My first Mardi Gras was just before the turn of the century.
I had just moved here months before and was expecting it to be all booze, beads, and boobs. That’s how it was generally portrayed elsewhere in the media and in the pre-Google world, until you’re here experiencing it you have no reason to doubt that view. I mean, why would television lie?
When my neighbors explained the difference between Bourbon Street Mardi Gras and actual Mardi Gras-which is largely more family friendly and generally nipple-free, I was intrigued. My only parade experience at that point was when the small town I grew up in put on it’s annual 4-H parade that consisted of a marching band and some people chucking candy from the back of a flatbed truck, so my bar was set pretty low.
From blocks away, the blaring horns heralded the scene I was walking up to as I approached St Charles. I could see the tops of the floats drifting through the arms of those giant oak trees, down a river of gleefully shouting people being pelted with multicolored beads and cups and blinking do-dads.
But as I got closer I had this surreal moment of alarm that is probably unique to outsiders when I noticed the people on those floats throwing the beads were wearing these simple cloth masks that hung down from the eyeholes of a fixed headdress, and that very much brought to mind KKK garb. It was a little WTF. It didn’t help matters when I also saw what from a distance what seemed to be burning crosses, but that turned out to be a sort of torch system . I wonder if that’s different for people that grow up in New Orleans, like when they first saw pictures of Klan people were they like, “Umm, why are those racists dressed up like it’s Mardi Gras?!“
Just as I was starting to enjoy all this strangeness, someone grabbed my ass. Fully. Not a sly brush of the hand, no, it was two hands and an enthusiastic squeeze that caused me to whip around and shove this startled frat kid almost to the ground. He was very apologetic, said he thought I was someone else, but I was suddenly feeling too alone to be comfortable in this crowd so I left.
Now, I was completely sober for parade number one because I was barely legal and hadn’t made friends with vodka yet- not that vodka would have been a good substitute for flesh friends in that situation, but it would’ve helped with my anxiety. Cheers to misguided self medicating!
You don’t need to drink to have fun this time of year of course , but one of the best ways to really revel in the spirit of Carnival is to surrender at least partway to the madness of it. Meet it halfway.
Once I decided to drink a few hurricanes on Lundi Gras, having no idea how they sneak up on a person. After my fourth one, I jokingly asked the person making them- who was someone I knew- if there was really alcohol in them. Unfortunately, she seemed to take that as a challenge. She gave me another one. And I do not remember a thing after that.
I woke up the next day with the worst hangover of my young life and an entire marching band, whose shrill horns and banging drums coincided with the throbbing, stabbing pain in my head, right outside my window. #FrenchQuarterliving
Remembering that it’s a marathon, a nearly week long one if you’re really committed, and not a sprint is ideal. But reality often falls short of the ideal and that’s why I keep hangover supplies (ginger ale, hair ties, alka seltzer, Tylenol, microwavable foods, delivery menus…mimosa fixins) on hand as the big weekend approaches.
Or I used to anyway, Mardi Gras with kids is a whole other beast.
Under the right circumstances, parades can be fun. A house party is the only way I ever even attempted any with kids still in diapers. You just cannot plan for a clean bathroom situation otherwise. Plus these things go for hours and after a while even the most enthusiastic little ones need a break.
But if I’m planning on just heading out on our own, here’s a run through of what I can expect for a family parade experience with young children. Pro-tip: Limber up!
First there’s getting to the parades, which is a lot of driving around looking for parking and when you find it, it’s 20 blocks from the parade route because getting there to secure a spot hours early isn’t happening. Not with small kids. Hell, making it anywhere on time is an accomplishment.
Anyway, by the time the car is parked, the children are already cranky, partially because of the drive, but also because on parade days there’s little time for actual meals. Between getting everyone ready and leaving early for the traffic, the kids are basically living off of snack bags of chips, string cheese and juice boxes.
Hand sanitizer, btw, is a necessity.
It’s wise to bring a bag for holding throws, but as I also need to hold at least one of my children up so they can actually see the thing, it gets pretty cumbersome- not to mention that I likely have to carry that same child at least part of the way from the car a mile away, unless I want the added hassle of keeping track of a stroller.
As soon as we get to a decent looking spot, one with a view not obstructed by privileged kids on ladder seats and the adults that are climbed half up the ladder to stand behind them, one or more of my children will have to use the bathroom. Porta potties, are a dire emergency only situation for me, so I likely have to take them to the nearest restaurant and pay/buy a drink to use their bathroom. And then find another good watching spot because that first one is now gone.
Once the parade starts, you just have to hope the people around you are decent. I want to say most of them are, but you’d be surprised at how many full grown adults will shove a kid out of the way to catch some beads or a toy. Also, at some point, one of the girls is going to get hit in the face with beads- it’s just gonna happen. I’ve gotten hit before too, those beads get thrown really hard sometimes and it kind of kills the fun for a while.
My arms are numb by float number 5. My misanthropic nature obviously doesn’t make me tolerant of large crowds and that drink I had to buy to use the bathroom wasn’t alcoholic because I’m driving and I have to keep track of both children.
When everything is over, kids are happy, but the adrenaline is wearing off and they are DONE, But wait! we still have to walk back to the car, now carrying 10 pounds of beads that I will end up having to store in a closet in a week.
It’s a good thing then, that the big parades were never what Mardi Gras was for me.
For me, Mardi Gras lives in the French Quarter and it’s fringes. It’s the goth krewe, it’s the NoiseCo bar invasions, it’s the chaos of Lundi Gras night and the casual pageantry of Fat Tuesday afternoon. It’s putting on something fabulous, something ridiculous, or not much at all and watching the stream of feathers and glitter and leather and lace, masks, make up, wigs, and beads that flows through every street. It’s bumping into just about everyone you’ve ever met in this town, even the ones that don’t live here anymore, in the course of a long and wonderfully bizarre afternoon.
The last many years, I’ve had to work through the best days of the season and for the last couple, Lillian has been to young for me to take on an the French Quarter Carnival adventure, so we have a Dress Up King Cake Dance Party instead, but next year..
Next year….
