In my defense, the most colorful street celebration in a U.S. city sounded like a cultural thing I might enjoy. Not least because I’ve always had my odd form of dress-up; I could hide in plain sight amongst the revelers. Celebrations traditionally include lots of people. Willingly surrounding myself with lots of people was going out of fashion for me– unless, of course, they were dead.

Kim & I had been together just over a year when I put the idea in her head to go to Mardi Gras. My sister Du had been over a decade before & loved it. I was intrigued by the city, its history, culture, & food. What we didn’t know, in these intervening years since my sister’s trip, was that the celebration before the fasting of Lent had become a giant frat party.

We’d been dabbling in the months preceding this trip. ‘Dabbling in the black arts?’ one might ask. Only if ‘arts’ is an anagram for ‘tars.’ In a habit’s naissance, so to speak. No matter how risky it was to transport a Schedule 1 narcotic on a commercial flight, we brought it with. A week’s worth is what we packed. That’s a sight through rose-tinted glasses right there.

What does anyone do during an almost 24/7 street party? They indulge. Despite a dwindling supply, talk turns to “New Orleans is closer to Mexico than Seattle; surely this city is awash in dope.” Though that may’ve been the case, delusional optimism is a side effect of substance abuse.

The first 4 days were a blur of parades, plastic beads, flipping off guys who yelled “show us your tits,” music & street drinking. That last was new to us, coming from a state that forbids open alcohol consumption on the street. We were riding high on the… well, shrinking stash.

Booked into a B&B in the Garden District, a place with all kinds of Southern charm. I couldn’t believe how nice the house & proprietor were. We were going by that year’s Let’s Go– New Orleans, a series of books on budget travel in the days before the internet. That’s how I found lodging & mapped out sights to see in ‘Nawlins.’ 

The city is area-small. For someone used to walking a lot, we could get around without even using transit. But I had to ride at least one streetcar– too bad the one named ‘Desire’ was decommissioned.

We went to the (slammed by animal rights groups) Audubon Park Zoo, where the remake of Cat People was filmed. It had been remodelled since into a more humane & spacious zoological park (courtesy of bad press, no doubt). Nothing remained of the original decrepit structures, veritable dungeons for the critters that lived there. Here I was disappointed in the upgrade because of a Paul Schrader movie with a good cast (how many of them regretted being involved?) & a song by David Bowie. The animals were way better off, & I discovered media subverts the better angels of my nature.

Everywhere we went on that trip we heard Guns N’ Roses blasting from all cars. Their 1st album had been released the previous summer. Kim was happy her friend’s band was gaining attention. I only vaguely recall this, but no one remembers everything. Neither of us remember what we ate the whole time we were in The Big Easy. Odd, because both of us were wild about Creole/Cajun cuisine. Apparently when smack talks, food walks.

It’s not news to anyone that I’m a cemetery geek. Since New Orleans is below sea level, they inter all their dearly departed aboveground. Like being in a hobbit city, a necropolis of tiny buildings. There’s some larger crypts for the prominent dead, but most of the regular folk are interred within these oft-ornate stone vaults. Children could play hide-&-seek there & not ever be found. 

I wanted to go to the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, with the tomb of voodoo queen Marie Laveau, but Lafayette was closer to where we were staying. I enjoyed that it was so cramped, like we could get lost in a labyrinth of the dead. At night it had to be extra spooky due to lack of visibility. Soon we would be envying the dead for their unencumbered rest.

Doesn’t everybody dream of gliding through a swamp on a boat with a guide so Cajun you can’t understand a word he says? Our bayou tour was like that scene in Snatch with Brad Pitt jabbering fast in a UK-Traveller accent. I dearly wanted subtitles. He held a huge nutria the whole time, feeding it hard candies. Alas, the alligators were still in brumation, so not only did we not see any, but they weren’t on the menu at the diner where our tour concluded either. Not that I was keen on having any– everyone said ‘it tastes like chicken.’

In a jonesy daze we wandered the French quarter until we ran into a guy we’d met from the Zulu Krewe. The Krewes are social organizations that plan their own parades, which can increase to several parades in a day by Shrove Tuesday. He said he could score some for us, then went on to tell us about people smoking cigarettes dipped in embalming fluid. Ew factor aside, I wondered ‘isn’t that stuff highly flammable? Doesn’t it blow up in their faces?’ but I kept this to myself. No need to refute his story with chemistry.  

He led us several blocks away, into the projects. Instructed us to “Stay right here by the stairs. I can’t be bringin’ strangers up to his place. & I’ll need the cash.” Though I’m not thievish, I recognized this as a perfect opportunity. We were low-hangin’ fruit.

Eyeing this building having seen better days, I thought ‘tenement.’ I was relieved this ripoff was actually voluntary. We didn’t hear him knocking or any door opening. After waiting about 5 mins, we ascended the stairs he had. At the top & around a corner was another set of stairs letting out onto another street. He chose this building because of its floor plan! I was grudgingly impressed.

Ever-so-slightly dopesick, we got on a train to Memphis, where we went to Graceland. Then to Nashville, where we met up with a friend of Kim’s & went to a nightclub. 10 mins in the club, standing by the dance floor, I overheard one guy say to another “I’m gonna go out there & find me some twat.” Upon leaving Nashville my impressions were queasier than when I entered.

Back at the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, set to depart for home, the luggage scanner wasn’t working. They were physically searching bags. In a garbage can of a restroom somewhere in that airport, discretely wrapped in paper towels, there’s a soot-coated, bent spoon & some disposable syringes. This is the part where a person is thankful they blew through their stash.