St. Patrick's Day Parade, Part I

I watched a St. Patrick's Day parade last night in the company of old friends and new. Two girlfriends and I are in New Orleans for a long weekend of food, talk, lots of walking, and St. Patrick's Day. We're staying with two long-time residents, friends of my friend, fitting into their lives and schedules as if I'd known them for years as well.

We arrived at a small bar just off Bourbon Street, all dressed in kelly green, and mingled with the regulars standing on the street. New Orleans doesn't have open container laws like most places, and there were shamrock-shaped tabletops bolted to the tops of the old horse hitching posts in front of the bar.

There was A.S., a New Orleans cop who retired 13 years ago. He shared the story of arresting the mayor's girlfriend for failure to adhere to the laws about displaying merchandise on Bourbon Street. He was very proud that the chief of police backed him up and that law and order triumphed over political maneuverings on that occasion. He built the bar inside and the shamrock tabletops.

There was H., the subject of several posts on a friend's blog, an oil rig worker, bouncer at a goth bar, crack addict, and dog walker extraordinaire.

There was A.N., the woman wearing the exact same dress as me. "We can't stand anywhere near her," I whispered to my friends. Shortly after, I was sucked into the openness and friendliness that is New Orleans near St. Patrick's Day (and maybe year-round). "Nice dress," I told her. We started to bond over the good deal we'd both gotten on the dress, then "Angie!!" I hear from my friend. It turns out she's someone we'd been talking about at lunch, a friend of our hostess. We ended up having pictures taken together in our matching dresses.

We talked. We drank. Best of all, we people-watched.

My favorite moment was when a drunk woman leapt atop one of the hitching posts and then launched herself onto a light post, dangling for a moment and then dropping to watch her boyfriend's clumsy attempts to do the same in the fading light. We watched with bated breath, expecting disaster at any moment. "Nothing good happens after 2AM," stated the drunk girl next to us, also waiting for someone to get impaled. "What time is it?" 6:54PM, honey. Time for you to go home.

And time for us to go home too, almost. But not until after the parade. Horse-drawn carriages with revelers throwing beads, people in large green hats, musicians with brass instruments and drums, and more men in kilts than I'd ever seen handing out fake roses in exchange for a kiss on the cheek. We all collected beads without having to "pay" for them, then, tired and happy and finally understanding the appeal of New Orleans, we headed home.