Big Man says the New Orleans Tourist Commission should have a slogan like, "Another festival every weekend!" Maybe so. The last two weekends prove it.
Saturday, March 8, was designated by the Catholic Archdiocese as the evening for the St. Joseph's Parade through the French Quarter by the Italian-American Association. (The Feast Day of St. Joseph is, of course, March 19th, but local Catholic authorities juggled the dates of both St. Joseph's and St. Patrick's, so as not to interfere with Holy Week.) Big Man and I arrived early, intending to drop off his trumpet at the Blues Club, enjoy the parade, have dinner, and then he could go straight to work on Bourbon Street. However, a glitch occurred in our best-laid plans when I clumsily slipped/tripped on a piece of broken pavement on Canal Street, and went down HARD, my left foot folding under me in a way it's not supposed to go, my left knee boinking the sidewalk, my left elbow as well. Big Man solicitously helped me up (hauled me up?), and I gingerly tried stepping down on my left side. I was worried about my left ankle, weak since I broke it so badly in 2001, but it seemed fine. The pain was all in my toes and my left knee. I was pretty sure I had broken at least one toe (turned out to be two) and possibly sprained my knee. Do you think this prevented me from enjoying the St. Joseph's Day Parade? Ha! No more than pouring rain stopped me from seeing a Carnival parade a month ago. Big Man was mighty concerned, and more than willing to drive me right back home and put ice all over my left leg, but I insisted I was fine. Priorities, you know. I hadn't seen a St. Joseph's Parade in over 15 years, and I wasn't going to miss this one.
So, limping a bit, and leaning on Big Man for support, we walked down Bourbon to the club and dropped off his gig bag with the trumpet in it, saying Hi to club employees as we passed in and out. We went down to the next corner just in time to see an impromptu little walking parade apparently in honor of George Rodrigue's Blue Dog. (Now, don't get me started on that damn Blue Dog, and how great an artist Rodrigue was before his stupid dog died and he had to go putting old Tiffany into every single painting and print for the rest of his life. Give it a rest, George! Dump the Blue Dog! You are better than that!) The little second-line parade had 2 brass bands, and costumed people walking with beads and throws, and a few people in a little carriage. Tourists hollered for beads and stuff and when it passed, one man said to us, "So that was the parade?" We scoffed. "That was nothin' -- the real parade hasn't even started yet."
We continued on to Chartres Street, and caught the very beginning of the parade, with the celebrity Grand Marshals, stars of "The Sopranos." (Folks were hollering their characters' names.) We watched the Queen's float and her court of Italian-American beauties, some of whose last names reflected intermarriage with other New Orleans ethnic groups: French, German, Yugoslav. A float depicting a St. Joseph altar went by (sponsored by local grocery chain Rouse's) and Big Man was mighty impressed, until I said that it was a small representation of the real thing. Old Italian guys went by in motorized vehicles, and then dozens and dozens of Italian men in walking groups, in fancy tuxes with green-white-red sashes and giant walking sticks studded with flowers. I was a little concerned that I was beyond the age where I could attract the kisses and flowers of such marchers, but, whether out of kindness, blindness, being so much older than me that I looked young, OR being so much younger than me that I looked like their mamas, I collected a small bouquet as the parade went by.
We kept to our plan to eat in the Quarter, and I had suggested the good ol' Alpine (where my sister L had once wrangled a discount, on the grounds that we were locals and they should treat us better than they do tourists), but as we turned a corner, we came upon a little place with a nondescript sign that listed as its specialties Cuban, Mexican, and steaks. Something for almost everyone. We went in -- it was a tiny little place, decorated in cheesy south-of-the-border style (the usual dingy-looking piñatas and several strings of lit-up parrots) and dominated by a long and obviously old bar. The ceiling was the original pressed tin, painted bright red, and the place smelled really good. A pretty Latina (Cubana?) led us to a table, and we ordered off their extensive menu. We could hardly believe from the prices that we were still in the Quarter, everything was so reasonable. (One sangria, a diet soda, a shared fried calamari appetizer, a big steak for the Big Man, and a plate of ropa vieja for me all came to less than $40, with tip!) Afterwards, Big Man insisted on driving his crippled spouse home before he went back to the nightclub to retrieve his horn and blow his heart out. (At home I was glad to soak my poor foot in epsom salts and wrap up the whole injured thing in an ace bandage. Next day, I had to preach from crutches!)
Later that week, I took Eric around to several of the St. Joseph's altars around town -- St. Mary's Assumption Church in the Irish Channel, where we viewed the artifacts in the Blessed Father Seelos shrine (his tiny cast-iron coffin! the little collar of thorns he wore! his breviary!), AND ate a helluva Italian lunch for only $5 each, then St. Joseph's Church on Tulane. It was fun comparing all the different methods of making those fabulous Italian fig cookies (Big Man said, "So fig newtons are just a poor bastardization of these, huh?"), watching Big Man feast his eyes on the gorgeous displays of culinary-religious art (my favorite: the Lamb of God cakes covered in soft coconut "wool."), making our little petitions to St. Joseph, and receiving the obligatory lucky fava beans and St. Joseph holy cards. Big Man was amazed at the tradition, which, despite his extensive contacts with Italian-Americans in the Northeast, he had never seen before. I tried to convey to him that even the most elaborate of the altars we were seeing could not compare to the ones of my childhood, with their enormous bowls of spaghetti and meatballs, and giant trays of lasagna, and stuffed artichokes as big as basketballs. Still, he was blown away, and enjoyed, as always, the church tour. (Big Man may not be conventionally religious, but he sure loves an elaborate church.)
The next weekend, Saturday, March 15th, I was awakened by the sounds of voices and cars through the open dormer window in our bedroom. Normally, our neighborhood is pretty quiet, so I got up to see what was going on. To my surprise, the St. Patrick's Day Parade was lining up on the corner of our street! I had read that the parade started at Magazine and Felicity, and has assumed that meant the parade lined up on Felicity, but instead, here they were. Folks in green costumes were laughing and calling to each other as they hauled bags of cabbages and potatoes and beads and trinkets up to the floats. The street swirled with discarded cardboard boxes and plastic bags -- which all miraculously disappeared after the parade, when the sanitation crews came through.
Big Man got up around 11 am, and we headed out to the parade route on Magazine, looking for brunch and the best spot to see the parade. The day was absolutely gorgeous -- not a cloud in the sky, the sun brightly shining (later that day, we'd see a number of lobster-red people who should've worn sunblock), a light wind blowing. As we walked past the floats, parade riders greeted us and some threw beads. We walked all the way to Jackson, and got sandwiches at Stein's Deli (Big Man got a Philly-style hoagie and I got corned beef in honor of the day). The parade was just rounding the corner of Magazine and Jackson when we emerged. (The owner of the deli had gone outside to check on parade progress, and had come back into the shop, telling his employees, "If y'all wanna go out and see the parade, go ahead." Only in New Orleans.)
I had brought a big canvass bag to hold our throws, since I was counting on lots of cabbages, potatoes and carrots for Irish stew, and we filled the bag to such a point that I started giving cabbages away as we walked. We declined most of the beads thrown to us (like we don't have enough already), and I gave the moonpies I caught to kids along the route. We walked all the way back home, and there were still floats on our corner, dying to throw to us. When we arrived at our porch, Big Man said to me, "I can't wait to tell people this was a normal day in our neighborhood" and so it was.
But the festivities weren't over yet. On Sunday, March 16, after a meeting at church, we went to the traditional corner of LaSalle and Washington to watch the Mardi Gras Indians parade through the neighborhood. The people-watching was totally great, and local entrepreneurs had set up their little businesses: snow balls, cold water and beer and soft drinks, several people barbequeing on the backs of their trucks, one guy with a full bar on display on top of the cab of his truck, and Ms. Linda's home-made gumbo and ya ca mein. Big Man got a BBQ pork chop sandwich, and I, full of nostalgia and at a loss how to explain to it to Big Man, ordered the shrimp and beef ya ca mein, as Ms. Linda told me about her booth at Jazz Fest. The food was great, the pork chop smoky and charred but juicy on the inside, and the ya ca mein so hearty and spicy and filled with both protein and carbs (shrimp, lots of roast beef, and the traditional hard-boiled egg in a rich spiced broth over noodles), that it's clear why it had always been thought a hangover remedy back in the day.
We watched as several Social Aid & Pleasure Clubs and individual and small groups of Indians marched and danced by with their brass bands (including Rebirth), on their way to -- where? A few inquiries led to the realization that A.L. Davis Park (formerly Shakespeare Park, after a long-ago mayor thus named, not the bard) was no longer the gathering place. We went back to our car and headed to Taylor Park, now Marcus Garvey Park, behind the Rex den on Claiborne (kind of ironic -- a giant Mardi Gras Indian gathering in such close proximity to the headquarters of the floats of the white King of Carnival), which was filled with families and kids and booths and a stage. The air was filled with the scent of boiling crawfish and barbequeing meats, and the sounds of tambourines and hand drums and voices singing and chanting ('Liza Jane, Shallow Water, Shoo Fly, Tu-way Pocky Way, Indian Red -- all the classics). The day had started cool, but the afternoon was warm and sunny, with a nice breeze.
And the suits! My God, the suits were amazing. (Please, don't ever call what Mardi Gras Indians wear "costumes"!) The plumes, the feather, the ribbons, the shredded and gathered satin! The sun glinting off the glass beads and sequins was almost blinding, and the colors just glowed in the bright light. There were traditional designs and new, creative take-offs. Black, soft pink, hot pink, baby blue, lime green, hunter green, orange, yellow, pure white, buttercream, multi-colors, African-themes in earth tones and multi-brights, and beaded panels showing Native Americans at work, at play, at war. The craftsmanship was off-the-hook, and I couldn't help but wish that there could be some way for Indians to make a living with their artistry. (Big Man said, "If you went to some other city, and suggested that young and middle-aged black men could design and sew and publicly wear these outfits, and that it would be a very masculine, prideful thing, they'd think you were nuts.") An amazing afternoon. At one point, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of my first Uptown Super Sunday in over 15 years, I began to cry with happiness and Big Man held me close, stroking my hair, murmuring, "It's good to be home, huh?"
So the week after this is Easter, and there will be another parade, this time in Marigny, and the week after that, the Downtown Indians will hold their Super Sunday on Bayou St. John. "Another festival every weekend!" indeed. You gotta feel sorry for folks who have to live elsewhere.
No comments:
Post a Comment