Did anything unexpected ever happen that you could never forget? Well there were many memorable things that happened on a trip through the South and Southwest in 2001-02, but one thing stood out above the rest. I found out about two weeks before the end of 2001 that I and my sister with her husband had planned independently to spend New Years Eve in New Orleans. So she helped me to find a room in a grand old bed & breakfast in the Garden District.
I had a road atlas open as I approached the "Big Easy" on I-10 but had no idea of where to get off. For all I could tell at night I could have been in Los Angeles or Houston. I generally have a good sense of direction so just chose an exit when I felt somehow vaguely in the vicinity of downtown -- it turned out to be for St. Charles Ave., just a block north of Prytania where the guest house was. Check-in is a quiet, informal, languid affair where you are made to feel welcome, become acquainted with the staff as they drift about, are informed of the few simple rules and the various accommodations including the breakfast room, and where the nearest laundry and the neighborhood pub are. I took in the charm of the slightly tatty but still splendid, sprawling catacombs, found my room along one of the narrow hallways upstairs, admired the quaintness of the old furnishings and fixtures, laid my things on the dresser and the floor and headed straight for the French Quarter.
When you first see Bourbon St. it knocks your eyes out with its garish display of lights and color on the beautiful building fronts. Though after walking for a couple of hours through this perpetual carnival, the glamour of the facade wears thin, and you understand that as marvelous as it all is, this place is "excess to the (excess) power."
Ginger and John had secured a tidy little apartment with a bedroom loft in a building in the Warehouse District on Baronne St. that was divided into studios for artists and apartments for short term rental. Among their neighbors were a couple who had eloped from Florida and were planning a small ceremony the next afternoon. When I met them I chatted with the groom and at some point offered my opinion that this marriage business was pretty serious stuff. "I've thought a good bit about what it implies: finality, candor, mutual devotion, the covenant with the infinite," and asked if he'd thought about these things. And the bride interrupted to ask good-naturedly if there wasn't something else that I needed to be doing. I took the hint with a smile and excused myself. Later at a few shops in the French Quarter I bought quite an assortment of Mardi Gras necklaces -- some to toss on the next evening and some to keep. My favorite among them was one with a pendant of a woman's torso with flashing red nipples: there was a certain magic in the tawdriness of it.
The next day I came to the apartment about an hour before the wedding. John was dressing and my sister poured us glasses of some pinot noir. Presently there was a knock at the outside door -- the bride with a glass of red wine in hand inviting us to come over for a little pre-wedding socializing. So we walked over and there was quite a nice spread of dishes of food and bottles of wine. They had retained the services of a part-time minister, a most genial and kind fellow. The bride handed me a camera and appointed me as the photographer. I spent a few minutes becoming familiar with the basic features and took a few shots of folks around the room. When it was time for the ceremony I waited till the last moment and took a shot of the couple, unable to resist the soft jibe, "Last moment of freedom!"
With a grimace the bride exclaimed, "You're terrible!" . . . I tried to be as discreet as I could while maneuvering for the best angles for shots. Of course I didn't get to see the results, but I think it was a pretty good record of the ceremony. I took a few shots immediately afterward to capture the blush of the moment, then laid down the camera and broke away to get a roll of black tape in the electrical tackle box in my car. I cut a few strips and overlapped them to make a patch a couple of inches wide, then went back upstairs to give my congratulations to the couple. I put the tape patch over my mouth and turned to greet them and mouthed the words in muffled tones: "Congratulations and I wish you many years together and much happiness." And they got a good kick out of it. I had brought my whole collection of Mardi Gras necklaces in a grocery bag and offered the bride any that she wanted. She chose just a single strand of silver dice. I had reserved my favorite one for the groom and offered it to him and said he could have that and any others that he wanted, and he stayed firmly with that one. And wore it saucily with nipples flashing for the rest of the evening.
I had also bought three boxes of cigars from The Cigar Factory downtown where you could watch the skilled rollers at work at the wide wooden tables: one with light Connecticut wrappers; one with Cameroon; and one of maduros (dark). I took two of each and put them in a zip-lock bag and gave them to the groom. And offered some to the bride, who however declined. (I still have two of each that I am aging for a friend and will give him soon along with about 20 others.) The photos that I have attached were taken with my little Olympic Stylus Epic and not with the camera used to record the wedding.
That night I wore a half dozen of the necklaces and took a bag of those for tossing. As the sun went down, Bourbon St. was teeming with revelers. I met my sister and John at the Funky Pirate to hear a blues band perform. The lead singer "Big Al" was great but I swear he must have weighed nearly a third of a ton! After the show we walked together for a while, but there was such a throng that it was an effort to stay together. And after a while I just allowed us to drift apart and mingled with the crowd. Which was so dense that at one point there was a pressure wave where we were carried along with no control. People were generally calm about it. I cautioned folks to just try and stay on their feet and was ready to grab anyone who should fall. After a few minutes I was carried to the edge and got out of it.
There was no shortage of young women flashing their breasts on the balconies, usually in clusters of two or three. You could see that they had worked up the nerve together and were busily soliciting the crowd below for trinkets. And each time they performed their little peep show they were rewarded with a shower of camera flashes and more strings of beads. One buxom redheaded woman on the balcony of the Tropical Isle showed her mettle by playing the part to the hilt, haggling with the crowd for choice beads like a roulette dealer. And when she had collected enough to make it worth her while she would bare her breasts and soar regally over the balcony railing like a living ship's figurehead to the cheers and worship of the revelers below.
