Traveling was easier back when we were in college, in part, I think, because our standards were so low. I mean, when you live in a pig sty, who can get haughty about the omission of that paper seal on the toilet seat signifying the toilet is fit to drink from? And when you live on a daily diet of tuna fish, popcorn, and peanut butter, your restaurant requirements are more relaxed.

Travel opportunities were more accessible, too. If you had an opportunity to go to Fort Lauderdale for spring break, but couldn't get off work, well, good riddance to your dish-washing job at Polly's Pancake House. All of these facts were in evidence on our trip to Mardi Gras when I was a college sophomore back at SEMO, Southeast Missouri State.

My friend Jim Valero, seasoned Mardi Gras veteran and general bon vivant, announced he would be leading an expedition to the festivities. I immediately signed up, remembering the buzz that had spread across campus the year before when seemingly everyone except me had made the journey. I, like most of my fellow coeds, had seen very little of the world (or of the nation for that matter), and I was itching to expand my nineteen-year-old consciousness. One of the world's largest parties seemed like a good place to start. Two days later I was on my way, with $40 in my pocket, and my trip agenda: to get a Tulane University t-shirt and eat red beans and rice.

Valero picked me up (we called everybody by their last names in college because we were tough), then we drove around town gathering the other members of our entourage. In the process we acquired two last minute additions. They spontaneously threw some jeans into a backpack and followed their roommates out to the car, loathe to be left behind. At 8:00 p.m. Valero left town to begin the 800-mile journey; his now burgeoning Chevy Impala carried a dangerous cargo of six wild women and a case of Budweiser.

Just before dawn we crept into the French Quarter, and the exotic surroundings bulged our sleep-swollen eyes. The eerie pre-dawn light intensified the surreal feeling of waking up in this strange place. We bounced slowly down the deserted cobblestone streets with Valero pointing out landmarks. A lone woman wearing a sequined gown stood on the corner in the pale yellow circle of a street lamp. I wondered aloud why she was just standing there by herself at this hour, wearing her pretty party dress. "Do you mean that prostitute?" Valero asked, his voice rising. We were suddenly alert to the prospect of laying eyes on a real prostitute, and all six passengers thronged over to the driver's side, threatening to tip over the Impala. "And that's not a woman, that's a man."

"Oh, my god!!" we shrieked. The car was suddenly clamoring like the inside of a crowded magpie's cage. "Oh, it's not true! You're making it up! Ooohh, how creepy." Upon learning this news, I vowed that my trip would be uneventful, because I wasn't getting out of the car.

However, I soon broke this vow, and within hours was neck deep in the throng of celebrants pushing and shoving to catch the beads tossed from the Mardi Gras floats by royalty. We drank Hurricanes and I ate my red beans and rice. That evening things were going exceedingly well, when one of my comrades, Schafleutzel, bounded up bringing another stroke of good luck. "I've found us a place to stay!" We all cheered.       

This was indeed happy news, since it was about 9 p.m. and we of course had no money for a hotel room, even if cold cash could have bought lodging. Ah, but love could buy what money could not. A gallant young man, enamored with our lovely Schafleutzel, had offered us a room in his apartment, which was conveniently located over the Takee-Outee next door to Pat O'Brien's. Whether Schafleutzel had confided the existence of her six accomplices before this deal was struck was never clear. Nevertheless, at four in the morning we trooped up for a good night's sleep.

We went into the courtyard, and in appropriate parade formation, all eight of us climbed the long, sweeping wrought-iron staircase of the two-hundred-year-old French building. Our good Samaritan opened the door to his apartment and we entered to yet another Mardi Gras feast for the eyes. The elegant tall-ceilinged parlor was ghostly—white sheets draped the furniture in the darkened room, as if the occupants had gone away. The only light came from a candelabra which illuminated two lovers embracing upon a leopard-skin settee. The handsome young man in his twenties was a friend of our host. His naked, muscular torso gleamed in the candlelight, and even though we had interrupted him at an inopportune moment, he seemed happy to see us. It was the object of his affection which raised the hair on the back of my neck. The woman glaring at us wore a plunging black negligee decorated with a single red rosebud at her bosom. With course, gray hair streaming down to her waist, framing her wrinkled, seventy-year-old face, she looked exactly like a lascivious Halloween witch.

We quietly followed our host into a dark bedroom, empty except for a twin bed sans sheets. We tossed the mattress on the floor next to the box springs and all eight of us piled on. While I was lying there amongst the tangle of 32 arms and legs, trying to decide if I dare go to sleep with the Halloween Witch in the next room, a small puppy wandered in and began to insert his needle-like teeth into the hapless flesh of my outstretched leg. Unsure of which arm was mine, I dared not try to swat him. Our luxurious respite was to be brief, however. At 7 a.m. Halloween barged in and ordered everybody out.

Back out on the street again, and definitely the worse for wear, we stumbled along trying to formulate a plan. The revelers were still going and the sight of six unattached females stirred their primal interest. Our group began to pick up quite a following as we made our way down the street. One extremely filthy man—who looked as if he'd just escaped from a Turkish prison—ran up and handed me a driver's license. On the license was the photo of a clean-shaven preppie. "Thish is meeeee!!" he bleated. "Just four days ago I was a normal college student in New Hampshire!! Now look at me!! It's Mardi Grash, Mardi Grash done this to me." We all nodded in understanding, and headed to the Salvation Army for a shower.

Upon arrival, we inquired about using their shower facilities, and were told to have a seat and wait. Soon a matronly woman with home-permanent-fried hair came over and began shouting at us, in what I thought was a most un-Christian-like way. "This Mardi Gras nonsense can just go it!" she yelled, apparently put out by the increased demand on her hospitality. We all sat meekly in our supremely hung-over fog, but somewhere under the stupor I felt like a fool, thinking if my family could see me now, my grandmother would expire with shame.

"Jeez, what's her problem..." I muttered to Schwartz.

"Huh, is she talking to us?"

Self-consciously we all stripped down to wash in the group shower, and one of the shelter's permanent female residents pulled up a chair to watch the free performance.

In the afternoon, we shuffled through the Quarter like zombies. We shopped at the voodoo store, and I saw my first dildo in the window of a sex shop. I stared at the long pink object for quite some time, till I finally asked my friends what it was. "What does it look like, Miller?" I blushed while everyone else had a good guffaw.

The educational tour of the New Orleans area continued, when we all maximized our quarters by crowding all seven of us into a booth at an x-rated movie theater. It quickly got too hot for me (what with all the people crammed into such a tight space) so I said I'd wait outside. As I stood in front of the porn palace, a group of frat boys gathered across the street to hoot catcalls at me, and I wondered what the hell was taking my friends so long.

Finally exhausted from carrying the weight of several pounds of Mardi Gras beads around our necks, we looked for a place to sit down. For some reason, sitting on the curb was illegal, and we saw the paddy wagons full of folks who had made the mistake of ignoring this suggestion. It appeared we were destined to roam the streets like the living dead until we dropped. Instead, the assembled brain trust opted for a bold plan. Our funds were dwindling fast, but we bluffed our way into the Unisex Male and Female Exotic Dancers Club without paying the cover charge. Once inside, we noticed our waiter stood out from the rest of the staff. With his g-string uniform, he sported a pair of black wing-tips and black socks. He asked us if we wanted a drink and when we pitifully whined we couldn't afford one, he confided: "I know what you mean. I go to school in Ann Arbor and I just came down for Mardi Gras. I spent all my money and had to take this job so I could earn enough to get back home."

Within minutes he was gyrating on top of our table, while we young ladies squirmed in our seats, trying to look everywhere except straight ahead. To make matters worse, a dumpy guy in a SEMO college sweatshirt sat down next to my roommate and while wiping the steam from her glasses said, "I bet you don't recognize me, but I'm in your history class at school.

The night ground on, and having no place to stay, we wandered the streets until dawn the following morning. After a quick vote, we decided we should leave for home before we wound up dancing on table tops—or at long last relaxing in one of the paddy wagons. All seven of us piled into the Impala and began to inch out of the French Quarter for the first time in days. Stopped at a red light, the car full of young, laughing females caught the attention of another early-morning party animal. He came over, stuck his head into the car window and whistled a low note as he gazed at the six women. Stupefied, he said to Valero, "Look at this . . . no wonder I haven't been able to meet a single woman since I got here! You've got 'em all. Buddy, I gotta ashk yuh, what IS your secret?"