Going To The Mardi Gras

Happy Mardi Gras

The true believers pack the rod iron balconies rewarding those who shout those famous words: Throw me some beads mister and display that time-honored gesture of flashing of bare chests. It is pointless to lie. Billie collects her fair share of memorabilia.

The morning my wife Billie and I arrive the headline reads: Carnival 1999 Beads Flow Like Wine. We make our way through the Vieux Carre, anxious to experience the world’s largest party. Festivities have been in full swing for weeks. While workers shovel mounds of garbage off the sidewalks, a continual flow of newcomers provide spice for the melting pot of leftovers.

Carnival means farewell to the flesh. It begins in New Orleans on the sixth of January and ends the day before Lent—Fat Tuesday. The French Quarter is filled with people from all over the world, there to celebrate life to its fullest, if only for a day. Mardi Gras is highlighted by huge, elaborate parades, each one with its own presiding king. The first famous king was Louis Armstrong as The Zulu King in 1949.

Our first stop is Razzoos’ Bar on Bourbon Street, two beers for one in large cups. An elderly, black man blowing his saxophone on the corner never misses a beat. The sound is as seasoned as his face and allows me to imagine the history that lingers there. The people come in all colors, shapes, and sizes, Cajun and Creole. The universal language of happiness takes center stage and everyone is offered a part in the play.

Traipsing through curio shops and exchanging small talk with fellow pilgrims produces a huge appetite. We settle on Sammy’s historic seafood restaurant, established in 1928. A man in a tuxedo seats us in the open-air section overlooking the street. We carry our drinks in. A group of teenagers from Oklahoma, with orange and blue hair, are having a lively musical discussion. I join in the conversation. To my surprise they are unaware the great traveler and folk singer, Woody Guthrie, hails from their state. It feels good to play a small part in the grand drama.

Walking to the mighty Mississippi to rest a spell is certainly an eye-opener. People are passed out all over the riverbank, which for me begs the question: maybe this is the “House of the Rising Sun.” After stopping at the Hard Rock Café, we start back to Canal Street to watch the big parades. We take a break at Preservation Hall, home of New Orleans Jazz. This leaves us toe-tapping long into the night on our wild journey. We come across community clubs, marching bands, outlandish costumes, mimes and people baring their flesh all along the way.

The parades are extraordinary! During one of the first floats I capture a coin with a Louis Armstrong emblem, which now resides in my Mojo bag. Later, a local man shares some of his spicy ham hocks with us—yum, yum good. Now that’s southern eating.

As the sun goes down we are sitting on a stoop, drinking Pina Coladas from Fat Tuesdays, watching the world go by—literally, people from all over the world. A naked man covered in silver paint nonchalantly paints our noses. And I’m fairly sure it really happened. It all seems like a dream and difficult to explain, like trying to tell someone about watching a sunset. This is only a spoonful of what I feel, but I hope it makes you hungry. Happy Mardi Gras!