The Surreal Life

I’ve heard enough crazy anecdotes about the singularly incomparable experience of living in New Orleans to be prepared for anything … or so I thought. I love the fact that I never cease to feel any combination of emotions –– shocked, pleasantly surprised, awestruck, sometimes a little offended, overjoyed –– by the goings-on in this time capsule alternate universe of a city. (Let me clarify that I’m rarely, if ever, offended by people’s behavior and lust for life; I am, however, sometimes offended at the more closed-minded neighbors I’ve encountered.)

As if I needed more reason to fall incandescently and irrevocably in love with New Orleans, the city made sure to deliver a dozen roses to my doorstep this weekend in the form of an impromptu street parade outside of my house. I was in the midst of an unnecessarily lazy day –– really taking the charms of the city for granted –– when I heard what could only be described as a ruckus outside.

I brought myself to pause Top Chef: Just Desserts or whatever I was watching and venture out to my front yard. There were hundreds of people marching (“strutting,” I think, would be a better word. Or “sauntering”? “Sashaying”?) down South Claiborne Avenue to the tunes of brass bands, stereos blasting and general cheering all around. There were Mardi Gras Indians leading the way, what looked like a queen in a ball gown waving from the back of a convertible and a few mini-floats being pulled behind trucks. My roommates and I immediately ran out in our pajamas, watching the goings-on and wishing we had the chutzpah to ditch the slippers and join the fun. (A dance party in the yard had to suffice.)

When it was over, we made our way back inside, still laughing and staring at each other in awe. My roommate Sara summed it up pretty well: “Only in New Orleans.”

None of us bothered to research what exactly the parade was celebrating. (A friend’s mom worriedly claimed it was a dangerous “turf war parade,” though we assumed that the presence of police car escorts and ball gowns rendered it pretty innocuous.) We didn’t really care about the cause; we just appreciated the highlight of our weekend –– sort of a wink from the city itself, an inside joke that only New Orleanians get to be in on. You never know whom you’ll befriend. You never know when a lazy Sunday will turn into a party. You never know when you’ll have one of those moments where you have to stop and look around in disbelief and euphoria: “I live here.” Only in New Orleans.
 

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