NEW ORLEANS — “Now we have to play the waiting game,” Nicky Cao, 17, sighed as he leaned against the bus station and waited to see when the 94 Broad bus will pick him up and take him downtown to see his friends in a Mardi Gras parade.

Cao often finds himself waiting alone on the side of Chef Menteur Highway, a road that stretches out into the industrial emptiness of Eastern New Orleans. Cao, who is Vietnamese, lives in Village de L'Est, a small suburban enclave in East New Orleans known for its large Vietnamese community.

A bus passes the station. “No, that’s out of service. They play you when they do that,” Cao joked. “All the tourists that come here, you know the first thing that they go on is the streetcar, and they are like ‘Oh, public transportation must be good,’” Cao said, arching an eyebrow and twisting his lips into a cynical half-smile. “I am like, ‘No, just ‘cause the streetcar comes every five to 10 minute for you, does not mean [public transportation] is good.’”

Before Hurricane Katrina, there were several buses connecting Village de L’Est with the city, but now, a decade later, there is only this one.

“I know exactly why they fix the streetcar,” Cao said. “‘Cause they make the most money off of it. The tourists go there.” The sun begins to set, and the highway darkens slowly from east to west, as the bus arrives 30 minutes late. Cao is gender fluid; he said that on the bus he sticks out as “a minority within the minorities.” When he dresses femininely in bright heels and knee-length cotton skirts, Cao keeps music blaring in his headphones and tries not to make eye contact with anyone. After being robbed, harassed, and propositioned while waiting for and riding the bus, Cao now carries a pink, spiked, hard plastic knuckle so he can defend himself.