Debauchery, Undressed

Suzie Sims-Fletcher

         Quite honestly, When the Saints go Marching In didn’t always, (ever?), remind me of Mardi Gras, New Orleans, or Louisiana. I think I learned it as a kid in some middle school choir class…..Or Girl Scouts. One of those songs you just knew. But now, with the aftermath of Katrina, it also seems to be the theme song for the many emergency assistance workers. And that’s cool.

         It just doesn’t mean that for me.

         As a matter of fact, I have this weird, vacation slide show kind of relationship with New Orleans. You see, growing up, I simply didn’t know about Mardi Gras. New Orleans? Was that like New Jersey or New Mexico? Louisiana? Oh yeah- the Purchase, with wampum…somewhere near....uhhh Tennessee? Didn’t exist. No beads, no king cakes, no parades, no nuthin’. ” Sort of like, if you’ve never been to China, how do you really know it’s there? Sort of like that saying, “If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Yeah. Just like that.

         Then, one year, in an attempt to meet my LA living lover halfway, I proposed Mardi Gras.* By this time, I knew it was some sort of street party, with purple, green and gold, and girls with clothing problems, but I didn’t really get much more than that. Rendezvous ready, tickets were bought, arrangements were made. Friends, acquaintances, relatives, and students were drilled for a basic list of must-do’s, must-eat’s, and must go’s. And off we went.

          *Los Angeles not Louisiana, I was in Boston.

         [Turn projector on. Press “Advance” for next slide.]

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is the airport.

         Coincidentally – or not – this trip to the Big Easy came over Valentines Day. Suspecting a holiday related airport surprise from my beau, and not to be outdone, I excused myself from my friendly flight seatmate (he had a son attending university where I taught) and redressed in the bathroom. I deplaned in the best rendition of a trollop I could manage – low-low cut short-short dress, back-seamed fishnet stockings, trailer-trash blue-green eye shadow, and five-inch heels. I teased my hair into a diner-proud nest, and popped some chewing gum in my mouth. The formerly impressed seatmate, now red-faced, reacted to me like an infection, speeding away from me as I did the walk of shame through the terminal.

         My sweetheart greeted me at Security with an appreciative twinkling grin and handed me a red-lace, plastic-rose adorned drugstore-sized, heart shaped box of chocolates. Affixed to the top was a “grow your own date” kit – in case, as forewarned, we got separated in the crowded Mardi Gras celebrations. After a quick interlude, we were on our way.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is the house in the Garden District.

         Our next mission was to park the car. One of my students was from New Orleans and graciously allowed us parking in front of his Garden District home – an area I now know to be filled with magnificent 19 th century mansions with ceilings in the heavens and pillars to support the gods. Stately and sumptuous, this was no three-bedroom ranch with a 4 x 5 gravel space on the side. And this was not the last time that the enchantment of N’awlins and my pedestrian expectations were to clash.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is Frankie and Johnny’s.

         After a casual tour of his elegant domicile, our host and his girlfriend delivered us to a local favorite: Frankie and Johnny’s. Happy, bead-wearing partiers spilled out the door. This was my introduction to the festivities: I was starting to catch on. Inside they led us to a table covered, like all the others, with red and white checked cloths. Then, my first taste of local cuisine: alligator pie, fried green pepper rings, and peanut butter pie. I didn’t know if it was Cajun or Creole, nor did I care. My taste buds were singing Hallelujah with a crazy accent.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is the view out the window.

         Getting a hotel was tricky. For what seemed like hours, I hung on the phone. Eventually, after much small talk the agent announced triumphantly, that not only did he find a room, but that it was it near Poydras (an address that meant nothing to me, but was, in fact, quite prime) and he had decided that, as a college professor, I qualified for the national teacher’s union discount, “You teach, don’t you?” $80 a night! Much less than half of what rooms were going for.

         So, when we arrived, we quietly thought that there was a mistake. A huge corner room with big windows offering views down Poydras, up to the parade route, and out to a golden-rose sunset. Intending to fully enjoy this gris gris, we popped our first bottle of champagne.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is Mother’s.

         The Ferdi - nuff said.

         Ok, it’s the famous sandwich, a Po-boy, made of ham, roast beef, shredded cabbage, gravy and who knows what other magic ingredients it is dressed with. My mouth said more, my stomach said stop. Bite after bite my mouth won.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is the second line at the parade.

         The plan was to meet some cousins who went to Loyola (or was it Tulane?) on St. Charles Street. Sucking down our Hurricanes - basically rum, fruit juice, rum, and rum - we were primed for parade action. Families, friends, floats, glitter, glitz, glam. I saw it all, hoisted up on my boy’s shoulders.

         On the ground, I was like a five year old. Beaming from ear to ear. Hopping to catch a necklace, jumpingsnatchingclutching for the shiny plastic throws. Serious treasure.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is the house in Metairie.

         Somehow we found ourselves in Metairie, a nearby parish, at the home of one of the cousins. A living room full of family, sitting on recliners, relaxing on couches and lounging on the floor – just like any holiday. The smell of jambalaya permeated the house - huge vats of the stuff were kept warm on the stove with a stack of bowls and spoons at the ready for anyone who happened into the house. Who were we to refuse this hospitality? We gorged on the tasty rice concoction.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is the Vieux Carre.

         Talk about feeling like the ruling class! Thanks to a good friend we had an invitation to an oil company sponsored balcony. We were catered to like royalty in every way –as we looked down on the Bourbon Street masses below. I didn’t shout at anyone to show me anything, but I did toss down a deserving bead or two.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is the French Market.

         Beautiful and bustling with people and music. The line at Café Du Monde was looooonnnng. Well, sometimes reviews are not as good as the real thing: powdered sugar coated squares of heaven washed down with brown liquid goodness. Mmmmmmmm. Beignets and chicory coffee since 1862 for a reason. Yeah. Worth the wait.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is the risky faubourg.

         We were warned not to go to this neighborhood. That it was rough and potentially unsafe. That it was filled with poor people. We found families sitting on porches, enjoying each other’s company, the flavor of celebration, decorated trees and windows, smiles and greetings. Two older men on a stoop offered us beers from their knee-side cooler and engaged us in conversation…or tried to. Truth be told, much as we wanted to, we couldn’t understand much of what they said in their thick local lingo, but we knew it was friendly and welcoming. “ Laissez les bon Temps Roulez.”

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is St. Louis Cemetery No. 1.

         We were eager to see the crypt of the Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau. The place was filled with appropriately bone white tombs, markers, and mausoleums. It was also oddly lonely. The sun started to set and blood-orange lit the stones in a beautifully eerie way – cherubs against clouded skies, angel’s wings casting shadows on the crowded sacred ground. We felt it was time to go, and, not taking any chances, we paid our respects with a kiss and a prayer, and left.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is the street.

         Loud drinking boisterous happy party beads beads beads beadsbeadsbeads.

         MAN! It was crowded. Simply packed. All kinds of people and photographers, Earlier we’d strolled down the street when it wasn’t this crowded and the rally cry “show us your tits!” had been hurled at me over and over – you couldn’t escape the nagging, begging, repeated attempts at pressure to show some skin. I responded each time with a slight shoulder shrug, gentle smile, and a shake of my head, “No.” My escort said “Sorry. She won’t”

         This time, from one of the balconies, a man got our attention, “You hold on to that, girl! You’re beautiful and I respect you!!” And down came a long giant gumball sized pearl necklace, punctuated with ping-pong ball sized roses. I was shocked and complimented as the beads went around my neck. There was even applause from the filigreed iron rail above.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is our room.

         The atmosphere of the street had taken over. DO NOT DISTURB displayed. Piles of shiny rainbow trinkets. Half dozen or more empty champagne bottles. Scattered mounds of towels from a feeble attempt to soak up some of the bubbly from the “shake it and shoot it” battle, which ended, basically, in a champagne shower...and, well, attempted cleanup. We didn’t want any to go to waste!

,         Clothes – flung

          Bed – tossed

          Champagne – sprayed

          Beads – discarded

         We did Mardi Gras and we rock-starred our room.

Shhhhhhurrrpp CLIK

         This is a view from the highway.

         Romantic Spanish moss draped trees and otherworldly swampy marshes lined the road as we left the debauchery behind.

         [Projector off]

         These days, it’s hard to see the New Orleans of my Mardi Gras. Granted, before I went, I had a blank screen, a blip of history lesson and a name. But now, now I don’t want Katrina to replace the colors and sounds, smells and tastes.

And I won’t.

         Instead, I am going to keep replaying them. And I’m going to support the spirit of the city - I am going to believe just like I did with Santa, Tinkerbelle, and China.

         And if a beignets falls off a balcony, with or without the Saints Marching…

I’ll hear it.

New Orleans Lingo yat:

Yat: N’awlins Lingo

kingcake – large oval pastry with a plastic baby doll hidden inside. The person who gets the doll, buys the king cake for the next party

gris gris – good luck, Voodoo charm, spell

dressed – the works: mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, etc.

second line - funky walking/dancing part of a parade just behind the band

throws - inexpensive trinkets tossed from floats: doubloons, cups, necklaces, etc.

Vieux Carre – French Quarter

beignets – A square doughnut sprinkled with powdered sugar

faubourg - neighborhood

Laissez les bon Temps Roulez – Let the good times roll!

_______________________________________________________