New Orleans Inn: Sully Mansion Bed and Breakfast

We are often asked by our visitors what makes New Orleans unique.  The obvious answers;  our food, the music, our own lexicon of expressions, Mardi Gras Indians practicing on a Sunday afternoon hint at the answer.  This weekend I think we had a good gumbo of activities which evidences why we are like no place else.  While the oil still flows, one guest went to pick up her sister at the airport but was planning a route which would avoid the President’s motorcade for his third trip here in so many weeks.  Despite events in the Gulf, the Louisiana Oyster Festival was in full swing in the French Quarter and I spent all day Friday at neighbor’s house across from the inn making our costumes for the Krewe of Dead Pelicans march Saturday night to protest the inactions of BP to halt the spill.  The march was the brainchild of Ro Mayer who is a realtor here in New Orleans who  felt she needed to do something rather than sit back and watch the destruction of our coast. So, in true New Orleans spirit the call went out for people to gather on Saturday evening in the Arts District and while the galleries had their monthly wine and cheese receptions, we would march to a brass band pulled together for the occasion, dressed in shrimp boots, parasols covered with oil and pelicans, sea turtles and crabs.  Not a lot of organization, just an idea and a social network to pass the word.  We went as oyster beds with oil droplets hanging from our shells.

Here I am as an oyster bed

Blue traps left over from Katrina days were stretched out with paraders moving the tarps to simulate the waves of the Gulf, and we had black crepe streamers to serve as the plumes.  I was interviewed by a journalist from the LA Times who expressed her confusion about why we were not an angrier group.  I tried to explain; we channel our anger here into creative celebrations which honor our own way of embracing the world.  As with all self styled parades here we picked up more people as we went along, numbering close to 200 as we wound our way through warehouses and galleries.  There was eleven minutes of silence by Gailler Hall and the streetcars stopped in their track, politely waiting until we were finished, appropriately respectful and somber.  I kept trying to imagine an uptown bus in Manhattan being willing to wait.  But what I love best about my adopted city, is as the two of us walked home, dressed as oyster beds, shells clanking as we moved up the block and stopped in a bar to cool off, perched on a stool with seaweed draping from our stools, a women on a date, one stool over in her shoulderless cocktail dress did not give us a second look, just another day in New Orleans, people costumed because that is one way we give expression to our thoughts.