Floats pass, one by one, glittering shamelessly in the sunlight, blinding in their technicolor glory.
Metallic strands of beads create rainbows as they corkscrew through the air into upstretched hands, grasped mid-flight. Some are draped proudly around decorated necks, some get dragged into a vicious tug-of-war.
Masked riders sway and bump without a care as the tractor pulls the float down the aisle made by the sidewalk and the neutral ground. They scan the crowds for the next person deserving of the wares they're bestowing.
Another float, and then a band. School colors so bright, they bleed into the air. The drum major shimmies ahead of his flock, keeping time for the mirror-like chrome of the bass drum and the polished brass of the tuba. Dancers, cheerleaders, and majorettes follow, high-stepping to the beat in tasseled leather boots.
Another float, another band, punctuated by leprechaun-esque shriners tossing Tootsie Rolls from mopeds, beauty queens smiling their Colgate grins from vintage convertibles, and the city's finest officials shmoozing from atop gilded horses.
The crowd ebbs and flows like waves, pushing toward the passing floats at high tide, pulling back to let the bands pass at low tide. The day progresses, strangers become friends, plans are made to meet next year, same corner, bring ya mama. There is no prejudice. There are no age limits, there are no gender lines to cross, and the only colors are purple, gold, and green.
This is Mardi Gras.
