A second line looks like beautiful chaos from the outside. It is not. There is a shape to the day, the same one every Sunday, and once you know it you can roll with any club in the city.
The step-off. The club gathers at a set corner, usually early afternoon, dressed to the nines. The band assembles, the banner comes out, and at the set time they step off — that first move into the street when the whole thing comes alive.
The route. The parade moves stop to stop, and the stops matter. A club will pull up at the bar that hosted their meetings, the corner where a founder lived, the house of a member who passed. At each one the party pauses, pays respect, and pushes on. This is where the route becomes a story.
The divisions. Bigger clubs roll in divisions, each with its own suits, its own band, its own moment. They come out one after another, so the parade keeps renewing itself for hours.
The disband. After three, four, sometimes five hours, the parade reaches its final stop and disbands — and the disband becomes the after. The band winds down, the crowd flows into the nearest bar, and the Sunday keeps going into the night.
Step-off to disband: that is the anatomy. Now go find a Sunday and live it.