been there, done that, someone threw up on my t-shirt
As Fat Tuesday ends and ushers in Ash Wednesday and another lenten season, I'd like to reflect back on Mardi Gras. (Yes, for those that didn't know, Mardi Gras is a faith based holiday, being the last big fling before Ash Wednesday and Lent in preperation for Easter. "Show us your tits" is actually French for "Forgive them, for they know not what they do." It's a rough translation.).
I went when I was a flight student. I had just finished college and was learning to fly in Pensacola, Florida, and a bunch of us road tripped to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. We had a fabulous time, or the parts I remember were fabulous. We ate street food, watched parades, caught beads, got flashed by women very proud of their breasts, listened to jazz in several bars, and ended up in a small bar off Bourbon Street, making friends with people from Ohio and getting fairly smashed. I left thinking...damn, I want to do that again..and again...and again. That was a blast!
I then came back to Pensacola several years later to teach flight school, and wanted to relive the Mardi Gras experience, so again I road tripped with friends. I should have left well enough alone, or possibly changed my itinerary to reflect a slightly older me. It's amazing what perspective comes with a little maturity. I walked down Bourbon Street, and it all came back. It was all the same and all pretty cool for a while. We spent more time focusing on food this time around, making sure we got something cajun and very tasty. We actually knew the parade schedule and tried to hit as many as possible. In the end though, it all funnels down to Bourbon Street, and I think I was a tad more sober the second time around. The first time I never saw anyone trudging down the middle of the street carrying a cross and purple robes over his shoulder, while people handed out leaflets saying we were all going to hell. I always loved those kinds of generalizations. I considered the source and didn't let that bother me much. I just shook my head and had another beer. It was later that the uglier part reared its uglier head. You realize that there are hundreds of street vendors selling beer, and no porta-potties, and there are long lines to get in and two drink minimums at every bar. Then that stench in the gutters of Bourbon Street lets you know what many are doing about that lack of facilities. You notice the people puking up their sixth hurricane in the bushes down the alleys....those that actually make it to the alleys. You have to watch your step after 10:00 on Bourbon Street, if you like your shoes. By midnight, there's a thickening layer of gross covering most of the street.
Now, if you ask, would I go back, I think I'd still say yes, and I'd still spend some time on Bourbon Street, but it'd be earlier. Then I'd hit the parades and make sure I duck into a side street, and plant myself in a nice restaurant for the evening before the gutters start to smell. Still, I'd tell you I'd rather go back to New Orleans some other time of the year, even more.
I went when I was a flight student. I had just finished college and was learning to fly in Pensacola, Florida, and a bunch of us road tripped to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. We had a fabulous time, or the parts I remember were fabulous. We ate street food, watched parades, caught beads, got flashed by women very proud of their breasts, listened to jazz in several bars, and ended up in a small bar off Bourbon Street, making friends with people from Ohio and getting fairly smashed. I left thinking...damn, I want to do that again..and again...and again. That was a blast!
I then came back to Pensacola several years later to teach flight school, and wanted to relive the Mardi Gras experience, so again I road tripped with friends. I should have left well enough alone, or possibly changed my itinerary to reflect a slightly older me. It's amazing what perspective comes with a little maturity. I walked down Bourbon Street, and it all came back. It was all the same and all pretty cool for a while. We spent more time focusing on food this time around, making sure we got something cajun and very tasty. We actually knew the parade schedule and tried to hit as many as possible. In the end though, it all funnels down to Bourbon Street, and I think I was a tad more sober the second time around. The first time I never saw anyone trudging down the middle of the street carrying a cross and purple robes over his shoulder, while people handed out leaflets saying we were all going to hell. I always loved those kinds of generalizations. I considered the source and didn't let that bother me much. I just shook my head and had another beer. It was later that the uglier part reared its uglier head. You realize that there are hundreds of street vendors selling beer, and no porta-potties, and there are long lines to get in and two drink minimums at every bar. Then that stench in the gutters of Bourbon Street lets you know what many are doing about that lack of facilities. You notice the people puking up their sixth hurricane in the bushes down the alleys....those that actually make it to the alleys. You have to watch your step after 10:00 on Bourbon Street, if you like your shoes. By midnight, there's a thickening layer of gross covering most of the street.
Now, if you ask, would I go back, I think I'd still say yes, and I'd still spend some time on Bourbon Street, but it'd be earlier. Then I'd hit the parades and make sure I duck into a side street, and plant myself in a nice restaurant for the evening before the gutters start to smell. Still, I'd tell you I'd rather go back to New Orleans some other time of the year, even more.
Labels: Pop Culture
John put this out here at 9:11 AM
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