Mardi Gras

Obviously, the granddaddy of all New Orleans celebrations is Mardi Gras. Thanks to sensational media accounts that zero in on the salacious aspects of this carnival, its rep has it as nothing more than a version of spring break, Girls Gone Wild-style, while the accounts have attracted more and more participants looking for decadent X-rated action rather than tradition. But despite what you may have heard, Mardi Gras remains one of the most exciting times to visit New Orleans. The truth of the matter is that you can spend several days admiring and reveling in the city's traditions and never even venture into the frat-party atmosphere of Bourbon Street.

A great deal of speculation was cast about whether New Orleans should cancel Mardi Gras 2006, the first after Katrina, whether it was appropriate to hold the traditional massive celebration at such a somber time. The opposition failed to take into account several things: Because it is a holiday separate from any observation of it, one can no more "cancel" Mardi Gras than one can cancel Christmas. Secondly, Mardi Gras celebrations -- that is, parades and parties -- are all privately funded and operated, so it's not really a city decision (though city permits are required for parades and city funds are needed for security and cleanup). And finally, for a town that tends to throw a party just because it's a day with a y in it, the response to any suggestions that official celebrations should be postponed for a year or two was "Fine. Then we will load up little red wagons with a bunch of beads, and walk down the streets and do it ourselves."

It didn't come to that. Six months to the virtual day after Katrina, Zulu and Rex paraded as usual, along with the other krewes who march earlier. Some parades were a little shorter, but the beads and throws were even more plentiful. (Tourists who opted not to go really missed out!) The crowds may not have been as thick as usual (though conversely, Sun night may have set a record for attendance), but that wasn't unexpected, given the decrease in local population. More to the point, the spirit was immeasurably high, as New Orleanians and lovers of the city alike turned out in their most glittery or satirical costumes, screaming for beads, engaging in other traditions, and generally exalting in a moment that not that long before seemed like it would never come again. They had survived, and they were filled with hope that their city would, too. That there has not been this same focus on Katrina during subsequent Mardi Gras is a good sign; it means the city and its loyal residents are moving into the future that has brought along the best, not the worst, of the past.

Forget media reports that tend to focus on the wanton action. There is a lot more to Carnival than that. Knowledge of some of the long and fascinating history of Mardi Gras may help put matters in perspective. First of all, it's not a festival, it's a carnival, which is from a Latin word roughly meaning "farewell to flesh." Mardi Gras is both a day and a time period. It's French for "Fat Tuesday," the day before Ash Wednesday, when Lent begins, and it historically refers to the 5- to 8-week stretch from Twelfth Night (Jan 6) to Mardi Gras Day (which can fall as late as Mar 9). With Lent comes fasting and deprivation. The idea was that good Christians would take the opportunity to eat as much as they could in preparation for their impending denial.

The party's origins can be traced to that Roman excuse for an orgy, the Lupercalia festival. It will sound strangely familiar to today's Mardi Gras participant: 2 days when all sexual and social order disappeared, cross-dressing was mandatory, and the population ran riot. The early Christian church was naturally appalled by this but was unable to stop it (as someone later said about Storyville and prostitution, you can make it illegal but you can't make it unpopular). Grafting Lupercalia to the beginning of Lent may have been a compromise to bribe everyone into observing Lent, and they may have needed those 40 days to recover!

Carnival, with lavish masked balls and other revels, became popular in Italy and France, and so naturally, the tradition followed the Creoles to New Orleans. The first Carnival balls occurred in 1743, but the first detailed accounts of Mardi Gras-specific festivities showed up in 1824. Informal parades and masked revelers cavorting in the streets characterized the celebrations. By the mid-1800s, Mardi Gras mischief had grown so ugly (the habit of tossing flour on revelers gradually turned into throwing bricks at them) that everyone predicted the end of the tradition. (The more things change, the more they stay the same.)

The Birth Of The Krewes -- Everything changed in 1856. Tired of being left out of the Creoles' Mardi Gras, a group of Americans who belonged to a secret society called Cowbellians formed the Mystick Krewe of Comus (named after the hero of a John Milton poem). On Mardi Gras evening, they presented a torchlit parade, seemingly out of nowhere, that was breathtaking in its design, effects, and imagination. A new tradition was born. Every Mardi Gras night thereafter (with some exceptions) climaxed with the appearance of Comus, each time grander and more astounding.

And so the new standard was set. Mardi Gras societies became known as krewes, and most were made up of prominent society types or businessmen; the event marked the height of the social season. The next krewe to emerge was that of Rex, the King of Carnival. Rex paraded in the morning and later paid public homage to Comus. Their meeting became the high point of Mardi Gras.

Rex was born in part to celebrate the Mardi Gras appearance of the grand duke of Russia, Alexis Alexandrovich Romanov, who had followed the actress Lydia Thompson from New York when she came to star in Bluebeard. The city went all out to welcome him, and when it was learned that his favorite song was Lydia's burlesque tune "If Ever I Cease to Love," every band in the Rex parade was asked to play it. That sprightly melody is now the official song of Mardi Gras, and the royal colors -- purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power -- were adopted as the festival's official colors. More krewes, such as Momus and Proteus, came into being, each throwing a lavish ball along with its parade and each with an exclusive membership.

The Civil War put a temporary halt to things, but Comus was parading again by 1866. In 1870 the Twelfth Night Revelers krewe was founded and added two new customs that still endure. Members threw trinkets to onlookers (the first thrower was dressed as Santa Claus), and a "queen" reigned over their ball.

As a classic elite Old South institution, Mardi Gras was not exactly at the forefront of promoting racial equality or harmony. Throughout the 19th century, the city's African Americans participated in parades only by carrying torches to illuminate the route (the flambeaux, as the torches are known, are still around, a welcome, atmospheric Mardi Gras tradition). In 1909 a black man named William Storey mocked the elaborately garbed Rex by prancing after his float wearing a lard can for a crown. Storey was promptly dubbed "King Zulu." By 1916, his followers had so grown in number that they formed the Krewe of Zulu (officially the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club), developing a parody of Rex and making a mockery of racial stereotypes. The Zulu parade quickly became one of the most popular aspects of Mardi Gras. The most famous King Zulu was Louis Armstrong, who reigned in 1949.

Unfortunately, most krewes remained notable for their lack of blacks, Jews, and women, and as times changed, the public, which was not permitted to join the krewes but was supposed to be happy to pay taxes for post-parade cleanup, demanded equality. It was not considered enough that some krewes had begun (grudgingly) inviting blacks to their balls. An ordinance passed in 1992 denies a parade permit to any group that discriminates on the basis of race or religion. (Krewes are still not required to integrate along gender lines, a choice of the all-female krewes as much as the male, though men in drag are a hallmark of Mardi Gras.) Rex acceded to the new regulations, but mighty Comus, in a move that many still feel marked the beginning of the end of classic Mardi Gras, canceled its parade. Proteus and Momus soon followed suit.

Some say the flavor of Mardi Gras had already changed long before the 1992 ordinance.

Spectacle & Beauty -- Parades were always things of spectacle and beauty with literally antique floats: 19th-century caissons with wooden wheels. But the processions had become so big over the years that they had to be taken out of the Quarter. The old krewes were gradually replaced by "superkrewes" like Orpheus (founded by musician Harry Connick, Jr., because he loves Mardi Gras so much), Bacchus, and Endymion, whose memberships were nonexclusive. One of their floats was as big as an entire Comus parade. The largest parades can have more than 20 floats, celebrity guests, marching bands, dancing groups, motorcycle squads, and a total of many thousands of participants. Celebrities are often the superkrewes' kings; recent Bacchus kings include Larry King, Elijah Wood, Nicolas Cage, and James Gandolfini. In 1998 the Krewe of the Americas, completely made up of non-New Orleans residents, paraded for the first time, on Mardi Gras afternoon itself, a sacrilege to natives who long considered this Comus's day.

The trinkets known as throws fly thick and fast from the floats of these superkrewes, but they lack the tradition of the old krewes. In the 1880s Rex began throwing trinkets to parade-watchers, a forerunner of the Rex doubloon, which was introduced in 1960. Other krewes eventually followed suit, and now throws are mandatory. The ubiquitous beads were originally glass (often from Czechoslovakia) but now are of less expensive plastic. Doubloons are another popular souvenir. Usually made of aluminum, these oversize coins show the krewe's coat of arms on one side and the year's parade theme on the other. They are collector's items for natives, many of whom have every krewe's doubloons from many different years. Other throws include stuffed animals, plastic krewe cups, and especially the highly prized, hand-painted Zulu coconuts.

Alas, the traditional cry of "Throw me something, Mister!" to obtain a trinket has gradually turned into the request/demand, "Show me your tits!" But though it seems Mardi Gras is moving ever further away from its traditions, remember that Comus has in the past disappeared for several years and always risen again. Indeed, Proteus returned for Mardi Gras 2000 to cries of "Welcome back!"

Mardi Gras Memories: Riding a Float

Sure, it's fun to watch a Mardi Gras parade, but we all yearn to actually be in one, to ride one of those glorious floats in a fabulous, shiny costume, wearing a mask, tossing beads to an adoring public. Even lifelong New Orleanians almost never get to have that experience, as only a few krewes invite outsiders to ride. So when the krewe of Orpheus generously offered to let me join their 1999 Mardi Gras parade, I didn't hesitate.

The theme was "Premieres of the French Opera," an homage to the beloved building that burned down in the 1920s. The floats were conceived by master float designer Henri Schindler. I would be riding on Le Cid (an opera by Jules Massenet). I had to send in measurements for my costume (float riders must be masked and costumed throughout the parade) and purchase beads to throw. Many, many beads. How many? "Oh, about 50 or 60 gross."

"That's more than 7,000 strands!" I said, calculating that this was going to set me back several hundred bucks.

"Yeah, you're right -- you might want to get a few more."

Orpheus parades on Lundi Gras night, starting at 6pm. I show up at 10am at the convention center to load my beads on the float. Several other float riders do the same, and before long, we are surrounded by little fortresses of beads and other throws. My neighbors, noticing my thrifty (read: cheap) beads (the better-quality beads cost a lot more, especially for 7,000 of them), graciously share a few good strands with me so I may bestow them on especially worthy people. I resolve to throw only to people who don't have many beads, who've been overlooked by other float riders, who aren't cute college girls -- in short, people like me. (I'd been frustrated all week by float riders who seemed to find me invisible.)

I try on my costume, which is vaguely knightlike (that is, if knights wore shiny metallic fabric and orange polyester). I look like a big pumpkin. The sleeves hang down 4 inches past my fingers. Good thing they had my measurements -- imagine if they hadn't!

We finally get on the floats at 3:30pm, ready to head to the parade route. My husband, in mandatory tux, will meet me at the finish line near the convention center, home of the Orpheus Ball.

4pm: The floats start to move toward the starting point on Tchoupitoulas.

4:30pm: Our float stops. The float in front of us has a flat tire.

4:31pm: Everyone around me starts drinking.

5pm: Float starts to move again.

5:20pm: Float stops moving.

5:45pm: Pizzas (dinner) are delivered to the float. Only in New Orleans.

6pm: Parade starts. It doesn't really affect us. We are float 24, and it's a long, long time until we hit the starting line.

6:05 to 7:35pm: People still drinking.

7:35pm: Float starts to move again.

7:37pm: Float stops.

8pm: Float starts again. We can see the starting point.

8:05pm: So much for moving.

8:30pm: Everyone is deeply, crushingly bored.

9pm: Even the drinkers have stopped drinking.

9:17pm: I think of my husband at the ball and wonder if I will ever see him again.

9:30pm: Here we go! And it's mayhem. Thousands of people, waving hands, screaming, shrieking, pleading, crying, "Please, Mister, throw me something; throw me something, Mister!" I start to grin and don't stop for hours. I throw beads, feeling, at last, like a queen tossing largesse to the populace. I am sparing in my generosity, however, minding advice not to go overboard too early, lest I run out of beads. I discover my aim isn't bad, and from my upper-level vantage point, I can throw quite far out, to specific people in the back. I also learn that from atop the float, you can see everybody, no matter how small, so if it seems like float riders are ignoring you, it's because they are.

9:35pm: One heavily endowed young woman flashes me and looks expectant, but I say, "Put those away!"

10pm: As we turn onto St. Charles, I hear someone shout my name. It's my cousin's son, a Tulane med student whom I've never actually met before. Of course, since I'm masked and costumed, he still doesn't know what I look like.

10:15pm: Orpheus is known for its generosity, so by now every paradegoer's neck is already thickly covered in beads. There is no bead-challenged person to throw to. Worse, because so many floats have already gone by, everyone only wants the really good beads, not the utilitarian stuff I'm throwing. Oh, dear.

10:45pm: I notice how my friend Ann is really good at taunting the crowd with the good beads. She holds out long, thick strands, shows them off, whips the crowd into a frenzy, then shakes her head sadly and puts them away to await more worthy types.

11pm: The crowd's impatience is high whenever the float comes to a halt -- that's when riders supposedly throw the really good stuff. The crowd threatens to turn ugly when I don't. The occasional good strand given by a sympathetic co-rider means I can then appease the angry mob. Lacking a worthy target, I choose to turn my back and throw blindly. Meanwhile, my neat fortress of beads is now in shambles, and I slip and slide on loose strands, frantically trying to get some to throw before revelers scale the float to rip them from me.

11:04pm: I never want to see another bead as long as I live.

11:05pm: Oh, goody, only about halfway there!

11:06pm to 12:35am: Pleasemisterthrowmesomethingpleasemisterpleasemister c'monmisterheymisterpleasemisterpleasemisterpleasepleasepleasemistaaaahhh!

12:40am: I make a horrifying discovery. With less than one-third of the parade to go, I still have several thousand beads left. These are worthless once the parade is over (particularly my crappy cheap beads), so as we hit Canal Street, I start to heave them at a great rate, by the dozen, and sometimes entire packages of several dozen. Suddenly, I am very popular. Especially fun is throwing the packages into knots of frat boys and watching them pummel each other for it.

1:30am: We arrive at the convention center. Although these people have been watching floats arrive for at least 3 hours, they are still surprisingly fresh and enthusiastic. This howling mob of gowned women and tuxedoed men stands on chairs and tables and shrieks for beads. Among them is my husband, who catches the camera I toss him, so he can take a picture of my dirty, bedraggled self.

1:35am: I descend from the float and proceed to the party. "How was it?" my husband's new friends (he's been sitting there a long time) inquire. "Ask me tomorrow," I say.