The day was over and the group decided to move to a place recently anointed as a “favorite” between the French Quarter and the Ninth Ward. Marigny, the barrio is called.

I drove and parked immediately in front of a house that was nearly glowing from an abundance of lights. The door was open and we, being a group of inquisitive journalist types, were quickly introduced to Beatrice and her Christmas-themed living room. She talked of the work, 7 or 8 years. Her husband had been gone for a while. She has dogs for protection. I listened and took pictures. Others came and went, enjoying the unexpected ambiance.

A mounted police officer attempts to disperse a parade near Bourbon St. A police car was damaged moments earlier prompting the reaction.

A group of younger people was gathering down the street and the police had arrived. The night before a few members of the same demographic had smashed a police cruiser in front of me and gotten away by claiming a man had been run over. Now the group had some of the polices’ attention and sirens were left at full volume to deter a repeat… “In or out, but you can’t loiter in the street,” everyone was told.

The crowd eventually dispersed and we moved too. North this time where a man stopped us to encourage an investigation of his recently opened establishment. A sufficient number of us were convinced and in we went. There was no indication of the character of this place by the outside; the overall experience could have gone too far in any number of directions. Thankfully the place proved to be quiet and entertaining. A woman was sitting by herself, singing over the band, or more like chanting, really. To watch her is maybe a piece of what Robert Frank must have felt like. Fittingly, the jukebox was behind me.

Alone, chanting.

The evening meandered slowly toward a close and we left. I turned onto a larger road and we soon were across a median from a group of less-celebratory young people who had taken mind to burn a flag. I turned around and approached quickly into a vacant spot directly in front. Surprising people engaged in such activity isn’t ideal. Becoming part of their focus is even worse. Within seconds the car provided a platform for a small contingent and one flaming flag. Discerning the potential for things to get much worse was very easy. Time to go.

And so went a few hours of the last week of Mardi Gras, 2009.