Fifty years ago I attended my first Mardi Gras. I drove with my college roommate from Villanova to New Orleans non-stop, taking turns behind the wheel, occasionally biting into lemons to stay awake. The crowds, the floats, the costumes, the beads were all intoxicating but not the most memorable part of the trip. It was my first time in the South, and the people in shirtsleeves in the middle of winter, the live oak trees dripping Spanish moss, the languorous, happily unproductive atmosphere, opened my eyes to another world.
