I am a planner by nature. Spontaneity is not my strong suit. Those who know me would not be surprised to learn that I’m plotting my 2009 travels already. So this past weekend in New Orleans – really, 36 hours in New Orleans – is quite out of character. I booked the trip on Thursday, and by Friday afternoon, was in New Orleans.

Last year, April 2007, my trip to Jazz Fest was 3 years in the making. A college friend and I vowed we would meet there to mark 20 years since we graduated. We had a great time, with unbelievably perfect weather. We happened to catch an act I’d never heard before, but had heard of: The Subdudes. Their insistent swampy, funky rock pulled me out of my seat and made an instant fan of me. Fast forward to last Monday night in late April, 2008, which finds me and Rick at the Ram’s Head Tavern in our Annapolis stomping grounds for a very intimate show with The Subdudes which left me wanting more more more.

I looked up The Subdudes’ schedule to find they would be playing at Jazz Fest the following weekend. To make things even more tantalizing, they would be followed immediately on the same stage by Jimmy Buffett. As a sailing, island-loving, rum-drinking beach-o-phile, I am constitutionally obligated to be a Parrothead. We’d seen J.B. in concert for a dozen years in a row, until he stopped playing our local outdoor venue and the logistics became too difficult. We’d soothed our souls by holding an annual Margaritaville “sailgate” party with our sailing club in recent years, but we still missed the buzz of the real thing.

By Thursday morning, Rick said “let’s just go.” He’d actually been saying that for weeks, months even, because he’s come to love New Orleans in general, and Jazz Fest in particular, as much as I do. But between our busy 2008 travel schedule (we’d already been to Las Vegas, Chicago, Richmond, St. Martin and Anguilla), and the fact that my inhibitions are loosened (and consequently my wallet) in New Orleans, I’d demurred. However, on Thursday morning, with the rhythm of “Papa Dukie and the Mud People” still pulsing in my veins, I succumbed, got online, and set it all up.

Friday afternoon’s travels were pretty smooth. US Airways from BWI-CLT-MSY. Taxi to the JW Marriott on Canal Street, which was quite fine for one day’s notice (though not the hotel we’d have chosen had there been choices). The skies were wet and ominous, however. We ventured out into the rain to buy folding chairs and prepare ourselves for Saturday, then had a few drinks in the lobby bar before heading out to dinner.

I’d gotten us a 9:15 p.m. reservation at Cochon for dinner, in the Warehouse District. On arrival, I was gratified to find the place hopping – it’s a relief to see that New Orleans continues to recover from the devastation of Katrina. On the other hand, however, it wasn’t too much fun to wait til 10 p.m. for our table. The food was worth the wait. Cochon celebrates all things pig, and our meals were excellent – from pig’s ears to sausage. Service fell apart a bit towards the end, and we ended up having our drinks comped, but the kind of busy-ness one finds in New Orleans during Jazz Fest explains the glitches.

Saturday morning did not look promising at all. The downpour kept us from going to Café du Monde for breakfast, and the tornado watch and severe thunderstorm warning made us worry about what we were getting ourselves into. As we bought our tickets for the shuttle bus, the concierge warned that if the weather were bad enough, Jazz Fest could be canceled. Nevertheless, we’d prepared ourselves for rain and slop and mud by bringing rain coats and shoes and clothes that could be sacrificed if necessary. It was still raining when we boarded the shuttle ($16 round trip), and drizzling when we reached the fairgrounds around 11:30.

The rain initially kept all but the hardiest souls away, so we were actually able to sit at tables – instead of standing up -- as we ate our lunch (soft-shell crab po-boy, jambalaya), even as our feet sank deep into mud. We were also able to stake out a decent spot at the Acura Stage, where we’d end up spending the entire day. Miraculously, despite the forecast, the skies cleared by mid-day and the crowds came in force.

One might think that Jazz Fest is all about the music. But in reality, it’s a huge social event for New Orleanians, with the added interest of incidental out-of-towners thrown in. There’s a lot of eating, drinking, conversing and preening going on. New Orleans women tend to dress a bit better than your typical festival crowd, but practicality also plays a role – thus, the women in sundresses and straw hats were as likely as not to be wearing coordinating wellies on their feet. The rest of the crowd is dressed in thematic “Been-There-Done-That” gear, with lots of Jazz Fest shirts from past years (I have a really great Hawaiian styled one), not to mention the requisite Parrothead shirts.

Of course, the music plays no small part, and that was the main reason why we were there. What makes Jazz Fest so magical is that there are so many amazing artists floating around that you never know who’s going to pop up on stage with the people you’re expecting to hear. Thus, there were several Nevilles on stage with the Dixie Cups as they performed their iconic “Iko Iko.” (Incidentally, they performed the Neville’s arrangement of “Iko Iko” combined with “Brother John.”). And that Sonny Landreth should find his way on stage with Jimmy Buffett was no surprise.

The Subdudes’ set was all too short, as the Jazz Fest scheduling is tight and – for New Orleans – disciplined. We were pleased to hear them play some of our favorites, including the obligatory “Papa Dukie” (though WE were the Mud People…) and “Sarita.” They left us wanting more, and I’m sure we’ll be checking out other shows.

Given that we were at the Fairgrounds (i.e. the racetrack), the big screens showed the running of the Kentucky Derby before J.B. came on stage. Though we are not horse racing fans, we are Marylanders and we always pause to watch our own Triple Crown race, the Preakness. Taking a pause to watch the Derby, then, is a natural.

Finally, but a bit early, Jimmy Buffett and the Coral Reefer Band took the stage at 5:25-ish. The assembled crowd rose to their feet and stayed there for the balance. Jimmy was in fine form, weaving together songs from deep within the treasure trove, songs with New Orleans and Gulf Coast ties, as well as the required anthems of his summer tours. He also added a stab at current events (at one point, he introduced the Coral Reeferettes as the “Polygamist Back-Up Singers,” as they dressed up in the now-familiar garb and long braids of the Texas religious sect – a costume which Jimmy himself donned later). He introduced a charismatic young performer from the Cape Verde Islands named Ilo Ferreira, who performed original music of his own, as well as “Volcano” (he looks like a young Denzel Washington, and sings as beautifully as he looks). Jimmy exceeded his time allotment a bit, but managed 24 songs, which is a respectable showing given the Jazz Fest time constraints. (And those of us who are used to shelling out $$$$ to scalpers … er … ticket brokers to see him were quite pleased that for the $50 same-day admission to the Fest we got Jimmy and LOTS more.)

As feats of organization go, New Orleans is not a prime example. As we heard repeatedly throughout the weekend: they’re not so good at fixing things, but know how to have a good time. Jazz Fest, however, gives lie to that, as it’s an event that combines organization and celebration seamlessly. Somehow, after a full day of carousing, dancing, drinking and merry-making, the crowd of tens of thousands disperses fairly neatly, and we were back at our hotel within an hour of leaving the Fairgrounds. Not a small feat at all.

It took some doing to clean the mud and stink of ourselves after returning, but alas the sunburn was indelible. Even though I’d had sunscreen with me, the awful weather forecast didn’t invite too much diligence (and I ill-advisedly relied on the SPF 15 claims on my cosmetics…). We enjoyed a late dinner, but didn’t do too much carousing since we had an early morning flight back home. Because our flights were arranged so late, our routing home was perverse and torturous: MSY-DCA-LGA-BWI. We simply got off the plane at DCA and took public transportation back to BWI to retrieve our car (and were home by early afternoon, instead of evening).

All the while this weekend, Rick and I were giving each other dopey looks which can be loosely translated as “I can’t believe we’re here!” To quote from the Subdudes’ song “The Rain” – “life … is very good indeed.”