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Mardi Gras Through The Eyes Of An Introvert

Beads flung from the balconies of Bourbon Street scattered across the ground, rendering it nearly invisible. People packed themselves onto Bourbon Street like sardines. My fiancé, Darren, grabbed my hand:

“Follow me,” he said.

I kept running into women flashing their chests to the balconies while trying not to roll my ankles walking on the sparkling purple, green and gold beads.

A group of three of our friends, Matt, Joe, and Christina (she prefers to be called “Teeny”), followed closely behind.

Darren cleared a path for us. At 6-feet 9-inches tall, his hazel eyes easily scannedabove the sea of people.

How am I ever going to survive this night?

Club music boomed from every bar and the smell of people sweating alcohol wafted down the street. This was my first Mardi Gras, and I could tell it was more party than I could handle. I knew I was going to need to escape the chaos of Bourbon Street, and fast.

I had been to New Orleans before to visit Darren at the Belle Chasse Naval Base. Previous trips had been relaxed. But this time, the sole purpose was to experience Mardi Gras to the fullest. And party.

It was 9 p.m. I hadn’t eaten all day. I was confident I would die if I didn’t get some food in me before the adventure ahead.

Darren led us to NOLA Po’boys, one of my favorite spots for the state’s signature sandwich. About a three-block walk up Bourbon Street.

“You know what I like,” I said to Darren with a smirk.

While the gang sought a table in NOLA I hustled to make a bathroom break. When I returneda spicy grilled shrimp po’boy waited for me.The fresh French bread and spicy shrimp soothed my soul from the chaos happening just outside.  

But I needed more than a sandwich to get through the evening. I needed to find a peaceful place. A place free from the hellish sounds and smells of Bourbon Street.

We finished our food and stepped back out into the party. Darren took the lead again. We followed closely behind, weaving through the crowd, dodging flying beads.

I dodged to slowly. I was hit in the eye. And those stupid little beads hurt. I’d had enough of the street and it had not even been 10 minutes.

“Alrighty babe,” I said holding my hand over my eye. “Let’s seek some shelter.”

I had seen Bourbon Street on a previous trip to New Orleans. We had gone at around 9:00p.m. on a Sunday that time. And I thought it was bad then.

Darren led us further up Bourbon Street to a little bar called Lafitte’s. It was far enough away from the crowds to be considered peaceful by Mardi Gras standards.

“This is about as mellow as it’s gonna get guys,” Darren said.

We walked inside the tiny bar, which was originally a blacksmith shop built in 1722, to find a live pianist and candlelight. The building sportedits original flooring, old wood beams held up the 300-year-old ceiling, and thestonewalls felt refreshing to lean against.

I was in love.

Darren walked to the pianist who plays any song request for a dollar. The sound of Toto’s Africa filled the bar.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I said with a laugh.

I hate that song, somehow it plays everywhere I go and has turned into my unwanted anthem.

But it put me in a better mood. The live music, the candlelight, and the people at Lafitte’s were like a microculturein comparison to the rest of Bourbon Street.

Mellow.

We found an empty table amongst the crowd and made it ours. Matt ordered a round of drinks. He came back with Laffite’s signature Frozen Voodoo Daiquiri. Better known as “purple drank.”

We made that piano player at least $15 richer as we sang, drank, and danced.

My anxiety was settling. I was one happy introvert.

I discovered a new love for Lafitte’s, but the love was fleeting.Time to find something new.

“Hey bartender!” I shouted. “Where can I find a more laid-back type of party?

She replied in the sweetest southern drawl,

“Baby, Bourbon Street has nothin’ on Frenchman. That’s where the locals go. Good music, good drinks, good people.”

Say no more.

Off we go to Frenchman Street.

We were about halfway to Frenchman when Matt said,

“Wait! We need to see this!”

He was right. And as much as I wanted to get the hell off of Bourbon Street, the drag show that was happening inside a club called Oz was not to be missed.

We entered the purple and blue lit club to catch one queen perform “Diva” by Beyoncé in a neon yellow-green body suit. She looked amazing. Her energy was fantastic. If she could be in a party mood, so could I.

We left Oz. And with a newfound energy, I took head of the group.

We stopped at a little daiquiri place for those tall skinny neon cups with the crazy straws to sip on as we strolled through the narrow streets of The French Quarter. Laughing and singing our way to Frenchman Street.

In minutes we arrived. Calm washed over me. This was it. This was my Mardi Gras-peaceful-place.

The sound of old New Orleans jazz played on rich brass instruments washed out of the bars lining the sides of the street. People filled the sidewalk and street, but I could walk without running into people or stumbling over beads. It smelled of the rich Cajun spices instead of alcohol sweat.

Every bar looked appealing.

Our first stop would be Blue Nile.  

Little neon painted moons, planets and stars splattered across the ceiling of the blue-lit room. The band playing at the front of the bar embodied the energy of Mardi Gras. Lively, colorful, and loud. The singers voice was strong, but still soothing to listen to.

I ordered a gin and tonic and made my way to the dance floor. Darren stood out, as usual, making it easy to find the group.

The distinct beginning notes of Gnarls Barkley’s Crazy catch our ears.

Darren, Matt, Joe, Teeny, and I belted that song like our lives depended on it. Out of key, out of breath and buzzed. We sang along at the top of our lungs.

After five or six more songs that I honestly can’t recall, and a few more drinks (which is more than likely why I can’t recall the songs), hunger overcame us. Again.

Across the street from Blue Nile, a neon sign reading Dat Dog sparked our interest.

As we arrived, it came to my attention that this was a little hotdog joint. And as a vegetarian, I assumed it had nothing to offer me.

I was wrong. So wrong.

I took a glance at their menu and discovered a vegan section with four veggie dog options.

I have spent 10 years taste testing a variety of grocery store veggie dogs at family barbeques only to be disappointed by their rubbery texture and flavor.  I set my skepticism aside in the spirit of Mardi Gras and order the Vegan Italian Dog.

Made of eggplant, red wine, garlic and fennel, the Vegan Italian dog was nowhere near the rubbery texture I had become so used to.

It burst with flavor.

To call it delightful would be an understatement.

Full and happy, a bar called Bamboulas was our final stop.

This bar sports a more open and lit atmosphere. Exposed brick covers the wall where a band of six plays classic New Orleans jazz.

Less packed than bars we had been to earlier in the evening, we found a booth with ease.

Teeny came back with a round of shots with limes.

“Let’s end this night right,” she said.

“Tequila!”

We took our shots. The lime doesn’t help much with that agave liquor sting. But my god does it make for a good time.

I don’t consider myself a dancer by any means. But about 15 minutes after that shot, I was ready to swing.

I grabbed Darren by the hand. He doesn’t consider himself a dancer either.

Too bad.

I pulled him onto the dancefloor, and we performed what I’m assuming looked like some kind of flailing, uncoordinated swing dance.

We didn’t care who was watching or what we looked like.

Soon our group joined us.

Then other couples.

Within five minutes the dancefloor was filled. The music seemed to get livelier with every person who jumped on the floor, as if the band was feeding off of our energy.

We danced for at least an hour. My feet ached, I was sweaty, out of breath and exhausted.

I gave Darren a glance.

“Bedtime?” he asked.

Yes. Bedtime.

On the walk back to our hotel, we crossed through Bourbon Street again.

Frenchman had transitioned my crabby, anxious, Mardi Gras-hating-self, into a calm, happy lover of Mardi Gras.

I though Mardi Gras 2019 would be my first, and last.

Mardi Gras 2020 can’t get here fast enough.

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Text and Drive: Challenge Accepted or Lesson Learned?

In a perfect world “I’m on my way” would be the last time you touched your phone before you hop in your car and reach your destination. In reality, many will send texts, search the web, adjust music, and eat while behind the wheel.

In my reality I do all of that, and makeup too.

But is that the right thing to do?

I found out on April 26 2019, California State University Fullerton students and I had our texting and driving skills challenged by our Feature Writing professor, Robert Quezada, and CSUF University Police Officer Thomas Perez. Our assignment: Drive aCSUF police golf cart through a short maze of orange cones.

The catch?

We had to text “I love Cal State Fullerton” while driving the course.

We showed up to an empty campus parking lot at 9 am to find neon orange traffic cones arranged in a perfect horseshoe.

Critique about the setup swept through my classmates and me like a gust of wind.

“The lane is too narrow.”

“This isn’t like the freeway.”

“The turn seems to sharp.”

It was a challenge. Challenge excepted.

We gathered around Perez to be briefed on what we would be doing. Despite our suspicions, he assured us that the course was drivable.

A second officer sittingbehind the wheel of the golf cart stepped on the gas and confidently made it through the course at 10 miles-per-hour. Without hitting a single cone. Of course, he was doing it without a phone in his hand.  

Being creative thinkers, we shouted out a few counter-ideas about how to take on this texting and driving challenge.

“What about talk-to-text?”

“Or the word predictor?”

“Nope.”

Perez made sure we could not cheat the experience.

We had to manually text.

And the consequences could be deadly.  

Perez went over some distracted driving statistics and behaviors that cause thousands of deaths every year.

According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, in 2016, 3,450 people were killed in motor vehicle accidents caused by a distracted driver.

That statistic scared me.

It was time for the first group to face the course.

The first driver got behind the wheel and buckled up. That was about the only thing that went well for him.

With Perez riding shotgun, the driver accelerated faster than expected. He didn’t even make it around the bend before he crashed into cones. And almost a bunch of his classmates.

Students filming the events quickly grabbed their precious cameras and flew out of the way of the golf cart.

10 miles-per-hour never seemed so fast.

But maybe that was the point.

Even though the course was unrealistic, 10 miles per hour suddenly became fast. And dangerous. And all because someone was behind the wheel of the golf cart. Texting.

I quickly concludedthat it wasn’t about how wide the course was, or what the bend was like. It was about what could happen to yourself, or others, when you drive with your phone in hand.

The next couple of drivers learned from the first. While their driving was not nearly as catastrophic, many still took out a couple of cones. Their text messages were nearly complete.

Ahandful of people only a hit one cone, or none at all. Their texts were unreadable or incomplete.

The pattern became clear. It was either drive or text. Not both.

“Lets see how this goes,” I said as my turn approached.

Perez sat passenger.

I stepped on the accelerator and the electric cart jolted forward. And then I remembered that it didn’t have power steering. And I have the upper body strength of a toddler. Great.

My classmates stood watching. I was nervous. My shaky hand typed out “I lov.”

I took the first part of the curve.

Boom!

Cone.

Officer Perez called out my speed.

“6, 7, 8..”

Boom!

Cone. Or two. I don’t really know.

And then I was done.

I texted the complete message.

“I love Cal State Fullerton.”

But is that something to be proud of?

I took out about four cones. That could have been four bumps into another car. Or worse. A person.

What troubled me more was what Perez confessed to. Multiple times.

He says that he participates in distracted driving behaviors. Daily.

“My wife has told me to get off the phone while driving multiple times.”

He’s a cop, doesn’t he know better?

I was surprised by his answer.

“I don’t write tickets for the things that I also do. That would be hypocritical.”

There was a twist.

“Except this month, the state is not allowing us to issue warnings for distracted driving. We have to write the ticket.”

I came to a conclusion. It is not worth it to text and drive. It is not worth risking my life or someone else’s. You cannot be “good” at texting and driving. And it is not a competition.

Send your “I’m on my way” text before you put your car and drive. Put your phone in the glovebox or backseat. And look out for others who are not doing the same.

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Contact Information

Email: hknorr2597@csu.fullerton.edu

Phone: 714.308.6125

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About Me

Hello! My name is Hannah Knorr. I am studying Communications Public Relations at California State University Fullerton. So far, I’m on track to be done after the fall semester 2019, and will walk in the May 2020 commencement ceremony. 

Aside from being a student, I also have been working at LUSH Cosmetics for about three years. 

In the little free time I have, I practice yoga. I have been practicing for 7 years and try to be on my mat at least five days per week. Yoga gives me a chance to unwind and spend some time on myself.

I am getting married this July to my wonderful fiancé, Darren, mentioned in my travel story. He is in the military and is stationed out in New Orleans, so I will be calling that home once I’m finished with school.

I’m incredibly passionate about animals, the environment, and sustainable living. I would ultimately love to do PR for a brand that has similar passions to my own, and do work that really makes a difference. 

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A student texting and driving with Officer Perez riding shotgun.

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Officer Thomas Perez briefing us on our challenge and giving statistics on texting and driving.

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The course we had to drive through for our Text and Drive Event.

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Breakfast the morning after Mardi Gras: poached eggs on sourdough, avocado, fried oysters, and a mimosa.

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A beautiful corner building in the French Quarter on Royal Street.

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Absinthe, prepared the traditional way of pouring the alcohol slowly through a sugar cube to dilute it.

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(Left to Right) Matt, Joe, Teeny, myself, Darren

Mardi Gras evening at Blue Nile Jazz Club

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What Comes After 30 Years Of Being A Cop

Brian Knorr traded in his motorcycle for a Vespa in 2017 when he retired from the Huntington Beach Police Department after working there for 30 years.

Knorr witnessed crime, car accidents, and human behavior that an average person would never to choose to see. The mind-altering stress of the job follows Knorr from the station to the family home. When he realized this, he decided to make his retirement a time of reflection and self-improvement.

One call resonates to this day.

It was some point in the middle of summer, around the US Open. A young girl, probably 13, was on vacation with her family and her parents gave her money to go buy a skateboard downtown. She was riding around and when she stopped at a crosswalk the board came out from under her feet.

“She ran out into the street to get it, was hit by a car, and was killed instantly.”

He spoke as if he was filling out a police report on the incident. But the look in his eyes was that of pain, and helplessness.

Knorr and his trainee were the first to arrive at the scene.  

“I gave CPR to a dead girl, who was around the age of my daughter, for 20 minutes, just hoping for a miracle.”

But the girl became a statistic. About every 1.6 hours a pedestrian dies in auto accident. This accident was one of many that Knorr witnessed in his 30 years on the job.

And Knorr became a statistic. It is estimated that 19% of police officers suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and that at least 34% experience symptoms, but not enough to warrant a full diagnosis.

“People forget that our job is more than writing tickets,” he said. “Our job is to protect, and while there are crooks in every profession, those of us who want to protect our community feel so helpless when there is nothing we can do in tragic circumstances.”

“I think the public forgets that we are people with families and lives outside of the job” Knorr said. “The things I see day to day come home with me, and over the years I have seen the effects that they have had on my family.”

Knorr’s work follows him home and affects his family. “Having your family exposed to people saying things like “all pigs should die” and “all cops are racist” is damaging” he says.

His family has had to bear witness to the hateful attitude towards law enforcement in ways that Knorr had never expected. The anxiety of waiting for him to come home safe kept his wife and young children up until late hours of the night.

One night in 2006 he didn’t come home. His wife and two young kids laid awake waiting for the sound of his motorcycle to cruise down the street, and then shift to a lower gear as he pulled into the driveway. Around 6 a.m. Knorr was brought home by another officer. He was wearing a white, ill-fitted jumpsuit that is issued to people being held in the city jail.

Knorr was coming back from rinsing off grime from a storm channel. He had just rescued 83-year-old Eleanor Smith from her car. She lost control while reversing out of her driveway and ended up trapped in the storm channel, being flooded by over 6 feet of water.

Later that year, Knorr was awarded a medal of courage by the city of Huntington Beach, as well as other lifesaving awards and multiple articles being written about him and his heroic task.

“I was humbled by the whole thing,” said Knorr.

Knorr retired from the police force in 2017. But he wasn’t ready to retire from serving the public.

He reached out to Operation Surf, a volunteer run, surf program that focuses on the therapeutic effects of surfing for military veterans.

Knorr’s work with people experiencing PTSD, amputees, and other severe traumas brought him to a state of awareness. He recognized that he too was showing signs of PTSD.  However, he decided not to be formally treated. The water and waves are enough.

“Operation Surf put things into perspective,” he said. “I have nothing to complain about when there is a deaf, blind man who served in Afghanistan, sitting on a surfboard next to me overcoming his fears.”  

Two years later Knorr worked his way to surf instructor and makes more executive decisions for Operation Surf. He travels up and down the coast of California, helping others move on from past trauma and by doing so, helping himself recover as well.

Retirement has not meant slowing down for Knorr, if anything he is busier than he has ever been. He and his closest friend, also a former officer, opened up their own private investigation firm where they work on both civil and criminal cases.

“We had no idea how quickly work would come,” Knorr said, slightly overwhelmed. “We have had job offers way outside of private investigative work, like setting up security for major events, just because of our background in police work.”

Astonished at how his years of service are now paying off, Knorr feels much more appreciated by the general public.

“I don’t have to act like the parents of the community any more, getting people in trouble,” said Knorr.

Now that his “community babysitting” days are over, Knorr said the change of pace had been beneficial to both him and his family.

“I am less on edge, and so is my family,” said Knorr. “There is no more worrying if I will come home for work that night.”

Knorr’s wife and kids now listen for the putter of a vintage Vespa scooter with a surfboard strapped to pull up into the driveway instead of the thundering of a Honda motorcycle.