Do You Know What It Means...

to miss New Orleans and miss it each night and day... (Louis Armstrong & Billie Holiday, 1947)

When PapaGus and I found out we were expecting, we were thrilled, but secretly I worried that our child would not be born and raised in my native city. How could childhood be joyful under these circumstances? No Mississippi River mud to wiggle his toes in, no Lake Pontchartrain crabs to fish out, no ancient, giant oak trees covered in Spanish moss to climb. What kind of childhood is that? Alas, somehow our son has managed to thrive despite this shortcoming. Yet, I still felt a need to expose my son, starting as young as possible, to as much of New Orleans' beauty as I could. And that I did for five glorious days recently. Did I mention those days happened to coincide with Mardi Gras? Yes, PapaGus, Gusi, my mom and I all drove to New Orleans so PapaGus and Gusi could enjoy a proper carnival--debauchery, plastic trinkets and all.

There were so many moments during those days that were great and some that were heart wrenching. Here are some snippets of how it went.

"Tissue paper's a laxative, right?"
PapaGus on our car ride to NOLA
We did start out early enough and with good weather. The car was stocked with food and drinks for adults and infants. The overall travel karma was good, or so I thought. Until, of course, Gusi started to get bored. I can't blame the child. Who likes being belted down for hours on end with only a finger's width of space between you and your chest straps? So, my mother (God bless her) was brave enough to sit in the back for the first leg of the journey. She tickled, she laughed, she even bought him toys, all to keep the child entertained. He did incredibly well, yet he did have his moments. And in those moments the whole car got tense. It was by mere chance that she remembered how much he loved waving around tissue papers. (I always keep a box of disposable tissues in my car and it has come in quite handy with the little one.) So, she started waving one around and then gave it to him. She would then move on to another item and when things got rough again, back to the box of disposable tissues. He does, of course, manage to eat little pieces here and there and our car ride was no different. How much he ate is any body's guess, but it did provoke quite a reaction. I thought that since Gusi hadn't pooped before leaving we might have to pull over at some point to change his diaper. Well, he did and we did and I thought that we were good to go until the evening. Midway through our trip my husband moved to the back seat with Gusi and my mom was up front with me. And another one of those points came up and his diaper was changed. Then when we stopped for lunch, again. And again and maybe even again. Maybe it was the excitement of finally going to NOLA--something I had been preparing him for for weeks--or maybe it was the tissues. We'll never know.

"I can't believe it's gone."
Me on Saturday as we drove around our old neighborhood.
The last time I was in NOLA was to celebrate my husband's birthday, just about two weeks before Hurricane Katrina hit. It was his first time to the Big Easy and he loved every minute of it. So when we saw all the devastating images in the weeks after, it became too much to handle. My mom had gone back and seen what the city and our community looked like but I hadn't. As I drove around I became incredibly sad. The first house I had ever lived in--the one that I went to when I came home from the hospital--was GONE. Mom said that it had been there last time she was in town, but it was most definitely gone now. It had been demolished and nothing was left in its place except a swimming pool that hadn't existed when we were living there. Somehow I had pictured taking Gusi as a young boy, knocking on the door of my old home and being met by a stranger who would let us in so I could show my son where I had grown up. I would take him to my old room and show him the door frame that used to have all the ticks and dates his grandmother had put to mark my height over the years. Or perhaps the window I would poke my head out of when I heard the ice cream truck coming down the street. Or maybe even the garage that I had convinced myself was home to the real Charlotte of Charlotte's Web and not just regular, ol' yucky spiders. Those dreams disappeared instantly. I knew that I wouldn't see the same house, but I never expected that it wouldn't be there at all.

"I'm sorry your house is gone"
PapaGus on Saturday
He may not have thought it was much to say, but it meant a lot.

"Do you want me to go look for daiquiris?"
PapaGus on several occasions over the weekend.
My husband is so wonderful. He knew that we were there to have fun, to contribute to the local economy and he would scavenge high and low to make sure I got my Happy Mardi Gras despite feeling overwhelmed by seeing the ruins left by Katrina.

"That's a sissy drink."
My mom talking about her friend's Gin fizz at Arnaud's Sunday Jazz Brunch.
We stayed with some friends who have known my mom since adolescence--hers, not mine. They are Tia (aunt) and Tio (uncle) in the Latino sense that anyone who's seen you in diapers and is still in touch with you is officially a relative. My Tia, who went to school with my mom, married a great guy who became my Tio and they had my Prima (cousin) who is studying at L.S.U. now. They put us up and put up with us, so the least we could do was treat them to a nice brunch. Unfortunately, my Tio had to stake out the family spot on the neutral ground Uptown where we were to catch the parades so he couldn't make it. (For those wondering what a neutral ground is, it's the grassy or cement strip in the middle of the road. The terms "median" and/or "island" are NEVER used in New Orleans.) So when the five of us arrived (my Prima was with her college friends) at Arnaud's, they asked us to wait at the bar while they prepared our table. We ordered some cocktails and then took our seats. My mom got an Irish coffee, PapaGus and I shared a bloody Mary and Tia got a Gin Fizz. She kept going on about how delicious it was and let us all try. It tasted a bit like foamy air to me, but I prefer a bloody Mary with my New Orleans jazz. PapaGus tried it and didn't say anything either. Then my mom tried it, and perhaps it was the Irish coffee talking, but she let her feelings be known.

"If our son likes girls in sequins and velvet, I'll know where it came from."
Me to PapaGus on Lundi Gras.
We saw so many parades and with parades come flambeaux, marching bands, baton girls, flag girls, dancing girls and a whole lot more. Most of the girls walk for miles along the parade route in these teeny, tiny outfits that are decorated with sequins. Nowadays many schools have changed the bodices from lycra to velvet. How warm can a velvet bathing suit be? That's about as much as their outfits cover. OK, maybe the long sleeves help some, but it can't be that much. In any case, Gusi was mesmerized by the girls and the marching bands. He couldn't take his eyes off of them.

"Does it look like I want more plastic?"
Me on Mardi Gras, our last day of carnival revelry
PapaGus wanted to see one last parade and he convinced my mom and I that Gusi also wanted to. So, for "the boys" we went ahead and marched back to our same hang out, saw our friends and saw most of Rex. We had already collected four garbage bags worth of throws but somehow PapaGus and Gusi felt it wasn't enough. By this point Gusi had learned how to stretch out his arm and shout when the floats went by; he screamed so much that he went hoarse during our stay. He can be happy that it paid off because we now have a house full of plastic beads, frisbees, stuffed animals of all sorts (including a little puppy thrown by Harry Connick, Jr. HIMSELF to our little Gusi) and even some doubloons.

It was the first of what will hopefully be many trips back to my slowly recovering home town. The good news is that Gusi is learning to love it just as much as I do and PapaGus already does. Perhaps Jazz Fest is the next pilgrimage?