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I didn't waste a moment. I scooped up my bag
and ran toward the revelers, who shouted and laughed,
trying to hold me back so I would join them. "NO!" I cried and broke loose to tear through
them and out of the alley. Once onto a street, I ran and
ran to get myself as far away from that alley as I
could, my feet slapping the pavement so hard, my
soles stung. Finally, out of breath, my shoulders
heaving, my side aching, I stopped. When I looked up
I was happy to see a policeman on the corner. "Please," I said, approaching him. "I'm lost. I
just arrived and I've got to find this address." "Some night to come to New Orleans and get
lost," he said, shaking his head. He took the slip of
paper. "Oh, this is in the Garden District. You can
take the streetcar. Follow me," he said. He showed me
where to wait.
"Thank you," I told him. Shortly afterward, the
streetcar arrived. I gave the driver my address and he
told me he would let me know when to get off. I sat
down quickly, wiped my sweaty face with my
handkerchief, and closed my eyes, hoping my
heartbeat would slow down before I stood in my
father's doorway. Otherwise, the excitement over what
had already happened, and my actually confronting
him would cause me to simply faint at his feet. When the streetcar entered what was known as
the Garden District of New Orleans, we passed under
a long canopy of spreading oaks and passed yards
filled with camellias and magnolia trees. Here there
were elegant homes with garden walls that enclosed
huge banana trees and dripped with purple bugle vine.
Each corner sidewalk was embedded with old ceramic
tiles that spelled out the names of the streets. Some of
