Every Wednesday, my grandmother used to take me to the Audubon Zoo, nestled amongst the oak trees in New Orleans. As usual we took the oldest form of transportation there, made famous in movies throughout the past century: the streetcar. My quarter plunked in the metal tin receptacle at the front of the car, and we made our way back to find our seats. In the summer months, the windows were open all the way, allowing the sticky humid New Orleans air to penetrate the car. Even with the windows open, the back of my thighs stuck to the wooden slated seats as I sat squashed next to my grandmother. Sweat-stained workmen mingled with Tulane scholars as the streetcar clacked along the rails towards our destination.

Once we were there, the zoo seemed like an amazing paradise. Tropical birds, jaguars, elephants, and sea lions represented a variety of animals from virtually every continent. As we made our way past the growling tigers and pacing lions, I fingered a little brown lunch sack with anticipation. It was a tradition, made by myself at the ripe old age of 3, that we would eat our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the giraffes every Wednesday. As we found a seat on the wooden park bench, I admired the graceful yet clumsy creatures. Their long necks, innocent eyes, and gentle natures appealed to me for reasons I still don’t quite understand.

I ate my sandwich with the peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth and washed it down eagerly with cold Sprite straight from the bottle. My grandmother was never in a hurry, and she allowed me all the time I needed to enjoy my lunch with the giraffes. After lunch was over, we would stroll through the rest of the zoo watching indigenous squirrels and sparrows fight over popcorn crumbs. Cocky peacocks strutted by displaying their feathers for all to see, and goldfish half my size begged for food from the center fountain.

When our day was over, we would pile back on the streetcar. The rhythmic rocking of the streetcar held me in a trance as it scuttled down the line. Just before I drifted off to sleep, I already began planning our next trip. After all, when you are 4 and with your grandmother, Wednesday can’t come soon enough.

It was probably 1984…or maybe it was 85. Either way, the day was cold; at least, cold for New Orleans. A wind chill in the 40′s threw most of our plans out of the window, all except for one–Mardi Gras.  I begged and pleaded with my father to take me downtown to the parade route, and against my mother’s best judgment he finally relented. So I got dressed in my costume, a handmade Rubik’s Cube costume, and piled into the station wagon. Beneath two layers of thermal underwear and gloves, I was all smiles. It was the festival of all festivals, the carnival of all carnivals. It was Mardi Gras, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

We drove uptown to the parade route and parked the car. My feet wouldn’t keep still in my lace up high tops; they were so full of excitement and anticipation. My father and I had worked on my Rubik’s Cube costume for weeks, and it was beautiful. In reality it was nothing more than a cardboard box with electrical tape and colorful paint, but in my mind, I was the best-dressed one out there. Most of the people we saw agreed, and I gladly posed for picture after picture on the cold neutraground.

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