I took my little sister to the zoo last winter. “I need to go to the zoo” I said, and she understood.
To me, wanting to go to the zoo is the same as craving creamy yogurt or itching to plunge my hands into those huge barrels of glass beads at the county fair.
Walking around to see the different animals, smelling the cinnamon-infused air, seeing the lights turn on as dusk nears…these are visceral experiences that fit together as much as tomato soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches.
I picked a day in the middle of the week — being homeschooled has its perks sometimes — and we geared up for a typical December day in Oregon: layers of sweaters and raincoats, gloves, hats and scarves…and my rainbow umbrella.
The pouring rain and thick fog made it hard to drive the familiar-yet-not-familiar route to the Oregon Zoo.
(I missed the turn and had to come in a back way.)
I parked the car and we opened the doors to biting wind and rain in our faces. Not surprisingly, only a few cars were in the lot next to the entrance.
But that was exactly how we wanted the trip to be: not crowded, the zoo all to ourselves. We bought our tickets, and walked through the gate.
The last time we’d been here together, it had been a Summer family outing under the guise of a school field trip. I’d spent most of the time drawing hurried sketches of animals.
(I still like my rhino sketch — I think it looks ready to come off the page.)
This time, I was armed with my beloved camera (a Nikon D3300 named Howell, my $500 pride and joy).
I fully intended to take as many pictures as I could, of colors and animals and enclosures — and the occasional person.
There were downsides to visiting that day; the outdoor animals were all curled up in their caves and burrows, and the polar bear exhibit was closed for relocation.
Our coats were completely soaked by the third exhibit, even with the umbrella. There were streams of water running alongside the walkways, and the air was misty with condensation.
As we stepped past the plastic curtain in the aviary, the steam blew in our faces and made my jacket feel even heavier than before.
I wanted to take pictures of the birds, but the air fogged up my camera lens so much that all the pictures came out soft and muted.
I took some pictures of my sister,and they looked ethereally fuzzy and glow-y, but I couldn’t get a good grip on my focus lens because of the steam.
The air and the warmth made the entire room feel very close, but my sister and I were the only ones there. It felt intimate and crowded, but we were alone.
It was a strange experience, feeling alone among all those incredible animals. Being able to take in something outside myself with no distractions and fully think about it while I took it in, that is what draws me to places like an empty zoo.
Knowing that thousands of people have stood there, and imagining all the emotions they felt and the words they spoke fascinates me.
I love going to overgrown buildings, old swimming pools, exploring a countryside neighborhood at dusk. I can feel the ghosts of people that have been there.
Sometimes I can feel the presence of people better alone than in the middle of a huge crowd. There’s just something about empty places that make me look closer and listen harder.
I am still in awe remembering that day at the zoo. I want to take my sister again this December, and maybe we can go on a dry day this time, and see the new polar bear exhibit.
