At seven am., we were already heading out for Zulu, the traditional black parade. They had much more energy, more spunk, than the rest of the parades. There were fewer “throws,” so the crowd went crazy over silly things like plastic cigars from the “Big Shot” float. The most prized item is a hand-painted coconut, which brings good luck to the recipient. We saw a number of them carefully handed from the floats, never thrown. And the costumes were by far the best, from grass skirts to elaborate feathered headpieces, and everyone in blackface.

Now that it was Mardi Gras day, the costumes were out on the street, not just in the parades. Two men shambled down the street wearing huge piles of Spanish Moss. A girl in a candy-striper’s uniform with bubble-gum pink hair took photos with an expensive camera. The Jefferson City Buzzards, the city’s oldest walking club, meandered along the parade route in elegant costumes, exchanging paper flowers for kisses (I got one of those!). The mayor was even wearing a top hat when he rode by on horseback.

In the black neighborhood where we parked, there were barbecues on every block. Not in the backyards, but in the front yards, right out on the sidewalk. Some had even set up in the grass strip in the middle of the street — tables, smokers, coolers, and all.

Walking into the French Quarter, we ran across some Indian “tribes” on their way to the meeting place. There’s an informal competition to see who can come up with the most elaborate beaded and feathered costume for their “chief.” So the tribes marched along under the freeway, chanting and drumming in street clothes, with one person carrying the headpiece, one carrying the armpieces, one carrying the breastplate, one bearing the standard. The chiefs themselves looked tired just from walking around in the leggings.

The costumes and spontaneous parades in the French Quarter were overwhelming. One parade was led by a woman in a wheelchair named “Queen Colleen.” Another was called the “Krewe of Woo-Hoo.” Another one went by with a brass band playing “When the Saints Come Marching In.” There were outrageous costumes, like men wearing nothing but beads and underwear, or two gay men dressed up in tuxedoes with wedding veils. But there were also courtesans in 17th-century gowns. Everyone wearing a costume encouraged photos, and there were plenty of topless women who wanted their pictures taken, too.

The scene on Bourbon Street was beyond insane. Every 2nd story balcony was packed, and the flashing went on both above and below. Also above and below the waist! Signs read, “Huge Ass Beers to Go” and “Jesus Saves.” Besides the Christians and the police, I think we were the only sober people there.

We wandered down to the riverfront, a bit of peace and quiet next to the French Quarter. A fellow with a trumpet serenaded us; we could barely see him in the thick fog. After a bit of respite, we caught our breath and dove back into the madness. But as afternoon faded into evening, the parades ended, the really good costumes went home, and the scene was dominated by the reek of alcohol and trash and the sight of bare flesh and trampled beads. We didn’t stay for the traditional midnight clearing of the Quarter by police on horseback, but headed back to the boat to have a drink and celebrate our safe return.

I started reading the entries out loud, avoiding the “family-friendly” ones and selecting the more outrageous ones to entertain my two male companions. “We could do this one, Cleopatra. All the women on the floats are female,” I announced with a grin.

Brian perked right up. “I’m there!” he said. And just like that, we were off to our first parade.

Well, maybe not just like that. We decided to take Peepcar, in case parking was a problem. With a car that small, you know you can always pick up the front end and scoot it into the space. First, we had to contend with hideous traffic and bad New Orleans drivers. Pouring rain, dark, wet pavement, lame windshield wipers. We got a little lost near the parade route, so we stopped at a MacDonald’s for directions. The employees were all busy, but there were a few kids hanging around. An ebony-colored 7-foot tall giant with 1/4-inch diamond stud earrings told me the best place to watch the parade was in front of Wal-Mart. I was trying not to stare at his gold bicuspids.

Back at Peepcar, we folded Barry up and stuffed him into the back seat again. But a block later, another stop beckoned. Since Louisiana doesn’t have any open container laws, New Orleans is full of daquiri shops, many of them drive-ins. We walked into a cross between a Wendy’s and a bar. Behind the counter was a whole row of alcoholic slushy machines, with labels like “Hypnotic Chill” and “Hi-Octane.” The three girls ahead of us looked to be about 17, but they all walked out with 24-oz larges.

I tried asking the lady behind the counter (in a place like that, is her job title “bartender,” or “slushy barrista?”) to describe some of the flavors. She just shook her head, “I’ll give y’all a taste. I don’t want to sell you nothin’ without you tastin’ it.” What was she thinking? If I tasted all 16 flavors, I’d be in no shape to continue driving! As it was, I had to overcome twenty-plus years of conditioning just to get into a car with three open containers, my medium-sized amaretto-pineapple safe in the passenger’s hand.

A few blocks later, it was apparent that we were on the parade route by the cars and mobile toilets parked by the side of the road. We parked at Wal-Mart and sat in the car for a while, steaming up the windows in the rain and making inroads on our daquiris. By the time the parade started, we hardly noticed the drizzle, we were so warm inside. The downside was that Brian kept having to leave the parade to find a bathroom.

At first, there were just marching bands and junior ROTC groups. Standard parade fare that we’ve seen in other cities. But then came indications that we weren’t in Kansas any more.

First, there was the queen herself. She sat on a throne in full regalia, about 10 feet up, in front of (not under!) a decorative canopy. The rain poured over the canopy and onto her miserable head, and the poor thing shook and shivered with possible hypothermia. If she spent thousands of dollars and many months having her costume created, she was certainly regretting it now.

And then there were the floats. The rain was nothing compared to the beads that showered down upon us. Metallic, shiny beads in green, gold, and purple. Huge strands of fake pearls that hung down to our knees. Red, blue, pink beads, some shaped like dice or hearts. Translucent chokers in yellow, green, blue, and pink. We smiled and waved at the nice ladies, and they buried us in beads. Every one we caught, plus some we picked up from the street, we put around our necks.

And still came more beads, children’s toys, and baggies of peanuts. Brian caught the eye of several of the ladies, who elected to give him special gifts. One handed him a purple-and-red stuffed pig. Another waved him over to give him a 5-foot-long snake in green and gold with a purple mouth. I caught a purple hippo and a plastic scepter. One of the strangest items was the Sheriff Harry Lee refrigerator magnet — he’d recently had a gastric bypass operation, and the magnet showed a normal-sized version of him wearing hugely oversized pants.

When the parade was finally over, you could hardly see our raincoats under all the beads. If we stooped to pick up another strand from the street, there was a risk that all the weight would simply topple us over. It was impossible to get into the car with them on, and all three of us struggled mightily to get them off. Fortunately, one of the best throws was a large zipper-topped Mardi Gras bag, into which we piled them all. When we returned home, I couldn’t resist weighing them — 21 pounds of beads and toys. Ain’t it wonderful what Mardi Gras does for the Chinese economy?

To get you in the mood, here is a little photo essay of our Mardi Gras experience so far. Check it out!

What a haul! Our first parade, Cleopatra, was a bit disappointing, but the “throws” were great! We came home with 21 pounds of beads, 5 plastic cups, a purple pig, and a 5-foot snake.

After taking our photo (above) New Orleans’ finest posed willingly (with Brian’s snake) on the other side of the camera.

Our next parade was Babylon. We parked ourselves across the street from the Pearl (the site of Margaret’s Dad’s first beer) and settled in for the real thing. Unlike Seattle parades, they do not have pooper-scoopers after the horses.

The King of Babylon. Pretty cute, and a lot happier than the Queen of Cleopatra. But then, it wasn’t raining on his many-thousand-dollar costume.

Babylon bead-throwers. I think somebody was flashing, because the guy in the middle is shaking his finger and going “no-no!”

The Chaos parade had more royalty, more horses, more bands, and funnier floats.

On Sunday, we wandered through the French Quarter. Bourbon Street was overflowing with people these guys could toss beads to, including plenty of flashers.

The biggest parade, on Sunday night, was led by Bacchus, also known as Elijah Wood or Frodo. He was having a total blast, like any 20-something kid, throwing beads and making eye contact with people.

As you can see from the hands, everyone in the crowd went crazy over the chance to get beads, cheap plastic cups, and the occasional stuffed toy or rubber chicken.

The Bacchagator was one of the crowd’s favorites. This was built on two flatbed trailers, so it was almost half a block long.

St. Augustine’s high school and their rival went head-to-head in a sort of “battle of the bands” on Canal Street. This student’s whole family went nuts, including his father and uncle, both alumni.

By 10:30, some of the junior high marchers were getting a little tired.

But we were still having a blast!

On the way home, we took in some lovely Mardi Gras decorations and stopped for a midnight chat with a New Orleans native. Stay tuned for more after Tuesday!

To my left is water. About 75 feet away is the far shore, strewn with litter. Broken concrete, rotten pilings, and at least one sunken boat make it look forbidding to the casual observer.

But I am no longer a casual observer. I have spent hours sitting on deck or in the cockpit, and I have been rewarded.

I have become a birdwatcher.

At first, I spent my time looking across the larger waterway, towards the noisy gypsum factory. But my eye was caught by huge flocks of birds, moving northward in the evenings. Thousands of them would find a thermal, circle to gain altitude, then cruise across the sky to the next one. I couldn’t identify the birds, and I could only guess that they were returning to Lake Pontchartrain after a day of Gulf fishing. Once, when we went sailing, I saw even larger flocks over the lake, so vast that they stretched across a third of the horizon. I was hooked.

The next thing that piqued my curiosity was the meadow. On the other side of the water, above the debris, is a screen of wild bushes and grasses that have gained a toehold on the concrete. Just beyond is a large field, bordered by a tall fence, with wide locked gates and concrete driveways to nowhere. Near the water’s edge are bollards the size of my car, and there’s an electrical transformer, its wires clipped. An abandoned shipyard, perhaps?

But not abandoned at all! One day, a couple of songbirds came and perched on the wires and serenaded us as we worked on the boat. Chubby, with yellow tummies, their song sounded like “Sweetie, come here!” Once they had gotten my attention, I saw that they shared their human-free meadow and the abandoned building next door with swallows, crows, and other small songbirds. With my binoculars, I watch a group of them trying to land on a utility wire. At first, they all try to land on top of each other at one spot on the wire, before sorting themselves out and perching evenly spaced. But when it’s sorted out, they sometimes leave one odd guy a couple of yards away, as if he has BBO (bird body odor).

My favorite birds to watch are the water birds who fish here in our slip. There are pelicans, herons, ducks, and (I think) grebes. A cute little brown and green fellow comes to visit every day, sometimes catching minnows only a few feet from the boat. We call him, “the little green guy,” but he’s probably a green heron. Three or four ducks come by every evening, including one white one. Maybe he’s a domesticated duck who escaped and is now enjoying the free life! His quacking sounds so much like happy laughter, I laugh out loud when I hear him. The other day, I had the stereo on, and I heard him singing along with Joao Gilberto’s “O Pato” (“The Duck”).

Today, as I write this, I have seen and heard hundreds of birds. A flock of seagulls goes one way, and a flock of ibis goes the other. A pelican uses the wind to fly sideways to his chosen spot before gently drifting down for a landing, making hardly a ripple. He’ll certainly make a big enough splash the next time he catches a fish!

One tern goes by in each direction. Left tern and right tern? A songbird sings in the meadow, and further away, I hear jays and crows. Swallows flit by, their flight reminding me of a strobe light.

On the opposite shore, a long line of black ducks with white beaks paddles by. Each one pops his rear in the air for a while, resurfacing like a cork. I can’t hear them, but with binoculars, I can see their beaks moving and can imagine them quacking. A grebe goes the other way, his body cleverly hidden below the water. It seems like a major struggle when he decides to take off and fly away, and I can imagine him thinking, “Aw heck, is flying really worth the bother?”

I take out the binoculars to slowly scan the far shore and catch sight of one of our regular visitors: A black-crowned night heron. He sits on the rubble along the shore during the day, his beak down, snoozing, hardly moving except to preen. His black and white and gray feathers are elegant, and he seems proud of the long white crest feather on top of his head. Watching him, I am reminded that there is beauty in the most unexpected places. It is worth looking twice and never being “just a casual observer.”

But even the sailboats I see are not much like Cayenne. There seem to be two types: Local racers, and cruisers passing through. That lack of local cruisers was a big hint — one I overlooked.

A couple of weeks ago, after two exhilarating daysails, we took our first overnight sailing trip to Madisonville. We sailed across the lake under clear blue skies and then motored up the Tchefuncta river. Our mooring was in a pretty park, where live oaks draped with Spanish moss hung almost over our decks. A couple of lively pubs were right across the street. Even the noisy bridge traffic and four a.m. garbage trucks didn’t mar the novelty of spending the night someplace other than Seabrook.

A few weeks later, when all three of us had gotten snappish, it was time for another trip. But where? The Gulf is too far — we are 70 miles from the mouth of the river. Back to the Lake. Slidell, perhaps? Brian studied the chart, but there wasn’t enough detail. I found him staring intently at his computer, where he’d pulled up Microsoft Streets and Trips. It was easier to use than the pricey Softcharts he’d just bought, and at least it showed the pubs.

I read the Coast Pilot and didn’t find much except a dry listing of the shipyard facilities. That information was suspect, as we’d received a much more colorful description of the same shipyard via e-mail from our friend Steve in Seattle. He said it was, “…a truly pleasant place. The grass was roughly waist high, hiding the scraps of steel that threatened to turn your ankles, and the numerous poisonous rattle and water snakes. The water was medicinally sulphurous; I’m sure the odors killed any incipient cancers….If you do cruise the Bayou, watch your keel. The ecologically disposed cars and refrigerators will bang up more than the paint.”

We turned to the folks at West Marine for advice. “Where do folks go cruising around here?” we asked. “They don’t.” “Have you ever sailed to Slidell?” we asked. “No, why would you?”

It then dawned on us that there weren’t any other destinations, besides Madisonville, that met our three-part criteria for a perfect sailing destination: Electricity (for heat), scenery (no gypsum factories), and a pub. Madisonville had misled us, like the blind man feeling an elephant’s tail and saying, “An elephant is like a rope.”

Yesterday we went out on the lake and put about forty miles on the boat, a simple daysail across the lake and back. We got it out of our system, temporarily. But please, God, let us get out of Seabrook and someplace where there are pubs and scenery. As long as we head south, we can live without heat.

If there ever was a city with a cult of fishing, New Orleans is it. These people are absolutely nuts about fishing! When we meet someone new, they don’t usually show much interest in sailing. But boating, on the other hand, grabs ‘em. Because boating is a means to go fishing. As in, “What kinda fishin’ gear y’all got on that boat?”

A few weeks after we arrived in New Orleans, it became apparent that Peepcar’s CV joints were shot. We decided to have them fixed before taking a road trip to Florida, but we were nervous about going to the first repair garage we saw. So I went out on the Cartalk website and looked for recommendations. Click ‘n’ Clack have some understanding of boating, since they insist that when your car’s service light comes on, it usually means your mechanic needs to make a boat payment.

Armed with a list of promising garages, I set out on a Wednesday morning to check out a few. The first garage was small; there wasn’t even a pedestrian door. As I walked through the garage itself to the office, I noticed that nobody was working on the cars, and when I stepped into the office, I saw why. There were about ten straight-backed chairs arranged around the walls of the office, and that’s where the mechanics were. Of course, I should have known that 11 AM was lunchtime for auto mechanics, right?

Now, I’ve been in a lot of uncomfortable situations in my life, but this was one of the top five. I walked in, unsuspecting, on ten men, sitting in a manly circle, eating big manly po-boy sandwiches and having a manly discussion. On fishing. The room fell silent and they all stared. I was terrified of their ridicule if they knew the truth about me. “You LIVE on a BOAT and you DON’T KNOW HOW to FISH???”

I got my estimate (he must have been the boss, but all ten of them looked identical to me in their mechanics coveralls and fishing caps) and hightailed it out of there, the proverbial fish out of water.

I thought about giving up on the car estimates and just finding a fishing school someplace, but instead I persevered. The next place was only two blocks away, and it looked more promising. They actually had a glass door that led to an office, separated from the garage. I was sure the estimate would be higher to reflect the additional amenities.

Upon entering, my first thought was, “Oh, God! I’ve interrupted another lunch!” The air was thick with the smell of fish po-boys. But these were different. The employees were assembling them, starting with the piles of buns and condiments on the back counter. As I started talking with the guy behind that counter, I suddenly realized that he was deep-frying the fish and french fries right in front of me. While discussing the problems of CV joints in Hondas.

He turned out to be the owner of both the garage and a 25-foot fishing boat. “See those pictures over there?” On the bulletin board were photos of the boat and lots of different people holding big fish and grinning.

His employees seemed to be one big happy family, and the atmosphere was congenial, so while one of the garage fellows took a look at Peepcar, I shared my story. Which got him started about Seabrook and sailboats and good fishing spots in the vicinity. All the while shaking and turning the freshly-caught striped bass in the deep fryer.

When I returned to Cayenne, I had to explain to Barry why I’d selected Cacamo’s over the other garages. “It’s simple. They had the best price. They made me feel comfortable. But most importantly, that striped bass sure was tasty!”

Since we were back at the dock and tied up by 3 pm, we started our own celebration long before dark. Brian kept threatening to just go to bed, starting at about 8:30 pm.

As a harbinger of what was to come, we had been hearing fireworks off and on all day. At 11:45, we went outside and climbed up on Jim’s boat, a stable platform about 12 feet off the ground. From there, we could see for miles, because New Orleans is eerily flat (being located below sea level helps!). The sky was completely clear and the stars were out.

From where we stood, we saw fireworks of every variety in all directions. The intensity increased, so that by midnight, we stood in the center of a circle with a constant 360 degrees of fireworks. At every point on the compass were brilliant arrays of green, red, blue, white, yellow, orange. To the south, on the Mississippi River, was a huge commercial display. There was another to the west. On the other side of the industrial waterway, to the east, were backyard displays rivaling the commercial ones. Every point of the compass had its own display, and the sound of the constant explosions ranged from high-pitched popping to deep, distant rumbles.

Never, in my entire life, had I seen such a city-wide display of fireworks.

By 12:12 am, the stars were obscured by a thick pall of sulfurous smoke. But the concussions continued. When we retired to bed at 12:30, the city was still going strong. We were lulled to sleep by the near-constant sound, and could see occasional explosions through our tiny portlights.

On a typical Cayenne evening, the sun drops low in the sky and the temperatures begin to drop with it. Mosquitoes come out of their daytime hiding places, looking for warm-blooded carbon-dioxide-emitting creatures to bite. Since the only other such creatures in the boatyard at this time of evening are a) Jim, who’s too ornery to bite and b) the skin-and-bones boatyard dogs, they often find their way to Cayenne and start sampling the captain and crew. At this point, we frantically scramble to close the hatches and portlights that have been wide open all day. If we miss one, Barry and I will spend the rest of the evening clapping and smacking furniture, bulkheads, and the captain, trying to obliterate the little suckers. (sh*t! there goes one, and I missed!)

Once we have the mosquitoes under control, it’s dinner time. Barry and I alternate cooking for 6 days. On his days, we eat things that have about 5 ingredients, involve plenty of cheese, and get rave reviews. On my days, we eat things that have about 20 ingredients, involve lots of vegetables, and get lukewarm reviews. On the 7th day, we rest (we got the idea from God). Then Brian steps in. So far, he hasn’t cooked anything other than brownies, but we’re not complaining. With his brownies and his ability to order pizzas, he has our two favorite food groups covered (sugar and grease!).

When the meal is served, we sit around holding our plates in our laps. I scoff my food in about 3 seconds because I don’t have any place to set my fork down between bites. Building a table is on the list of boat chores, but it’s down near the bottom, with other things that might be nice but don’t get me any closer to a bikini in the tropics.

Months ago, I ran unsuccessful Internet searches for a mounting bracket for the TV. When we arrived here, it still sat on the settee, propped against the cushions. One day, while Brian was driving all over New Orleans looking for a piece of aluminum to mount it with, Barry was poking in the weeds behind the boat (he obviously doesn’t have enough to do). When Brian returned, dejected and unsuccessful, Barry jubilantly told him he’d found a whole pile of discarded aluminum road signs. Some poor Louisiana road may be missing its truck load limit, but our TV is mounted now.

That was an aside…the point is, after we eat our dinner, we all fight over the best chair (with the flat screen, there are two OK seats and one really good one that Barry often hogs) to watch one of Brian’s large collection of movies on DVD. Some of the more memorable were Hook (popcorn), Pelican Brief (homemade egg nog), and Shakespeare in Love (brownies). The movies were good, too.

And then it’s 9 pm: Time for e-mail and website updates like this one!

The word Brian has been trying to remember was “muffaletta,” which, according to Brian, sounds like “falafel.” They’re like huge grilled paninis, filled with meat and cheese and olives and peppers. Nothing like a falafel, but not at all disappointing!

Barry and I also popped by the Cafe du Monde for 3 beignets to go this week. We took our little paper bag to a nearby park bench and opened it. Somewhere, amidst the half pound of powdered sugar in the sack, there were three warm rectangular French doughnuts. We made such a mess of ourselves with the powdered sugar that tourists passing by laughed out loud.

Last night, Brian took Cayenne’s dinghy and his generator over to Neil’s boat, in the West End. We tied the dink astern, where it puttered away, providing electricity for many watts of Christmas decorations strung all over the boat. A party of about ten people spent the evening tooling around the West End marinas and comparing ourselves (very favorably, of course) to the rest of the boats in the Christmas parade. Brian commented that it was the first time he’d had a chance to take the helm of a boat (not counting the dinghy) since he came down to New Orleans!

While running errands (something I do a fair amount of, but not as much as Brian), I came up with some ideas for “Top Ten” lists. Here are the completed lists, generated with much assistance from the guys…

Top Ten Reasons Not to Work on a Boat in New Orleans
1. No open container laws and not a good beer within 2000 miles
2. Fire ants, mosquitoes, roaches, fleas, alligators (did we forget any?)
3. Signs on the termite tents: Do Not Approach Closer than 100 Yards (in 6-point type)
4. New Orleans potholes: Almost as bad as New Orleans drivers
5. Rain measured in inches per hour and a 5-acre puddle named Lake Seabrook
6. Our neighbor, the classic Chris Craft with the flyaway flybridge
7. $3000 profit margin on boatyard utility stands, if you hit one by accident
8. Our scenic gypsum factory across the waterway, who’s never known a bearing worth oiling
9. The Pot o’ Gold on Monday
10. Weekly news updates on Sheriff Lee’s gastric bypass surgery
11. Seabrook’s boatyard pool to see which boat will fall over next

Top Ten Reasons to Work on a Boat in New Orleans, Louisiana
1. Drive-through daquiri windows and no open container laws
2. The Chicken Box: More Cluck for Your Buck
3. Humor and entertainment provided by Determination Fiascoes Unlimited
4. Most scenic boat stuff store: Sea “Chest”
5. Watching the local news to see which elected official was indicted today
6. Free Internet access at the sail loft, if you spend over $10,000 on sails and don’t mind sitting on the floor
7. The Pot o’ Gold on Tuesday (after its weekly cleaning)
8. You Can’t Beat Wagner’s Meat
9. What EPA?

Each evening, when dusk and the mosquitoes arrive, we put away our tools. Some go in the van, some go in the boat, whichever is closer. Well, yesterday morning, Brian took the van and, accidentally, all the sandpaper, to run errands. Barry and I looked at each other, at first dismayed, then gleeful. Then we jumped in Peepcar and headed to the French Market for a little shopping and sightseeing.

We�ve been here over a month, and this was the first time we�d been in the French Quarter (pronounced “De French Kwattuh”). We found free parking at the flea market end of the market and wandered, looking. At first, I thought it was like our own dear Pike Place Market, but only the fact that it�s an open air market with daily sellers. New Orleans has an anti-authority culture where anything goes. The same is not true of the Pike Place Market, where the balance of produce, flowers, and crafts is carefully governed and discussed by the general populace.

We found lots of fun and interesting junk, like alligator hides and purses with Marilyn Monroe silkscreened on them. A couple of live jazz bands playing for tips. Deep souvenir shops full of voodoo dolls and offensive t-shirts (one apron read, “Will cook for sex.”) Cafes with beignets and muffeletas and chicory coffee. Very little produce, and no flowers at all.

But there were a few oval-shaped squash, sized like avocadoes, but smooth and light green. Some grocery stores label them “mirlitons,” and some label them “merlitons,” and in fine print, the boxes say “chayote.” A week before Thanksgiving, the stores started selling big piles of the things. As Thanksgiving got closer, the piles got higher and the prices dropped lower. New Orleaneans must eat a heck of a lot of these things with their turkey! So I asked a fellow shopper in the grocery store, and she told me they’re baked until they’re soft (losing much of their volume in the process), then the flesh is scooped out and mixed with chopped meat and bread crumbs to make stuffing. I didn’t tell her that here on Cayenne, we peel ‘em and eat ‘em raw in salads. That might label us (accurately) as foreigners ’round here.