I never knew how much people loved their heritage until last year's St. Patrick's Day. I (NOT being Irish, and having NEVER celebrated St. Patty's Day) was astounded that I spent it in Destin, FL of all places with two, very pale, very bearded Irishmen. It was a rumble and tumble, beer guzzling, shot slinging festival which landed me on one hungover car ride back up to Alabama.
This year, however, I am faced with a dilemma of either participating or not once again. But I'm in New Orleans. Besides from corned beef po-boys seen every once in a blue moon on sporadic menus I do not know of one thing Irish about New Orleans. So, when I kept being asked "What are you doing for St. Patrick's Day?" I was quite confused as to the options that were before me.
New Orleans does have a neighborhood that lies in between St. Charles and Tchoupitoulas called The Irish Channel. It has many shotgun houses typical to the New Orleans region but it also has one other entity that sets it apart from other neighborhoods: The Irish Channel Block Party.
I have heard that this is how you should spend St. Patty's Day if not in Ireland or Boston. There is a parade, of course. There is green beer, costume contests (it's New Orleans so there are ALWAYS costumes) and po-boys. The two most monumental bars for this neighborhood festival are Parasol's and Tracey's. They have a rivalry as volatile as Catholics/Protestants (obviously not as violent. Come on) but based on history and roast beef po-boys.
So as you wake up on Saturday, Irish or not, just know that starting in the wee little hours of the morning New Orleanians (Irish or not) with enough gusto will be chugging green beer and downing corned beef hash and po-boys. Think your power of green is strong enough? Think about it.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Life Interrupted
I was told that to become a true New Orleanian I would have to partake in my first Mardi Gras as a native, but truthfully "partake" should have been phrased as "survive". I made the very wishful-thinking (unintelligent) decision to start my new job February 13th, aka the Monday halfway through Carnival.
I, as you have surmised from the date of this post, did survive Mardi Gras, though at the end my existence might have or have not been because of cosmic/divine intervention. And please believe that it is not due to large amounts of death-defying cocktails and all-night raves (although that is probably a great contributing factor), but of my own power and will to try to see every part of Mardi Gras and not sleep for four days.
I went to parades (caught throws: Muses=one shoe; Bacchus=one monkey; Krewe du Vieux=mystery candy sticks and stickers), I ate at Mardi Gras Zone, and I made it to Frenchman. And that is where I truly felt my worlds collide. It was on Frenchman at perhaps 6pm on Fat Tuesday when I began to realize the true meaning of Mardi Gras. It's not about how many beads you catch or beers you drink. Nor about the the pictures you take or people you see. It is about costumes that show your inner creativity. Dancing just so you can still know your feet are functional. And the friends that you have managed to keep around you all through the weekend.
I partied. I partied like any 23 year-old in New Orleans on Mardi Gras would, but at the end all I kept thinking about was the new year. The year that started February 22, 2012. It would be in this year that I would understand the build-up to the Feast. New Orleanians save and become thrifty all to celebrate the one day a year they have to reclaim their beloved city. Especially in the one area that actually allows somebody to drive a two-story Trojan horse through the street spitting smoke.
I left Frenchman at 8pm that night. I recalled the time because my body was begging for food and bargaining with my brain in its own attempt to stay and soak up every last drop of Mardi Gras. I went to my neighborhood bar with my two best friends and feasted like royalty. Two of everything: Manchego mushroom toast, whiskey and coke, steak, escargot, whiskey and coke, grilled romaine, and a charcuterie plate (seriously).
People were so nice. Even too nice. "Hey, it's okay, it's Mardi Gras". Those are the words I heard most often. "Hey, it's Mardi Gras". Anything went. Everyone was jovial. Starting out on my own in the middle of this economic depression is not fun. It is not easy. But after my first true Mardi Gras the point was simple: life is too short to always dwell in the hardships. You can judge the city of New Orleans' lifestyle, but until you survive your first true Mardi Gras, you don't know jack.
I, as you have surmised from the date of this post, did survive Mardi Gras, though at the end my existence might have or have not been because of cosmic/divine intervention. And please believe that it is not due to large amounts of death-defying cocktails and all-night raves (although that is probably a great contributing factor), but of my own power and will to try to see every part of Mardi Gras and not sleep for four days.
I went to parades (caught throws: Muses=one shoe; Bacchus=one monkey; Krewe du Vieux=mystery candy sticks and stickers), I ate at Mardi Gras Zone, and I made it to Frenchman. And that is where I truly felt my worlds collide. It was on Frenchman at perhaps 6pm on Fat Tuesday when I began to realize the true meaning of Mardi Gras. It's not about how many beads you catch or beers you drink. Nor about the the pictures you take or people you see. It is about costumes that show your inner creativity. Dancing just so you can still know your feet are functional. And the friends that you have managed to keep around you all through the weekend.
I partied. I partied like any 23 year-old in New Orleans on Mardi Gras would, but at the end all I kept thinking about was the new year. The year that started February 22, 2012. It would be in this year that I would understand the build-up to the Feast. New Orleanians save and become thrifty all to celebrate the one day a year they have to reclaim their beloved city. Especially in the one area that actually allows somebody to drive a two-story Trojan horse through the street spitting smoke.
I left Frenchman at 8pm that night. I recalled the time because my body was begging for food and bargaining with my brain in its own attempt to stay and soak up every last drop of Mardi Gras. I went to my neighborhood bar with my two best friends and feasted like royalty. Two of everything: Manchego mushroom toast, whiskey and coke, steak, escargot, whiskey and coke, grilled romaine, and a charcuterie plate (seriously).
People were so nice. Even too nice. "Hey, it's okay, it's Mardi Gras". Those are the words I heard most often. "Hey, it's Mardi Gras". Anything went. Everyone was jovial. Starting out on my own in the middle of this economic depression is not fun. It is not easy. But after my first true Mardi Gras the point was simple: life is too short to always dwell in the hardships. You can judge the city of New Orleans' lifestyle, but until you survive your first true Mardi Gras, you don't know jack.
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