But those changes didn't seem to matter. After New Year's at MSG the only words that ran through my head were "Phish is back, Phish is back, Phish is back." So when I found out I had last week off work, I knew I had to go on tour.

In the car on the way to New Jersey I couldn't help but think back to the last times I saw them play. I thought back to the show in Houston where I wanted more than anything to be the girl Trey picked up out of the audience and danced with to "Sleeping Monkey." I thought back to the first time I got to yell "Wilson," and the first time I danced the Meatstick. I thought back to the show I ate mushrooms and lost all my friends. Then back to when they finally found me, sitting in a stairwell, making small talk with a pack of matches that was kind enough to keep me company. I thought back to the rest of that evening, when I got offended anytime someone asked me for a light.

I thought back to the time in New Orleans when I loved every second of "Gumbo," only to find out a few days later that the song Gumbo wasn’t on the setlist for that show. I remembered the first time I wondered why Phans find it necessary to abbreviate every song, city and venue. I remembered walking around Big Cypress with a picture of a friend we had lost for a day and a half, then seeing a guy walking around with a picture of weed. I remembered more vividly than anything the feeling of anticipation in my stomach when they ended the last set before 2000 with a cover of "After Midnight."

I thought about "Sample in a Jar," and all the songs that got me into Phish in the first place. To an old boss who spent a summer playing me Phish shows and saying "Tension and release, Ali, do you hear it? Tension and release." I remember watching a show soon after and finally getting it. Finally understanding how powerful music can be when no one, even the band, is exactly sure where a song is going to go.

We arrived at the parking lot outside Continental Airlines Arena. I was thrown into the mix of Phans all over again, but the parking lot was no longer the place I'd see everyone one I knew. It was no longer familiar territory, but the best people watching I had seen in years.

And then it occurred to me: What have all these people been doing? Where have they been? I could have sworn I saw the same chick selling French bread pizza in '98. I realized you don't see any of this in Manhattan. You don’t see two grown women in a public restroom putting glitter on each other's cheeks or bonding over a hologram sticker of R2D2. You don’t go to a Yankee's game and worry your butterfly wings might knock over someone's beer. You never hear of any stock brokers missing a day of work to take care of their lice problem. If someone were to pass you on the street in New York and whisper "Who's got my rolls?" you'd probably think it was a fat joke.

Only in the parking lot would you call a street fair a "tent village" or a free ticket a "miracle." Only in the parking lot would a grown man fall off a curb and sacrifice his face on the way down in order to salvage what's left in his nitrus balloon. Only in the parking lot would the guy randomly yelling "Woo-Hoo" actually be doing so as a way to market a "Woo-Hoo" t-shirt. And what do Phans do in the office? No one wakes up for work and douses themselves in petuli before a big meeting. No one at work ever takes to selling grilled cheeses in order to fund their weekend plans. Power in the office is never determined by dominance in a drum circle, and when your boss approaches you and says you'll be working all weekend he never tries to make it up to you by handing out blow pops. My train of thought was interrupted by a young girl in a dress made out of Rainbow Brite sheets who tried to strike up a conversation by asking me what my journey was. My friends stood by me and laughed as I stumbled over my words. "I, it's, um...my journey, well, I, uh..." I finally settled on the answer "Good times?" and then hid behind a festive display of patchwork pants. A pit formed in my stomach as the thought crossed my mind: maybe my days of touring were over. Perhaps I was, in fact, too old for this. But then we entered the venue. The lights went out, and there they were again. Phish was back. I know all their walks. I smiled for Trey in his rock star shirt and Fishman in his dress. I knew they were opening with "Down with Disease" from the first few notes.

I may no longer be the person I was, but as soon as each show last week began, I was back in the same place I had been two years ago: standing on my toes, eager to see what they'll throw at us next. With each song everything in my head would fall apart, and then make sense all over again. Tension and release.

- Ali Waller