It's A Sin

The essential difference between Mardi Gras in New Orleans and every other spring break destination is symbolized by a man who stands at the end of Bourbon Street. He has an enormous banner hanging on poles strapped to his chest and back, so that it waves over the steamy, shoving crowd of huge beers and bare breasts. It says: "God Hates Sin." The revelers generally agree, shrug, and then keep on trying to trade worthless plastic beads for a glimpse of flesh or a quick moment of tongue wrestling. Mardi Gras literally translates to "Fat Tuesday" but has come to mean the weeks of partying before Ash Wednesday begins the Lenten season of repentance. And while postTuesday repentance is, I suspect, in short supply, nobody does the partying better than the Crescent City. Mardi Gras in New Orleans implies fabulously ornate parades put on by secretive social clubs, an increase in the pitch of usuallyfeverish Bourbon Street, and the creation of a shortlived and unique economy summed up in the brilliant equation "beads for breasts." The degree of alcohol consumption, the abundance of nudity, and the aura of sex are shared by resorts in Cancun and Jamaica. But the sense of sin is pure New Orleans. City residents call the season "Carnival," and their experience is different from the tourist one — and generally closed to outsiders. New Orleans is a city of longstanding and baroque social hierarchy, with racial and class divisions that give Carnival a peculiar tension and moral edge. The cleavages are literally on parade for the week before Fat Tuesday, when segregated "krewes" organize everything from highschool bands to ornate floats. Outsiders can cheer, but can't come to the balls held afterward, and you won't see the fancydressed floatriders chugging Hurricanes on Bourbon Street. That's left for the college students, who stay with friends at Tulane and grandparents on the edge of town (public transportation is excellent and driving is a nightmare), or crash in hostels and overcrowded hotel rooms. About the only interaction between New Orleans society and the tourist crush during Mardi Gras is that the "krewes" originate the bizarre bead economy. Here's how it works: The people on the floats throw everything from plastic spears to stuffed animals into the crowd. But mostly, they throw necklaces of plastic beads. You and I fight over these beads — nothing about Mardi Gras speaks well for the human character — and take them to Bourbon Street, closed to traffic and absolutely packed, mostly with students, but with some decadents of all ages. (The gay end of the street is more mixed.) The old houses in the French Quarter now mostly hold bars and strip clubs, but they retain their old balconies. People who know someone who knows someone crowd the balconies — and they all have beads. For beads thrown up from the crowd, the women on the balconies will show their breasts. For beads thrown down from the balconies, the women in the crowd will show their breasts. For beads passed between the people in the crowd, the women will show their breasts, or give a kiss. But not just for any beads. As the night goes on, people's necks get heavy with dozens of tangled strands. (You can get them from the balconies with enough flirtatious exertion, even if you lack breasts.) The abundance of beads means that only the largest and prettiest hold any value, and strands with various charms and ornaments — plastic flowers and figurines, say — are worth the most. Now, there is some standard flirting and kissing going on in the street. And guys will sometimes be asked to show their stuff for beads. But the exchange is almost entirely oneway, and because the malefemale ratio on Bourbon Street is about seventoone, the energy is entirely womancentered. It's like the most explicit pickup bar imaginable, where every man is a John, almost every woman is a prostitute, and the coin of the realm will become entirely worthless at the stroke of midnight Tuesday. It's awful, sick, sexist, and wholly voluntary. If this sounds like hell, it is. And that's part of the fun. Outrageous things happen on spring break in other places, but rarely with the veneer of tradition, the intricate economy, or the amusement of police (they won't bother you if you don't fuck with them — but if you do, they'll hit you). Drinks are plentiful and cheap, particularly the mysterious but powerful Hurricane, and carding is almost nonexistent. But what will probably be even worse for your body is the plentiful, wonderful, and nontoohealthy New Orleans food, from raw oysters to overstuffed Po' Boys, a Creole sub sandwich. And if you're not into the scene? Well, Mardi Gras probably isn't the place for you. But there are things to do during your off moments (and you'll need 'em). A canoe trip through the swampy Bayou is a perfect way to unwind and maybe see an alligator or two. It's just a short drive North from the city. While you're up there, grab an alligator sausage and reverse the power dynamic. New Orleans' amazing music scene is in full swing during Mardi Gras as well. If you find your way to one of the many local jazz clubs, you'll see an energy level matching that of Bourbon Street but with a much more positive vibe. New Orleans jazz is a brassy, rocking sound with enough Cajun influence to make it funky — try the Maple Leaf (8316 Oak Street, 5048669359). Make sure to listen to the commercialfree local radio station WWOZ 90.7 FM. And if you need a pickmeup before heading out again — the clubs can go till three, the street party till the sun comes up — try the worldfamous Cafe du Monde. Its coffee is the best I've ever had, and you won't find the beignets, which are donuts but straight and tastier, anywhere else. You won't find that man with the "God Hates Sin" sign anywhere else, either. Some partiers give him a hard time, and others talk to him anxiously, trying to convince themselves that the string of beads isn't a ticket to eternal damnation. The rest of us go on alternately horrified and titillated by the depths we've sunk to; the sin is part of the turnon, and despite his best intentions, the man preaching fire and brimstone can't turn us off. At exactly midnight on Fat Tuesday, the beginning of Lent, the police accomplish what one Christian can't. With an air of festivity, they send police cars, horses, and street sweepers down the middle of Bourbon Street, clearing the crowd out as people stand and cheer. In a few minutes the drinks, the breasts, and even the beads have melted away. We'll stop for a beignet at Cafe du Monde and then head home. But we probably won't repent.