Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #161


Mardi Gras in the French Quarter of New Orleans, the morning after. Some would call it “Ash Wednesday”, but there was no one awake to make that call. (The two people you can see don’t count. They have been wandering the streets all night in search of their hotel, and right now they couldn’t even tell you what their name is…)



Note: This is part of an on-going experiment at Bonnywood. Details found here.


26 replies »

  1. Ah, the fabulous French Quarter at daybreak; Abandoned beads strung on balconies, bras hanging on street signs; So many will regret their flash of bravado in the painful agony and regret of the appalling hangover that is brought on when waking up/throwing up the morning after. Ah well, c’est la vie. When on Bourbon Street…

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    • Perfect synopsis, with a considerable amount of regret and divorce-contemplations occurring that morning after. But truth be told, if you really want to experience the true New Orleans culture, you stay the hell away from Bourbon Street. Trust, I know of which I speak, and my bar tabs will testify to such… 😉

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  2. It was really quiet considering how crowded and noisy the previous night was. Wish I could be there–I mean for the previous night. I read articles and watched clips, but still the real thing will be so much better.

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  3. The new plan to offer free drinks in exchange for bags of collected rubbish after the parade seemed to work well. As did the unsubstantiated rumor of a 5 million dollar cash prize for finding “special” beads. Various destinations of these beads circulated throughout the night.

    Amazingly, even the vomit and blood had been cleaned by daybreak. The government plans to deny all rumors and blame fake news, then start rumors in December for next year’s festivities.

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    • Actually, this is a very apt analysis of the goings-on. Things get crazy, poor choices are made, somebody talks about a prize for doing questionable things, and everybody rushes off to do the questionable thing without thinking too much about the possible fallout. And the food is excellent, no matter which restaurant you pick. It’s all good, mon amie…

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  4. Brian shares a rather melancholy look at one of the streets in N’Awlins the night after Mardi Gras.  So I took it a step further (which might have been imprudent.  Who can improve on perfection?  Which we all know is what Brian serves up every time).

    The tumbleweed blew moodily down the empty street.  A faint whiff of broken dreams, regret and rancid BBQ that had apparently ‘turned’  because it was hot in N’Awlins y’all and the prudent cook didn’t leave food just lying around, but the owner of said BBQ was never prudent; followed the moody tumbleweed on its possibly inebriated course.   

    This was Mardi Gras in the time of Covid. 

    The fading memories of crowds of drunken college youth, bare breasts, some of which should have remained housed, those cheap, cutesy bead necklaces raining like confetti from the balconies; and plentiful gouts of beer, po’ boys and jazz; the memories clung hopefully to the dusty hotels, which sported no one stirring, not even a mouse!   The tumbleweed sighed and shifted its trajectory towards the French Quarter.  Maybe something was happening over there…it only hoped it wasn’t a hurricane.

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    • Ah, more deliciousness from yours truly. And please, always take it a step further. I’m fully aware that I don’t always hit it out of the park, so it’s nice to know that you are out there, capable and willing to step in for some pinch-hitting. On top of that, I’ve always loved the imagery of tumbleweeds blowing hither and yon, reflecting and such, an image that I have overused far too often even though I never tire of doing so.

      Now, let’s focus on the food, because I’m always focused on such, wherever I am. The cuisine in N’Awlins is exquisite, everywhere you go. The last time we were there, at the end of our stay, we ran across this hole-in-the-wall deli around the corner from our hotel. I’m sure every known health-regulation was being violated at that establishment, because it just had that shady atmosphere that you can sense, but we took a chance because the delicious aromas were enticing and we were too tired to find a more-respectable establishment. We ordered all kinds of whatnots and we dragged them back to our hotel, wherein we had a feast whilst all of us were lounging around in our underwear (these things happen in NOLA). Everything was so delicious that I had to slap myself, even though we could have easily died from botulism. And therein lies the happenstance and craziness of Sin City…

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