[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans , as well as the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.]

U is for Under

When considering the letter "U," this preposition popped into mind first, although after yesterday's weather, I could have easily gone with "umbrella." Yet I feel like "under" says pretty much all you need to know about New Orleans, America's underdog, the steamy underbelly of our Puritan Union. It's also one of the few places - outside of San Francisco - where you can go out wearing your underwear and people don't even blink. Although I prefer a robe.

V is for Vampire

Although tourists flock to New Orleans to tour vampire author Anne Rice's house, hoping to come across a vampire in the evening shadows, they'd find more bloodsuckers out at our construction sites. Ask anyone who's had work done on their home - including our own Kelly Leahy - and you'll get an earful about dishonest contractors who either bled them dry or sucked the life out of them with postponements and switchbacks until the homeowner finally ended up in the fetal position. Now I know there are some good, honest contractors out there - and really, the three of you should form a club.

On the subject of vampires, I could go into detail about some of the gentlemen who have taught me valuable lessons during my time in New Orleans, but this isn't that kind of blog. Besides, you boys know who you are.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

I dare say that all Americans have some experience with parades, from big-city St. Paddy's Day extravaganzas down to small-town kiddies riding their streamer-festooned bikes on country roads to celebrate America's independence. Myself, I'd thought that my participation in a ticker-tape parade celebrating the troops home from Iraq back in '92, in a marching band on the streets of downtown Chicago, was the pinnacle of my parading life.

Oh, how wrong I was. I moved to New Orleans, where parades roll at night. And it makes a difference to see a parade after the sun's gone down, when the floats rise up out of the evening shadows and the flambeaux carriers' faces shine under the light of their torches. We spend a full year crafting our floats by hand, and then light them up with thousands of tiny bulbs. When they finally appear on the streets, against a backdrop of screaming crowds and marching band music, it's no wonder that people fight over beads - they want to bring a tiny bit of this magic home with them.

And if you get sick of the big parades, Fat Tuesday spawns hundreds of tiny ones, troupes of friends where the locals become the floats, painting and feathering themselves into the most amazing creations this side of Rio.

It's your choice, darlin': you can come to New Orleans to watch the parades, or you can come down to be the parade.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

N is for Neutral Ground

Wouldn't it be great if there was a world's neutral ground? People from all nations could go there to catch beads at Mardi Gras parades, have Sunday afternoon cookouts, and park their cars when the rain falls a little too hard. While the world's powers continue their endless warring, us regular folks could gather on the streetcar tracks and make fair-trade deals: one can of High Life for a Popeye's chicken breast. No glass allowed, friends, it's safety first out here.

How great would it be to see kids from all cultures fighting over a plush football tossed from a float? To sing drinking songs in every language? To hang out in a place where traffic's permanently stopped so that people can sit in their lawnchairs and shoot the shit?

This is my dream, dear readers, and it may never come true. Fortunately for us here in New Orleans, there's always a neutral ground, no matter how many battles life throws our way.

O is for Okra

I'd never given much thought to this hardly little vegetable until my neighbors planted it in spades this past spring. From its lowly spot on the table - rarely seen in its pure state, but hidden in gumbo or fried beyond recognition - I never would have imagined that it came from a plant that towers above my head and blooms such exquisite flowers.

If you only knew okra from its restaurant incarnations, you'd never guess that it grows so fast that if you don't pick daily, those stinkers will end up as long as your forearm. Sadly, they're too tough to eat at that length, but their long, tapered shape remind me of witch's fingers. And voila: another Halloween costume is born. This year, keep on the lookout for the lady wearing a dried-okra skirt!

Browsing through some photos on my computer for a few parting shots for NOLApics, I came across this one from Mardi Gras 2007. The character in the quilted suit is a bit too creepy for me, but the dude with the painted eyes seemed to think it was pretty funny. The child seemed to have some freaked-out fascination with him...or her...or it...

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans as well as the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.]

K is for Krewe

Before I moved to New Orleans, I thought of a crew simply as a bunch of people who work together, or perhaps an adjective to describe a square haircut. As I went through my first Mardi Gras, I then thought of a Krewe as an exclusive group of people who spend gobs of money to have a parade. Each Krewe has numerous royalty and dozens of members, all able to put up the cash to buy enough beads to shower upon the masses.

The more I learned about Mardi Gras, the more my definition of Krewe expanded. There are krewes for anyone, and most krewes don't care who you are, barring the Krewe of Comus, who opted to stop parading instead of opening admission to blacks. This means that a WASP like me can join the Krewe du Jieux, white folks can become Zulus, and cats can join the dogs' Krewe of Barkus (although few do.)

The Krewe du Vieux parade gathers numerous smaller krewes with names such as Krewe of CHAOS, Krewe of Underwear, and Krewe of Space-Age Love into one parade to kick off the season with satire. And on Fat Tuesday, these smaller krewes, along with other impromtu krewes made up of fun-loving locals take to the streets - the krewe du poux, the krewe of kosmic debris, krewe du st. anne, and on and on. In the end, all you need for a krewe is a group of friends in costume that want to parade around the city with flasks in hand, dancing to portable instruments of tambourine and kazoo.

I was inspired by my colleague Amanda Anderson's recent post, which also reminded me of something fun. Amanda recently celebrated her ten year anniversary of living in New Orleans (god love her) and was going through the alphabet, reflecting on what each letter brought to mind about our beloved (and beleaguered) Crescent City.

She reminded me of a game I used to force my husband to play with me. This was before we had the baby and he became such a big help that I felt bad trying to engage him with it. It's a stupid game with essentially no rules and no winner, that I cleverly call "A to Z." Spectacular, no?

Basically the point of the game is to pick a topic and go through all the letters of the alphabet (the English one) and come up with, well, you know, things that describe said topic or fit into it. And naturally I've forced him to, on at least one occasion, go through the alphabet with regard to Nola.

We came up with gems like B for booze and beads and boobs. We amused ourselves with C for Cajun and Creole Cooking. And the Columns Hotel. And the broken Concrete I fell on when we were running down St. Charles (another C!). Z naturally went to Zydeco (and the Zydeco Cha Chas, another C!).

As Amanda seems to be slowly engaging in just that very thing, I was delighted to read her sections for 'A, B, and C.' Clearly I have a sister in this silly but fun way of organizing my experiences and thoughts on New Orleans.

Some of the stuff Amanda covers we all know quite well, such as Mardi Gras Beads (B). Others, I imagine, as they come up, will be more from the perspective of someone who's really lived the life down in Nola, not just visited. It's the little details, after all, that make a life and an experience.

I'm sure there are millions of things I have yet to see or do in New Orleans, just as it's not possible to go through everything there is to see and do in New York. They're both ever-changing, dynamic cities, for better or worse (lately, it seems both occupy the 'worse' category), with new places opening up as quickly as another closes, new or re-discovered neighborhoods popping back into focus for a moment--if brief at times--in the cultural limelight.

To my credit, I think I've seen a fair amount of New Orleans over the past fifteen years (or however long it's been--I really can't remember anymore!). Some of what I've seen has been touristy stuff--which, by the way, you shouldn't knock as it's probably the best time you'll have ANYWHERE--and some of what I've done was more off the beaten path. Regardless, the sum of my experiences has contributed to my idea of what New Orleans is.

More importantly, those experiences have contributed to what New Orleans--the city and the magical place in la la land--means to me. Every visitor and citizen alike has an opinion of New Orleans, whether they love or hate it, and each has his or her own definition of what the city is, what it's like and what it's about.

This is not necessarily tantamount to why they love it. Rather, it's what they think of when they close their eyes and someone says (and probably mispronounces) 'New Orleans.'

New Orleans means a lot of things to me. And they're not just with regard to drinking and getting stumble-down drunk in the Quarter or flitting around the cemeteries with a camera basically begging someone to mug me.

New Orleans means, to me, slowing things down a bit. You know how Emeril is always (annoyingly) telling us he's going to kick it up a notch? Well, for me, Nola is all about taking it down a notch--which is pretty easy since the speakers in New York are clearly set on '11' all the time.

It's about a nice, steady, soft breeze, the cool shade of an ancient oak tree. It's about having no timetable or schedule whatsoever--instead doing whatever we want whenever we feel like it, or get around to it.

It's about not being bothered! It's about having dinner, you know, whenever. It's about choosing to hit a museum or sleeping in and having a nice brunch. It's about running along the river and thinking, "Oh, if only the path went further!"

You know, that kind of thing.

I think we have a collective view of New Orleans--the Mardi Gras, the Jazz Fest, all that. We know what we know and we know what the travel guides tell us: "Hot weather in August! Stay out of the cemeteries at night! Jazz, jazz, jazz!"

But what about the gal who made me and a friend of mine the best veggie po'boy we'd ever had, which wasn't even on the menu, just because she could? Just because she had the time, and--hey, why not? What about things like sitting in a streetcar enjoying the view and the breeze--could there be a calmer, more tranquil commute? And, to boot, no one seemed to be in a rush or worried that they would be later.

Well, I guess the latter item could be a bad thing, especially in a struggling economy, but still. It's nice when tourists aren't faced with the onslaught of rush hour like they are here in Manhattan--woah, Nelly!

Now you're starting to get the idea, right?

So I ask you, beads and riverboat cruises and boozing aside, what does New Orleans mean to you? We all know what it means to miss our fair city, but what about it do we miss so much that we simply cannot let her go?

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

As you may or may not (and most likely it's the latter) have noticed I have been out of touch lately and posted little on our dear city. Unlike Chris Rose, whom we hunted down enthusiastically when he took a brief hiatus not so long ago, I am sure that my absence went under the radar screen.

I sort of feel like Nola in general is gliding under that radar screen with me lately. I remember when the Big K hit and how all the major newspapers and online sites like New York Times and Yahoo, to name a few, had gobs and gobs and GOBS of stories about the city. most of them were negative, of course, centering around the brutal, violent and deadly aftermath of the hurricane when the levees broke. Then I watched as the information, and sensationalizing, dwindled until there was nary a drop of info on Nola to be found anywhere, save the usual suspects like nola.com and the New Orleans section of Craigslist.

The lack of interest was noted on bloggingneworleans as well. We'd receive fewer and fewer hits and comments on our blogs and features until our numbers made me wonder why we were bothering to blog in the first place. When major annual events like Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras hit we of course received record visits to the site and innumerable comments. After those events, though, the visits would return to a trickle.

Despite these numbers, and a lack of interest (still!) from the government, local interest continues to abound. We continue to write to you about the goings on in the city, both good and bad, and attempt to interpret events and decisions that affect us. A lot of what we do is complaining, I guess, but I would hope that complaining represents the feelings of Nola citizens.

After all, if we're not writing about New Orleans and complaining about the mistreatment--or complete lack of treatment, if you ask me (I know you didn't but this is my feature!)--then who will? And if no one is writing about it, then where will folks who care go to get their info, biased though it may be by people who love the city and hate to see her at the center of so much peril?

Sure, you could continue to read the Times Picayune and check out nola.com. Those sites are forums for unbiased journalism that cover far more than the powers that be at bloggingneworleans could ever hope to. Yet we offer a little something extra, I think, a little lagniappe if you will--and I know you will otherwise you wouldn't be reading this feature or checking out our site.

We offer what I hope is more of a man/woman about town perspective, from deep within the trenches. I of course, living in New York, don't qualify for that kind of perspective, but you know what I mean. The major newspapers and online sites offer more of a bird's eye view, which has its place too.

When I want to hear the heartbeat of the city, though, I head to the blogs of my colleagues. I feel like despite their misgivings about local government, the state of crime and the future of the city's economy, their hearts of gold will cut a clear path through the mishmash to what's really going on, how people feel about it and what they're gonna do about it.

The commenters to these posts are another source of indisputable truth. They may be few and at times far between, but what they say always touches me or points out an angle I hadn't thought of.

Their comments also let me know they're actually out there, living, working, trying to get by, interested enough to reflect and offer observations about our blogs. They remind me that even if just one person reads my feature then that is all that matters. That person may or may not agree with me, but I appreciate that he or she took the time to bother, when so many others do not.

Just when I think no one is out there in the ether, no one is watching or paying attention, someone offers me words of praise or thanks or happiness that we are posting about the city. It's an odd connection in that I will most likely never meet any of these commenters, but the connection is all the same. It's not one I share with my cohorts here in New York.

In fact, I may never get to meet my colleagues at bloggingneworleans, but that is incidental. We are united in our interest in the city, in preserving what it was and hopefully in being a part of its future.

That's the good thing about New Orleans. I think about the 'future' of such cities like New York and LA, but their future seems much like their present. With New Orleans the picture is so very different. Having been washed back to next to nothingness in some places, the slate wiped clean, it is possible to rebuild with a new vision. The possibilities are endless.

Someone has to document this rebuilding, this new vision, this New New Orleans. I guess, for now, we'll be the ones to do that documenting. And those who read about it will be the ones who are interested in being a part of the process, or in at least being witness to it.

It's nice to be connected to people in such a way. It's nice to know there are other folks out there like me who have the future of the city at heart.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

For more than a year now I've been documenting my love for New Orleans, generally one week at a time. It's been a long year in some ways as we all slowly continue to try to move out from under the shadow of Hurricane Katrina and back into the pale moonlight--perhaps the kind Nola's old pal Anne Rice would've imagined. Despite Katrina and the unfortunate calamities of late, I love the city of New Orleans perhaps more than ever.

The question of 'why?' is one I'll probably never be able to answer fully; the question of 'why now?' I certainly won't be able to answer, and I shouldn't have to. Not at this point, not after all we've been through together.

My courtship with New Orleans has always been a rocky one. Our geographic distance has certainly contributed to the emotional one between us. An excellent case in point is in the days after Katrina. I was nowhere to be found, grieving from afar, watching the atrocities unfold and, sadly, I admit, glad I wasn't there.

That feeling passed quickly, however, and I've been fervently searching out ways to get back down to the old Big Easy, trying--still! Amidst all the crime!--to justify moving down here. And, yes, I'm going to refer to Nola as the Big Easy. I think I've earned it.

As I look around my apartment, I'm sure I have. Sure, anyone can drum up a copy of a New Orleans travel guide and call themselves an expert. Perhaps someone could even go as far (as I have) as to order a Jazz Fest poster to display proudly in her home, proclaiming to all that not only has she been to Nola, she took in some tunes while she was down there. That still doesn't make her an expert. I'm no expert, rather, I'm more of a connoisseur of New Orleans.

Whom else, let me ask you, received not one but two Mardi Gras-colored baby blankets to celebrate the arrival of my own little mirliton? Whom else uses pens from the Column Hotel--pens foisted from the front desk, perhaps, but pens nonetheless? Whom else preserves the finish on her end tables with coasters handmade by Jeannette Landphair purchased at the open-air flea market in the French Quarter? And whom else, I ask you, flaunts a Big Easy Roller Girls t-shirt instead of one with an un-ironic tee with a 'chocolate city' reference scrabbled on it?

How about the shot glasses tak--borrowed from Pat O'Brien's? (Ok, I realize that may be a tad touristy, but I had to start somewhere). What about the shelf of books on New Orleans history and culture? How about the two pictures of New Orleans historic locations my father-in-law sent me when he uncovered them in a storage unit? How about the tattoo of the Fleur De Lis in the center of my back? How about the fact that I actually know how to spell Fleur De Lis? Without having to look it up.

None other than me. To Nola, however, these things are meaningless. See, the thing is, like I said in my very first column, although New Orleans has stolen my heart, I'm technically married to New York. A recent article on nola.com says moving to New Orleans isn't quite as crazy an idea as it may seem. Actually, a closer look at the article, whose author is extremely skeptical of statistics (and rightfully so--those in the article are skewed), reveals it's actually not such a great idea. I'm still not convinced either way.

After all, people don't necessarily move to a new city based on statistics, shaky or otherwise. They move there for a job, perhaps, or because of family. Outside of those things they move because of something entirely intangible--like the perfect snowcone (from Sal's, no joke!) or the way it feels to bask in the shade of the magnolia trees.

All I know is that I still love the city and want to be a part of it--and its recovery--in any way possible, even if I can only be there in spirit. If that doesn't make me at least an honorary citizen of New Orleans, then I don't know what does. Plenty of folks have left, many of whom never came back--and never will, most likely--but I'm still as enchanted as ever.

Sure, I was upset when Brangelina moved into the neighborhood and I was mighty hot and bothered about the prospect of Starbucks setting up shop in the French Quarter, but none of those things can really change the very heart of what makes New Orleans special, can they? Well, at least they can't in my mind.

So, exactly where am I going with all this, you may ask? Well, I'd like to be going with it to New Orleans, but since I can't currently make it--the job, the rent, the husband's schooling, the baby--I'll just have to keep my feet planted firmly on Terra Nola. That said, I think I should be able, after all these crazy years, to count myself as a New Orleans citizen, even if honorary. What do you think? Have I earned my stripes, even if from afar? Do my countless visits, my weekly sonnets to the city, my love of all things New Orleanian add up to the real thing (or at least close to it)?

If not, tell me what it would take to become an honorary citizen of New Orleans. I may just accept the challenge. After all, she's captured my heart, if not yet my feet.

Always in search of culture on a Sunday afternoon, I met some friends yesterday for the Super Sunday parade uptown. The weather was perfect, hundreds of people lined the streets, and second-lined through the streets, with the Mardi Gras Indians.

The masked Indians must have been feeling the heat, but they didn't let it show. My friends and I all got a little sunburned, but after seeing tv footage of New York, where snow apparently still covers the ground, I was grateful for the sunshine.

It goes without saying that the costumes were spectacular, colorful and elaborate. Even a few dozen kids had their own outfits, little versions of the adult tribes.

Spectators brought out their shiniest rides, too, from fat-tired crotch-rocket motorcycles to polished custom sedans, with huge rims and vertical doors that probably cost as much as the car itself to install. One guy parked on the neutral ground on ML King Blvd. had a sleek Mercedes with an impressive sound system and three creepy dolls in what looked like a custom rumble seat (see photo). It was like an open-air car show for people who spend A LOT of money on their cars.

I don't know much about the history of the Mardi Gras Indians, but I like what I've been told: as I understand it, the tradition relates to blacks and native Americans coming together as a reaction to the white supremacy that kept both groups on the bottom of the social hierarchy. The fact that their resistance has taken on a life of its own, and survives despite all obstacles, is pretty reassuring. It's a link in a human chain connecting past and present, and although it may have started as an act of resistance, it carries on because it is joyous and vibrant. I got a huge kick out of it, sunburn and all.

You saw my Mardi Gras Haul last week and I promised to give you some ideas on how to shrink your pile of beads after carnival. In this post I will show you how to create the ultra small (not safe for small children) craft and kid favorite for alleviating boredom while waiting for parades, the bead dog. These interesting little crafts can be made with most beads, but are best made from those cheap non-pearls that are kind of see-through and come in all sorts of colors. The best bead dogs have a special nose made from the end of these plastic necklaces. Of course the long nose is not a requirement and a normal string of beads can usually make four or more of these doggies. All you need to make one is a string of beads and a pair of scissors or (if you're a purist, like me) just a string of beads and your fingers. Also be sure to clean and dry each string of beads before using. No one likes a sticky beer smelling bead dog.

Step 1: The perfect necklace

First you need to find that perfect cheapo bead necklace from your haul. Sure you can use almost any string of beads, but no one really want to waste some pearls on a bead dog and the clear plastic beads that have a special plastic clasp are the easiest to use. Plus the size means you finished bead dog can double as a jack when made as part of a set of ten and added to one of those super balls you caught.

The rest of the instructions after the jump.

Step 2: The length

Next up select the length from the string of beads you will need to construct your bead dog. Since this will be made in the simple style, I am going to use a string of 11 beads (leave them connected to each other for now). Why 11? The first (including the small nose-like piece) is the head. Second is the neck. Third is the body. Fourth and fifth is the tail. Sixth and seventh for ears. Eighth, ninth, tenth and eleventh for legs. You can have the body be longer for a doxen dachshund style dog. Plus the tail could be longer or even the legs and ears. For now though, let's keep this simple.

Step 3: Separation

Now to break apart that string of 11 from the main necklace. There are two ways to do this. Scissors can snip the small piece of string between beads quite easily of you can use the twist method. The twist method allows you to make a bead dog anywhere anytime. All you do is grasp the two beads you want to separate (they must be right next to each other on the string) and twist) as you twist the beads the string will tighten and the beads may be pushed apart a little bit, but you will start to hear a ripping or cracking sound. This is the string between the beads snapping apart and making your separation.

Step 4: Ears, legs and feet

Use your chosen separation method to break apart three pairs of beads from the end of the string. These will make your ears and legs/feet.

Step 5: Attaching the Ears

Take one pair of beads (the ears pair) and push their center between the first and second beads on the main string so they kind of flip up between them. Now carefully twist them once around so they tighten onto the main string and lock in place. You can twist more that once, but the more times you do the more likely it is the beads will either be pushed off their string or even snapped off.

Step 6: Front paws

Similarly to what you did with the ears, attach the front paws to the main string. This time you want the legs to face the opposite way of the ears so hold the string with the ears up and push the legs down between the second and third beads on the main string.

Step 7: Back paws

These are the same as the front paws but back one more. Make sure they face the same direction as the other legs otherwise you're just making weird art.

Step 8: All done

Now take cool close up pics of your bead dog and make a whole lot more. You can make a bunch for jacks or vary the colors in the dog itself or more.

You can also vary design by not separating the parts. Take the second, third, fourth and fifth beads and loop them. Then twist to make neat tall pointy ears. Do the same with the legs and make a tall dog. Leave that long string attached and have a huge tail.

Remember, bead dogs like to be in groups so make a bunch and have them hang out.

Also remember they are very very small.

Every Saturday we pick the best images added to the Blogging New Orleans flickr group and post a resized version with a link to the original here. Be sure to check back here every week for another NOLApic.

Today's NOLApic was taken while wandering through the French Quarter on Mardi Gras Day. I walked from the Esplanade end down Royal to Canal and then over to Bourbon St and back up. And that's where I snapped this shot. It shows exactly what Mardi Gras in the French Quarter is like (minus the partially clad).

Mardi Gras Day on Bourbon St, originally uploaded by me, schleifnet. You can have your pics posted here too, just join the Blogging New Orleans flickr group and post your best NOLApics.

[Recovery Pen sings the song of New Orleans, in as many keys as its author can reach.]

If I could be God for one day, it would be Fat Tuesday. Not that I would mind being omnipresent during the other 364 days of the year -- I've long been an eavesdropper and nonchalant spy -- but who would pass up the chance to be everywhere on Mardi Gras morning? To hand out Zulu coconuts, and dress up like a St. Anne's queen, and dance with the Mardi Gras Indians, and toast Rex from the stands, and snap photos of the Bourbon Street Costume Awards, and sample fresh gumbo from Mamou and ride in a truck parade, and march with Jieux-Lu, and march with Kosmic Debris, and march with Krewe du Mort, and march with the Royal Revelers, all at one time? To be inside every costume, viewing life as a pharoah, and a buzzard, as a wood nymph and as a slice of king cake -- only omnipresence could make Mardi Gras day sweeter than it already is.

I bring up this physical impossibility because it defines my biggest Mardi Gras frustration. I don't know about you, but every year I toss and turn over the season's biggest question: do I go to the Zulu parade or second-line with St. Anne? At different ends of the city, both take place on Mardi Gras morning. Since they start at slightly different times, Zulu at 8 a.m., and St. Anne around 10:30, I fool myself into thinking I can somehow go to both. Every year I think I can do this somehow, but I've never been able to amass the amount of speed I would need to accomplish this trick. Even this past year, driving home Lundi Gras night, I reasoned that if I could bike to the start of Zulu's route at Jackson and Claiborne, I could then get down to St. Anne in time. This would involve my getting in my costume and on my bike by 7:30 in the morning, another physical impossibility. I'm too old to stay up all night, and too young to heed my alarm clock.

My back-up plan, traditionally formulated as I speed downtown to get to the St. Anne's party, is to catch Zulu at its end, at Orleans and Claiborne. Since no one can predict what time Zulu will rolling by this point, I still have a chance of seeing it. They might even have a coconut or two left.

But I never miss parading with the Secret Society of St. Anne. Even this year, when I told everyone that I would be going uptown for Zulu, I found myself biking down through the Treme, turning into the Marigny, pedalling towards the Bywater. There's nothing like getting drunk with strangers in costume, then parading through the streets together as the cameras flash and drums pound.

The magic starts with the bike ride. I navigate my way around the potholes on Ursulines Avenue, going south on Broad. My sleepy neighbors, outside in their robes, look up at me in my red devil's suit with a penis for a tail. They blink.

"Happy Mardi Gras!" I scream, so glad to be alive. I'm not even drunk yet, just high on the warm sunny morning and the day's possibilities.

I turn left to bike through the Claiborne Avenue neutral ground, already filling up with cars and barbeque grills. Mardi Gras tradition on Claiborne means barbeque for breakfast. If I weren't in a hurry, I'd stop and chat, try to wheedle a piece of meat and a can of beer.

Instead I head for the Treme. Two blocks in, I slow down to observe a costume party. The array of colored wigs is heart-stopping enough, without the serpentine creature arching from a bicycle ahead of me. I recognize a friend, I think -- the psychedelic swirls on her cheeks give me pause. No, it's her, decked out as a space-lady clown. Again, I could go for a beer, or a glass of champagne, but I say a quick hello and bike on.

As I traverse the Marigny, candy-colored revelers appear around me, blooming flowers of the morning. More and more flowers burst from the gray sidewalks and ashen streets until I get to the Bywater street party I've been seeking. This is the best part of Mardi Gras, the fresh, full face of the day when costumes are still intact and eyes are bright.

How to describe the costumes I see? Seventeenth-century French royalty mixed with absurdist theater with dashes of Zydeco spice and Americana kitsch. A storm of streamers: confetti rain, drum thunder. The lightning strikes inside the gut, at the wrenching beauty of being part of the dead city's glory.

We sip Party Punch in the back yard, where the costumiers snap photos of each other before showtime, when the drums summon us to the street. We move forward as a group, checking wheels and adjusting bustles. A flock of frocks, a dazzling display of plumage and paper, we are fake faces and true hearts.

Some of us will only make it to the first bar, where we converge to dance and preen each other, to point and laugh and pass the peace. Other parades cross with ours, and soon, St. Anne will splinter into a thousand parades of one, each of us stumbling from one adventure to the next. I imagine only a scant few make it to the end of the St. Anne's parade, if there is an end. I've never gotten there myself, nor heard of anyone who has.

Sometime around noon, I stop for a bite to eat. This is how I meet Captain America, a luchador in full Mexican wrestler regalia. He's bearded and handsome, a white guy wearing red, white, and blue who speaks to me in Spanish. With his fluent tongue, he compliments my beauty and invites me to his bout in a makeshift ring in front of Cafe Brazil.

I am torn, for my fluttering heart wants to watch the handsome luchador in his ring, but I still believe that I can find the Zulu parade and my coconut fruit. As well, my partner in crime -- a flame-worn reveller who's sentenced to Hell for enjoying the Krewe du Vieux parade -- wants to visit Jackson Square to hand out brimstones to the Christian protesters there. So we move on.

The rest is a bit blurry, I confess. I am on Royal Street, letting the world swirl by, when the rain starts to fall. I move under an awning and sip on a Miller High Life. Albert Einstein has joined us, imparting his wisdom, and my friend Annubis and his lady Cleopatra find us all sitting on the sidewalk. A krewe of pirates sails by with their ship of beads, and they toss me a string. Sooner or later we wander back to Jean Lafitte's for our yearly hurricanes. Then on to Cafe Brazil to watch the madness fall under evening's spell.

But I don't see Captain America wrestle; he's way gone by then. So is the Zulu parade. We never do make it down to Jackson Square to harrass the Christians, either; the whole point of dressing as Lady Satan and her minion, the punished reveller.

I don't mind, though. I feel as if I've been everywhere, three planets and back, when my total foot journey has only encompassed a few blocks. This is the secret of Mardi Gras, and perhaps of New Orleans herself: it makes one feel like the center of the universe. So what if it's really the back streets of a drowned city, lost in the past? For one day, our city masquerades as the present, delirious with possibility and hope, and I pray that I never, ever miss it.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

Well, while the rest of my bloggingneworleans colleagues were out partying your booties off having a good time both in New Orleans and elsewhere, lonesome little me stayed home. I should say, lonesome pregnant giant me.

First I checked out and attempted to respond to the fabulous comments from those who share my agony and ecstasy over Mardi Gras and New Orleans in general. Most folks had very nice things to say and, while some of us do remember the headaches caused by Mardi Gras madness, most of us miss New Orleans if we're not there to enjoy it.

Actually, before that I watched Rachel Ray of Food Network fame make a muffuletta salad and some rather tasty looking fried shrimp poboys. Then I considered eating the tiny piece of king cake I commandeered from my colleagues earlier today for my husband, who quite simply ruined all my Mardi Gras plans by having statistics class Tuesday night. Do the people at Baruch not get that you can't have class on Tuesday nights because it interferes with Mardi Gras? Whatever.

Rachel nearly inspired me to make vegetarian jambalaya until I realized I had no rice and basically none of the other ingredients necessary to do it up right. Instead I dethawed some frozen broccoli and some tater tots and moved on. I may get excited enough to whip up the jambalaya this weekend, pregnancy brain permitting.

After dinner and the Food Network I opted to start writing this column, which is basically about doing nothing on Mardi Gras, as opposed to everyone else I know whom I suspect is having a grand old time without me. I have this one long-time friend purportedly in the New Orleans area for a family event that was supposed to get jiggy with it for me since I'm so pregnant I can't even tie my own shoelaces. I left her a message but have not heard back, which means she is either not in New Orleans or is and is having an immensely good time.

For the sheer torture of it I checked out what was happening around NYC with regard to Mardi Gras and turned up paltry little. From what I gather from commenters on other columns, cool towns like Natchez, Mississippi and Mobile, Alabama have Mardi Gras events that rival those in New Orleans. During my post-tater tot delirium I fantasized about hitting all three MG's next year, although that fantasy may never be fully realized given I'll have a one-year old and my husband, who is reluctant to participate in Mardi Gras festivities anyway, in tow.

In an act of desperation, I attempted to consider getting up off the couch and putting in The Big Easy. I generally refer to that movie as The Big Cheesy considering how stereotypical it is in essentially every way possible. Tonight, however, all alone in my apartment with no one to entertain me besides my unborn child--who, by the way, LOVES king cake--I was all too willing to give in to this guilty pleasure.

My preference would've been to watch Down By Law, which is not only a great film set in New Orleans but also in an odd turn features Ellin Barkin. My multi-tasking abilities aren't quite what they once were, however, and I forgot to Netflix it. Come to think of it, I guess it says something about me that I own The Big Easy but not Down By Law. Not sure what is being said, exactly, but I'm also not really listening.

I also thought about attempting to be more literary and picking up my so-new-it-doesn't-even-have-fingerprints- smudging-it copy of Gumbo Ya-Ya. Then I remembered how dense it is and how difficult at times it is for me to ingratiate myself into the language. All the king cake in the world isn't going to muster up enough of my gumption to pick that thing up until after this baby is born.

And speaking yet again of king cake, the tiny piece of which I did save for my husband because he truly is a king (aside from the part where he abandoned me for statistics), I would like to report that once again, as with every year, Randazzo's delivered my delicious medium-sized king cake in perfect time (just after 10:00AM) on Mardi Gras. People are still amazed that I go to all the trouble of having a king cake shipped to NYC from New Orleans, but I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise. It would be unconstitutional.

Despite these available if not dazzling options, I spent most of the night writing about what I wasn't doing and thinking about what I'd be doing the following year. I also spent about 30 seconds fantasizing about naming my son Lafitte, after the pirate (blacksmith) but only as a joke. My son is no pirate. There are no pirates in NYC.

I also considered for a few moments the clear plastic storage crate filled with multitudes of beads from Mardi Gras past. Over the years I've sorted through them and given away (or tossed, I hate to admit) many of the lesser beads, but have always held on to the better ones. I assume I'll come up with an actual use for them someday, but, until that moment of clarity, they will remain in their clear plastic crate begging me to stop worrying so much and just have a good time.

As of Wednesday, February 23rd most folks, myself included, tend to do at least one of three things:

1. Recover from Mardi Gras to include sleeping all day and enjoying a greasy breakfast between 4:00 and 5:00 followed by more sleep and possibly some light beer once the sun sets.

2. Planning for Mardi Gras 2008 to include getting hotel reservations and preparing costumes for storage until next year.

3. Planning for Jazz Fest 2007 (eh, I heard Steely Dan is playing) to include getting hotel and airfare and, if you're me, once again attempting to figure out the concoction of perfection that is rose mint tea.

If you are me, and only I am me (as far as I know) I'll be found working out the logistics of #2 and part of #3. That tea still eludes me.

Above is a picture of my Muses haul including a custom comic book drawn by a local artist, cups, beer cozy, custom drawstring bag, shoe bracelet, and more. We were selective during the parade because we don't have kids and knew these throws are likely to just take up space. I knew we were going to try for as much cool stuff as possible. Is there anything you told yourself you were going to catch?

Zulu Haul after the jump

Next up, my Zulu haul. I managed to grab a small coconut, some custom beads, cups, and more. Here my only goal was one coconut (and to stay awake for the parade). Luckily since I caught Zulu after the turn off Canal onto Basin Street I was able to see them at 11:00 am instead of the gawd-awful early time those you uptown caught it. Unfortunately I made a judgement call and took a short rest afterwards and missed Rex. Up next, what to do with the Haul.

Before I start, I'm not Catholic. I'm not even Christian. I'm Jewish so please don't take this as sacrilegious, but Lent began today with the NOPD cavalry's clearing of the streets in the French Quarter at midnight Tuesday night/Wednesday Morning and now many of my co-workers are off of work not to recover from a hangover induced by the extended weekend. No, since this is New Orleans and the Catholic heart of the south, many of my co-workers are off today in order to begin the Lenten season with mass and an ashen cross thumbed across their forehead. Many will choose to give up something they hold dear in order to have a symbolic suffering that mimics (I think) Jesus's suffering in new testament biblical times. Which begs the question: What are you giving up? I've heard the usual: Chocolate, sugar, coffee, steak, etc. Of course there is the cliched 'I'm giving up Catholicism." Ha Ha, well that isn't the answer that we're looking for. What are you giving up and why? Are you giving up something because you always do? Every year some give up beer or hard liquor (can't skip wine since that's part of the sacrament, I think) or a specific drink of choice. So how about you?

Image of Aschermittwoch / Ash wednesday by Libär found on Flickr

It's time for the seventh Blogging New Orleans podcast. Each week I record a podcast about all things New Orleans on Tuesday evening and upload it for all of you to listen to on Wednesday afternoon. Comments, questions, concerns? Comment on this post or contact us via the tips link on the site. This week is a little short due the after effects of the holiday.

• Introduction
• Meeting of courts of Rex and Comus on PBS
• Best Parades
  • Ceasar
  • Krewe de Vieux
  • Krewe d-Etat
  • Muses
  • Barkus
• The disappointment of Endymion
• Strangeness of Mardi Gras
  • lack of people
  • non-Bourbon-St-packedness
• What I did Mardi Gras day
• Lent
• St. Patrick's Day and St. Joseph's Day Parades
• What you giving up for Lent?

This podcast is almost a 'betacast' and should be treated as such. We don't have theme music yet, but in the future we hope to have that and interviews with movers and shakers from around our fair city. If you would like to be interviewed on the podcast feel free to contact us via the tips page or the comments below.

SUBSCRIBE to the Blogging New Orleans podcast in iTunes
LISTEN to the podcast now
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My wife's favorite part of the parades is the marching bands. She loves to dance to the beat of the drumline and watch in awe as the majorettes twirl their batons into the air and the flag teams dance and spin down the route. Local high schools prepare all year to march in various parades and until recently Orleans Parish parades required true marching bands to participate. (Now krewes may include dance teams in addition to bands just like in Jefferson parish). Needless to say, New Orleans area marching bands must be inherently more talented than their counterparts from around the country because they have to avoid slipping on leftover throws on the route. Plus they need to be talented enough to call the watcher's attention away from the last float and keep them from looking on to the next float. At one time the poor tuba line had to cover their horns due to revelers rudely throwing leftover beads into the brass. After the jump check out a gallery of some the bands I caught this carnival season.

Chaos: Majorettes

Chaos: Slidell High

Chaos: Slidell High

Endymion: Carter High

Endymion: Grace King

Endymion: McDonogh 35

Endymion: McDonogh 35

Endymion: St. Augustine

Muses: Warren Easton

Oshun: St. Mary's

Oshun: St. Mary's

Zulu: McDonogh 35