"You'll better smile! It's Mardi Gras" hollered the cheerful black
feller next to me. You with me, man? Music, parades, daiquiris, and of
course tits!  That's what's all about.

Cajun country, French colonial architecture, Creole sea food, and
Tabasco sauce combines into a hot party. It's crazy. I was probably the
only sober person on Sunday in Bourbon street (designated driver :-<).
Even the minor teens walked into bars and coaxed guys to buy
them drinks.

The cobbled streets, red brick buildings, and the crowds reminds you of
home.  The place was agog with beads. Loads of beads in every color,
shape, and size. The parades were fun only because of beads. Louisiana
school kids marched to drum beats and cheers, interspersed by
decorative floats called Krewes (the masking and parading New Orleans
clubs). A float is a sort of papier-mache tractor tow vehicle in the
parade. Each float represents a Krewe - Bacchus the wine God, Queens,
Kings, Markets, Jazz....re the history of New Orleans. The paraders
throw heaps of beads, plastic cups, and metal coins with the Crewe
logo at the screaming audience who shriek, dive, and kill for these
throws.

Bourbon street is a narrow alley in which every shop is either a strip
joint or a bar. It sells colorful daiquiris, margheritas, and tequilas
called Hurricane, Ecstasy etc... and ensures everybody gets stoned. The
wild partying started after the parades.  People stood all over the
balconies in Bourbon st. freaking out. The crowds below yelled "show
your tits" to the women who were most obliging!  All you can see - for
beads. The guys threw beads at every exposure.  The ladies yelled and
jumped for these beads wearing everything they got. Two girls were
about to strip but couldn't continue the show because of their mom. The
crowd yelled "Mom ...!!!" after her.  The spirit of Mardi Gras. One
enterprising lady had a sign saying "show your dick". No wonder the
church guys carried "Jesus is Coming"  banners!

The parades were just for kicks. No great organization or order.
The city officers impressing the chicks. The girl next to us was highly
popular. Her boyfriend was a cop whose time had come. He promised her 
separate protection from anyone who troubled her. "Just walk up to
that sergeant there ma'am. He's in charge of section 6. He's a no-nonsense
guy. Doesn't like people messin' around". My friends giggled. Tired of
flirting with her he roped me in. "I was just tellin' her that you'd be
jumpin' around when the parade starts, right?" You betcha man!

The partying starts at midnight and never seems to end. We struggled
through the sloshed stampede into a seaport cafe. Very nice ambience
here.  Red brick walls, old lamps, and historic decor. We were
disappointed that there were not too many jazz musicians. I saw only
three saxophonists.  After a few pegs and a discussion on Iraq with a
couple from Philly, we headed out.  It was like a busy market. You
could hardly believe it was well past midnight. We picked up Tshirts in
a shop owned by a Ceylonese. The shopkeeper spoke Tamil - the pure
Ceylonese variety. Riding a wave of nostalgia, she spoke of her family
in Ceylon, her homesickness, and life in New Orleans. Tamil in Bourbon
street! Many of the cloth shops are owned by gujjus.

We beat it back to the Mariott, Baten Rouge thinking of cobbled stone lanes,
jazzy parades, tiled-roof buildings, crazy hats, and a street full of faces.