There is a crowd outside Preservation Hall. I can see blurred outlines of people, mostly wanderers from Bourbon Street, drinks still in hand. From there, they can see shadows of the dozens of onlookers for the seven-piece ensemble that plays – preserves – jazz. From there, they’ve only got a crack in the window to listen to the notes, but they crowd to it, curiosity piqued. From there, the experience is a passing moment. From there, it’s something the beer will let them gloss over later on.

From where I sit, I’ve got it all. I’m on a mat on the wooden floor, surrounded by friends and strangers. When I open my eyes, I see the light flashing off a dull, aged trumpet, the movements of the men and their instruments. When I shut them, it is the first time I’ve felt the rhythm of New Orleans, my home for the week. It’s the first time I’ve felt what it means to wander the streets of the Crescent City. It’s been a few days already, and it took just a few notes to learn the meaning of the experience.

Wallet in Front Pocket

I’ve been traveling since I was a kid – ferries, trains, horrible military planes – but not enough to lose that heightened sense of perception that comes when wandering a new city. Traveling is when fears are realized, and sometimes validated. I’ve heard stories about this place. My father visited when he was my age. He looked down the nose of a gun, into a pink Cadillac’s headlight as they bore down on him, through the bars of the jail cell he was thrown in after getting separated from his friends. There are other stories – a friend was mugged, another had a boyfriend who got so drunk in a bar he started making out with other guys.

These are not good stories. And yet I’m here, wandering with four friends for six nights.

I avoid eye contact with lone strangers at night, listen to the street noise instead of the beggars. I brush my hands over my pockets when someone brushes against me. I keep my wallet in a front pocket, though my credit cards are at the hotel, buried in a backpack in a drawer.

It’s hard to soak in a city’s culture when the defensive instincts kick in, when even the way I walk marks me as a tourist. But I try to lower my shield. Try to hide my digital camera in my cargo pants so no one sees how I’m documenting everything, making proof of the trip so I can relive it in a week, in ten years.

I wander into bars as if I belong there, let the waiters bring the table Hurricanes or sake as if I am accustomed to it. We stand on Bourbon Street in crowds of drunk middle-aged men, letting them shout the colors of shirts they want lifted. We look until we are buzzed or bored.

I do not want to be the typical tourist, and yet I can’t help but scramble for any typical New Orleans experience. I’m spending the week here, and I want to walk in the city’s shoes.

That’s Idaho, Actually

We bump into other talkative tourists at the hotel midweek. They want to know where we’re from. When we tell them Iowa, they insist that in the South, that’s pronounced Ohio. We go along, as it’s obvious that in this conversation, if you’re from Iowa, you’re also regarded as being stupid enough to mispronounce the state’s name. As we walk away, someone explains “Ohio” is where potatoes come from.

The country-kids-meet-big-city stereotypes don’t fall into place everywhere, though. While Louisiana is a seafood-lover’s paradise, I soon discover New Orleans wasn’t as vegetarian-friendly as I had assumed the large city would be.

After a few days of feeding on french fries, I start to eye the alligator bites at Pat O’Brien’s, wanting to leave the trip with a taste of everything. I have a few sips of miso soup, part of my vegetarian combo at Samurai Sushi, before the waiter mentions the fish flakes in it. I decide to restrict the rest of my new taste experiences to the bevy of daiquiris, as I’ve yet to try one that tastes like fish.

Get Me Off This Can

It’s one of our last times riding the street car. We’re heading back to the French Quarter after a brief jaunt to the Garden District, where we contemplated urinating on the Real World house, now just a dilapidated mess. The car is crowded and I’m separated momentarily from my four friends. I’ve lived the week in the shadows of New Orleans, wanting to take in whatever the city can deliver. I watch crowds zip by – blurs of people I’ll never know.

When the plane takes off a few days later, the cloud cover is so minimal I can see the patchwork of America – soil interrupted by roads, cities spotted with suburbs. I think of the lives I’ll never lead, the buildings I’ll never enter, the foods I’ll never taste.

The end of a trip is usually tinged with a hint of depression – I’m returning to the everyday things, having the momentary alternate life fade into a memory, a photograph. There is no context for the experience of traveling without the return flight, though, the audience for the stories we’ve just lived.

On the street car, an angry man yells while beating the back door. He’s been trying to hop off for several stops, but, lost in the crowd, his attempts to pry open the door go unnoticed. “Will somebody get me off this can?” he screams.

He wants off. But I’d keep riding if I could, even if the high of being new to this place has worn off.

Earlier in the week, a scammy psychic gripped my palm and told me she sees much more traveling in my future. Though everything else she said has been wrong, I can cling to that, at least. Maybe this isn’t my last ride on the streetcar.

Cavan Reagan is a junior in journalism and mass communication from Bellevue, Neb. He is the news editor of the Daily.