Mardi Gras is not a day.

It’s a stamina sport.

Mardi Gras Parades

The parades really crank up two weekends before Fat Tuesday — they roll that weekend, pause just long enough for you to do laundry, then fire back up the Friday before and don’t stop until Mardi Gras Tuesday taps out.

By the Sunday before, we’d seen a dozen parades. In total? Seventeen. Start to finish. That’s over 45 hours of bead-dodging, float-watching glory… plus 10+ hours of “strategic sidewalk occupation.” Some mornings we were staking our claim before 10 a.m. Some nights we didn’t get home until after 10 p.m. Yes. Sometimes those were the same day. Hydration was theoretical.

The first parade weekend was extra special — our daughter and son-in-law, Kati & Tyler, flew in to join us. There’s something unforgettable about experiencing your very first Mardi Gras together. Four rookies, grinning like we’d discovered a secret civilization made entirely of glitter and brass bands. It’s a memory I’ll keep long after the beads have tarnished.

Parade etiquette is mostly lovely — kind, cheerful, communal. Except for That One Person. You know the one. Arrives late. Slides forward. Becomes aggressively festive.

If we stood near kids, the kids got the throws (as they should). If we stood near loud, raucous bead-commanders, they got the throws (as they would). T & I learned something important about ourselves: we are not loud. We are not raucous. We do not command beads.

But while the children and hooligans hauled home trailer-loads of treasure, we quietly collected our own — a few keepsakes we’ll actually keep forever.

And Mardi Gras isn’t just the parades.

Over on Bourbon Street, the energy grew day by day — a lively electric hum that grew louder as Fat Tuesday approached. By the time the big day arrived, the street was so packed I physically couldn’t make it onto it. After the parades, instead of squeezing into the human tide, I turned back toward our flat. There are festive choices… and then there are oxygen-based decisions.

The contrast was perfect: along the parade routes, float riders launched beads and treasures down to the crowd. On Bourbon Street, second-floor residents stood on balconies tossing beads to pedestrians below — particularly enthusiastic for those willing to, shall we say, increase their visibility. Mardi Gras has its own reward system.

Each night we left the streets looking like glitter had declared war. And each morning, like magic, New Orleans reset itself — spotless, dignified, ready to do it all again. The cleanup crews are the real MVPs.

Then Wednesday came.

The crowds? Gone.

The trash? Gone.

The chaos? Gone.

No slow fade. No gentle exhale. Just — poof.

Like the whole city winked at us and said, “Show’s over. See you next year.”