Hi 61 / Lo 48
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Hi 61 / Lo 48 |
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Volume 70, Issue 90,
February 11, 2005
LIFE & ARTS
Let 'mom' lead you through Big Easy Culture Shock Therapy Bridget Brown My adopted mom wears fishnet stockings and knee-high boots with a heel so tall and sharp I always feel safe with her on the seedy streets of the French Quarter. She tromps down Bourbon Street nightly, curly pigtails bouncing as she parades her long legs carefully around each puddle of indiscernible fluid on the century-old brick streets. Her routine is the same -- work until 3 a.m. then over to Aunt Tikis, a bar on the 12th block of Decatur Street. As she stomped to work on Feb. 4, my train was somewhere by the swamp, inching slowly toward my personal Oz: New Orleans and the last weekend of Mardi Gras. The train was stuffy and dirty, almost as filthy as the quarter itself. After a few visits, one starts to welcome the stink of the previous night's parties. The train, however, was pure hell and anticipation. After an eight-hour delay and a 10-hour ride, a friend, his partner and I walked out of the train station, checked our bags and let the escapade begin. But first, we had to find Mom -- she was, of course, right where she should be. My mom is 35 years old but she looks 10 years younger, and she adopted my best friend and I two years ago on my 22nd birthday. We are an odd trio, but it all fits, and besides, it is a great gimmick to help Mom pick up guys. "Will you by my daddy?" I ask a random guy Mom likes. I stop him before he thinks I'm coming on to him and explain, "No, I really do have a mom. She's hot, and she wants you to be my daddy." The poor guy usually falls for it, and we get rounds of drinks, and on this particular night, keys for all of us to one of the swankiest bars in town. After a bottle of expensive champagne and a toast to Carnival, it was time to walk back to Mom's place on the far end of Bourbon Street and catch a few hours of sleep to wake up in time for the enormous parades that take a year worth of planning. Midday hangovers are never fun, but the life of the city kept my crew barreling down Bourbon. The packed crowds swayed as Hand Grenade-blasted girls bared it all for their plastic treasures and guys caught the action on video cameras. The smells of Cajun cuisine spilling through windows and the sound of wailing saxophones belting out zydeco and blues set the backdrop for the world's biggest bacchanal. Smiling faces mixed easily with ones filled with animosity, and after two blocks mingling with uncontrollable mobs, we made our exit off Bourbon and opted for Royal Street, a much quieter stroll. The best beads, I soon found out, were thrown at the grand parades anyway. "Don't be afraid to fight for your beads," Mom said before heading back to work. "And remember what I told you, ‘never, ever talk to boys with tattoos.'" We heeded her advice as the parade slowly made it's way down Canal Street. The Krewe of Thoth hurled buckets of beads out of each expertly decorated float until my hands felt broken and my neck like it was going to snap from the pressure. Parents and kids watched the events together, helping to break up the sleaziness of the whole festival. Plastic spears soared into the crowd almost starting a riot among a few guys standing next to me. A large man tried to fight me for a handful of pink beads that I, quite deservingly, yelled my head off for, as a rather large girl offered to flash for an intricate purple and yellow string, but was denied. There was a time, just recently, when I didn't understand the allure of the bead -- why people go to unthinkable lengths to feel the weight of the plastic pretties on their chest. But we were there in the middle of the madness, and it felt good to be so greedy. We filled a bag with our goodies and headed back to find Mom. Walking into Aunt Tikis, we lined up the shots as I took a look around. Maybe I will never fit in with the people that feed off the spirit of the French Quarter, or the tourists that toss their empty hurricane glasses into the street. I realize I will always float somewhere between local and visitor. But I am thankful for what I have learned so far from the city: Always watch your step, but don't be afraid to dance in the street, trust a ghost, meet knew people or give in to your vices. And that's enough to make my real mom proud. Send comments to dcshobiz@mail.uh.edu.
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