The only time I've been to Mardi Gras was when I was six and my family went to visit my great-aunt in New Orleans for Spring Break. This was before all of the older generation of my family died or moved away, back when we had deeper roots in New Orleans than the above-ground crypt that is the only real mark left now of my family's presence in the city.

We went to some of the safer parades. No naked freaks or anything. I put so many bead necklaces around my neck that it took my mother and my great-aunt an hour that night to untangle them all from my hair before I went to bed. I still have a couple of them in the glove compartment of my car.

We also went to a party at another relative's house. They had an immense collection of doubloons and served a king's cake in which I found the baby.

I would bet that to most people New Orleans means drunken coeds ripping their tops off for beads and charred alligator tails. To me, it means my great-aunt's house, with its cuckoo clock, musty smell, and antiquated plumbing. It's just as well that her house is preserved in my memory, because based on a quick drive-by peek the last time I was in the area, I think it might be a crack den now. Funny how that seems to happen to all of the nicest oldest houses, while the modern up-and-coming set choose to live in built-yesterday brick condo boxes.

Anyway, she was a tour guide in her old age and had a collection of knick knacks she had gathered from around the world. When I was little we would always meet her at the airport if she was passing through town, and she would give me tiny souvenirs, like a Little Mermaid statue from Copenhagen or a teeny stuffed Koala from Australia.

One of my favorite things she gave me (after my middle name, which was hers, and the rosary from when she was my Confirmation sponsor) was a ring of hotel keys that dumb people on her tours had failed to turn back in over the years. When I first was driving, I kept them on my key ring to amuse myself.

When my grandfather died, years ago, we all went to New Orleans for the funeral. You know, family crypt and all. I was in a mothering phase and brought my Raggedy Ann doll with all her accoutrement. I even hung a clothes line across the inside of the van on the way down so I could "dry her laundry."

When we arrived at my great-aunt's house, the first thing she did was to warn us to keep our shoes on at all times when walking near the iron grate floor heaters. So, of course, not five minutes later my middle sister (who was maybe three at this point) ran barefoot right across one of them and basically waffle-patterned the bottom of her foot.

She was crying for most of the night while my parents treated the burn. It took six months for the marks to fade completely. Meanwhile, I thought "Hey, I'll lay Raggedy Ann's nightgown out on the heater to make it nice and toasty for her before bed time," did so, and managed to burn the arc of flesh between my thumb and index finger.

It hurt like utter fuck, but considering what middle sis was going through, it's not like I could make much of a fuss about my little blister.

So take heed, New Orleans is a very very dangerous place. Even without all those vampires and sex perverts running around loose.