The other week, I went on a long anticipated travel adventure with a friend.

I’ve been a big fan of Cajun and Zydeco music for years. At a Redstick Ramblers concert last year, here in Chicago, Kevin, the lead fiddler, a red-bearded gentle bear of a man, invited the entire audience to come down to Lahf-yet Looz-ee-anna for the Blackpot Festival and Gumbo Cook-off. I plastered the last weekend of October dates all over my office as inspiration. When I accepted the fact that I would not be visiting South America this fall, there was no way I was going to miss the Blackpot Festival.

A friend and I flew down to the Big Easy Thursday, October 28th. The plan was to hang out in the French Quarter and warehouse district that day then pick up a car to drive to Lafayette Friday morning. We’d leave Lafayette Sunday morning and drive back to N’awlins on Halloween, in time for brunch at Commanders Palace in the Garden District and then catch a small voodoo festival on Dumaine Street around sunset.

The minute I walked off the plane I was excited. I have a very special fondness for New Orleans, a town with more soul than any I can imagine. Ah, what to do first… There were plenty of antique shops and museums. I had never been to City Park before. Weeks ago, I contemplated going on some cemetery and haunted house tours. But, after we made an important lunch stop to have oyster po’boy sandwiches and Abita Amber at the Acme Oyster House, all we wanted to do was BE in New Orleans. We simply walked around the Quarter, in and out of shops and art galleries, trying to jog our respective memories on past New Orleans adventures and remember our local geography. Was The Kitchen Witch where we thought it would be? Did St. Ann Street cut over all the way to Decatur Street? What was the best route to the Café du Monde?

Being in a new place with no particular destination is a joy. My friend and I exercised the simplest form of democracy. After we looked in the windows of specialty stores and galleries, we would look up at each other with unattached openness. We didn’t have to ask out loud. We negotiated the “Do you want to go in?” question by expression alone — one door at a time.

And it seemed that the local school children were given the afternoon off to trick ‘r treat among the small shops in the Quarter. The spirit of surprise and generosity were everywhere. I saw fairy princesses and Darth Vaders, hobos and bumblebees, skeletons, and knights in shining aluminum. The shopkeepers would comment appropriately on how beautiful or frightful their visitors were and dole out handfuls of candy from their waiting supply.

I thought about how a similar ritual was taking place on North Lincoln Avenue and Roscoe Street in my own neighborhood. The business owners would be finding the appeal of costumed children as enjoyable as ringing up their registers.

And I couldn’t help but recall the adage about people being the same everywhere. This, of course, is true. Thing is, when I travel, I’m not the same.

Traveling makes you look at things in a fresh way. It’s a chance to see how people celebrate different traditions and demonstrate how they belong to their tribe. It’s also a chance to see without looking.

When you’re out of your own routine and have no agenda or place where you have to be, you can really settle into the being-ness of where you are.

Appreciating the way a little trip opens your eyes and heart is no small thing.