As Byron Lee and the Dragonaires finished their rousing third number on a balmy opening night of Carnival, the band leader scanned the crowd, then pointed directly at me, and motioned for me to join him on the stage. I had come to Trinidad hoping to experience something special, but I hadn’t expected this.

Following the movement of Lee’s finger as if hypnotized, I glided by the front of the stage and up the stairs at the end. I heard distant yells from the crowd and music from the band, but I felt enveloped in silence, alone in my thoughts. What would happen next? And how would I respond?

I had flown in to Port of Spain from Los Angeles with my wife Joan just hours earlier. This trip had come together almost by accident, the latest culmination of our ongoing search for new places, new experiences. When you want to see something new, all you have to do is open your eyes. I’ve always traveled with my eyes wide open and found something new that I loved in every city I’ve visited. It might have been unique architecture in Vienna, spellbinding museums in Paris, intense street life in Mexico City, or eye-popping scenery in Zermatt. But the best memories for me have always revolved around two attractions – food and music.

That was how New Orleans came to occupy a central place for years in my gallery of travel memories. I might never have made it there had I not married Joan. We met in Los Angeles, but she had grown up around Galveston, Texas, just a short jump down the Gulf coast from Cajun country. On my first visit to her hometown, we caught the ferry from Galveston over to the Bolivar peninsula, then drove across the bayous to Lafayette and on to New Orleans. I realized instantly I had long missed out on one of America’s cultural and culinary treasures.

I recall in detail every one of my half dozen visits to the Crescent City over a period of twenty years, especially the two for Mardi Gras. Staying in 200-year old inns like the Bienville House. Starting the day with café au lait and beignets at Café du Monde. Listening to street musicians in Jackson Square, while enjoying a half-round muffuletta sandwich stuffed with cold cuts and olive spread from the Central Grocery. Spending a slow afternoon wandering among the decaying crypts in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. Dining on grilled pompano at Antoine’s. Drinking away the early evening with Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s, then listening to straight-ahead jazz at Fritzel’s. And the music-blasting, bead-throwing Mardi Gras parades, starting with a neighborhood audience along St. Charles Street and finishing among the crowds on Canal Street. I longed to be up there on one of those floats, a participant, not just an onlooker.

But the luster eventually faded from the Big Easy. Once I left the French Quarter to explore other neighborhoods, I saw how poor and deteriorated much of the city had become, probably had been for a long time. It’s hard to get a bad meal in New Orleans, but the quality gradually suffered, maybe from being taken for granted. Getting a table at Café du Monde became an exercise in frustration. And the hard-drinking, carousing tourist hordes on Bourbon Street looked more and more like an overage fraternity party.

In late 1998, with my eyes wide open in search of something new, I came upon a magazine article about pre-Lenten celebrations in other countries. I remembered experiencing that in Austria and Germany, where it was known as Fasching or Fastnacht. And I read about Rio de Janeiro’s samba-driven, skin-revealing Carnaval. But who knew that a version of it is practiced on practically every Caribbean island? And that the most colorful, most musical, most food-inspiring Caribbean Carnival happens in Trinidad?

I knew little about Trinidad then, other than it coupled with the island of Tobago as a long-time British colony. I remembered that from my childhood stamp-collecting days, when picturesque colonial postage stamps and a global map taught me geography never covered in school.

Inspired, I rushed to find out more. I had forgotten that it sits just off the north coast of Venezuela. Spain controlled it at one time, but most of its modern history was spent within the British Commonwealth. Like all the European colonies in the Caribbean, its economic value came from sugar cane, fruit, and rum, produced by African slaves on vast plantations. When the British ended slavery in the mid-1800s but still needed cheap labor, they imported indentured servants from India. Today, three-fourths of the population is split pretty evenly between people of African and Indian ancestry, with the rest mixed-race, European, or Asian. That sounded like a mélange that would produce some interesting culture and food. I had found that in Jamaica and Puerto Rico. Trinidad looked even more enticing.

While Port of Spain had developed into a major commercial center for the southern Caribbean, the neighboring island of Tobago remained much less developed, especially favored by tourists for its jaw-dropping underwater scenery. I had seen photos in diving magazines of brain corals the size of pickup trucks in water as clear as gin. This became more interesting all the time. We could experience the intensity of Carnival on Trinidad, then decompress with several days of scuba diving on Tobago.

The first challenge would be getting from Los Angeles to Trinidad. No non-stop flights, not even direct flights. Trinidad lies so far south that it turned out to be more efficient to make a single connection through New York than to hop-scotch down via Miami and Jamaica.

Getting to and from Tobago turned out to be far more complex. Only Caribbean Air served that short but important route, and the airline’s minimalist website showed just one daily flight, which had to be booked by phone. It turned out to be sold out every day for weeks around Carnival.

“Don’t worry,” an upbeat agent with a lilting Caribbean accent assured me. “We add as many flights as needed. We just don’t ticket them far in advance. Show up at the airport. There won’t be a problem. Or check back closer to your travel dates.” She sounded so positive, we decided to take that on faith.

Our experiences at Mardi Gras taught us to book hotels well in advance, but making reservations in New Orleans was a digital breeze compared to dealing with a remote island where most accommodations were in small guest houses, few of which had websites. Tourists who planned further ahead had booked up the handful of larger hotels. Word of mouth turned out to be the charm. When the few private hostelries for which we could find phone numbers turned out, not surprisingly, to be equally full, they gladly referred us to friends and relatives who might still have a room available. We quickly became one of AT&T’s best customers. Just as we thought we had exhausted all our leads, a woman with a lovely phone voice, having just apologized for having no room for us, made our day.

“Wait,” she exclaimed, as I was about to hang up. “My cousin, she owns the Yellow Bird Guest House, she was here earlier. She mentioned they just had a cancellation this morning. Give her a try.”

We called immediately and just in time, snagging what may have been the last available room in Port of Spain. We had no idea what we would be getting, but the name of the establishment, coupled with the friendliness of the proprietor, gave us all the hope we needed.

As our February 1999 departure approached, I felt giddy with anticipation, like a five-year old approaching a birthday party. No one I knew had been to Trinidad, let alone Carnival there, so everything I learned came from magazine articles and travel guides. The internet had not yet evolved into a comprehensive information source.

What I read was tantalizing. The whole country participated in Carnival – half the population marching in parades, performing in bands, or hawking food, while the other half lined the parade routes as lively spectators. And, unlike the exclusive float-sponsoring krewes of Mardi Gras, anyone and everyone was welcome to march. Even first-time visitors could dress up and join in with one of the local groups.

Arriving in Port of Spain in the early afternoon, we experienced our first taste of Carnival soca music (as in soul and calypso), its high-energy rhythms blasting from speakers in the airport terminal, from the radio in the taxi, and from shoulder-borne boomboxes. I quickly noticed one song in particular being played everywhere, a mashup of reggae, soca, and Dixieland, with a recurring line about “the river.” Our cab snaked its way through the crowds, past the arena which would be the central Carnival performance venue, and up a long hill lined with pink, blue, and green homes, to the Yellow Bird Guest House.

Our room, formerly a basement, had been decorated in a Caribbean motif. Tapestries and prints of island scenery covered the walls. A hand-made quilt of multi-colored patches lay on the king-size bed. The room lacked any windows, but it looked cozy enough, and how much time would we be spending there anyway?

As soon as we settled in and unpacked, I went in search of our hostess to get an orientation. I knew the parades would begin the next day, but we had the evening ahead of us.

“I have a wonderful idea for you, for your first night here,” she declared excitedly, as if offering a tasty treat. “An excellent band from Jamaica is performing outdoors in a park not far from here, by the Hilton. Byron Lee and the Dragonaires. You must go! This will get you into the spirit of Carnival.”

I wondered how authentic a band playing next door to the Hilton would be, but her enthusiasm overcame my doubts. After a dinner of conch fritters and fried grouper at the guest house, I felt ready to begin Carnival. Still, picturing this as a Hilton event, I dressed conservatively in grey slacks and a magenta polo shirt.

Joan’s chronic back pain, a longtime condition associated with scoliosis, had surfaced after two long flights.

“You go ahead,” she urged. “I want to take some medicine and lie down. I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

She had looked forward to this trip and was sorely disappointed at having the pain surface so soon, though we had experienced this many times before. I felt bad for her, but I knew not to argue. Grabbing a taxi, I took off, eagerly anticipating the evening ahead and the days to come.

The park turned out to be an open area adjacent to the hotel, surrounded by a colonial-era stone wall. A performance stage forty feet wide, framed in floodlights, occupied the side farthest from the street. An impromptu bar to the left of the stage was already doing a lively business. As dusk came on and the setting sun turned the wispy clouds bright pink, a crowd drifted in. I felt a little disappointed that the gathering audience appeared to be mostly tourists. I again wondered what the band would be like. At least I blended into the crowd. I bought a bottle of Carib beer and settled into a spot up front.

Suddenly, Byron Lee and his band mounted the stage. Without a word, they launched into a furious opening number. I quickly found myself swinging my hips and nodding my head to the beat. After two more equally hard-charging songs, they came up for air.

I took my first close look at Byron Lee – a stocky black man, up in years, bearded, wearing a marijuana-themed shirt and a knit hat in the Jamaican colors of black, red, and green. The four other musicians, all thirty-something men, looked and dressed much like him. Two younger women singers in tight pants, shirts knotted at the waist, with large dangly earrings, stood to one side.

“How are you doing? Welcome to Carnival!” he roared in a voice that commanded attention, like a cross between a lion and a Marine drill instructor.

“We’re very happy to be here to play for you,” he continued. “But we like to get our audience involved in our show. So, let’s get someone up on stage with us.” Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd.

“You, come up here,” he ordered, pointing down at the front of the stage. Pointing, I realized, right at me. My magenta shirt had stood out in the crowd like a beacon.

Lee’s right forefinger traced a path for me along the front of the stage and up the stairs. I felt compelled to follow. Once on stage, I couldn’t have made for a sharper contrast in appearance with the band.

“Where are you from?” Lee demanded, shoving his microphone in front of my face.

“Los Angeles,” I replied. That brought a few claps from the audience.

“And what you do in Los Angeles?”

“I’m a lawyer.” A few laughs followed.

Lee took a moment to consider that.

“A lawyer from Los Angeles, huh? Well, let’s see if this lawyer from Los Angeles can sing.”

I shuddered. I limited my singing to the shower and the car, never with an audience.

Lee gave me a mischievous grin. “Just follow me,” he ordered. “No problem.”

He motioned to the band to start a slow tempo. Holding the mic in his left hand, inches from his mouth, he stepped out with his right foot, flung his right arm up over his head, and let out a guttural “hungh.” Then he handed me the mic and motioned for me to step to the front of the stage, right where he had been, and repeat his actions.

I managed a respectable duplication of his movements, but my “hungh” came out sounding more like a chipmunk coughing. Lee folded over laughing.

“Again,” he ordered, trying to keep a straight face.

My next attempt was better, or at least better enough that Lee moved on. Leaning close, he whispered in my ear the first two lines of the next song the band would play.

“You ready?” he asked, in what seemed like an encouraging tone. I nodded.

The band started up again. Lee held the mic between us and counted down. As we reached the starting point for the lyrics, he patted my back and began to sing. I followed the best I could, trying hard to remember the words he had just told me. I managed little more than to mouth the lyrics, a half beat behind him. We repeated those opening lines a few times before he stopped the band. I figured my performance sounded pathetic, but Lee applauded and clapped me on the back.

“Give this singing lawyer from Los Angeles a hand,” he shouted. The audience complied, more enthusiastically than I had any right to. With that, Lee motioned for me to exit the stage.

As I made my way down the steps and back into the crowd, one stranger after another shook my hand, telling me what a great job I had done. Several offered to buy me a beer. I drank until I felt ready to burst. Meanwhile, the band resumed their regular performance, playing without breaks for another hour.

When the show ended and the audience began leaving, several more stopped to compliment my performance. I suspected most were just relieved that I had been pulled up on stage, not them. Still, as I walked out and rode a taxi back to the Yellow Bird, I savored my brief moment of stardom.

Back at the room, Joan laughed at the description of my concert experience. She would have given anything to witness it herself, especially since it was unlikely to ever be repeated.

Sadly, after coming so far, Joan remained incapacitated with back pain for most of our stay. We both knew there would be a risk of that, but we felt disappointment anyway.

“How are you feeling today?” I asked her each morning.

“Still in too much pain to go out,” she inevitably answered. “You go on.”

I appreciated her consideration. At least one of us would experience what we had come for.

The next two days, I immersed myself in a whirlwind of color, pageantry, and music. I dressed more appropriately than the first night, switching to shorts, t-shirts, and sandals, with a few strands of locally acquired beads adding a splash of festivity. I watched seemingly endless parades of costumed marchers in feathers, beads, and sequins, each group’s outfits more striking and colorful than the previous ones.

As flatbed trucks rolled by, carrying entire performing bands along with enough amps to be heard a block away, I noticed a sweetly pungent aroma. I followed it to a vendor selling jerk chicken from a flower-decorated pushcart, bought a couple of skewers, and sat down in a doorway to enjoy my little feast. Then I quickly moved on, trying an Indian roti flatbread stuffed with savory meat stew from a vendor selling them out the back of a truck parked around the corner.

All the bands regularly played Sanell Dempster’s De River, which I had started hearing on arrival at the airport and which had won the Road March title for that year’s Carnival. Clusters of moko jumbies -— costumed, heavily made-up stilt walkers — awed the crowds with a ritual going back to West Africa. The parade marchers were mostly black, with a respectable scattering of Indians and Europeans, but the hordes of smiling, cheering onlookers reflected every color, nationality, and language.

Hungry again, I spotted a young fellow with a hand-drawn, wooden wagon selling Latin American pastelles, spicy meat encased in cornmeal and wrapped in a banana leaf. With food vendors along all the parade routes, I had no need to go into a restaurant.

At the central arena, stars of calypso – Lord Kitchener, Mighty Sparrow, Black Stalin – drew appreciative crowds. So did steel drum bands, soca singers, and reggae groups from all over the Caribbean. I didn’t recognize a lot of the names, but they seemed well known to the audiences. Getting concert tickets proved to be easy, as most people contented themselves with watching the parades and mingling in the streets.

Vendors outside the arena sold tropical fruit salads and drinks. Mango, papaya, and guava, of course, but also ones unknown in North America back then — soursop, with a creamy texture and a flavor combining apple, strawberry, and banana, that reminded me of cherimoya; jackfruit, another one with a blend of fruit flavors and a strong aroma of banana and pineapple; and mamey, a creamy red fruit with a taste reminiscent of sweet potato, honey, and peach. Incongruously, the most conspicuous food stand at the arena, right by the entrance, was a monumental Kentucky Fried Chicken, with Colonel Sanders’ face beaming down at the long lines. What is about American fast food, I wondered, that makes it popular all over the world, even in places that have such great local street food?

I made the long walk back to the guest house between events to check on Joan. Her condition didn’t improve enough to venture out into the crowded streets and venues. But that left me free to roam about, join in impromptu dances, pop into concerts, linger to listen to street music, and eat whenever I saw something that looked appetizing. By the end of our stay, I felt satisfied in every way, other than not having been able to share it with Joan. On the scale of experience, this was as close to a ten as I could imagine. By comparison, New Orleans’ Mardi Gras was a four.

Our flight on to Tobago did indeed materialize, as the Caribbean Air agent had promised. And Joan felt better after resting for a few days. She had missed so much, but I had rolls of film to share with her when we got home.

Waiting at the airport the next morning, I picked up a local tabloid filled with stories and photos from the festivities. A columnist described the experiences of visitors attending Carnival. In the middle of his column lay a reference to an American tourist pulled up on stage by the Dragonaires. No name or even a description of the lucky visitor who had that singular experience. It didn’t matter. I had my five minutes of fame on stage at Carnival. Something I would savor the rest of my life and that would always bring a smile to my face as I pictured myself and Byron Lee, soul mates for an unforgettable moment.