too high.

            Over salty fried pickles and cold drinks, I sat at that table watching the cloudy skies over New Orleans and imagined a life for myself there. I was always in the habit of doing this whenever I traveled to a new place. I'm beginning to find that I feel more at home in the south than I ever remember feeling in the North. It's just a completely different kind of aura. I suppose it could be the warmer climate, lush green vegetation everywhere, or the laidback temperament southerners seem to inhabit so well. A great deal of it could be all the music that seems to linger in the air even when nothing seems to playing. Music is everywhere here. In Memphis you have blues and rock, Nashville, the heart of country, is one of the largest hubs for the music industry in the U.S., and New Orleans, jazz and zydeco. For someone who loves these genres as much as I do, being south of the boarder is like stepping into a warm bath. Imagining myself still in my pajamas, sitting on one of the many balconies in the French Quarter, sipping a cup of Mississippi mud on a fine day like this was easy. It was in my reverie, however, that I also happened to notice a scruffy, middle-aged woman surveying us from across the street who seemed intent on paying us a visit. With her glass flask of vodka in hand and just barely missing a car, she approached us with a wandering eye on the contents of our table. I knew exactly where this was going. Having lived in a big city and worked in hospitality as long as I have, you learn to read people better than yourself.

"Care for some fried pickles?" I asked the woman who was now hovering behind Renee's chair. At that same moment everyone at the table turned around to see who I was talking to. Placing her flask on the table the woman reached over without a word, grabbled the basket of fried pickles and dug in. I hoped everyone had finished with those pickles because I'm sure she would have eaten them whether I offered them to her or not. She was hardly able to stand in her drunken state but she managed to polish off the contents of that basket anyway.

"I–m tri-n' ta f-nd ma husb-nd," she mumbled to no one in particular. It was more like she was thinking out loud than expressing real concern for her missing husband.

"You don't want to find your husband, they're just trouble anyway. You're better off on your own." I couldn't help it. The words just came out of my mouth.

"I l-st h-mm."

She didn't seem particularly worried about him the way she grabbed a little bit of this and a little bit of that off the table, including condiments and silverware.  She stacked whatever she could into that empty pickle basket like she was piling up food at a buffet. When she tried to grab Renee's drink, however, that's when a line was drawn and Renee was ready to defend what was hers.

"No, not that."

It was a good thing we didn't have our entrees in front of us yet or we would have left the cafe as hungry as when we entered. With giggles of awkwardness, we sat around the table looking at each other or up at the sky, more like it, because we were afraid to look directly at the woman in case she decided to get crazy on us. People are just so unpredictable when they're under the influence. You just don't know what will make them flip their switch sometimes so we just sat there like she was part of the scenery. After a few minutes our waitress came by to drop off another round of drinks for our table but she was so busy running from one table to another that she overlooked the homeless woman standing at our table holding our silverware hostage. Too afraid to tip off the waitress in front of the woman, we just continued to sit there looking at one another with eyes bulging out in shock that our only hope of rescue was a bust. We're doomed. This woman was going to eat us out of our lunch.

         I had a friend once tell me about a day when she decided to buy herself a Shake Shack burger and fries she had been craving that particular day. After purchasing her meal, she got on the subway heading home after work and came across a homeless man sitting in the seat in front of her. Feeling guilty for having something the man seemed to need more than she did, she decided to give the poor man the burger and fries she had just bought. However, when he opened the bag and pulled out its juicy contents, he didn't thank her or take a big bite out of the sandwich in anticipation, instead, he pulled out the burger, crumbled it into the tiniest pieces, threw it on the floor, then tipped the bag filled with fries over, spilling them on top of the burger. Then, he proceeded to stomp on it with his feet. How rude. All she could do was look at the sad remains of the burger and fries she just blew the last of her money on all the way home and bubble inwardly at her loss. That was the last time she ever did that. I though about this story, while I watched this poor drunk woman in front of us. Having nothing else on the table for her to pile into the pickle basket she eventually become bored with us because then she picked up her flask, the basket full of condiments and all our silverware, then took off stumbling down the street to find her lost husband. A minute later the waitress returned with our lunch and we sat there looking at our food until she asked us if there was anything else she could bring us.

"Yeah, some ketchup would be great...and silverware."

            Halfway through our meal, I happened to look across the street again but this time it wasn't the homeless drunk woman back for more, it was a man standing by his fallen bike holding his forehead as fresh blood ran down his face and the length of his arm. What is going on here? From the evidence scattered on the ground, it looked as though he might have smashed his bike into a USPS truck across the street and hit his head on the side mirror that was now in shiny shards on the pavement. Or, the truck hit him. Either way, the driver didn't look too concerned, and neither did the man. He just sat himself down on the sidewalk holding his bloody head, then eventually walked into the store behind him.

"This has been strangest lunch ever." Renee declared shaking her head then turning back to her lunch. We all burst into laughter at the nonchalant response, realizing how desensitized we've become by these strange situations, which would in all likely, send normal people into a frenzy. What is this world coming to? What are WE coming to? 

            On the way back to the hotel, strolling as slowly as the time would allow us to go before we had no choice but to leave New Orleans, I decided to give United Airlines a call to see what I could do to procrastinate the return home. I didn't think we'd have a chance in hell of changing our flights for tomorrow, but I thought I'd give it a try anyway. I had a whole speech worked out in my head...an extreme fear of flying through snow, a made up death in the family, whatever card I had to throw down just to squeeze another twenty-four hours out of New Orleans I would. However, before I started checking off the items on the list to the attendant on the phone...

"What is your final destination?"

"New York City."

"What day would you like to fly out of New Orleans?"

"Ah, tomorrow evening?"

"We have a few open seats on a direct flight going into Newark Airport if that works."

"That works. Is there a fee?"

"No fee."

WHAT! No fee? Not only could we change our flight at no extra cost, but what would have taken us an extra two hours to connect in Washington D.C. for our original return flight, we were now able to fly direct and get back at a more decent hour of the day. From the massive smile I couldn't hide, plastered on my face while talking to the agent on the phone, it was clear that I had good news for everyone. In front of the quiet Le Richelieu hotel everyone burst in excitement like nothing New Orleans has heard from us yet. We just couldn't believe our good luck. Now, about the hotel...

            Inside the Le Richelieu I put on the best, worried face I could manage, and approached the woman at the front desk. Luckily, it wasn't the same woman I dealt with six days ago who gave me a hard time about sharing a single room. This sympathetic woman listened to my despondent story about weather conditions back home and lies about flight cancelations and having nowhere to go with as much desperation for our predicament than we had any right to feel. In the end, not only did she book us a large room at a discounted price but she even offered us sleeping bags for any extra people staying in the room if we needed them. Sleeping bags? Say WHAT? Why wasn't this woman here to check us in six days ago? We could have saved ourselves a few hundred dollars if we had this deal then. Sleeping bags? Where's that other woman? She better have the day off today or I really am going to choke her if I see her this time!

            After settling into our room, we dressed for another night out on the town with a new bounce to our step. We felt rebellious, like we calling out sick from work, or skipping school and went to the beach instead. It was somewhat cunning and mischievous, but it felt oh so good to feel like we were getting away with something even though that really wasn't the case. Though there was bad weather in the Northeast, quite a few reservations had been canceled at the hotel that night so they would have lost money leaving the rooms vacant anyway. So my sob story really wasn't much of factor behind our reduced rate and in the end we had already paid for a return flight, it just got pushed to another day, but it still felt like a carefully devised and canny little treat to stay another night. 

            The locals were true to their word. The Krewe of Endymion parade was amazing. This year it was the largest Mardi Gras parade in history, holding over 2,600 crew members in all and containing the largest float in existence at a record breaking 330 feet long, holding 230 riders and costing 1.2 million to build. Not to mention that Kelly Clarkson was the celebrity Grand Marshal on the Endymion, which had a few of us really excited. Every night the parades got grander and longer than the one before and the beads and throw prizes more exuberant. Nonetheless, satisfied with the enormous piles of beads we already had in our possessions back at the hotel, and still wondering how we were going to manage taking back home, the six of us mostly just stood below tall palm trees watching the parade while drinking Four Lokos like a bunch of hillbillies. Speaking of Four Lokos, I had never even heard of these lethal canned drinks until Andrew introduced them to me there in New Orleans. Apparently, these beverages have been banned in several states for its dangerous combination of caffeine and alcohol, proofing from a range of 6 to 12% alcohol by volume in massive 23.5 oz. cans. Of course, I didn't realize this drink was as potent as it was or knew anything about the bans until I researched the drink a week later, but I drank them. The rest of the group had been drinking since noon and I was just beginning to start, so that's what I turned to, to catch up. As I was beginning to lose my mojo by this time, I figured it would be a good idea to try something that would also keep me awake and since it tasted like an orchard of peaches, I drank it with as much ease as soda. For the record, I'm really not much of a drinker, or even a cigarette smoker for that matter, but I must confess, I had indulged quite a bit of the bad habits while in The Big Easy. How could I not? It was Mardi Gras, I was on vacation with my single friends, and we had no other responsibilities but to make sure we didn't get ourselves lost or killed while we were here. Although smoking cigarettes are one thing, when you're smoking something else–in a public place and surrounded by hundreds of people because you're too drunk to make better decisions, well–that's when you find yourself in the pickle we walked ourselves into after leaving the parade. 

            On the way back to the French Quarter we decided to go down Royal Street this time, which runs one block north and parallel to Bourbon Street, so we could avoid the crazy crowds that were gathered there. Normally, that might have been a wise decision, however, smoking a "cigarette" at the same time might not have been. Just as Andrew handed Nick this "cigarette" we were sharing, I noticed a tall beastly woman walk towards us. As she brushed past Nick she took one deep whiff and instinctively whipped around and had him in a sudden arm lock behind his back. The instant I saw the woman sniff him out like a hound dog I knew exactly what was about to happen. Suddenly my mind was on high alert but the shock of it all stunned me from moving from the spot I was in, like a deer in headlights, but I saw it all happen in slow but distinct detail. Nick, however, jumping into survival mode, pulled out of the woman's grip just long enough to elbow her in the face before she had him locked down again with the help of another undercover officer standing by. Next to this woman who cleared at least six feet, little Renee, who was at Nick's side at the time and found herself caught in the shuffle, looked like the tiniest thing in her shadow and was just as confused as everyone else when this all went down. But just as instinctively as Nick, Renee's super power survival skills suddenly kicked into gear and she had her little fists up like a trained boxer ready for the punching, in Nick's defense. She assumed that someone was just trying to start a fight with Nick so she was ready to jump to his rescue. Brave girl. I just stood there like I was watching an episode of Law & Order in front of my television at home and none of this was really happening.

"Do you realize you just assaulted an officer?" The woman growled in Nick's ear. Smart guy that Nick is, however, not only did he think to step down on the smallest piece of evidence he had on him in that same instant, but he knew his rights as well.

"You didn't identify yourself until after I hit you." He responded as a matter of fact.

Realizing we were all still circling the situation around him, partly out of concern and partly because we were still frozen with shock, Nick bravely told us to leave. It was then that I saw Nick in a whole new light, suddenly he was like the many sacrificial heroes I had seen in films all my life, trying in vain to save his loved ones from the slaughter. It was at that point that I also realized I wasn't at home watching Law & Order anymore, but that I was in New Orleans about to watch my friend get arrested and possibly find myself in the same situation out of association.

"Yes, just leave guys, just leave." The officer mimicked Nick's words in a high-pitched singsong voice, curling her fingers together in front of her chest and scrunching up her nose. Had she been painted green and wearing a black dress and pointed hat you could have easily mistaken her for the Wicked Witch of the West. Oh, fudge. What do I do? I couldn't just walk away and leave Nick, but I honestly didn't know MY rights so I wasn't sure if leaving the scene would make me a fugitive of the law and deserter to my friend, or if staying meant I would find myself behind bars too. Think, think, think.

"None of you are going anywhere. Stay right where you are!"

Okay. I didn't want to have to make the decision anyway. Staying. Yes ma'am.

"Where are you from?" One of the other officers asked Nick.

"New York City."

"Were you smoking Marijuana?"

"No."

The officer looked down at the ground around Nick for any kind of evidence that might hold a conviction. Nothing. You could almost see the disappointment wash over the man's face when he had to let Nick go. Scraping the remains of the cigarette butt against the ground, as inconspicuously as possible, he then stepped out of the angry circle of undercover NOPD officers and walked down the street laughing under his breath. While the rest of us followed behind in hurried steps I couldn't help but think that it was probably best that I wasn't the one caught in Nick's predicament. I'm a really bad liar, so I'm positive the night would have taken a completely different turn had I been the one confronted by the Wicked Witch of the West and her flying monkeys. I once got pulled over for speeding when I was seventeen, not long after I got my driver's license. It was late at night and I was with my boyfriend at the time and two of our friends were sitting in the back seat. We were heading to a park notorious for gathering juvenile delinquents usually doing things they shouldn't, but we really just wanted to go because we could and everything else was closed. When my little red Nissan coop got pulled over for going more than ten miles above the speed limit, the officer asked us why he thought we got pulled over.

"Because I was speeding?” I admitted.

"Where were you heading?"

Any normal teenager out late on a school night would have just made something up like, "Oh, I was just taking my friends home because it's almost past our curfew and I didn't want them to get in trouble. I'm really sorry, I didn't realize I was speeding." That's what I should have said. Instead, I decided to tell the truth,

"We're going to Johnson's Pond."

"Oh, really."

"Yes."

"License and registration please."

I really don't know how I've survived in New York on my own as long as I have. It's a miracle really.

            Apparently Nick not only knew his rights as a US citizen, but he also knew his rights in the city of New Orleans. It just so happened that before he came on the trip he read up on the laws pertaining to the city out of habit. It was something he liked to do before he traveled anywhere. According to Nick, what makes for a successful vacation is in a motto that he happens to abide to daily as well, "No jails and no hospitals." Words to live by.

            Deciding to go back to Maison Bourbon one last time while we were here, I found that, sadly for me anyway, my favorite jazz club wasn't playing the live music I love but was now a dance club playing the latest pop and R&B hits to appease the crowd that was currently in the city. I was happy just to be there either way–it was the Maison Bourbon. After buying a round of drinks we ran into the same gracious host that was at Maison Bourbon the first time we visited. Remembering me from Tuesday night he asked if he could get a picture with me. I was completely flattered and at a loss for words. I felt like a celebrity. Why on earth would he want a picture with ME?

"Sure." Why not? 

Less than fifteen minutes after our arrival, the near empty space was suddenly packed at maximum capacity. I don't know if it was the music or because of the hour, but I'd like to think that we seemed like so much fun, dancing like fools on that floor, that it happened to attract the crowd that crammed into the little space shortly after us.

"I love that we got to stay here another day." Andrew pronounced.

"I'm glad that we're not in jail right now." Renee returned with a wide-eyed shake of the head. Cheers to that.

            Later, we found ourselves back on Frenchman Street where, by this time, Andrew was professing his love to everyone he passed on the street while wearing the tutu I had on the other night around his neck like a circus clown.

"I love you!"

"I love you too man"

"I love you...and you...and you. I love everyone!"

Pulling me aside after a few people ignored his convictions of love and adoration, "Marcy, can you take this off? No one is taking me seriously with this thing around my neck."

"No one takes you seriously without it either."

"Where was I? Oh yeah, did I tell you I love you? Well, I do. I love you." No more Four Lokos for this guy.

            At some point we met this local woman who was haunting the hippie jazz scene on Frenchman and we struck an amity for each other as she told us things about the area that we didn't know and how she came to live in New Orleans. She stood with us on the street talking and listened to the music nearby while she smoked her "cigarette" in such a carefree manner you couldn't help but be fascinated by to her nature. At the time I could follow our conversations, but by the end of the night, I had no idea where I even was anymore, let alone what she was talking about. Curious about the New Orleans that tourists normally didn't venture out to see on their own, we followed her to a place she liked to frequent, trusting she was a good egg and wasn't trying to lure us into some kind of gambit. Eventually we found ourselves in a dive bar in the middle of nowhere, where the corners of the room were so dark everyone looked like shadows waiting to ensnare us when we least expected it. I imagined the shadowy demons in Ghost coming after us if we tried to walk out. So I just stood there, paranoid by the entire place, until I wasn't the only one who felt that way and we head out before we forgot how to get back to the hotel. It still took us half the night to find something familiar to guide us back to the hotel. I still don't know how we managed it, but somehow we did make it back to the hotel because I woke up with the sheets over my head, Renee to my left and Kayla curled up like a cat at the foot of the bed. I was wondering why I couldn't feel my feet anymore. Thank God, I was afraid the Four Lokos screwed with my nervous system too. Oh man, I already miss New Orleans.

Jour cinq...Vendredi gras

            I don't think there's any way to describe how wonderful it is to sit by the rolling Mississippi River at eleven o'clock in the morning, wearing sandals on my feet in the middle of February, surrounded by a group of amazing friends while eating spicy eggs creole and listening to a live jazz band. Good morning NOLA, it's nice to see you again. I've been to quite a few cities in the United States now, and I'd have to say, every day that I spend in New Orleans, I fall deeper and deeper in love with this place. I may never leave.

            Wandering around Bourbon Street Friday morning I picked up the sound of a marching band and noticed a crowd gathered just down the block from me. What's going on here? I didn't think there would be any parades this early in the morning, and certainly not going through the middle of the French Quarter. But I was wrong. It was a parade. Not with floats and masked adults, but a parade of elementary school children coming from a few blocks away and making their way through the Quarter. The smaller children cast beads to the crowds standing along the sidewalks while the older children played their second hand instruments, the best they could with what they had. It was the cutest thing I had seen here. One little girl saw me bouncing to the music of the band and smiling like a fool as I took pictures and she tossed me a strand of beads. When I caught them she beamed a bright smile at me and waved. I think that was the best catch I made all week. I walked with the parade for a while, not wanting it to end so soon. I loved seeing the children having so much fun and their excitement was contagious. I couldn't help but wish I had this growing up. How great was it that every year on Fat Friday these kids got to look forward to parading down the street while playing music and throw beads at people. You just can't feel sad when you see a child smiling and laughing. It doesn't matter whether it's your own child or a stranger's. It's just the most innocent thing you will see on this earth.

            When it started to seem a little creepy that I kept following the parade, I decided it was time to walk in the other direction and head back towards the hotel. On the way, I happened to come across a zydeco band stationed just off the sidewalk that I had apparently missed because they stopped playing when the parade was making their way past. I really wasn't familiar with the word zydeco. Until I got to New Orleans it was the first time I had come across the term. I just always assumed jazz was jazz. Though there may be different styles of the genre, in the end, a tomato was a tomato, so I thought. However, zydeco really did need a slot all its own because it was a completely different sort of music style. It had the elements of jazz, but it was actually Creole folk music that evolved in southwest Louisiana to include Cajun influences with blues and R&B. Typical instruments involved in the style included French fiddles, Irish fiddles, German accordions, banjos, drums, guitar, bass guitar and washboards. There's just no way to confuse this sound with anything else out there. And I have loved and listened to this style of music, which was as old as America itself, for years and never even knew it was zydeco. I'm so silly.  

             The band had already started playing before I reached them and I was instantly sucked into their performance. How could I walk away? They were a perfectly rehearsed troupe that didn't feel like they were rehearsed. They were just so apt with their instruments and in tune to one another that even if one member strayed from the others, owing to a sudden surge of inspiration, the others were just as quick to follow and accompany that culprit all the way home. All I could do was stand against the brick of the building across the stree and watch them with the other spectators, trying to blend in with the crowd. Watching them bang on the drums, strum their base, guitar banjo and washboard I wished I knew how to play something so I could join the band. They looked like they were having the time of their lives playing their beat up instruments in dusty street clothes and fedoras. I could have stayed there all day listening to them, but I noticed that time was passing me by and I had to get back to the others.

            At The Corner Oyster Bar and Grill, I ate my first po' boy sandwich ever. Of all the seafood I've ever had, raw oysters would probably be situated at the bottom of my list, buy fry anything and it suddenly becomes ten times better. Slap that fried goodness between some French bread, top it with lettuce, tomato, coleslaw and a spicy remoulade, and you have yourself a most delicious sandwich this side of New Orleans. Yum. Back in the twenties, this sandwich came to be known through two brothers by the name of Bennie and Clovis Martin, both retired streetcar conductors who opened a coffee stand and restaurant in the French Market in 1922. A few years later, during the Carmen's Union Strike of 1929, they started using the ends of the French loaves that they would normally throw to waste to make sandwiches for the poor streetcar workers that were out of work. Feeling their frustration, having once been streetcar workers themselves, they promised the generous donation of a free sandwich to any hungry union worker as a contribution to their cause. According to Bennie Martin, whenever one of the brother's saw a union worker coming their way, they would say, "Here comes another poor boy." Then the union worker would come into the restaurant, tell one of the brothers working behind the counter that they were with the union, and they would walk away with a delicious sandwich to keep them going through the strike. The term associated with the sandwich eventually just stuck and they named it after the people they were for, the "poor boys." And because of the brothers' continued generosity during the entire length of the strike it proved to be a wise business decision that earned them fame and hundreds of new customers for years to come. And there you have it...today's po' boy sandwiches brought to you by the makers of the New Orleans' Martin brothers.

            With the sun poking its rays through a wide break in the clouds, the five of us walked out of The Corner Oyster Bar and Grill and head over towards the Mississippi River so we could soak up that vitamin D that was so hard to find back in the city and enjoy the few hours we had before the parades ran down St. Charles and Canal Street again. Shortly after we sat ourselves on the rocks by the river, feeling the warm rays over our pale skins, Nick came strolling over to us, after spending most of the day with his new "friend." I don't know how Nick does it.... actually, I do know, he's a handsome guy with an amazing personality. However, even with that being said, Nick was here for less than five days and not only did he find himself in a romantic relationship in two days, but he also found himself a place to stay when he wanted it and has also been offered a job. The night before, while the rest of us were snagging beads from the clutches of seven-year-olds, Nick was out with his date at a New York style pizzeria and the owner offered him free drinks all night if he could help out as bartender since he had experience doing it in, of all places, New York City. If Nick, who has been considering it, decided he wanted to move to New Orleans, it would be as easy as saying "I'll do it." and he could just pack up his car, drive down and he would be all set to go. Some people have all the luck.

            Earlier in the week, the girls and I decided to buy outfits for this Fat Friday's parades. Vendredi Gras was when thing really get out of control here and we now had the outfits fit just for that kind of occasion. However, in my purple, green and yellow jester tights, multi-colored tutu, pink mask and blinking neon pink wig that made my head look like the 80's version of Medusa's head...I looked ridiculous. What in the world was I wearing? On the mannequin in the store, it looked like a lot of fun. Actually seeing it on my body, however, made me look like a demented clown. I needed a drink if I'm going out in public looking like this.

            When we hit Bourbon Street, that's when I decided to get myself one of those hand grenades everyone had been walking around with all week. This frozen green drink was as sweet as drinking bar syrup from a straw, but it was strong, maybe too strong for me. Halfway down the street en-route to the parades I came across a hairy man standing about six foot three wearing large black rimmed glasses and a tiny blue and white cheerleader's uniform. Not a male cheerleader's uniform, mind you, a female cheerleader's uniform. I thought he was hilarious in the much too tiny skirt for his much too large body and apparently he thought my outfit was just as funny because when he spotted me in my blinking pink wig and tutu, he walked right up to me, with a very determined look on his face, and asked if he could get a picture with me. Of course I said yes because I wanted one too. After two flashes of the cameras he asked if he could then get a kiss for one of the massive beads he had around his neck. I just wanted a picture with the guy and could have cared less about getting anymore beads, but I have a hard time saying no to people so I said I would do it. My intention was only to plant a kiss on his cheek, or, worse case scenario, a peck on the lips. But when he put these massive heart shaped beads around my neck, I was trapped by this lasso and suddenly, all I saw next was his lips part and the cheerleader practically bent me backwards with a full out kiss. When I came back up for air that's when I realized I had lost my pink weave! When I looked down it was sitting in a puddle full of who knows what and I had no choice but to abandon the sad mess. That's what I get for drinking a hand grenade and saying yes to everything when my head tells me another thing. A little restraint might be nice Marcy. The city may be called The Big Easy, but you forget that you're not.

            The amount of people on the parade route must have been double the size on Friday compared to Wednesday, so when we finally made our way through Bourbon Street to Canal, we were behind quite a few people, praying the krewe throwing beads on this floats had some good pitchers looking for a challenge. Just as we had found a safe spot to stand, the parade was coming around the corner and we were at the ready. The Krewe d'Etat with their twenty-one floats and four hundred and fifteen male riders was probably the best Mardi Gras parade I had seen so far. Its signature satirical theme had us anticipating the next float just to see what politician or current affair they were going to spoof on next. Many of the floats reminded me of the political caricatures that appear in high profile newspapers only in a live, medieval style. That had to be a heap of work to keep updating every year, but it certainly showed in the artwork. It appeared that its krewe did have good pitching arms after all, and threw far and wide. Though, they also liked to chuck the beads at people, not to them. Sometimes they would get too lazy to even open the bulky bags that the beads came in and would just throw, or rather, hurl, the four-pound bundles into the crowd instead. One-second you might notice a sea of people stretching out to grab something from the krewe on the floats, then the next minute, you would see everyone suddenly duck and cover their heads so they wouldn't get knocked out cold by a bag of beads and you knew a bag was about to come down like a hand grenade. One poor woman standing beside me was not paying attention when this was about to happen and before I could warn her of an incoming bag of blue and purple beads coming her way, it whacked her in the head and she nearly fell on top of me. Had the poor woman been wearing a weave like I was earlier, that thing would have cleared right over me. That had to hurt.

"Wow, are you okay?" I asked her.

"What the hell!"

I picking up the bag of beads that landed by her feet and handed it to her, "At least you got yourself some beads."

            The scene on Bourbon Street after we left the parade route was insane. I had seen snippets of something like this in movies portraying Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but that was an environment controlled by producers, production crew and a director trying to give an audience a toned down version of what Mardi Gras might be like. This, however, was something out of the last days the earth. There was a complete sense of caution to the wind. There were boobs flashing everywhere and thousands of people stood sardined under balconies squeezing down the narrow street trying to get from one end to the other while trying to grab beads or avert from being whipped in the face with them. Drunk, happy people were stumbling and dancing on the sidewalks or just watching with interest. It was chaos, but it was strangely harmonious at the same time. No one was shoving, fighting or crying in corners. Either it was because everyone was drunk, high, or just too excited to see so many boobs–or all of the above, I don't know, but no one seemed to care that they were turning purple trying to squeeze through the crowd or lost feeling in their toes. If this was New York, it would have been a mosh pit of blood and guts and all it would have taken to start it was one cross look at the wrong person and the party would have been over. Pressing through the mass of people, more concerned with loosing each other than stepping on whatever was under our feet, we held onto each other like a chain link fence while watching the scene around us in amazement. Eventually we managed to get to Frenchman Street again, where things were a little calmer and we could just relax for a little while.

            It was near two in the morning before we left the jazz scene on Frenchman and you could still hear music being performed in the streets. It was wonderful. Where in the world could you be out in the middle of winter, at stupid o'clock in the morning, walk around with a beer in your hand, and still hear people playing music in the streets? New Orleans, baby. Only in New Orleans...that's where.