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.

Jour quatre...Jeudi gras

            With half of a king cake still sitting in the pit of my stomach from the night before, the next morning all I wanted out of life was to spend a quiet morning to explore New Orleans, watch the city open her eyes to a rising sun...and digest some of that cake. Stepping gingerly in the dark over tossed shoes and tangled clumps of beads scattered across the floor, I tried to make my way out as quickly and quietly as I possibly could without waking anyone up. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy every minute of the time that I was spending with the five wonderful members of my family of friends who came on this trip with me, it was more that I needed a moment to myself. I didn't want to have to talk about things just to fill quiet voids, which is the case when friends are still getting to know each other in a setting outside of the norm, and I didn't want to talk about me or what I wanted out of life any more than anyone else that early in the morning. I just wanted to think deep thoughts and sit in a state of wonder by myself. Being commissioned as unofficial guide of our trip, I was mentally exhausted trying to please everyone and myself all the time. I just wasn't used to being around so many people ALL of the time either. Even though I live in a big city and I'm surrounded by thousands of people every day, I've also lived alone for the last two years of my life. And, though I grew up in a large family and we were very close, I was, however, the only girl, and so I had a little more space to call my own than my brothers did. There were days when I would be tucked away in my room and the only time anyone would see me was when it was time to eat a meal. I lived in my own world and my bedroom was that sanctuary where I thought up those dreams I had for my life. My parents were the type that worked hard and talked to each other about life and their issues like everyone else, but when it was a conversation meant for their children, it was more about what we should be eating, what we couldn't do or where we couldn't go. I suppose my personality makes a whole lot of sense now. If I can get there now...I'll go. If it's edible and I want to eat it...I will. If I feel like jumping out of a perfectly good airplane or climb the Andes Mountains...I'll do it. But the advice I got from them is always a deciding factor and always up for consideration. Those restrictions and lessons of restraint were not completely lost on me.

            My mission to escape didn't work however. For the second morning I've tried to slip away, I got as far as the bathroom before someone woke up and my escape had to be aborted. Luckily, Renee and Allison were the only other people in the room with me so it was a small group and they didn't care how they looked that morning, so we were out of the room in a few minutes time and still managed to experience New Orleans before the rest of the city opened their eyes. I wasn't particularly hungry that morning, but a little coffee and the mention of breakfast still sounded good. I never could say no to the suggestion of food. I'm surprised I didn't walk around wearing extra large shirts everyday. Just a few blocks from the hotel, facing the French Market by the banks of the Mississippi, the three of us found a cozy little sidewalk table at a place called Magnolia Grill. After a waitress came by and handed us menus we contemplated the menu for a few minutes and ended up ordering three different plates we were interested in and shared them between three of us. A few minutes later a man dressed in a cooks apron and dark shades over his eyes came over to hand us our breakfast.

"Good morning ladies."

"Good morning."

"Anything else I can get you?"

With our eyes drooling over a fluffy omelet, pancakes, and something called "lost bread" French toast we thanked the man and dug in.

With arms and hands crissing and crossing to grab some of this and some of that, we ate a little bit of everything and nearly cleaned our plates before our waitress came by to check on us. I had to ask her why the French toast was called "lost bread."

 "Actually, I don't know. You should ask David over there." Pointing to the man wearing the sunglasses, now wiping down a chair just a few tables away. Hearing his name he walked over to us with his eyebrows poking over his sunglasses like a crow in mid flight in the distance.

"So David, why do you call it 'lost bread?'"

"Because it's for po' people. You take the old sandwich bread nobody wants, dip it in some vanilla, egg and sugar and throw it on the grill. It's for us po' people."

"Oh, I see. It's delicious."

"Where you girls from?"

"New York."

"You like Elvis?"

"What?! Do I like Elvis? Yesss." I said this like it was the most ridiculous question he could ask me.

"You gotta see the Elvis I have inside."

"Where's my camera? Do I like Elvis? Where is he?"

Like a star struck teenager, I walked after David as he lead me inside to the back of the dining room, as though I was about to be introduced to the king of rock in the flesh. Behind a glass enclosure standing well over six feet tall, was a hand painted, life size statue of Elvis singing into a microphone. Oh my Lord. I was expecting to maybe see a large signed photograph of David with Elvis somewhere on the wall, but when I saw this statue I knew I might have found an even bigger fan of Elvis than I was.

"Wow. Can I get a picture of this with you?"

"Let me get my shades back on."

            After a breakfast fit for a king, we head back towards the hotel so the girls could get ready for the day and wake Kayla and Andrew from there slumber before they missed out on the rest of the day. While they were doing that I decided to wander around NOLA on my own for a little while, without feeling like I was dragging anyone along on my geeky explorations. Breaking off from the group I found myself in front of Lalaurie House just around the corner of the hotel on Royal Street. Legend has it that this looming grey mansion, once owned by Nicholas Cage, was built for distinguished French couple, Dr. Leonard Louis Nicolas Lalaurie and his wife Delphine, back in 1832. This couple was known by the town for throwing lavish parties and consorting with the prominent social circles of the day. At the time, roomers traveled about town that she treated her slaves poorly, and that they were painfully thin and appeared terrified of their mistress. In April of 1836, after a fire broke out at the residence, neighbors and firemen rushed in to extinguish the flames and save as much of the contents as they could, finding several half-starved and manacled slaves with one chained to the very stove where the fire was said to have started. When the town found out about Lalaurie's treatment of the slaves a mob arrived intent on destroying the place but the Lalauries managed to escape unharmed, possibly to Paris. Man, I need to learn how they did that? I'm a lousy escape artist. Later the large home was turned into a conservatory of music, a gaming house, then a private residence. People still say that they can sometimes hear strange sounds coming from the house when no one is home. Who knows what they really hear? Although I didn't really believe it was haunted, it still seemed creepy to be standing in front of the building knowing what happened inside those walls. Nicholas Cage–what were you thinking? If I was a tortured slave and died in a house that was set on fire, that would be the last place on earth I would want to roam around aimlessly after living a life of misery. I'd wander about someone's beachfront property, possibly next to a nude beach, or hang out with Elvis at Graceland for a while. Those old souls have it all wrong. They really should get out of their old ways and move on.

            Eventually, I found myself under the shade of a tree along the black iron fence surrounding Jackson Square. I was drawn by the sound of music drifting to me on the wind. I stood watching the people of New Orleans in front of the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral, the oldest continuously operating cathedral in the United States. It almost looked like Cinderella's castle at Disney World if you stood at the other end of Jackson Square to look at it. Scattered around the outskirts of the old square sat workers on benches taking their lunch breaks, many of them not even eating, just listening to the gypsy jazz musicians next to them as a cool breeze brushed the heat of the sun from our warm faces. It was such an enchanting moment; so calming, so mellow and dream-like. Ah, alone at last. This is the pace I like to travel. Always going, but also taking the time to let things soak in too. Traveling with others has its attributes. You have more of a sense of security, you don't get as lonely when you go for long periods of time and it's nice to have someone to guide you back to your hotel room if you find you had one too many drinks or someone to hold your hair back if you had way too many drinks. However, the down side is that it can be difficult to do things like this...sit quietly on street corner just watching and listening to the people around me, and wander with no particular place to go. It wasn't even noon and the city was alive with music on a Thursday morning. Doesn't get any better than this.

            With another rendezvous at the Lafayette Cemetery before our lunch reservation, together with my five little duckies, we head out on another trek down St. Charles towards the Garden District. Thankfully, because it was hours before any of the parades rolled through town again, the streetcars were running and we caught one just as soon as we reached the closest stop. I had been wanting to ride this particular streetcar since we got to New Orleans and now I was finally on the streetcar named Desire. That's right, this was the same line and trolley model streetcar that Mr. Tennessee Williams named his famed play, Streetcar Named Desire, after. Shortly after moving to New Orleans at the age of twenty-eight, Tennessee fell in love with this city and began writing his famed play, loosely based on the bobbled relationship of his own parents. In his day, however, the St. Charles streetcar line once ran through the French Quarter down Bourbon Street, all the way to Desire Street in the lower Ninth Ward. And Desire Street was actually named in homage to one of Napoleon's fiancées who went by the name of Désirée Clary. Not the same spelling, but close enough. Sitting in the streetcar at caterpillar pace down St. Charles, I couldn't help but imagine a handsome young Marlon Brando on bended knees ripping his shirt in agony and screaming out "Marrrrccccyyyy!" A girl could dream. Where's that kind of passion these days? I can't imagine a single guy in New York ever doing that outside of my forth floor walk-up after a fight. It would be more like, "screw this bitch, I'm outta here." Then halfway down the block he'd probably flip through his contacts list and call some girl named Veronica he might have met at a club he went to last week with his pals. "Yo, girl. What you up to tonight?"

            Walking into the Lafayette Cemetery was like walking onto the movie set of Double Jeopardy for me. I had seen that movie so many times as a young twenty I knew exactly what this place was like before I ever actually saw it. It could have very well been filmed at any one of the similar cemeteries in New Orleans, but they were one and the same...creepy and fascinating at the same time. Wandering the walkways between rows of raised tombs, like houses on city streets, I couldn't help but picture the skeletal remains of the poor souls that were mere inches away from my face, behind thin layers of brick and mortar. Most of these people had died within the same few months or years of each other due to a yellow fever epidemic that spread throughout the city during the mid-nineteenth century. In 1853 alone, nearly eight thousand people died of the disease. I couldn't even imagine what this city was like in that year, but there in that cemetery lied the evidence of that terrible loss. Of course, we didn't let it get us down for more than a few minutes before we began taking morbid pictures of each other levitating between the crumbling crypts and decayed corpses around us. David Blain is not the only master of optical illusion you know.

            At the Lafayette Cemetery, the girls and I changed from our flip-flops to high heels and with Andrew as our male escort, we head over to Commander's Palace across the street for a two o'clock reservation. Nick decided to opt out, whether it was because he was intimidated or he wasn't particularly hungry at the time, I don't know, but it was down to five of us when we got to the restaurant. I was a little nervous about this place, not because it looked pricey and a little upper class for us, but more because I was afraid that my friends would end up resenting me for suggesting a place I've never been to before, gambling on food that could end up tasteless, the portions too small and overpriced, or the service experience lousy. They would never trust another suggestion I had to offer again. It wasn't until we got there that I realized that some of them had never eaten fine dining before. That's when I got excited about this decision. How have you never eaten fine dining before?            

            When I was a little girl, my father would sometimes take my younger brothers and I to the bistro where he managed. I loved watching him busy around the kitchen and dining room, setting up for breakfast and lunch while the wait staff cooed and coddled us like we were Al Pachino's children. Having started as a dishwasher thirty-two years ago, my father slowly climbed the culinary ladder to cook status, head chef and then management. Whether he knew it or not, my father taught me everything about the restaurant business I know today. Watching him work I learned managerial procedures, gracious hospitality, proper dining etiquette, what made a good chef, manager and waiter. Little did either of us know that even with a college degree I would end up spending most of my adult life working under people just like him, but always feeling most at home in a restaurant than anywhere else in the blue-collar world. Although I've never actually enjoyed being a waitress, I love being in a restaurant setting and I believe it's due to growing up with my father. In a social setting, there is nothing more enjoyable to me than sitting in a fine restaurant with friends, eating great food and having a professional wait staff cater to our every culinary need. Eating in an environment like the Commander's Palace was certainly a luxury we only got to experience when we attended fancy weddings together, but from my father's line of work at the bistro, I quickly learned to appreciate the art of culinary cuisine and fanfare.

            When we entered the lavish restaurant, the maître d' lead the five of us, down a hall and through the open kitchen. It almost felt like we were on a tour or granted special access to an area reserved for clientele who wanted to dine in a private setting. In the kitchen, at least eight men and women dressed in clean white chef's coats and hats chopped, stirred, sautéed and grilled all kinds of delicious and colorful foods with as much ease as someone lathering sun tan lotion at the beach. It was the most harmony I think I've ever seen in a kitchen setting. I was in awe. From what I saw from my friend's expressions, they too looked just as fascinated as I did. So far, so good. Surrounding the kitchen were large glass doors and windows that overlooked a courtyard where natural light flood the room and bounced off of shining pots and pans everywhere. It could have possibly been one of the many factors that set the mood in the kitchen. There's nothing like feeling as though you were still a part of the outside world when you could still see it while you worked. Talk about an office with a view. Through the beautiful courtyard dressed with tables and chairs under large oak trees rustling in the wind and a small manicured garden to the right, the maître d' continued to lead us into the next building which held one of seven dining rooms at the palace and overlooked the courtyard and kitchen across the way. At a large round table in a corner by matching windows, our group sat and studied the menu like an exam, our eyes watered as much as our mouths reading the colorful descriptions of the food options before us. Satisfied with our choices and cocktails in hand, we toasted our friendship and patiently waited for our food.

            Like a conga-line, one behind the other, three waiters carrying our food carefully placed them in front of us and walked away. In silence, we stared at the works of art in front of us, inhaling the savory scents drifting up to meet our noses, having no clue what to do with it first...frame it, paint it, eat it? It was too beautiful to disturb but too appetizing not too. When our waiter appeared before us and asked how everything looked, in perfect unison, Allison, Andrew, Renee and Kayla clapped their hands together and with big grins on their faces chanted, "Hurcules, Hurcules, Hurcules." I had never seen the Eddy Murphy hit, The Nutty Professor, but I've seen previews and heard the quote a million times before. Apparently, for reason's I'm not quite sure of, this came to everyone's mind in that exact moment and from the beaming smiles on their faces, I could safely assume that this was a good thing. So I was relieved, if not slightly embarrassed by their enthusiasm when the rest of the dining room looked at us like we came from the zoo. I think the waiter was just as lost as I was, but entertained non-the-less. I really need to see this movie. I feel left out.

            After eating an amazing plate of crusted haddock and fresh French Market vegetables drizzled with some kind of sauce I couldn't even begin to describe, I thought I had tasted the best this place had to offer. However, when it came time for dessert and the waiter came over with an order of Creole bread pudding soufflé, I was the one making a scene. As the waiter placed the warm soufflé in front of Allison and I, he continued to dip a creamy vanilla custard into the center of the dessert and I think I accidentally let out a moan because as the waiter went in to drop more of that custard into the pudding, he grinned and said, "take it easy girls," and that's when I closed my gapping mouth before I let out a sigh and lit a cigarette. Oh my Lord, that bread pudding ruined all bread puddings I'll ever have in the future. We enjoyed the whole experience so much we ended up sitting in the courtyard for another hour, sipping our twenty-five cent happy-hour cocktails laughing under the canopy of trees above our heads. We were just not ready to let go yet.

            Before the parades started down St. Charles, we took a walk through the Garden District and ended up in the same spot we were the day before. In front of the St. Charles Bar we found the same DJ but the crowd surrounding him was a little younger this time. More like seven years old young. With the theme of the parade having to do with knights and jesters and the floats being drawn by horses and mules, it made sense that parents would take their children to see the Knights of Babylon versus the Krewe of Ancient Druids that rolled through the day before. I don't know if it was that Wednesday's parades were better, it was our first Mardi Gras parade, or it was the younger crowd, but Thursday's parades seemed a little somber in comparison. However, two parades later, we had more beads and flashing pendants than we knew what to do with. It helps when you're taller than the seven year olds surrounding you. Marching down St. Charles jangling our beads with every step, we head back towards the French Quarter and Allison and I, never tired of listening to some good Jazz, found ourselves back at Maison Bourbon and the Frenchman Street scene while the rest of the crew explored the other side of Bourbon Street.

            There's just something about Frenchman Street that feels like a magnet to me. That area, just outside of tourist grounds, where the locals all like to meet, is a whole different world. This Bohemian side of New Orleans seems so beautiful to me because it's based around a collected affection for the same attachment, the sound of jazz. These people come here to play, listen and dance to the same tune and the players are good at it, REALLY good at it. When these musicians play their instruments, it's as though they're releasing some sort of load off of their shoulders, or stepping into a warm bath. Walking down Frenchman and seeing the gypsy jazz bands play on the sidewalk, surrounded by their friends, is like the social settings you might see anywhere else, but instead of people having conversations with each other, they're playing and singing to one another like they were living a musical. Inside the Spotted Cat, the same club we were in the night before, the local crowd was even bigger than the night before but it had a more intimate a setting. As the kids spun around doing their swing dances and the six piece jazz band played their instruments, Allison and I sat in the background watching everyone and it almost felt like we crashed someone's party. I suppose it was something like when Jennifer Gray's character from the much-loved film, Dirty Dancing, came unauthorized as Patrick Swayze's guest to an after hours staff party. This scene was like that but without the dirty in the dancing and it was a band, not 80's pop music blasting over a stereo. We bought the band's CD before we left, contributing something to keep the music alive and take something of the scene back with us to New York but I couldn't help but feel a little jealous that I was a tourist instead of a native there. I could have get used to a place like that.

            On the way back to the hotel, buzzed on life and the music culture scene, we came across two middle-aged men, one stumbling more than the other. Apparently, we weren't the only ones out late.

"Does he look convincing?" the sober of the two asked me.

"I don't know, what is he trying to convince you of?"

"That he's not drunk and can walk a straight line."

"In that case...no."

"See, she agrees with me."

"Sorry, I sold you out. Happy Mardi Gras," I told his drunken friend.

"–appy, –ardi gars."

To be continued...