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.