It wasn’t that I was afraid of flying. I just didn’t like the crowds or the claustrophobia, stuck with all those tightly compacted bodies 40,000 feet in the air.

If anyone could understand my fears, it was my cousin, Rosalee. We had practically grown up together as sisters, her coming to live with me and my mother at the age of fourteen after her parents died.

The drive to New Orleans was grueling, but I relished the time alone in my Prius, listening to audiobooks and blasting my favorite old songs from the nineties. Not only did I make it on time, but by the time I backed into my long-term parking slot, I was hours early.

A shiny black Uber was there waiting to pick me up. I’d booked it prior to leaving on the voyage, and I couldn’t have timed my arrival more perfectly.

“What’s going on? You must be Tinsley,” the driver said with a big flashy smile, rolling his window all the way down. It wasn’t my first time visiting The Big Easy, but I’d forgotten the beauty of its accents—this man’s vowels were round and smooth like cobbles in a stream.

“That’s me. Let me grab my bag.” I double and triple checked my door locks, then switched my luggage over to his car.

“Let me get that for you. On in.” He opened the back door for me, and I slid in, grateful for the air conditioning and the soft, cool seats. It might have taken me half a night and a day’s drive to get here, but at least I’d avoided the plane and all those people. I just hoped Rosalee wasn’t too disappointed.

The drive had been strange, chilly temperatures fading away when I reached Birmingham, and the moisture thickening as I drew further south. The air in New Orleans felt sticky and airless, settling over my skin like a layer of soup.

“What brings you to New Orleans?” he asked, although when he said it, it sounded like ‘Nyoo Ahhlyins’. I smiled politely at his bright white teeth in the rearview.

“Bachelorette party for my cousin. Though she’s more like a sister really…”

“Ah! You missed Mardi Gras. Too bad,” he said, pulling away from my Prius. As he swooped into traffic onto a busy, colorful street, I watched my car disappear in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, too bad. My cousin, Rosalee, she wanted to avoid the carnival crowds,” I said. Mardi Gras was over, but you couldn’t tell it—beads still clung to porch rails and remnants of bright awnings, balloons, and streamers were displayed on the houses and shops. The sidewalks were busy with people, some dressed as brightly as the colorful buildings beside them.