Because It Has to Be Told

When people hear I went to school in New Orleans, the words “mardi gras” usually follow not too far behind. And I can understand why – boobs and beer and parades and debauchery must seem exciting to most people. And, while I value Mardi Gras as a significant part of New Orleans culture, it was never really my scene. My BFFL A-Payne always LOVED Mardi Gras in a way that I never did- making sure not to miss a SINGLE PARADE and going so far as to know the names, the celebrities and the good parade spots. I went along for the ride, as long as there was beer involved, which is not a Mardi Gras exclusive policy, but a good one none-the-less.

My favorite Mardi Gras story, however, happened not at a parade. It happened on the way to one. The sheer thought of it makes me laugh out loud and want to cuddle with Anna and then take a shower. And now, I am immortalizing it.

The Mardi Gras of 2006 was the first after Katrina and also, in my opinion, the best we have ever had. The energy in New Orleans was electric and hopeful and we were all so happy to be back with our friends and school.

On the Thursday before Fat Tuesday, five of us (Anna, Tia, Emilia and Cameron) piled into my car and headed down Freret Street to find a good parking spot on the parade route. Anna, my trusted confidant, was at the wheel (likely because I was already drunk or working on it). As we got closer to the parade route traffic picked up and we crawled through the streets- looking for a place to park.

We drive around for a while in unbearable traffic until finally, Anna sees it- the perfect spot. As she maneuvers the car to best park, impatient drivers behind her start to honk. Frustrated and vindicated, she spins the wheel around, pumps her fist in the air and yells to no one in particular “honk now, bitches!” and drives my car triumphantly into the spot. We all get out, get our Mardi Gras accoutrement, and walk to the parade route to enjoy it. We catch a lot of beads and cups and at one point, a man reaches down from a float, pulls Anna up onto it and she rides the rest of the parade on the top float like the Princess of New Orleans, waving to her minions below.

Well, that’s the way it would have happened. Except, instead of a parking spot, Anna parked my car in a suspiciously dark and smooth pile of sand dug into the ground. And well, if you have never driven your car into a sandbox, you might not know that it looks something like this:




(In Anna’s defense- although that is CLEARLY sand in that picture, it was getting dark and totally looked like a spot. I may or may not have had beer goggles on, but that’s beside the point.)

So, there we are. All five of us in my car. Involuntarily leaning forward into a sand pit. Wondering WTF happened and trying to strategize.

“What did we just drive the car into?”
“….Sand….? ….Dirt…..?”
“Should we get out?”
“…I guess…”

Having assessed the situation, we did what we thought the logical thing to do would be. Anna stayed behind the wheel and turned the car back on and the rest of us came around the front to push it out. Since the back was conveniently still out on the pavement, blocking traffic, we logically assumed that it would be relatively easy to push the car back up onto the pavement. Kind of hilarious, but not a big deal and would make a great story when we saw all of our friends later.

For those of you who HAVE driven your car into a sandbox before (or have a 5th grade understanding of physics), you are shaking your head at me in bemused disapproval. You are letting out a haughty laugh at our amateur mistake. “Fools!” you are saying. And you are right.

For those of you who haven’t, let me impart a life lesson onto you. For tires to effectively move a vehicle or bike or gyro cart, they need to have traction. And, interestingly, since sand does not provide that traction what happens when you push the gas and the tires spin is akin to spinning tires into a huge puddle of water- sand flies everywhere. And, since sand is flying out from under your tire, what its effectively doing is digging a hole. Making your car go even deeper into the sand.

Having seen after only a few tries (we were hopeful! Don’t judge us!) that this was NOT going to work, we came up with a new plan- call Tripple A. And so I did. Which was infuriating for more than one reason, but the most being that since it was Mardi Gras, after I spent 20 minutes on the phone going through the hideously tedious prerequisites of even getting them to call a towing company, they gave me a time estimate of 12 hours before they would get there.

“Should we just go to the parade and come back in the morning?” Anna asked, hopefully.

Most people who read this blog have seen me in a crisis situation. I don’t know if it is adrenaline or my redheaded temper, but something FIERCE comes out in me in the face of adverse situations and long waits. I was not waiting for 12 hours by my car. I WAIT FOR NO ONE. And I sure as HELL was not going to leave my car half way in a sand ditch, half sticking out into traffic in a bad part of New Orleans. I am no mechanic, but I was pretty certain that someone with some more know-how than me could get that puppy out in a second and sell it for parts or just cut off the back half so people could get through. I wasn’t going to risk either one.

So I do what any logical person would do- I get on my hands and knees in Katrina dirt and start digging. Cameron leaves to go find a wooden plank and a chain somewhere (it’s a bad part of New Orleans, which made that a surprisingly un-difficult task). Tia is digging with me. Emilia sits in the car and directs strategy (texts). Anna takes pictures:




The plan was disastrous, at best. Again, a lesson in physics- when you dig sand out of a hole, more sand just comes in and takes its place. And well, this plan didn’t really help with the whole “traction” issue. Because there was no way to get under the tire far enough to make the wooden plank effective. And, while I can’t prove anything, I am pretty sure something in that dirt is festering inside me to this day.

Just for good measure:


(Notice the T.J. Quills cup that was fashioned into a shovel. I just happened to have a few of those bad boys in my backseat. What a happy coincidence!)

Eventually, some guy comes by in a huge pick-up truck and tows us out. We go home and shower and head out for a night of drinking. Tripple A calls me to confirm a pickup time the next day at 2 p.m. (!) and I politely tell them to please go fuck themselves. But it remains one of my best New Orleans memories to this day.