Before Mardi Gras day arrived, we had seen five parades, experienced Bourbon Street, and even eaten a bit of king cake. But that wasn’t enough for me and Barry, so with some local tips on where to go and what to do, we threw ourselves headlong into Mardi Gras itself.

At seven am., we were already heading out for Zulu, the traditional black parade. They had much more energy, more spunk, than the rest of the parades. There were fewer “throws,” so the crowd went crazy over silly things like plastic cigars from the “Big Shot” float. The most prized item is a hand-painted coconut, which brings good luck to the recipient. We saw a number of them carefully handed from the floats, never thrown. And the costumes were by far the best, from grass skirts to elaborate feathered headpieces, and everyone in blackface.

Now that it was Mardi Gras day, the costumes were out on the street, not just in the parades. Two men shambled down the street wearing huge piles of Spanish Moss. A girl in a candy-striper’s uniform with bubble-gum pink hair took photos with an expensive camera. The Jefferson City Buzzards, the city’s oldest walking club, meandered along the parade route in elegant costumes, exchanging paper flowers for kisses (I got one of those!). The mayor was even wearing a top hat when he rode by on horseback.

In the black neighborhood where we parked, there were barbecues on every block. Not in the backyards, but in the front yards, right out on the sidewalk. Some had even set up in the grass strip in the middle of the street — tables, smokers, coolers, and all.

Walking into the French Quarter, we ran across some Indian “tribes” on their way to the meeting place. There’s an informal competition to see who can come up with the most elaborate beaded and feathered costume for their “chief.” So the tribes marched along under the freeway, chanting and drumming in street clothes, with one person carrying the headpiece, one carrying the armpieces, one carrying the breastplate, one bearing the standard. The chiefs themselves looked tired just from walking around in the leggings.

The costumes and spontaneous parades in the French Quarter were overwhelming. One parade was led by a woman in a wheelchair named “Queen Colleen.” Another was called the “Krewe of Woo-Hoo.” Another one went by with a brass band playing “When the Saints Come Marching In.” There were outrageous costumes, like men wearing nothing but beads and underwear, or two gay men dressed up in tuxedoes with wedding veils. But there were also courtesans in 17th-century gowns. Everyone wearing a costume encouraged photos, and there were plenty of topless women who wanted their pictures taken, too.

The scene on Bourbon Street was beyond insane. Every 2nd story balcony was packed, and the flashing went on both above and below. Also above and below the waist! Signs read, “Huge Ass Beers to Go” and “Jesus Saves.” Besides the Christians and the police, I think we were the only sober people there.

We wandered down to the riverfront, a bit of peace and quiet next to the French Quarter. A fellow with a trumpet serenaded us; we could barely see him in the thick fog. After a bit of respite, we caught our breath and dove back into the madness. But as afternoon faded into evening, the parades ended, the really good costumes went home, and the scene was dominated by the reek of alcohol and trash and the sight of bare flesh and trampled beads. We didn’t stay for the traditional midnight clearing of the Quarter by police on horseback, but headed back to the boat to have a drink and celebrate our safe return.

“Take a look at this, guys,” I said one afternoon, a couple of weeks ago. “The Gambit Weekly has previews of all the Mardi Gras Parades.” Each entry included a map of the route with a list that included the theme, king, queen, number of floats, and an item called “throws.”

I started reading the entries out loud, avoiding the “family-friendly” ones and selecting the more outrageous ones to entertain my two male companions. “We could do this one, Cleopatra. All the women on the floats are female,” I announced with a grin.

Brian perked right up. “I’m there!” he said. And just like that, we were off to our first parade.

Well, maybe not just like that. We decided to take Peepcar, in case parking was a problem. With a car that small, you know you can always pick up the front end and scoot it into the space. First, we had to contend with hideous traffic and bad New Orleans drivers. Pouring rain, dark, wet pavement, lame windshield wipers. We got a little lost near the parade route, so we stopped at a MacDonald’s for directions. The employees were all busy, but there were a few kids hanging around. An ebony-colored 7-foot tall giant with 1/4-inch diamond stud earrings told me the best place to watch the parade was in front of Wal-Mart. I was trying not to stare at his gold bicuspids.

Back at Peepcar, we folded Barry up and stuffed him into the back seat again. But a block later, another stop beckoned. Since Louisiana doesn’t have any open container laws, New Orleans is full of daquiri shops, many of them drive-ins. We walked into a cross between a Wendy’s and a bar. Behind the counter was a whole row of alcoholic slushy machines, with labels like “Hypnotic Chill” and “Hi-Octane.” The three girls ahead of us looked to be about 17, but they all walked out with 24-oz larges.

I tried asking the lady behind the counter (in a place like that, is her job title “bartender,” or “slushy barrista?”) to describe some of the flavors. She just shook her head, “I’ll give y’all a taste. I don’t want to sell you nothin’ without you tastin’ it.” What was she thinking? If I tasted all 16 flavors, I’d be in no shape to continue driving! As it was, I had to overcome twenty-plus years of conditioning just to get into a car with three open containers, my medium-sized amaretto-pineapple safe in the passenger’s hand.

A few blocks later, it was apparent that we were on the parade route by the cars and mobile toilets parked by the side of the road. We parked at Wal-Mart and sat in the car for a while, steaming up the windows in the rain and making inroads on our daquiris. By the time the parade started, we hardly noticed the drizzle, we were so warm inside. The downside was that Brian kept having to leave the parade to find a bathroom.

At first, there were just marching bands and junior ROTC groups. Standard parade fare that we’ve seen in other cities. But then came indications that we weren’t in Kansas any more.

First, there was the queen herself. She sat on a throne in full regalia, about 10 feet up, in front of (not under!) a decorative canopy. The rain poured over the canopy and onto her miserable head, and the poor thing shook and shivered with possible hypothermia. If she spent thousands of dollars and many months having her costume created, she was certainly regretting it now.

And then there were the floats. The rain was nothing compared to the beads that showered down upon us. Metallic, shiny beads in green, gold, and purple. Huge strands of fake pearls that hung down to our knees. Red, blue, pink beads, some shaped like dice or hearts. Translucent chokers in yellow, green, blue, and pink. We smiled and waved at the nice ladies, and they buried us in beads. Every one we caught, plus some we picked up from the street, we put around our necks.

And still came more beads, children’s toys, and baggies of peanuts. Brian caught the eye of several of the ladies, who elected to give him special gifts. One handed him a purple-and-red stuffed pig. Another waved him over to give him a 5-foot-long snake in green and gold with a purple mouth. I caught a purple hippo and a plastic scepter. One of the strangest items was the Sheriff Harry Lee refrigerator magnet — he’d recently had a gastric bypass operation, and the magnet showed a normal-sized version of him wearing hugely oversized pants.

When the parade was finally over, you could hardly see our raincoats under all the beads. If we stooped to pick up another strand from the street, there was a risk that all the weight would simply topple us over. It was impossible to get into the car with them on, and all three of us struggled mightily to get them off. Fortunately, one of the best throws was a large zipper-topped Mardi Gras bag, into which we piled them all. When we returned home, I couldn’t resist weighing them — 21 pounds of beads and toys. Ain’t it wonderful what Mardi Gras does for the Chinese economy?

Living in New Orleans is like living in a foreign country. They even have a huge holiday that the rest of the U.S. doesn’t recognize: Mardi Gras, when all the businesses are closed and the city becomes one big party. We hadn’t planned to participate, but how could we not? Since last week, we’ve seen five parades, had beads thrown to us in the French Quarter, and seen flashers in Bourbon Street. Who knows what will happen tomorrow, on Mardi Gras day itself?

To get you in the mood, here is a little photo essay of our Mardi Gras experience so far. Check it out!

What a haul! Our first parade, Cleopatra, was a bit disappointing, but the “throws” were great! We came home with 21 pounds of beads, 5 plastic cups, a purple pig, and a 5-foot snake.

After taking our photo (above) New Orleans’ finest posed willingly (with Brian’s snake) on the other side of the camera.

Our next parade was Babylon. We parked ourselves across the street from the Pearl (the site of Margaret’s Dad’s first beer) and settled in for the real thing. Unlike Seattle parades, they do not have pooper-scoopers after the horses.

The King of Babylon. Pretty cute, and a lot happier than the Queen of Cleopatra. But then, it wasn’t raining on his many-thousand-dollar costume.

Babylon bead-throwers. I think somebody was flashing, because the guy in the middle is shaking his finger and going “no-no!”

The Chaos parade had more royalty, more horses, more bands, and funnier floats.

On Sunday, we wandered through the French Quarter. Bourbon Street was overflowing with people these guys could toss beads to, including plenty of flashers.

The biggest parade, on Sunday night, was led by Bacchus, also known as Elijah Wood or Frodo. He was having a total blast, like any 20-something kid, throwing beads and making eye contact with people.

As you can see from the hands, everyone in the crowd went crazy over the chance to get beads, cheap plastic cups, and the occasional stuffed toy or rubber chicken.

The Bacchagator was one of the crowd’s favorites. This was built on two flatbed trailers, so it was almost half a block long.

St. Augustine’s high school and their rival went head-to-head in a sort of “battle of the bands” on Canal Street. This student’s whole family went nuts, including his father and uncle, both alumni.

By 10:30, some of the junior high marchers were getting a little tired.

But we were still having a blast!

On the way home, we took in some lovely Mardi Gras decorations and stopped for a midnight chat with a New Orleans native. Stay tuned for more after Tuesday!