"I'm not sure, but I think all music came from New Orleans."--Ernie K-Doe
"The truth is New Orleans appears to me to be at the extreme of everything--changes take place here with almost the rapidity of thought. Today rich, tomorrow poor, today well, tomorrow dead, today hot, tomorrow cold, today dry, tomorrow wet. ..."--Bishop Henry B. Whipple, Southern Diary, 1843-44
by Tatyana Meshcheryakova
This site's editor--my friend, Gretchen--had asked me to write a short piece about New Orleans, where I've lived, on and off, since 2003. That was around the last Mardi Gras, and while I had a thousand thoughts on Mardi Gras in New Orleans, I was so busy watching parades with my four-year-old, attending a string of parties Uptown on the parade routes, and making my costume for Mardi Gras Day (a group of us were the Snoozy Boozy Floosies, complete with merkins) that I didn't get a chance to sit down and write anything.
Then, with the Mardi Gras 2009 season ending at midnight on February 24, came the first weekend of Lent. With it came a second-line at Miz Antoinette K-Doe's funeral, a crawfish boil, and two porch parties. So, especially after a weekend like that, writing this lil' love letter to New Orleans was easy, as I was reminded yet again that I live in one of the best cities in the world.
It took me only 30 years to find my "perfect" city. From growing up in Kiev to prowling the streets of Sofia, Prague, Berlin, Venice, and many other cities--ancient and undisputedly great--I was always on the lookout for the place I could claim as a permanent home. New Orleans was the one for me. I loved its tropicalness, its liberal attitude, its lush decadence, its third-world feel, its unique and unabashed un-Americanness.
"... bass and brush drums -
I know that that's what heaven is
--a big What Was Stray
is Found now ...
'that's my guy!' or girl
or bird or dog or
merrily actually
y'all come"--Brett Evans, "Slosh Models," 2009
Granted, this ain't an Anne Rice novel in all its Southern quirkiness here--at least not every day. As my friend Janine frequently warns the enchanted visitors who like to wander the streets in the French Quarter, gazing at the Creole cottages, and the wrought-iron balconies, it's not all magnolias and azaleas. The crime rate here is appalling, and even with my cynical former-USSR upbringing, I am constantly shocked by the scale and the shamelessness of the local corruption.
However, where else could I file out of a bar at 10:00 a.m. in a stained slip, and not be judged? Attend a second line, a crawfish boil, and a voodoo ceremony, all in a single day? Have my own parade, literally, with a dozen of my closest friends as its founding krewe members? Catch a glimpse of what my poet friend Brett Evans called the "occasional courtyard fragments" on my way to work (and gasp in awe)? No other city could take my breath away on a Monday at 8:00 a.m., that's for sure.
I love the swans in City Park, and the turtles, and the nutria frolicking in Bayou St. John. I love it how the locals are unimpressed with celebrity, and rarely ask me what it is I do for a living. Chances are, they're just as underemployed as I am.
I love it how the radio is continuously giving us music so gorgeous it makes my heart ache. How my four-year-old son can pronouce "Tchoupitoulas" and peel crawfish on his own. How the breeze is bringing the distant sound of the Rebirth Brass Band through the window as I write this.
With time, my love for this city has, if not matured, at least strengthened--to the point of ridiculousness, actually. I equal it to loving a gorgeous yet utterly dysfunctional coquette, who, when she is not falling off barstools in a tiara, chases you around the kitchen with a knife, and then serves you the best gumbo you've ever had. On a good day, your fascination outweighs contempt, and you're back, despite yourself, for yet more drama (and more gumbo).
"It has been determined
years ago that I will
never learn
The saints may never
prosper here so many
martyrs so many blessings
to never be rewarded
I will not believe this
because I am from Philadelphia."--Brett Evans and Frank Sherlock, "Ready-To-Eat Individual," 2008
I've had my heart broken by the three hurricane evacuations, have endured the ungodly heat of August, humiliating jobs, and the most devastating event of my life: seeing the city and the lives destroyed by a certain bitch named Katrina. Yet I am loyal, hopeful, and as ready as I can be this summer to, yet again, roll up the rugs, clean the fridge, cram the three traumatized cats and a preschooler into a Toyota, and head to Alabama or Mississippi or Texas, to watch CNN in some hotel room, and cry. We call it 'e-vacation,' and every time my family goes through it, I question everything and eat too much.
I am also ready to keep patiently explaining to friends, family and strangers why I just won't quit livin' in a city so sinkable, and to take them through the 101 of Katrina Recovery--"The French Quarter never flooded, and yes, much of the lower 9th Ward is still f&*ked up, but hey, we got Brad Pitt's attention."
I will also tirelessly defend Mardi Gras. We're not a college town! The tiny stretch of the several blocks of Bourbon Street--minus the Gayborhood on Bourbon--aren't representative of what really goes on during the Carnival. And if that's what most people who don't live here imagine when they think of the Carnival, well then, we'll just have to live with it, and educate them one at a time. Come next year; I will show you.
I have yet to convince any of my Russian friends living elsewhere in the U.S. to visit around the Carnival season. It's not just tits and beads and Hand Grenades! It's like a Fellini film; it's Kooks on Bikes in petticoats and wigs; and it's residential and child-friendly and random and lovely. I did convince my Mom last month to agree to come to the next Mardi Gras (Yeah, Mom, OK, it's like Brazil, but cheaper.) A tiny victory--which, incidentally, was our parade's theme this past Mardi Gras season. And--as any person hopelessly in love with a beautiful lush of a city--I'll take it, one Monday at a time.
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