Les bon temps roulez (the good times roll) in New Orleans
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After the ceremony, a brass marching band waited outside to lead us in a parade through the streets of the French Quarter. My niece headed the Second Line, as it is called; she held a white parasol and danced through the streets with her new husband. People came out of their apartments and hotel rooms, hanging over the wrought iron balconies, snapping photos of us as we moved along. The band played, the crowd cheered and my parents, who were riding in a pedi-cab, waved to the people like visiting royalty. For the parade, we wore Mardi Gras feathered masks, which lent a sense of mystery to the evening. There were, of course, the usual spontaneous performances by uninvited, scantily clad locals.
But, hey, it’s New Orleans.
When we arrived back in New York, I completed my duties as officiant. I mailed the marriage license to the Office of Vital Records in the Parish of Orleans. It looked perfectly legit to me, but I keep imagining a guy in the parish office, sitting behind a screen like the Wizard of Oz.
It is, after all, New Orleans.
Copyright © 2013 Randi Kreiss. Randi can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.