Fat Tuesday

This may be the last message from N'awlins. I think I've about covered it. But Mardi Gras is such an unusual phenomenon (is that redundant?) that I feel I must give it one more post. For example, the food bank was closed not only today but yesterday as well (they were open on Presidents Day, and an employee told me they don't pay much attention to the federal holidays, just the Catholic ones). Okay, I understand how some businesses would close but WalMart? McDonalds? It was like Christmas out there today. I had intended to buy a few things at WM, and then have some really bad (good) fast food in preparation for Lent, and I was thwarted on both counts! I was bummed!

Saturday I attended one more parade because folks told me how they were more family-friendly out in the neighborhoods than in the French Quarter. So I drove to the Mid-City area to the home of a new contact who was having lots of family and food and lived within walking distance of the parade route for the Krewe of Endymion. I arrived at 9 a.m. for the 4:15 parade so I could get a parking place, then had some red beans and rice for breakfast. Yum! With King Cake too, of course, which is really a cinnamon roll, not cake.

As I approached my host's home I passed blocks and blocks where people had obviously been camping out in order to reserve their parade-viewing spots. These people are serious parade watchers. They rent porta-potties at $125 and then charge others $2-$5 to use them.

They build parade-viewing contraptions. They wear parade-viewing clothes. They put up tents and bring their grills. It's Party City on the median. I don't know why, but some New Orleans streets have 50-foot-wide medians. This is what it looks like before the parade:

And here's a float we saw on its way to the starting line.

TThis is what happens when the parade rolls by:

There is the biggest hoop-tee-do and fightin' and scramblin' and hollerin', to catch beads thrown from the floats so you can show that you were able to get more cheap junk to hang around your neck than your friends did. And woe be unto you if you try to bend over in that crowd to pick up something off the ground. You're liable to get your hand stomped on. There's no way to see any of the marching bands because the folks with the ladders are all in front (their reward for squatting out there for 36 hours) and there are police barricades to prevent anyone from getting around them.

Well, it took me all of about 10 minutes to decide I had had enough, but the people I was visiting were there until the bitter end, and they do it every year just as if it were a novelty they might never experience again in their lives. I walked back to the house and ate myself into a coma.

There were 57 parades this year, beginning with the one I told about earlier, on Feb. 7. Nine of them took place today, beginning at 8 a.m., and I didn't go near any of them. I was too busy trying to find just one lousy double cheeseburger. These people are crazy. I need to move on.

Exploring

In ordinary life we hardly realize that we receive a great deal more than we give, and that it is only with gratitude that life becomes rich.- Dietrich Bonhoeffer

This is the view as you embark on a journey across the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway on a cloudy day, and it is indeed a journey. Turns out New Orleans is an island. Who knew? You can't escape without going over a bridge and the Causeway had been beckoning since I arrived. Every time I opened the city map there it was, a solid straight line bisecting the big blue part at the top of the page.

Sunday is my day to explore the city (less traffic) so I found Causeway Boulevard on the map (a straight line continuation of the straight line that crosses the lake), hopped on and road it through town and onto the bridge. Then I panicked: I couldn't see the other side! I looked at my gas gauge: a quarter of a tank. That should be enough, or maybe not, how long is this thing anyway? Okay, if I get 15 miles per gallon, and the tank holds 25 gallons (or is it 30, or 20?), then 1/4 is five gallons, which will get me 75 miles, no problem. How long IS this thing?! I'm looking at the gas gauge and peering into the distance and doing calculations in my head. There are crossovers that connect the northbound and southbound lanes every few miles and as I pass one, then another, I consider turning around. But I don't and then I'm getting farther and farther away from land and I realize that I could just as easily run out of gas going back. So I forge ahead and finally convince myself that the bridge can't possibly be 75 miles long or even 60, at which point I finally relax.

"Land ho!" I shout out loud when I see the opposite shore and I think, at least Columbus didn't have to worry about running out of gas (well, I guess food is pretty important, too). I clocked it on the way back: 23.7 miles shore to shore, at a cost of $6 for the toll and $5.67 for gas and $10 for the forgetable lunch. Having my blood pressure jacked up to 160/100: priceless. Adventure! Oh boy!

Thought For The Day

In case you can't read what I wrote on my new PINK hat, it says, "I'd rather be 60 than Pregnant." XOXOX

What Was God Thinking?

I've been chasing a mosquito around the motorhome today (makes me appreciate winters in Minnesota) while listening to Garrison Keillor and his Writer's Alamanac on NPR (another good thing from Minnesota). The end of the daily Almanac is always a poetry reading by Garrison, a master narrator, as you know if you've ever heard the Almanac or his weekly monologue on A Prairie Home Companion.

Having successfully rid my space of the intruder, I was inspired to write a poem myself, something I haven't done much in recent years, but which I enjoyed with my former partner back in the 90s (how time flies). Perhaps my reconnection with her by email (she lives in Minnesota, where we used to enjoy seeing Prairie Home in person) is part of the inspiration, in which case, this one's for you, Rita.

What Was God Thinking?

It was dry all summer in Asheville.
The drought went on and on,
and so the mosquitoes took a vacation also,
no doubt living the high life in Minneapolis
where the human inhabitants endured the deluge,
rain followed by tiny buzzing blood-suckers.

I opened the doors to welcome what breeze
might wander by at noon in North Carolina in August
and left them open into the cool evening
secure in the knowledge that the hungry horde
was visiting elsewhere.

Now I am in Orlando in January
but I must keep shut tight day and night
against the mosquitoes
who, nevertheless, daily discover

some tiny portal
into my private space,
three tiny morning bumps on my itchy ankle
proof positive of their presence.

I suppose I will never be a good Buddhist
(not that I seriously aspire)
for I cannot deduce the reason for the creatures
and I refuse to share my home with them,
virus vectors with skin-irritating spittle who
unlike wasps and spiders
will not be coaxed and cannot be carried
out the door—
their love for my corpuscles being so strong—
and so must be squashed in self-defense.

God knows it hurts me more than it does them
knowing that each tiny annoying Culicidae is in fact
an expectant mother
whose sole purpose is to reproduce
and who must imbibe a bit of my blood to do so.
Well I say
Let her eat cake.

What Do You Do in February in New Orleans?

It's Mardi Gras in New Orleans! Woo-hoo! The first parade of the season was last Saturday night, the Krewe du Vieux (pronounced Crew d' View for those of us who are French-Canadian-challenged). I was to meet a few folks from the Food Bank at a certain place around 8-9 p.m. I was there early, which was a good thing because the parade was early too. I never met my people but I certainly saw everyone else in the world--O...M...G...and me a confirmed crowd avoider. It's funny, I used to be a crowd lover in my younger days. If there was a "happening" I wanted to be there. Now all I want to do is see it, take a picture and go home. So here are the pictures, mostly bad but I never claimed to be Ansel Adams (he wouldn't have wanted to be there either).

This is the corner of St. Peter and Royal St. where I was supposed to hook up with my peeps. Do you see them anywhere?

It was impossible to get to the front of the crowd and actually see the parade. The Krewe du Vieux is known for its old-time Mardi Gras feel: marchers on foot, very low tech floats drawn by mules (I kept trying to get a mule shot but they all came out bad). It's also very tongue-in-cheek, satirical, and raunchy as you'll see in a minute. I was only able to get this one close-up of a parade participant:the fairy gentleman in green, not the woman winking.

This float represents Fannie Mae giving it to Freddie Mac up the you-know-what. This was typical of the kinds of floats. Lots of commentary on bailouts, etc.

This is the Sperm Bank float. It speaks for itself. Something gross about "trickle-down" economics.

That's all from the Big Easy. My only other news is that I seem to have sprung a leak as a result of my run-in with the light pole in Port St. Lucie. It has rained the past couple days and water is seeping near the head of my bed, not on me just the mattress. The adventure continues!