New Toulouse Samedi Gras,
An Island of Joy Between Nights of Despair
I heard the drums outside before I could pry my eyes open. I listened for a minute, trying to figure out where I was. Were they Namib? Zulu? Haida?
Zulu, I was sure they were Zulu. As the fog between my ears began to clear, I realized I was on a featherbed, not grass. And the room was hot. Not dry hot like South Africa, but the hot, wet, smelly heat of New Toulouse, and those drums were not tribal, they were Mardi Gras. Or Samedi Gras, the day of the big parade.
Photographic evidence that mechanical men can dance, at least during Carnival
I knew I had gotten lucky in the city that forgot to care, when the girl I woke up with was prettier than the one I thought I went to bed with.
Moving carefully so as not to have to explain myself to the pretty redhead next to me, I found my clothes in the dark and slipped them on. Going through her purse, I found two twenties—score! If I add those to the two twenties in my wallet left over from last night, I’ll have … two twenties. Damn, she stole these from me! I checked her voter registration card, to make sure I didn’t know her, or her husband, and nope, never met her before. Whew. Time to meet the sun and get this story written.
* Click here for more of Jack’s report, and parade photos! *