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New Orleans Puts On Mask for Mardi Gras
A jazz band takes part in Mardi Gras festivities.
(By Sean Gardner -- Reuters)
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But the deeper trouble was a lack of riders. Usually, about 250 board the floats. This year, only about 150 did. Some regulars have left New Orleans and couldn't or wouldn't come back. Others simply couldn't afford to pay the $1,500 that members were asked to come up with to ride this year.
"It's a little bit difficult when someone had the means to ride last year and this year they don't," said Gerard Braud, one of the krewe. "They don't want to talk about it."
He said the krewe decided to carry on. "We're laughing our way through it."
Street musician Peter C. Bennett said, "The spirit is the same, it's just on a lot smaller scale." Then he returned to his glass harmonica, filling Jackson Square with the sweet tones of "Stairway to Heaven."
"Everything's quieter," said Roy Blount Jr., who was in Faulkner House Books in Pirates Alley signing a few copies of "Feet on the Street: Rambles Around New Orleans" that was published last year. "There is a togetherness coming out of the storm. People seem connected."
He thought for a moment, "Except when they are . . . ." The only word he can find: "Disconnected."
Owen "Pip" Brennan Jr., one of the owners of the famed French Quarter restaurant in the family name, is the captain of the Bacchus Krewe. He lost his home in the Lakeview neighborhood. Two of his sons lost homes as well. The restaurant is still closed. But he and many others decided to celebrate Mardi Gras this year, as usual -- or as close to usual as possible.
"The overall majority of feeling was we had to do Mardi Gras to let the world know that, 'Yes, we're on our knees -- but we're not dead and buried,' " Brennan said.
A group of women drinking at a French Quarter bar wore hazmat jumpsuits, gas masks and boots -- as well as the traditional Mardi Gras glitter and brightly colored wigs. Purple labels identified the group as the FEMA Fatales. Susan Kappelman said the women count themselves as fans of the beleaguered agency. "FEMA workers cleaned the city," she said. "People outside complain about them. But the people who were here realize what they've done."
For Malbrue, 50, the celebration is bittersweet. "By the time I get off from work," he said, "I am drained."
He tosses and turns many nights and can't sleep. He has been living on the Ecstasy, a cruise ship in the harbor. His family is living in Nashville, and his 12-year-old son is not sure he wants to come back home.
