It is nearly impossible to find a place to stay during any festival in New Orleans, so Dan had made arrangements three months prior. We were going to camp. We arrived at a campground that was actually located within the city. It was a huge slab of cement with RVs parked in neat rows. I wasn't quite sure how camping in a parking lot in the middle of New Orleans could have ever seemed like a good idea to Dan, but from the look on his face I knew I would be better off if I didn't ask. Gina had courage. She asked him how he planned on setting up our tent on concrete, while Keith just stood there and laughed. Dan didn't say a word; he turned around and started walking toward the office. It was a small, gray concrete structure that looked like a parking-lot attendant's booth.

I don't know what was said, but he returned and announced that we needed to find a new place to sleep. While we were standing there discussing what our next move would be, an Eddie Bauer edition SUV pulled up. The power window came down with a whir and the driver asked us where we were planning on staying. He was the type of guy who called himself a hippie and drove a brand new SUV, wore GAP cargo shorts and a Patagonia shirt, had the Grateful Dead on the CD player, and air conditioning, which kept his perfectly rolled dreadlocks from frizzing in the humidity.

The first thing that came to my mind was: "Eddie Bauer? Salon dreads? Money! Maybe this rich hippie can help us out."

We did the small talk of "where are you from," we told him Arizona, and he told us, "You know, all over, I'm not really from anywhere anymore." Then he asked, "Where are you guys going to stay?"

"We haven't decided yet, but not here," replied Keith. Then the rich hippie said, "Well can I hook up with you guys? If you get a hotel, can I stay with you? I don't have any money."

I told him that we had enough people to worry about and a fifth would make it even more difficult; plus, we didn't have any money either. Why couldn't he sleep in his vehicle? Everyone looked at me with total shock. I had been in situations like that before and had no intention of carrying anyone through this trip. After he left, I began to feel a little guilty about blowing the rich hippie off. One by one the other three said they were glad I turned him down because none of us wanted to be part of his charade.

There was a hotel across the street with a vacancy. We decided that Gina and I would go in and get a room for two then sneak the others in. My so-called innocent face had gotten me in trouble again. We walked in and I asked the woman at the desk how much a room for two would cost. It was $100, after a little discussion we decided that we would take the room, $25 each wasn't bad. She said, "Great, what about your boyfriends? You know, it's $100 more for them."

She had seen us at the RV campground and watched us walk over. Gina told the woman that we were not actually with them, we had just given them a ride. The woman told us that she would be watching us and would kick us out the first time she saw them on the property. We didn't think she was serious, so we took the room and lugged all of the bags up. Then we went to our rendezvous point to meet the other two so we could head to Bourbon Street.

The French Quarter is the city's most well-known neighborhood. It is the original settlement dating back to 1718. It was named Nouvelle-Orleans, for the Duc d'Orleans, regent of France under Louis XV. In 1763, Louisiana was divided between the British and Spanish. The Spanish controlled New Orleans for 47 years; then France regained its claim. The mixture resulted in the French-Spanish culture known as Creole.

The French and Spanish mixture of architecture is stunning. The French Quarter is made of about 10 blocks of narrow streets lined with businesses and homes of bright colors and exotic-looking entrances. The balconies are my favorite part. They are made of wrought iron, and almost every one of them is covered in plants.

I had been to New Orleans before and spoke to many locals who said they never leave their homes during Mardi Gras. Many felt that it had become a commercial event for tourists and drunken college kids. Standing on Bourbon Street that night, I began to wonder if that's what had become of the Jazz Festival.

I had separated from my friends. Dan had run into a woman he knew from Phoenix. She set up a tab for him in a bar that was a major player in the tourist-trap game. I mingled and made small talk at the bar for about 15 minutes, then excused myself.

The streets were packed with people who obviously were not from Louisiana. The difference between this and Mardi Gras was that there were no drunken college kids. It was their parents. I stood there watching thousands of upper-middle class white people walk from bar to bar as drunk as their kids were a few months earlier at Carnival.

Every bar on the street had the sounds of live jazz coming out their open doors to entice prospective customers. Scantily clad women called out to middle-aged men, inviting them into strip joints. Most of the men watched the women out of the corner of their eyes and kept walking. Those who had left their wives at home entered.

People watching is one of my favorite pasttimes. I found a prime vantage point on Bourbon Street and settled down for the show. Gina came walking down the street to join me. We have been friends for a long time, and she knew exactly what I was doing. As we sat there, I kept wondering if the Jazz Festival would be more of the same, and if the French Quarter had become just another tourist spot. Had it become the Disney World of New Orleans?

At about four in the morning Dan and Keith came strolling down the street to ask us if we could go back to the hotel. They were ready to pass out. We parked way in the back of the hotel and walked up to our room. About two minutes went by and there was a knock on the door. It was a security guard who looked like he was in his early 20s. He had been warned by the front-desk clerk to watch for us. Amidst all the crime in that neighborhood, this guy's job was to watch for us all night. He kept telling us that he didn't care about his job and he hated the hotel. Gina asked him why then he cared about what we did.

"I don't give a rat's ass what you do. Like I said, I hate this place."

"So we're okay then?" Dan sort of stated and asked simultaneously.

"Well, like I said, I don't give a rat's ass, but you shouldn't be here. She told me to look out for you."

"But you said you didn't care."

"I don't give a rat's ass about this hotel."

"So we're okay then," said Dan again.

"Well, I don't give a rat's ass, but she said to not let you stay here."

I hated that he was trying to be forceful and look cool at the same time. I also did not want to hear the expression "rat's ass" again. So I stepped in and said, "They are staying with us. We picked them up in the French Quarter."

"Like I said, I don't give a rat's ass. You do what you want," and he walked away.

The next morning we learned that the price for the hotel went up to $200 a night for the weekend. There was no way we could pay that much, nor did we want to for that place. We were more concerned with jazz than we were about a place to sleep, so we loaded up the truck and headed to the New Orleans Fair Grounds for the Jazz and Heritage Festival. I was surprised to find out that it was on a racetrack. Where else would they be able to fit 10 stages, dozens of food vendors, and hundreds of artists, not to mention the tens of thousands who purchase tickets? A ticket price for the day was $7. As we entered, I happily noticed the crowd was a mix of tourists and locals.

The 10 stages were going simultaneously, which meant I needed to plan my day carefully. There was blues, traditional jazz, New Orleans-style jazz, gospel, Zydeco, rock, and modern jazz all happening at once. There was a board at the entrance that announced every performer at every stage. I tried to plan my day according to whom I wanted to see, but there were so many performers I ended up getting confused. I decided to just wander and catch whatever acts I could. I didn't even make it past the gospel tent for about three hours.

We all went our separate ways because there was so much to see that we couldn't possibly see everything we wanted and stay together as a group. I ran into each member of our group at various points throughout the day, but we didn't hang out together until we all happened to end up in the tent where Al Hirt was performing. For me the whole point of the journey was the opportunity to see legends like Al Hirt.

The festival lasts from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. After 7 o'clock, the fairgrounds close and the big-name performers put on concerts at the UNO Lakefront Arena. None of us had enough money to see any of those shows. Each show was $35 to $40.

We decided that we had better find a place to sleep. We ended up camping about 30 miles outside the city. The campground was full of families on vacation together, and us, a group of four people who had traveled 25 hours to hear some jazz and hang out in New Orleans.

The next day we decided to spend some time in the city instead of Jazz Fest. We started the day doing the most touristy thing I could think of, breakfast at Cafe Du Monde. It was completely packed with travelers from all over the world. A young man from El Salvador served us our Cafe Au Laits and beignets, which were absolutely perfect. We walked across the street to Jackson Square, named after Andrew Jackson, with a bronze statue of him in the center. Beautiful old buildings surround the square, but the one I always find myself in awe of is the St. Louis Cathedral. It was built in 1794 and its dramatic steeples command attention.

We walked just north of the French Quarter to the St. Louis Cemetery, which is famous for its aboveground crypts. The city's foundation is mud because it is below sea level, so in-ground burials are impossible. This cemetery is beautiful and haunting at the same time. Most of the crypts sat higher than my eye level, so all I could see was cold, gray concrete in every direction. There were statues that have been weathered for 200 years. Their features were fading, and the humidity and rain have given them spots of green and black.

As we walked through the French Quarter on our way to the Voodoo Museum, I noticed several people sitting on their balconies eating lunch. I immediately thought of two nights before, when I pondered whether the French Quarter had become just a tourist trap. The bars and restaurants were open, but it was the locals who were the patrons now. We stopped in a bar to use the restroom. As we walked in, one fairly tossed individual gave us a look like, "What are you people doing here?" The bartender looked at me and said, "Where you at, baby?" This meant, "How are you doing?" I told him I was doing well and that we were just hanging out for the day. He suggested a diner that served real New Orleans food, "not that stuff that you think you should get when you come down here." I thanked him and we headed down to the museum.

The Voodoo Museum is a very small, two-room facility. We walked in and signed up for a tour with five other people. Our guide was a young woman with thick, long, black hair. We followed her into the other room, where she didn't really give a tour; rather she showed us artifacts and explained them while giving a brief history of voodoo in New Orleans. Marie Laveau, a free woman of color, as well as a Quadroon (African, Indian, French, and Spanish), was the most famous and powerful voodoo queen in the world from the 1830s to the 1880s. She lived her whole life in New Orleans and actually practiced rituals behind the St. Louis Cathedral. The museum had multiple shrines to her, as well as pictures of rituals and voodoo practitioners. It also featured a caged snake that was taken out for ceremonies. The entire tour lasted less than an hour. We gave our offerings and left.

It was almost 7 p.m. when we headed to the diner that the bartender had recommended. There was only one table taken. Two men and two women sat while the middle-aged waitress stood and talked to them. She looked up and said, "Sit anywhere you want, babies." I love that accent and that they call everyone baby. We sat and looked around and made small talk with each other, waiting for our menus.

It took 20 minutes for her to finish her conversation and bring us four menus. Dan was getting extremely impatient. Finally we are in New Orleans, I thought. People are so laid back that waiting 20 minutes for a menu is not usually a big deal. After all, our waitress was having a conversation! About 45 minutes later, she took our orders of two Po' Boys and two orders of pancakes. The Big Easy isn't easy on vegetarians, so Gina and I decided breakfast sounded like a good idea since it was the only non-meat option. She brought us our food and I immediately tasted the bacon that had been cooked on the griddle before my pancakes. Gina noticed the same thing. Knowing that no one would understand, we just poured on extra syrup and ate it anyway. The Po' Boys got rave reviews.

The last day of the festival, we packed up the truck and drove into the city. Keith had decided to spend more time in the city, so we dropped him off by the Mississippi Riverwalk. The day consisted of me running back and forth to catch as many acts as possible. I ran from Widespread Panic, to George Clinton & the P-Funk All-stars, to The Radiators, to Terence Blanchard, and of course, the Neville Brothers, who are a staple at the Jazz-Fest.

The act that caught my attention most was an adolescent gospel choir from New Orleans. Those kids were true performers. Their music was very high-energy and demanded they perform to the best of their abilities. Two songs into their performance they had everyone in the tent on their feet and clapping along. Their voices were so strong that people couldn't pass by. They packed the tent and overflowed out the sides and back. As soon as their performance was over, I was off and running again.

It was extremely hot and humid that day. Because the festival is on a racetrack the tents were the only refuge from the unrelenting sun, but they didn't provide any relief from the humidity. We were so enthralled by the music that it didn't look like anyone was even uncomfortable. I know I was so caught in the moment that I didn't notice my clothes had become damp, or the sticky layer of moisture on my skin, or that my hair had completely curled. It got so curly that it actually shrunk at the bottom and sort of formed a triangle on my head.

At the end of the day, I realized that I had not eaten any mango ice cream, which is my favorite New Orleans treat. I found one vendor who still had some. It was wonderfully smooth, but with a little tanginess from the mango. I ate the ice cream, which tasted like a little bit of heaven, as quickly as I could before it melted in the heat. Soon after I finished, we were on our way to pick up Keith and head for the Gulf of Mexico.

As I sat in the back of the truck watching the city turn into suburbs, I thought about how commercial it had become. It happens with everything, as soon as it catches on and the money starts coming in, things change. There is still a living, working community in the French Quarter. You just have to be there when they are.