On April 4 and 5, 1995, something happened to me that I have yet to forget. It was on that pair of otherwise normal days (Tuesday and Wednesday, to be exact) that something took place in my city that had not happened in 15 years: the Grateful Dead came to town. I wasn’t a Deadhead by any means, but I owned a few records and liked them enough to scrape together my meager teenage finances to go to the show and find out, firsthand, just what – if anything—I had been missing. I wanted to know why people would abandon the comforts of home to follow the band from town to town, living off the kindness of strangers for months at a time, just to catch the next show. I was not disappointed. There I got a glimpse into another culture, one similar to our own but at the same time wholly separate. Their world was so different from my own, so much more exciting, and though the fact that I was barely old enough to drive kept me from joining their world, I was thankful that they allowed an outsider to share it for a little while.