I DANCED FOR BEADS ON BOURBON STREET

Just when I think this is all there is to my life, I am sent a special moment. One that lifts me up, makes me feel youthful and full of possibilities.

New Orleans is approximately one and half hours from Gulfport, MS where I attended my family reunion this summer. One of the planned highlights of the event was a side trip to NOLA. Eight years ago, the family reunion was in Gulfport, MS and the same event was planned. I didn't make the trip with other family members because I was tired and thought a visit to New Orleans was too much to fit into my schedule. Through the years I have wanted to kick myself for not taking advantage of the opportunity to see this unique city before Katrina wreaked her havoc.

Now I sat excitely perched on the car seat on my way to post-Katrina New Orleans. I didn't know what to expect. But hadn't the media promised me that Bourbon Street had experienced a revival?

Cruising along the road bordering the shoreline of the Gulf of Mexico, we see BP workers sitting under a white tent clad in green neon vests. One hundred feet further down, a couple frolicks on the same beach.

Next we pass the former site of the White Cap restaurant where our family enjoyed a delightful and tasty meal eight years ago. There is nothing on the site now and I cannot erase the memory of our happy faces as we enjoyed family comraderie and gazed out the rear window onto the lanquid lapping waves of the Gulf of Mexico. Today, the restaurant has re-located further inland.

Up ahead are the fishing vesssels. Mostly white, they lie dormant, jumbled haphazardly together. Their proud livelihood has been cruelly snatched from them. No one is going fishing or booking charter tours in the oil-tainted waters.

Traveling inland, trees flanking the highway have a battered appearance. Though they have continued to blossom year after year, the foilage pattern is unique. Some of the trunks are splintered and leaves only grow at the top. Other trees are completely barren and will never bloom again.

The New Orleans skyline looms ahead. From the highway it is not remarkable and is reminiscent of most American cities. The real damage doesn't become evident until we reach the inner city. I wonder. Could this be St. Bernard Parish? After all these years, some of the houses are still terribly scarred with disfigured structures. Grass grows on rooftops with missing shingles. Blown out windows and damaged siding add to the despair.

The stark horror of the media images return. Frightened people on rooftops holding signs begging to be rescued. People wading through diseased waters frantically clutching the few possessions they have been able to save. The dead bodies lying unattended by the roadside. And who can ever forget the inhuman over-crowded chaos of the Superdome?

Then Bam!!! We are in the French Quarter. Row upon row of neatly painted facades boasting black coach lamps, white bordered windows and intricately designed black wrought-iron balconies. Horse drawn carriages resembling something out of the Cinderella fairy tale clip-clop up and down the streets. They are filled with tourists eager to explore the French Quarter.

Finally we are on Bourbon Street. What it lacks in width is made up in excitement. There are shops, bars, music, restaurants, street dancers and real life characters: a man completely covered in silver body paint, a confederate soldier, a pirate, a bird man and woman and a leprechaun to name a few.

After filling my belly with catfish and gumbo, I come out the restaurant. It is now dark and Bourbon Street is at the height of her vibrancy. I am inspired to dance. My male cousin has just completed his dance which included a couple swings around the street lamp pole in front of us. Beads rain down from above.

I do the dance my granddaughter had just taught me last night at the family reunion Mardi Gras banquet and dance. It is called "The Flex." I bend and twist, flexing my upper arm muscles. When I am done, I look up expectantly at the balcony. Sure enough, a necklace of shiny gold beads falls from above. Excitedly, I scoop them up.

Now I can't wait until the real Mardi Gras observance. By then I'll have enough nerve to dance for beads in the true Mardi Gras tradition.