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.