I have an entire script for this post, but I spent all night looking for just the right video because because because because because and now I’m too tired to write it. I gotta get up in the morning. So I’ll write it tomorrow! YAY. Sogni d’oro.

Catch! I remember once, a Mardi Gras day spent alone, when I tripped down Saint Charles Avenue, first watching the Krewe of Zulu on that part of their route, then watching the Krewe of Rex, which followed soon after. I thought, “I’m alone. I’m just going to stand aloof and observe the madness”. That didn’t last. Very, very quickly, I found myself screaming along with the rest of the crowd, “Throw me something, Mister!” And I really cared, really cared, about getting a Zulu necklace, first because they were especially beautiful that year, second because it was, well. . . Zulu. I wanted a piece of Zulu. Then Rex came along, and I cared, really cared, about getting one of the doubloons, for the same reasons. Then I wanted the whole Rex doubloon set: purple, green and gold. So I screamed and jumped and stomped on the rolling coins (watch your fingers, y’all. Those old ladies get vicious with them heels).

Then, having gotten most of what I wanted, I walked down Saint Charles and through the Warehouse District, down to the river because Canal Street was blocked with parades, and into the Vieux Carré, the French Quarter. Then, with a nod to my old nemesis Dante, I began my descent into the Ninth Circle of Hell: Bourbon Street.

It’s hard to describe the French Quarter on Mardi Gras. The only part the media covers is the extremes, of course, the extremes of the sexual, especially. But it’s so much more than that. It’s a living circus of stilt-walkers, kettle drummers, huge feathered costumes, real-life cross-carrying Jesuses, acrobats, and all manner of clever costumes mixing in a psychedelic chaos of adventure. It is in-credible, barely credible, until you experience it.

So I made my way, more and more slowly, the crowd thickening as I approached and turned on to Bourbon Street. And it is truly hell for someone like me, because people are packed together like sardines. But no amount of anxiety would turn me back: I wanted the experience. So I patiently stood on tiptoes as the crowd literally carried me along the street, watching all kinds of extravaganzas in debauchery.

Let me be clear: Most of the “debauchery” is in fun, an age-old lampooning of sexual mores that native New Orleanians have been weaned on, don’t take seriously, and perform for the sake of the tourists. They laugh at it, but for fly-over Americans, it’s genuinely titillating. Freak show or no, everyone is having a ball in the mad mess.

I noticed the light was fading, and I knew that I had a very very long way to walk to get back Uptown, where I was staying. I also knew that there would be no transportation to speak of that evening. So I cut out, ascended via Rampart Street and doubled back to Saint Charles, followed the streetcar tracks, turned the corner, and stopped. At the end of the long, empty avenue, floating just over the tips of the oaks, hung a huge red ball: Sunset. Party over.

I walked toward it, not wanting to look away from the beautiful glow, willing it to stay. And as I walked home in the dusk, I thought of what a magical, epic journey it had been, archetypal, even. I had spent my day screaming and jumping and begging and stomping for – what? For what? Trinkets and trash. I looked down at my necklaces and fingered my doubloons. It was all trash, plastic trash in the end. Native New Orleanians love to lament: “What am I going to do with all these beads?” Tomorrow there would be media features and advice on how and where to recycle the throws.

But, shh. It’s not time to talk about that, yet. The big fun has just begun. LAISSEZ LES BONS TEMPS ROULER! Throw me something, Mister!