Last Updated on March 2, 2025 by mulamagnet1
When Super Bowl Met Super Gras: My Wild Week in the Big Easy
There I was, ankle-deep in beer-soaked confetti, watching a grown man weep into his Ray Lewis jersey while a parade of purple-clad strangers high-fived their way down Bourbon Street. The clock had just struck midnight, marking the official transition from Super Bowl Sunday to what locals were calling “Super Gras” – that magical collision of America’s biggest sporting event and the early rumblings of Mardi Gras season. New Orleans, ever the gracious host, had somehow found a way to make football feel like a religious experience and turn a power outage into the party of the century.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The City That Care Forgot (And the NFL Remembered)
Let me rewind a bit. When I scored a last-minute press credential to cover Super Bowl XLVII in 2013, I figured I’d witness a decent football game, eat some gumbo, and call it a day. What I didn’t expect was to find myself in the middle of one of the most gloriously chaotic sporting events in modern history – and that’s before the lights even went out.
You see, New Orleans isn’t just another city on the NFL rotation. By the time the 2013 Super Bowl rolled around, the Big Easy was still rebounding from Hurricane Katrina’s devastation. Landing this showcase was like a civic validation, a statement that New Orleans was back. And boy, did they want you to know it.
“This ain’t just some football game, cher,” my taxi driver announced as we crawled through downtown traffic two days before kickoff. “This here’s our redemption tour. Plus, we get to party on someone else’s dime!” His cackle filled the cab as we inched past police barricades and credential checkpoints.
He wasn’t wrong. The Super Bowl 2013 experience was essentially New Orleans flexing every cultural muscle it had. The city seemed determined to show that nobody – absolutely nobody – throws a better party when the stakes are high.
When Ravens Fly and 49ers Pan for Gold
The matchup itself had enough drama to fuel a Netflix series. The Harbaugh brothers, Jim and John, were facing off as opposing head coaches – a first in Super Bowl history. Baltimore’s Ray Lewis was playing his final game before retirement. San Francisco’s Colin Kaepernick was the exciting young quarterback who’d only started half a season.
But the city itself was the real main character.
I bumped into a group of Ravens fans at Mother’s Restaurant the morning before the game. They were demolishing debris po’boys with the focus of archaeologists uncovering some ancient treasure.
“We flew in three days ago,” a woman in a purple feather boa told me between bites. “Haven’t been to bed before 3 AM yet. I think I’m actually hallucinating right now, but in a good way.”
Her friend nodded solemnly. “I met a man dressed as Pope John Paul II last night, except he was wearing a Joe Flacco jersey. He blessed me with a Hurricane cocktail. Pretty sure that means the Ravens are gonna win.”
The 49ers faithful weren’t to be outdone. Over in Jackson Square, I watched a San Francisco contingent second-line dancing behind a brass band they’d apparently hired on the spot. A gray-haired man in a vintage Montana jersey grabbed my arm.
“I’ve been to five Super Bowls,” he confided, “but this is the first one where I’ve had my palm read, eaten alligator cheesecake, and seen a man swallow fire – all before noon!”
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The French Quarter: Where Football Fans Go to Lose Their Dignity
Bourbon Street during Super Bowl week defies ordinary description. Imagine the world’s largest fraternity party colliding with a corporate retreat, all set to a jazz soundtrack. Corporate sponsors had transformed every available building into branded experiences. Radio Row broadcasted from hotel ballrooms. Celebrities tried (and failed) to move incognito through crowds of football pilgrims searching for the authentic New Orleans experience while simultaneously treating the city like an adult theme park.
I watched as a group of middle-aged bankers from Minnesota attempted to eat crawfish for the first time outside a bar called “The Swamp.”
“Do you eat the head?” one asked, examining his tiny crustacean with suspicion.
“Only if you want the real experience,” replied the bartender with a wink.
Minutes later, all five were sucking crawfish heads and proclaiming themselves honorary Louisianans. The bartender caught my eye and mouthed, “Works every time.”
Game Day: When the Lights Went Out (And the Party Turned Up)
Game day arrived. The fanfare was like a coronation. Security was tighter than at the Pentagon, with military helicopters circling overhead and police officers on every corner.
The stadium pulsed with anticipation. Alicia Keys sang the national anthem. Jennifer Hudson performed with the Sandy Hook Elementary School choir in a tribute that left not a dry eye in the house. Then the game began, and the Ravens promptly dominated the first half.
Beyoncé’s halftime show was a masterclass in entertainment – so electrifying that it apparently overloaded the Superdome’s circuits. Because just a few minutes into the third quarter, as the 49ers were trying to mount a comeback, the unthinkable happened: the lights went out.
Not just some of the lights. Nearly all of them.
For 34 minutes, the Super Bowl – the most meticulously planned sporting event in America – was plunged into semi-darkness. Players stretched on the field. Broadcasters vamped. And in the stands, 71,000 people collectively experienced the weirdest Super Bowl moment of all time.
“Did Beyoncé’s show break the Super Bowl?” a woman behind me wondered aloud.
“Nah,” replied her companion. “This is just New Orleans reminding the NFL who’s boss. The city said, ‘You think you’re running this show? Hold my beer.'”
The Blackout: New Orleans’ Ultimate Power Move
The blackout became instant legend. It was the moment when New Orleans reminded everyone that even the mighty NFL couldn’t control everything. The power outage changed the game’s momentum entirely. The 49ers rallied and almost had a historic comeback before the Ravens ultimately prevailed 34-31.
Outside the stadium, fans spilled onto the streets where the party was just getting started. The Super Bowl had morphed seamlessly into the early Mardi Gras celebrations, creating what locals called “Super Gras” – a uniquely New Orleans hybrid that seemed both inevitable and perfect.
I found myself at a bar on Frenchmen Street where Ravens and 49ers fans alike were dancing to a brass band, the game’s outcome already secondary to the celebration itself.
“Only in New Orleans,” shouted a man in a Ray Lewis jersey, “could losing the biggest game of the year still feel like a win!”
He handed me a purple shot of something that tasted like licorice and rocket fuel.
“To the best damn Super Bowl city on earth!” he toasted.
It was hard to disagree.
Beyond Bourbon: Finding the Real New Orleans During Super Bowl Week
While the French Quarter got most of the tourist attention, the real New Orleans revealed itself in quieter moments away from the main drag. One morning, desperate for coffee and solitude, I wandered into a tiny café in the Bywater neighborhood. The proprietor, a woman named Miss Loretta with silver dreadlocks and spectacles perched on her nose, took one look at my media credential and chuckled.
“Another one escaping the madness,” she observed, sliding a mug of chicory coffee across the counter. “Sit down, baby. You look like you need some restoration.”
Over the next hour, Miss Loretta gave me the real history of New Orleans – the struggles after Katrina, the resilience of the neighborhoods, the complicated relationship with tourism, and the way events like the Super Bowl both helped and hindered the city’s recovery.
“We appreciate the business,” she said, refilling my cup. “But I wish people would see beyond the beads and hurricanes. This city’s got soul deeper than the Mississippi.”
When I tried to pay, she waved me off. “Just tell somebody the truth about us when you write your story. That’s payment enough.”
The Morning After: Super Bowl Hangover
The day after the Super Bowl, New Orleans seemed to exhale collectively. Workers dismantled NFL installations. Sanitation crews tackled mountains of debris. Yet unlike other host cities that feel abandoned after the big game leaves town, New Orleans simply pivoted. Super Bowl decorations came down; Mardi Gras decorations went up. The party continued its natural evolution.
I helped a store owner on Magazine Street hang purple, gold, and green bunting where NFL banners had been just hours before.
“That’s the thing about New Orleans,” he told me, passing me another thumbtack. “We were hosting celebrations long before the NFL existed, and we’ll be doing it long after they’re gone. We just let them borrow our city for a week.”
As I finally headed to the airport, exhausted and culturally saturated, my driver took a detour past the Superdome.
“You know why that blackout was the most New Orleans thing ever?” he asked, not waiting for my response. “Because it proved that even when things go wrong here, they somehow go right. That power outage is gonna be more famous than whoever won the game!”
He wasn’t wrong. Years later, what most people remember about Super Bowl 2013 isn’t the score or even the Harbaugh brother rivalry – it’s those 34 minutes of darkness and the unique way New Orleans handled the chaos.
Lessons from the Big Easy
If you’re planning your own New Orleans adventure (Super Bowl or otherwise), here are a few hard-earned insights:
- The French Quarter is magnificent, but the soul of New Orleans lives in neighborhoods like Tremé, Bywater, and Mid-City. Venture beyond Bourbon Street.
- Talk to locals. Really talk to them. New Orleanians tell the best stories, and they’re usually willing to share them with respectful visitors.
- The food is even better than everyone says, but skip the obvious tourist traps. Ask your hotel’s maintenance staff (not the concierge) where they eat lunch.
- New Orleans operates on its own timeline. Surrender to it. Your dinner reservation might be treated as a gentle suggestion, and that’s part of the charm.
- The city’s history is complex, beautiful, and sometimes painful. Take time to learn about it at places like the Historic New Orleans Collection or the Backstreet Cultural Museum.
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The Final Score
The Ravens may have won Super Bowl XLVII, but the real victory belonged to New Orleans. The city made America’s biggest sporting event feel like an intimate local festival. They turned a potential disaster (the blackout) into a cherished piece of Super Bowl lore. And they reminded everyone that while the NFL might control the game, New Orleans controls the experience.
As Miss Loretta told me over that life-saving cup of coffee: “New Orleans doesn’t change for visitors. Visitors change because of New Orleans.”
After my week of Super Gras aka Super Bowl madness, I couldn’t argue with that wisdom. I arrived expecting to cover a football game and left having experienced something closer to a cultural baptism – one that came with a substantial hangover and stories I’ll be telling for decades.
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In a city where the line between sacred and profane is delightfully blurred, where disaster can transform into celebration in the blink of an eye, the 2013 Super Bowl found its perfect home. And for one glorious week, the whole football world got a taste of what locals always knew: nobody does it quite like New Orleans.
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