[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

I guess it was bound to happen. Inevitably, we were doomed from the start. Since I was given the honor more than a year ago of writing for bloggingneworleans, I've shared with you my love for the city. I've tried many times in many ways to tell you just what it is about this city that made me fall in love with her, and that which captivates me still.

Several thousands of words later I still can't quite put my finger on what it is that drew me to her, kept me near her--even in her darkest hour--and what, even now, keeps me somehow inextricably bound to her.

I love New Orleans, Nola, the Crescent City, this big easy, more than I've ever loved a place. I didn't even know it was possible to love a place until I met her. Now that the end of our blog is near, our "retirement," I have time once again to pause and think of the ways I love her, to share with you one last time what it is that makes your city so special to me.

Ours was a love that conquered distance if not time, one that weathered lack of money and the trappings of a normal affair. It was a love borne of a need deep within my soul that was filled only by this city full of the dying, the decaying and the dead. They walked among us as cartoons before in the form of vampires and goblins slinking behind a voodoo priestess' grave. Now they walk among us as our brothers and sisters, souls trapped in a past they did not create, drowning in it if they didn't when the flood hit.

These dead do not whisper quietly to us from their lace-iron balconies. No, they walk among us to remind us of what we lost, what we can never have again except in our dreams. Mine was such a dream, and a place I go back to each time I read yet another account of some actrocity burdening the city, burying her right along with our hope.

Just let her go, many say. But I can't. So let me tell you why, all the reasons why, why, why.

I love it that it's so hot down there I never want to visit again. Until I'm in the airport headed home.

I love it that every person I'v ever met every time I've visited has been nothing but sweet as pie to me. No one knows how to treat you right better than a Nola-ite.

I love it that the first time I went down there I felt like I was in another country. I'd wanted to escape, and I did.

I love it that the pinnacle of some people's day is to find a nice shaded balcony to sit on a sip a drink all night long. Crushed ice, a sprig of mint, perhaps a little sazarec. You know what I'm saying.

I love it that there's a story for every spot, a ghost in every room. Whether or not any of it's true you can feel the time passing in such places, their history soaking into you like the cool breeze wafting over you in a courtyard. It is real, if only in New Orleans.

I love it that there's such a fight over whether to bother with rebuilding the city. Makes the fight all the more worth it.

I love the iced coffee and everything fried--it may just be the same old thing but for some reason it just tastes better when you're eating it in New Orleans, especially if you're doing so with a view of the river.

I love those stupid bead stores run by people who don't speak English and are convinced you're going to steal something or that you're too drunk to steal anything.

I love it that life begins after dark. And it's quite a life.

I love it that when I leave all I ever want to do is go back. And I will be back. I will be back.

I love it that I can sit in the dark in the back of Napoleon House brooding about god knows what for as long as i want without someone hassling me. I could sit there forever contemplating, conniving or convincing myself.

I love it that jazz was born here, and that no matter where you go and no matter what time of day, you can hear a little music floating through the air. It's magic. No, really--it is.

It's a magical place, like being in a snowglobe with sparkles--or beads--instead of snow. It's my imagination come alive, my internal monologue sung back to me, the friend I never knew I had or needed, the one thing I can't live without.

Is New Orleans a thing? It's a place, for now. It's a state of mind. It's not necessarily where I'm form, but it's where I belong. And I will be back. I will be back.

Until that time you can find me on the internet. I'll be starting my own blog--and I will be writing about New Orleans. I can't not do it. I can also be found on AOL's ParentDish and That's Fit sites. Who knows where I'll turn up next, but you can rest assured that I'll be found wearing glitter when I do.

Thank you, for sharing in my love for this city. I hope we can save it.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

Well, if I hadn't read it with my own eyes I would not have believed it (not that we should believe everything we read). Looks like there is to be a second Camellia Grill, this one in Destin, Florida, beloved by teenagers on spring break everywhere.

As I said to Kelly Leahy, co-blogger here at bloggingneworleans, there can be only one. Even if the reopened version in Nola is doing well enough, the new owner is messing with some pretty serious karma to try and duplicate his success outside of the Crescent City. It was a miracle the Camellia Grill reopened at all given the devastation and destruction left in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Why tempt fate?

But, that said, if you're going to tempt fate, you might as well do it in the pan handle. If a greasy spoon operation is going to make it anywhere, it can make it in Destin. Not that Destin is lacking in diners--to the contrary, they're everywhere.

In fact, one of my favorites (besides the Camellia Grill, of course) is the Donut Hole. There are two locations of this fine dining establishment, and I can pretty much guarantee you both will be getting a run for their money once the new CG opens.

As much as I eschew the idea of taking something native to Nola out of it and trying to achieve success with it elsewhere, I can't help but hope the venture is a successful one. If the new outpost is a hit then surely there will be enough money to sustain New Orlean's (dare I say it?) favorite diner.

Either that or the new establishment will be a total money pit that will be the financial ruin of the owner which will lead the original Camellia Grill to ruin.

The thing is, either way, you simply can't recreate the Grill. Everybody knows it's not the food that people really go for. You can get eggs and a side of bacon anywhere--especially in Destin, Florida. It's the people at the Camellia Grill that make it the special place that it is. And I can assure you they won't be popping up in Florida any time soon to make you an omelet.

I don't know off the top of my head how many of the original staff returned to the, uhm, original Camellia Grill. From what I heard some had returned, others declined, and some, of course, we just never heard from again. Who knows what happened to them. Perhaps, just perhaps, fate will bring them to Destin.

My concern is that the owner will turn his attention away from the original CG and spend too much time (and money) worrying about the new outpost. It's a thin line everyone in Nola walks these days given the shaky economy, the lack of people to do the work, oh, and why not--the crime. To step over that line--oh, I shudder to even think about it.

What's even more concerning is that the opening of the new CG is really just a metaphor for what's happening all over New Orleans: everyone is turning their attention elsewhere and setting up show somewhere, anywhere else.

After two years all I can offer you is my exasperation. And, sadly, in a way, my compliance in this matter. When and if I'm ever in Florida again, I know I'll visit the new Camellia Grill. And I'll complain that it's not the original and it's not the same--and it won't ever be the same. And maybe that's the point.

I'll eat the food and hark back to days long, long past when I was basically just a kid eating with some friends after a wild night (or two). I'll remember a time when I actually had the time to just hang out, to relax, to have a good time, without having to think about the future of New Orleans and then feeling bad about the whole thing to the point where I didn't even want to eat my meal anymore. It just felt wrong.

And it will feel so very, very wrong at the CG in frickin' Destin, Florida. But, on a positive note, if I can get myself to the CG in Destin, then I can get myself to the real deal in New Orleans. Hopefully others will feel the same way.

Thanks to Ashley Morris for the head's up.

Photo of omelet (not from Camellia Grill) by nickgraywfu.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

Try as we may, most of us will never know exactly what it felt like those first few hours, days and weeks after the levees were breached. We may understand the impact of that situation, and we may empathize with those who suffered through it, but having not been there most of us simply cannot do anything but imagine what it must have been like to go through such an ordeal.

This past August, as it is with most summers here in NYC, we experienced Mother Nature's bizarre antics with the weather. This time the heat and the insane amount of rain we received at least contributed to a steam pipe explosion in midtown Manhattan. Ok, you say, so how could something limited to a two or three block radius that didn't even affect people's homes (just their places of employment, mostly) be compared to the aftermath of Katrina?

Well, it can't--at least not on the same scale. But my husband worked in a building literally right in front of where the explosion occurred. As a result of the explosion, the checks for asbestos and other testing to determine the cause, my husband wasn't able to get into his office for a whole business week.

He was in the process of writing the first of three papers about the situation in New Orleans, the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and the infringement on the human rights of the people in the Gulf Coast region. Unfortunately for him, all of his research, which he'd been painstakingly putting together, was in his office. The steam pipe explosion occurred on a Wednesday. His paper was due the following Tuesday.

I find that situation both interesting and ironic. His professor did as well, after he emailed her from our home computer to advise her that he would not be able to get his paper in on time, or even part of it, or even have a discussion with her about it, due to the forces of nature.

So it is with New York. People don't think we're partial to the effects of the weather, but that's simply not true. Obviously, we felt very little impact compared with what those who went through Katrina survived. That said, my husband was essentially rendered immobile by what happened. He started to really understand, on a more personal level, exactly what it meant to be immobilized.

His research was inches thick. As you might imagine--and this could be a good thing or a bad thing--there have been more books and articles and blogs and the like written about Katrina than perhaps any other event in U.S. history (except maybe the Kennedy assassinations?). Some might find comfort knowing that the ever-lasting written word--or millions of them--has been devoted to this subject.

Words can only accomplish so much, however, as we all know too well. My husband's entire office was shut down, as was the building and all the establishments on the surrounding blocks. I can't estimate the amount of money and resources lost over that time in that particular area.

Multiply that by the hordes and we can start to picture what Katrina meant for the economy of the Gulf Coast region. My husband started to think, "what if that had been my home, not just my office?" and the grim picture became a little more clear.

I'm not saying that what my husband went through this past summer for one week was in any way on the same scale as what happened to the good people of New Orleans in the summer of 2005. I'm just saying that my husband--and I--got a glimpse into the soul of what happened. For a brief moment he walked in the shoes of those affected, even if not on the same scale.

Obviously, my husband lost no one and nothing but time, really, to that event. But the steam pipe explosion did give him--and maybe the rest of New Yorkers--pause, when they might have otherwise let yet another Katrina anniversary pass by with little notice.

I wouldn't know for sure, but I hope that the experience put a little more heart into my husband's paper. He certainly would have ammunition to give it an edge that it would have lacked had nothing happened.

We'll see. His final grade has yet to be posted. Hopefully, he got an "A."

Pic of steampipe explosion by quodlibetor.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

People often ask me why I love New Orleans so much. They ask that a lot more now than they did before Katrina, as you might imagine, but it's a question I never tire of answering. And it's a question to which there are many, many answers.

One of the myriad reasons I love New Orleans is for the coffee. I've probably mentioned this in countless blogs, but there's just something--sumthin'--about the way coffee in New Orleans tastes that is better than anywhere else I've sipped it. New York City offers a pretty good variety of coffees, and many of them are downright tasty, but they don't have that special something that Nola coffee offers.

For years now I've figured that special something was really just in my mind. I thought I just loved Nola coffee for the simple reason that I was in Nola when I was drinking it. That would be special in and of itself. But that's not it.

Then for a while I thought maybe it was the chicory. Chicory was added to coffee way back when to enrich the flavor when coffee had to be watered down to make it go a little further. In the old days there were no Starbucks and money for coffee was tight. Enjoying a cup could be seen as a privilege. In order to make the coffee last a little longer during times of economic strife chicory was added to give coffee back its robust edge.

But the chicory isn't what makes Nola coffee special. I'm pretty sure at this point most coffee in Nola does not have chicory in it. Either that or I've gotten so used to the flavor I couldn't tell you otherwise in a blind taste test.

Finally, the other day, my husband shed some light on this mystery. He was doing research for a paper on human rights in New Orleans before, during and after Katrina when he came upon a personal blog neither of us will every be able to turn up for you, sadly. This blog revealed the truth behind Nola coffee that I am sure all the locals already know: it's made from concentrate.

Gee. You'd think I could have figured that out. In fact, I did figure it out sometime before the storm but forgot about it. We made the discovery at our beloved and now defunct Cafe Au Lait. When we ordered iced coffee and the person behind the counter whipped out this container full of what I thought was merely iced coffee (regular and decaf!).

No no no no no. It was concentrate. I know, because we asked, about ten seconds after I tasted it. It was marvelous, divine, and clearly the best cup of iced coffee I'd ever had. Ever.

Now, to be honest, nothing makes a good cup of iced coffee better than adding the proper complement of milk. I prefer cream. I mean, I don't get it in New York, but in the south and especially in New Orleans, all the coffee seems to come with cream in it. Or, rather, half and half--although mostly it's real cream.

And it's unbelievable. The combo of the concentrate and the real cream is so smooth and creamy yet flavorful with the richness of the actual coffee taste. I pretty much can't live without it.

And now I don't have to. In this blog my husband uncovered a recipe for making the perfect concentrate. In fact, I started up a batch yesterday I'll be going to check on in a few minutes. I can assure you this first experiment will not render anything as good as what is by now old hat in New Orleans, but you have to start somewhere.

The coffee beans are not from Nola, for one thing. Although they're a good brand found locally in Louisville, Kentucky (of all places) these beans are not going to stand up to what could be found in New Orleans. Plus, since this is my first time making concentrate I'm sure I don't have the measurements exactly where they should be.

The recipe found on the blog called for essentially a half pound of coffee beans ground and soaked in five cups of water for at least twelve hours. No word on how finely ground the beans should be or whether the beans could be pre-ground or if you need to grind them right before you make the mixture. Also no word on whether the mixture should sit at room temperature or be put in the fridge.

I ground the beans on the spot and then added a teaspoon-full (or so, I wasn't measuring, which is always my downfall) of ground chicory. Eventually, I'll need to turn up filters and filter out the coffee grounds.

The rest will be, as they say, history. Hopefully this attempt at recreating one of New Orleans' finest offerings will turn out better than the time I tried to make rose mint iced tea. Either way it will kick the butt of what passes for iced coffee around here.

According to the blog, restaurants are starting to catch on to the concentrate "trend" and are making their own versions to sell at higher prices. This is ridiculous, of course, because anyone can make concentrated iced coffee. take me, if I can do it, anyone can.

Perhaps the best part of coffee from New Orleans--besides drinking it in New Orleans, possibly getting it with a little chicory, and having it from concentrate--is that it's still inexpensive. Like with most places in Nola, the purveyors of iced coffee don't know how to offer anything less than the best.

Photo of delicious New Orleans iced coffee by Mike Rowehl.

I was inspired by my colleague Amanda Anderson's recent post, which also reminded me of something fun. Amanda recently celebrated her ten year anniversary of living in New Orleans (god love her) and was going through the alphabet, reflecting on what each letter brought to mind about our beloved (and beleaguered) Crescent City.

She reminded me of a game I used to force my husband to play with me. This was before we had the baby and he became such a big help that I felt bad trying to engage him with it. It's a stupid game with essentially no rules and no winner, that I cleverly call "A to Z." Spectacular, no?

Basically the point of the game is to pick a topic and go through all the letters of the alphabet (the English one) and come up with, well, you know, things that describe said topic or fit into it. And naturally I've forced him to, on at least one occasion, go through the alphabet with regard to Nola.

We came up with gems like B for booze and beads and boobs. We amused ourselves with C for Cajun and Creole Cooking. And the Columns Hotel. And the broken Concrete I fell on when we were running down St. Charles (another C!). Z naturally went to Zydeco (and the Zydeco Cha Chas, another C!).

As Amanda seems to be slowly engaging in just that very thing, I was delighted to read her sections for 'A, B, and C.' Clearly I have a sister in this silly but fun way of organizing my experiences and thoughts on New Orleans.

Some of the stuff Amanda covers we all know quite well, such as Mardi Gras Beads (B). Others, I imagine, as they come up, will be more from the perspective of someone who's really lived the life down in Nola, not just visited. It's the little details, after all, that make a life and an experience.

I'm sure there are millions of things I have yet to see or do in New Orleans, just as it's not possible to go through everything there is to see and do in New York. They're both ever-changing, dynamic cities, for better or worse (lately, it seems both occupy the 'worse' category), with new places opening up as quickly as another closes, new or re-discovered neighborhoods popping back into focus for a moment--if brief at times--in the cultural limelight.

To my credit, I think I've seen a fair amount of New Orleans over the past fifteen years (or however long it's been--I really can't remember anymore!). Some of what I've seen has been touristy stuff--which, by the way, you shouldn't knock as it's probably the best time you'll have ANYWHERE--and some of what I've done was more off the beaten path. Regardless, the sum of my experiences has contributed to my idea of what New Orleans is.

More importantly, those experiences have contributed to what New Orleans--the city and the magical place in la la land--means to me. Every visitor and citizen alike has an opinion of New Orleans, whether they love or hate it, and each has his or her own definition of what the city is, what it's like and what it's about.

This is not necessarily tantamount to why they love it. Rather, it's what they think of when they close their eyes and someone says (and probably mispronounces) 'New Orleans.'

New Orleans means a lot of things to me. And they're not just with regard to drinking and getting stumble-down drunk in the Quarter or flitting around the cemeteries with a camera basically begging someone to mug me.

New Orleans means, to me, slowing things down a bit. You know how Emeril is always (annoyingly) telling us he's going to kick it up a notch? Well, for me, Nola is all about taking it down a notch--which is pretty easy since the speakers in New York are clearly set on '11' all the time.

It's about a nice, steady, soft breeze, the cool shade of an ancient oak tree. It's about having no timetable or schedule whatsoever--instead doing whatever we want whenever we feel like it, or get around to it.

It's about not being bothered! It's about having dinner, you know, whenever. It's about choosing to hit a museum or sleeping in and having a nice brunch. It's about running along the river and thinking, "Oh, if only the path went further!"

You know, that kind of thing.

I think we have a collective view of New Orleans--the Mardi Gras, the Jazz Fest, all that. We know what we know and we know what the travel guides tell us: "Hot weather in August! Stay out of the cemeteries at night! Jazz, jazz, jazz!"

But what about the gal who made me and a friend of mine the best veggie po'boy we'd ever had, which wasn't even on the menu, just because she could? Just because she had the time, and--hey, why not? What about things like sitting in a streetcar enjoying the view and the breeze--could there be a calmer, more tranquil commute? And, to boot, no one seemed to be in a rush or worried that they would be later.

Well, I guess the latter item could be a bad thing, especially in a struggling economy, but still. It's nice when tourists aren't faced with the onslaught of rush hour like they are here in Manhattan--woah, Nelly!

Now you're starting to get the idea, right?

So I ask you, beads and riverboat cruises and boozing aside, what does New Orleans mean to you? We all know what it means to miss our fair city, but what about it do we miss so much that we simply cannot let her go?

[Every Thursday, Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

Recently--as in yesterday--my mother-in-law sent me a little present as congratulations on getting a new job. It was a Williams-Sonoma cookbook entitled "Authentic Recipes Celebrating the Foods of the World: New Orleans."

I was immediately overjoyed by her sweet, thoughtful, and very personal gift. Then, as I started flipping through the pages full of beautiful photographs of the city and its culinary intricacies, I got a little sad. Ok, I'm lying--I got a lot sad.

I was sad because I won't be visiting any time soon. I was sadder because the photographs in the book were obviously pre-Katrina, when everyone was still having a grand old time eating and drinking and making merry. I was sadder still when I noted in the back of the book that it was published in 2005.

I hate 2005. Can I just say that? I mean, it was a crappy year for EVERYONE.

Now then, getting back to the book: I love it. It's fabulous. Whether or not the meals one can make from it are in any way shape or form 'authentic' remains to be seen by me. This is primarily because, although I've visited Nola too many times to count on my hands, I am both a vegetarian and a creature of habit.

This means that I've walked by Galatoire's, but I've never been inside. What the hell would I eat that they serve anyway? Same for all the grand old culinary dames in the Crescent City.

No matter, though, 'cuz now I have the cookbook full of what I hope are trade secrets. I mean, ok, it's no secret that Bananas Foster was invented at Brennan's and that they still make the best one ever. The recipe for Bananas Foster is, of course, among the many notable and well-known Luziana yummies offered in the W-S cookbook's pages.

But, even better than the recipe is the pictures of Brennan's and of the guy making the Bananas Foster. I recognize that bow-tied uniform. Heck, I recognize the guy making it!

All that recognition really makes me homesick for a place that is not even my home. How crazy is that? It's crazy. Trust me, I know.

But, getting back to the book, it's not just full of recipes that may or may not be the real deal (although it looks pretty real to me!). There is a section on New Orleans cocktails--those that at least partially claim to have been concocted for the first time down here. There's history and how-to on everything from the Sazarec, which we all know and love, to something called Brandy-Milk Punch, which to me sounds basically like egg nog served year-round.

They also offer their take on the Mint Julep, which I'd always taken for a Louisvillian drink--seriously, you should see people chug these things down at the Derby; it's like they were marathoners downing Gatorade--and the cajun martini, which I'm thinking is basically a martini made with Absolut Peppar and garnished with okra or something.

I'll let you know 'cuz you can get your bottom dollar I'll be making all of these now that I have the recipes, authentic Nola or not.

I have to admit, like with most cookbooks, my favorite part about this one is the pictures. I played a game with my husband of looking at the pictures and guessing the location of each. Many I knew, but not all. There is one pic in particular that had me laughing--it's of a bunch of guys dressed like Napoleon in none other than--you guessed it--Napoleon House.

The Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone is pictured--I've been there, but not to stay at the hotel, just to hit the bar (what does this say about me? It says I appreciate a beautiful, revolving bar), as is Brennan's and Antoine's and Galatoire's. Never been to any of them.

There are shots of Acme Oyster Bar. I've been there. There's a photo of Albertine's Tea Room at....you guessed it: my perennial favorite, the Columns Hotel.

There a shot of Dick and Jenny's, where I've never been. There are photos of Tujague's, where I've not been and the name of which I can barely pronounce. I would be let in, though, because I can pronounce it. Seriously--it's Two Jacks. Sadly, I think Rachel Ray was the one who informed me of this.

Basically, my MIL is feeding my addiction to New Orleans. I feel like I'm in Nola rehab right now, or Nola prison, only folks are piece-mealing me anything they can get their hands on to keep my happy for the time being.

First it was some cool pictures, now it's a cookbook. World better watch out if I actually attempt to make anything out of it. Once I tried to make vegetarian jambalaya and it turned out horribly, just horribly. But, my pluck is back, and now I have real recipes to work with.

I'll begin with the drinks, and, if I ever get off the floor, move into the apps and on to dinners and sides. I will, of course, be making the vegetarian version of these things, so who knows how they'll turn out. The first recipe is for a tomato tart, though, so I think I'll be pleasantly surprised.

Since this book was a gift I don't even know if you can get a copy at Williams-Sonoma any more. I would hope so. And I would hope W-S has updated the cookbook for the current year. It saddens me so much to think that life for so many both in and outside of Nola stopped in 2005. What a crappy year.

But, back to the book. I checked it out on amazon.com and noted it is still available. I checked out the reviews, which, touchingly, are filled with tears of those who love the city as I do and miss her so, so, so much. You really ought to check out those reviews. They'll make you feel a little less abandoned, a little less un-loved.

I was so happy and so sad all at once, all over a book. Not just any book, a book about my true love. This story, the one where I cook, er, at least try to cook, will hopefully have a happier ending than did 2005. What a crappy year.

Then, just when I was feeling my worst, I saw the picture that summed it all up for me. It was of my beloved, and no more, Cafe Au Lait. I really miss that little place.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

So I was sitting near a window in my local coffee bar the other day when this young woman walked by me. She was wearing a T-shirt that simply said "Ray Nagin for President." Now, mind you, I live in Brooklyn, in New York City, not in New Orleans (or in LA for that matter).

As she passed me by we exchanged knowing half-smiles through the glass. The absurdity of Nagin running for president was even more absurd than seeing that T-shirt outside of the French Quarter. The French Quarter, as we all know, is where tacky yet often witty T-shirts are born...and where they go to die.

You will recall the "Chocolate City" T-shirt of yesteryears that hit the scene mere moments after the phrase was uttered by Ray Nagin. Still others expanded on that idea by presenting Mr. Nagin as Willy Wonka and cast New Orleans as the Chocolate Factory. Ringing a bell at all for ya?

This T-shirt was different though, in that it represented a possibility of the future, not the reality of the past. Mr. Nagin made the "chocolate city" comment--for real, yo, it was in the papers--but he has yet to admit he is interested in throwing his hat in the ring for President of the United States of America. Note I said "yet."

Now, I am not about to get involved in a political discussion with you about Ray Nagin, his politics, and whether or not he would make a good president. Since I am in no way, shape or form a citizen of New Orleans, it is not my place to discuss such things, or to even cast my opinion of them. I leave that to my bloggingneworleans colleagues. They tend to have opinions on such things and don't mind sharing them.

No, I'd rather discuss with you, or ponder, really, how politics have made their way into the T-shirt business, how what information we know comes in the form of a witty slogan on a piece of crappy cotton stretched across the chests of unsuspecting tourists.

In the case of my new-found (from afar, through glass) friend of Nola, I suspect she either is a lover of New Orleans like myself who couldn't resist the tongue in cheek notion of Nagin running for election, or was just trying to get someone to ask her who the heck Nagin is.

See, around these parts, Hurricane Katrina or no, a lot of people STILL don't know who Ray Nagin is. If I weren't so obsessed with everything that goes on in New Orleans I too might be just like everyone else and assume he is some politician from the South, or worse: that he was the guy who coined the "Chocolate City" phrase.

It's said when your entire legacy can be summed up in the form of a stupid T-shirt. Seriously.

Speaking of legacies, one of my favorite T-shirts from the Quarter that I started seeing moments after the stores reopened was one that was frank and to the point. It said "F_CK FEMA," only there was a fleur de lis where the "U" should be.

That short, sweet statement pretty much summed up the sentiment of the entire population of New Orleans, from what I could tell. Now that we know all about the toxic environment of the FEMA-provided trailers that sentiment perhaps has never rung so true.

In New York City you see plenty of T-shirts that use the word F_CK, but never do you see any taking aim at local politicians. Perhaps it is because Bloomberg and Guiliani before him weren't as colorful as Mr. Nagin, nor so free with their speech.

Either way, the T-shirt business in New Orleans makes for the best reading outside of the Times Picayune. Want to know what's going on in town when you get there? Forget the local paper, just check out the T-shirts in the Quarter. You'll get all the info you need to know, boiled down into juicy, entertaining bites.

Last time I was in town, which was just before the one-year post Katrina anniversary, I noticed the same T-shirts I'd seen hanging around when I was down for Jazz Fest. Those that didn't refer directly to Nagin described the population's general feelings about the hurricane, surviving it, and living to tell--or drop the F-bomb--about it.

We'll see what lurks in the Quarter next time I hit town. I've never bought a T-shirt in New Orleans outside of those I got at Jazz Fest, but something is begging me to get one of those "Chocolate City" tees just to have for future reference. I don't plan on ever wearing such a T-shirt in public, but perhaps I will wear it to bed.

Frankly, I don't want to spend the time explaining what the phrase means to those who don't know. In this case, what they don't know won't hurt them. I do wonder, however, how many people--if anyone--stopped my friend with the "Ray Nagin for President" T-shirt to ask who he was or, if they did know, if she seriously considered his candidacy.

I decided I didn't want to know whether or not she was serious. I immediately took it for a joke. I may be in the minority on this...or not. Again, not my call to make.

I can think of a T-shirt I'd like to see in the Quarter: "My life was blown away by Hurricane Katrina and all I got was this lousy formaldehyde-laden trailer ."

What about you? Anything you'd like to see printed on a T-shirt? I'm sure the list goes on for miles....

By the way, I am certainly not the first to consider the notion of Mr. Nagin running for president. Just go to google and type in "Ray Nagin for president" and have a ball with all the links--pro and con opinions--that pop up.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

Yesterday I was lookimg at some pictures of New Orleans and missing the city. As the heat and humidity settle in for their annual visit, people are starting to wonder if I am truly crazy after all for missing New Orleans and wanting to go down there.

The heat, they say, and the crime! Why don't you go someplace safe and cool? Like where? North Dakota? Not that I have anything against North Dakota, but you know what I am saying.

I am no fair weather friend to New Orleans. These days especially it is harder than ever to call myself a friend, to retain my love and longing for the city. Like many of her residents, I could easily abandon Nola and be totally justified in doing so. After all, if she can't keep her own, why should I work so hard for her to keep me?

Given the crime and the fact that the city is slowly returning to the sea, given that the heat and humidity are never ending, given that the economy needs nothing short of a miracle in order to survive (as does the local government, it seems), it would be so easy to just walk away.

But I can't. And I won't. How can I leave her now when she needs me most? Sure I love NYC but having a new baby and now a new job makes it even more difficult to simply pack up my bags and go to her, once and for all, possibly forever. And what is forever anyway? That is a mighty long time, last I checked.

Certainly no one in Nola thinks about forever. It's just an impossible concept to consider ever since the hurricane, and when we all know too well that another one of epic proportions will inevitably hit the city and turn it once again into mush.

Sigh. Well, whatever. I am still a total Nola fanatic, and I'm not afraid to say so. I am especially not afraid to proclaim my (taboo?) love to those who would question my judgment.

Then there are those who champion me and my cause, who love it that I love the city--any city--that much. They love that I am dedicated from afar. I love it too.

My in-laws, who are very cool (and aren't I lucky?), sent me the two pictures I was reviewing, which they unearthed a few months ago. Both were clearly of spots in New Orleans. Both pictures were also in very nice frames and are now hanging in our apartment. I have basically no room in my little one bedroom for anything that is not functional and a necessity, but these were such a thoughtful gift and their subject of such importance to me spiritually that I simply had to make room for them.

What interested my in-laws about the pics, whom they immediately set aside for me knowing how much I love New Orleans, was not the pictures themselves but the history of their subjects. I find it intriguing as well but since I have a new baby have limited time for research. So, they researched for me (see--aren't they cool? And aren't I lucky???).

The first picture is of the building located at 440 Chartres Street. This is currently the home of Pierre Maspero's (if it is is still in business) and is across the street from the old Civil Court building (at least according to the accompanying documentation). The building was built somewhere during the 1790's by one Juan Paillet and is a fine example of the French aesthetic--at least it is according to the documentation.

About that documentation: my in-laws turned it up from something entitled "July 1999 Images of the Month." Not sure whose images those are, but the document refers to "CPZC's French Quarter survey."

CPZC, it turns out, stands for City Planning and Commissioning Zone. Ah, now we're getting somewhere. (As you can see I finally found some time today to conduct a little research myself!)

And, turns out, I've eaten there. Pierre Maspero's should not be confused with my beloved Cafe Maspero, which is located on Decatur and is noted by the line forming around the corner to get in there.

All I recall about my meal at Pierre Maspero's is that it was pre-Katrina and the only place open at 10:00 PM when my posse wanted a quick bite before delving into all that was the French Quarter.

What's really funny about the picture is that on the actual canvas is written "Maspero's Exchange" while in the documentation from the CPZC the author specifically comments on how this building is continually misidentified as Maspero's Exchange, which in reality was across the street!

The second picture is of an idyllic little courtyard tucked away somewhere in the Quarter, a tiny oasis in the middle of the heat. Very much a Spanish sentiment, if you ask me.

The back of the painting reveals, among other things, that the courtyard is that of "The Little Theatre," none other than Le Petit Theatre du Vieux Carre located at 616 St. Peter Street. I've never had occasion to visit inside the theatre, so I wasn't even aware they had a courtyard!

Both pictures are courtesy of Illinois Central Trains, who note on the back of the courtyard pic that New Orleans is only a few hours away {from Illinois} by train.

For me, timewise, Nola is merely a few hours away. But all these obligations I have--new baby, new job, husband in grad school, etc.--tug at me and turn that time, that distance, into something else all together.

These are the things that are a permanent part of my life, a constant. Nola hovers somewhere in the atmosphere, lingering in my dreams. It is the place I go to when I dream, especially when I daydream. It is, since I am not there, as I imagine it to be and not the way it really is.

Not that there is anything truly wrong with the current state of things. I mean, yes, the crime, the heat, the economy, the government. Yep--I get it. I am so aware. But I never loved those things about Nola anyway. I loved her in spite of them. And isn't that what love is all about anyway?

I have yet to encounter a relationship in which the other party was picture perfect all the time. For now, sure, I'll take these pictures. Later, though, like with any long-distance relationship, I'm gonna need the real thing.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

As you may or may not (and most likely it's the latter) have noticed I have been out of touch lately and posted little on our dear city. Unlike Chris Rose, whom we hunted down enthusiastically when he took a brief hiatus not so long ago, I am sure that my absence went under the radar screen.

I sort of feel like Nola in general is gliding under that radar screen with me lately. I remember when the Big K hit and how all the major newspapers and online sites like New York Times and Yahoo, to name a few, had gobs and gobs and GOBS of stories about the city. most of them were negative, of course, centering around the brutal, violent and deadly aftermath of the hurricane when the levees broke. Then I watched as the information, and sensationalizing, dwindled until there was nary a drop of info on Nola to be found anywhere, save the usual suspects like nola.com and the New Orleans section of Craigslist.

The lack of interest was noted on bloggingneworleans as well. We'd receive fewer and fewer hits and comments on our blogs and features until our numbers made me wonder why we were bothering to blog in the first place. When major annual events like Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras hit we of course received record visits to the site and innumerable comments. After those events, though, the visits would return to a trickle.

Despite these numbers, and a lack of interest (still!) from the government, local interest continues to abound. We continue to write to you about the goings on in the city, both good and bad, and attempt to interpret events and decisions that affect us. A lot of what we do is complaining, I guess, but I would hope that complaining represents the feelings of Nola citizens.

After all, if we're not writing about New Orleans and complaining about the mistreatment--or complete lack of treatment, if you ask me (I know you didn't but this is my feature!)--then who will? And if no one is writing about it, then where will folks who care go to get their info, biased though it may be by people who love the city and hate to see her at the center of so much peril?

Sure, you could continue to read the Times Picayune and check out nola.com. Those sites are forums for unbiased journalism that cover far more than the powers that be at bloggingneworleans could ever hope to. Yet we offer a little something extra, I think, a little lagniappe if you will--and I know you will otherwise you wouldn't be reading this feature or checking out our site.

We offer what I hope is more of a man/woman about town perspective, from deep within the trenches. I of course, living in New York, don't qualify for that kind of perspective, but you know what I mean. The major newspapers and online sites offer more of a bird's eye view, which has its place too.

When I want to hear the heartbeat of the city, though, I head to the blogs of my colleagues. I feel like despite their misgivings about local government, the state of crime and the future of the city's economy, their hearts of gold will cut a clear path through the mishmash to what's really going on, how people feel about it and what they're gonna do about it.

The commenters to these posts are another source of indisputable truth. They may be few and at times far between, but what they say always touches me or points out an angle I hadn't thought of.

Their comments also let me know they're actually out there, living, working, trying to get by, interested enough to reflect and offer observations about our blogs. They remind me that even if just one person reads my feature then that is all that matters. That person may or may not agree with me, but I appreciate that he or she took the time to bother, when so many others do not.

Just when I think no one is out there in the ether, no one is watching or paying attention, someone offers me words of praise or thanks or happiness that we are posting about the city. It's an odd connection in that I will most likely never meet any of these commenters, but the connection is all the same. It's not one I share with my cohorts here in New York.

In fact, I may never get to meet my colleagues at bloggingneworleans, but that is incidental. We are united in our interest in the city, in preserving what it was and hopefully in being a part of its future.

That's the good thing about New Orleans. I think about the 'future' of such cities like New York and LA, but their future seems much like their present. With New Orleans the picture is so very different. Having been washed back to next to nothingness in some places, the slate wiped clean, it is possible to rebuild with a new vision. The possibilities are endless.

Someone has to document this rebuilding, this new vision, this New New Orleans. I guess, for now, we'll be the ones to do that documenting. And those who read about it will be the ones who are interested in being a part of the process, or in at least being witness to it.

It's nice to be connected to people in such a way. It's nice to know there are other folks out there like me who have the future of the city at heart.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

You're never gonna believe this, but the Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum just off Jackson Square in the French Quarter has wowed us beyond belief for the last time. According to a recent article onNola.com, there simply wasn't enough tourist traffic to warrant keeping the museum open despite it housing over 500 items of interest.

As much as I eschew such touristy, gimmicky kinds of things like the Ripley's museum, I am kind of going to miss it being there. I never really had even a passing interest in visiting the museum, but I liked the notion of it being in the Quarter.

I liked its oddity, and how it somehow fit so well with the rest of the area's demeanor. Ripley's was also one of the few attractions in the French Quarter that catered specifically to families, and not boozing it up. Frankly, the old me would've said you'd have to be drunk to want to go in there, but the new me, the mommy, has a soft spot for Ripley's cheesy brand of entertainment.

Now I feel kind of bad that I never visited the museum. I've been to New Orleans when it was certainly hot enough to make me want to check out its oddities just to get out of the heat.

It was a museum of a bunch of weird stuff in a town full of weird stuff. Perhaps as a result the stuff on display simply wasn't weird enough. I mean, when you're competing with things like voodoo and Mardi Gras it's pretty tough to be unique.

The closing of Ripley's museum reminds me once more of how dismal things are financially for New Orleans these days, in terms of tourism anyway. To hear it told, though, the tourism bureau says the numbers are looking surprisingly good given the social climate. I guess folks are more interested in taking disaster tours than they are in checking out a two headed calf or whatever. When I mentioned the closing of the museum to my husband, his response was, "New Orleans: Where capitalism goes to die." Sigh.

Since Ripley's is a chain of sorts I suppose one could see such oddities in other parts of the country. We have a Ripley's here in New York City in Times Square. Much like with New Orleans, it makes me wonder why anyone would travel all the way to the big apple and go to that museum when they're in the middle of one of the cultural meccas of the world. But hey, I'm not much of a tourist, so what do I know?

The more I think about it, the sadder I am becoming over Ripley's closing. Commenters on Nola.com noted that the ticket prices were high--$15 a person. Most other attractions in the area are dirt cheap compared to that.

Still others were upset that the closing means one less thing to do with the kids. I'd have to agree with that. Being a new mom myself, I've suddenly come to terms with the reality that Nola may not be as kid-friendly as some other cities, on the surface anyway. Ultimately, I find that hard to believe--I mean, seriously, what kid wouldn't want to go on a gator tour or dress up in Mardi Gras costumes like they let you at Mardi Gras World?

Still, there's not much to do in the Quarter with a kid. You could hit the aquarium, of course, but we've all been there, done that. I guess you could scope out celebrities. You could still do Cafe Du Monde; they don't seem to be lacking for tourists. You could try to cultivate your child's interest in voodoo.

Perhaps if Ripley's had been able to stick it out long enough for the proposed Starbuck's to move into Jackson Square foot traffic would have been abounding. But, alas, they were unable to hold out. Neither was the chain that occupied the primo corner spot for which Starbuck's is now vying, Le Madeleine. Come to think of it, there was a great little store in one of the Pontalba buildings where I got excellent Halloween-themed Christmas ornaments that is also gone.

Geez, what will be left by the time I get back down there? I mean, come on, the Cathedral is great but one can only see it so many times. And those people doing psychic readings and selling cheap knock off paintings? Been there, done that too.

IF you find yourself all broken up over the reality that Ripley's has closed its doors once and for all, as I mentioned earlier, you can find one elsewhere in the country. Still, it won't be the same for those who live in the area and counted on it for a different sort of amusement. It's going to be a real pain trying to teach the kids how to pronounce "Laveau."

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

So I'm walking down the street in Brooklyn the other day when I come across this odd little book on New Orleans. See, the thing about Brooklyn is that, once their finished with them, people leave all their books (and other various items) on the stoops for others to pick up. It's sort of like a lending library only it's free and no one gets mad when you don't return a book. In fact, they prefer not to ever see the book again.

Such was the fate of Bizarre New Orleans, or, as is claimed on the cover, "What the other guidebooks won't tell you." Of course I had to pick it up. Not only was it free but clearly fate had marked this book for me. Naturally I was intrigued by anything having to do with New Orleans, but also by the book's promise of a full refund should the consumer not be 100% satisfied.

I guessed correctly that such a promise would not apply to me since I had not spent the $6.95 for the book and was not therefore the actual consumer. Also, this promise was made in 1997 when the book was published. Luckily for me, I didn't have very high expectations.

It's a good thing I didn't. On the back--yes, I had yet to delve into such a literary delicacy--it noted Anne Rice, Lee Harvey Oswald and Jimmy Swaggert among the many famous persons mentioned in the book. To me that sounds more like a bad joke--you know, "Anne Rice, Lee Harvey Oswald and Jimmy Swaggert walk into a bar..."

Well, I figured the book would be fun even though it was out of date and probably self-published. Frankly, I saw a little of myself in the author. I mean here was a person who decided to write a book about New Orleans. What's wrong with that? Clearly he/she had enough of an interest in Nola to warrant writing a book and the wherewithal to get it published. I wasn't expecting to get anything new out of this book--especially since it was written in 1997--but was hoping to take a trip down memory lane.

What would this person have found interesting or memorable about New Orleans? Ask anyone and you'll hear a different story. Once you get past all the major landmarks and people drinking everyone has a story to tell about some random thing that happened to them in New Orleans.

I wanted to see what, if anything, the author, one 'f. g. fox' had to say. So my ten week old son and I started flipping through during the Yankee game yesterday. They were busy clobbering some other team, which was refreshing for a change, so I decided to turn our attentions elsewhere. The book was called Bizarre New Orleans, after all.

Both my husband and I separately turned to the page on Lafitte's Blacksmith Shoppe. It's a bar in case you didn't know, and I am sure most of you do--I've always held fast to Lafitte's as one of my all time favorite hangouts. Most of the information was about Lafitte, who was a known pirate, and his brother. One thing I guess I knew but didn't really remember was that although revered in his own right Lafitte allegedly spied on the United States for Spain, at least according to this author. Spy or no, he was still a pirate so the intrigue is only doubled. Neither Jean Lafitte nor his blacksmith shop turned bar are bizarre, however, so the book had yet to make good on its promise to provide bizarreness.

Without bothering to beat around the bush I flipped to the "Must Do" section of the book. Where were the places f.g. thought were most important to check out? Would they be the same old mucky-muck tourist spots or would I find a little hidden jewel to visit next time I stop by? Well, if such a place is still there. After all, what time doesn't tatter the weather will destroy, and a few years ago it did. In the form of a hurricane. Perhaps you heard about it?

Anyway, so about this "Must Do" list. In case you've forgotten, the book is Bizarre New Orleans, so one would assume there would be someplace bizarre to visit. Perhaps to some of you that's an oxy moron, but unless this guy whips out Snake and Jake's Christmas Club Lounge (and I doubt f. g. will because I don't even know if S&J existed way back in 1997) then I doubt it.

I doubted with good reason. All the usual suspects were there: Cafe Du Monde, the Cabildo, the U. S. Mint (although admittedly most first-timers would probably not hit the Mint, so touche), Napoleon House and Acme/Felix's were all there. Perhaps to someone who'd never been to New Orleans these places might seem a little strange. Perhaps they might even border on the bizarre. In reality, though, they are the same places most other tourists hit when they visit the city, and they're all in the French Quarter.

What about some of the other, truly bizarre places in New Orleans? Or were things just not that bizarre back in 1997? I was there that year, doing Mardi Gras, I think. I didn't really see or experience anything bizarre per se, but then again, I'm from New York.

The one truly 'bizarre' thing I can think of concerning New Orleans is their love for the cemeteries, and the fact that several of these cemeteries are considered major tourist attractions. People come for the food, but they stay for the graves. Oh, maybe it is the food.

There is one thing I learned from this book, the answer to something I've always wanted to know: Is there really a House of the Rising Sun, and, if so, where is it? At this point, I no longer have many burning questions about New Orleans other than how people live through the heat without air conditioning, but this was one of the few that remained. According to Bizarre New Orleans the HOTRS did exist. It was located at 826 St. Louis Street. I mean, at least according to this book it was. The author has little in the way of proof that this location was indeed the infamous site of the HOTRS, but it's more than I had before so I'll go with it... for now.

Anyone know what occupies that space now? If so I'd love to know. Or,. if you happen to know where the HOTRS was and you have moderate proof, please do tell!

Although the book claims to be a guide book of sorts it isn't really. And although it claims to be bizarre it really isn't that either. It's sort of a fun read though, especially considering it covers some things that are sadly no longer part of New Orleans culture, such as the D. H. Holmes department store. It's not going to be my favorite 'guidebook" to New Orleans, nor will it be my least favorite. I place it squarely in the middle of the "oh, why not--you have so many books on New Orleans why stop now" section.

So what is your favorite Nola guidebook and why? Or, as a local, which guidebook do you feel is most accurate in describing the lay of the land in New Orleans? Perhaps you don't have a guidebook suggestion to offer, but perchance a story of something truly bizarre in New Orleans you'd like to share? I'm all ears.

In the mean time, the author of Bizarre New Orleans did give me an idea, or, rather, more of a fantasy. What if we all wrote a book about New Orleans? The books could be fiction or personal experience, a travel guide--anything would do. We need to put Nola back in the spotlight where she belongs, not under the microscope. Folks would see all the titles and gather the old girl still has some steam left in her. People would say, 'oh, right--New Orleans. With all these myriad titles abounding there must be something to that city {besides crime}. Maybe I should check it out!'

I actually was writing a novel/travelogue set in Nola just before Katrina hit. Then I wasn't sure if I could, or even should, continue with writing it. Would I have to change everything to reflect the current, somewhat sadder conditions? Then it dawned on me that the reason I wanted to write the novel in the first place was simply because of my love for the city, a love that remains unchanged. So I am continuing to write the book, still set in pre-Katrina times. It was a happier time for most, and the way I chose to remember Nola.

So it is with Bizarre New Orleans. Accurate or not, out of date information or not, the book reflects how Nola was in 1997, from one person's selective point of view. I rather like the distillation, and would like to read more of these non-mainstream 'guides' for other individual perspectives. After all, doesn't New Orleans, or any city worth its salt, mean something different to everyone?

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

Recently I came across an article that reminded me once again of the similarities between New York and New Orleans. And, once again, that similarity is it no way a good one. Apparently, at least according to one doctor interviewed for the piece via MSNBC, believes that deaths are continuing to result from Hurricane Katrina, even as we approach her second anniversary.

According to one Dr. Frank Minyard, Orleans Parish coroner, Katrina, and now namely her fallout is continuing to claim victims. He notes things like stress and the ever-present, more tangible mold as factors in the deaths. The mold business shouldn't surprise anyone given things were, uh, you know, under water for a long time. A LONG time.

The stress factor is harder to pin down, and perhaps even harder to prove, not that anyone is trying to with the exception of this coroner. Post traumatic stress disorder is widely accepted as a viable entity by medical professionals, even if no one knows quite how to treat it. Sure, treatment exists, in the form of therapy and in some instances medication, but each person's stress threshold is different, and what negatively affects each person is different as well.

Often PTSD doesn't show up until much later after whatever incident sparked it. In this case, of course, the incident, if you can label it something so small, was Katrina. Folks somehow made it through all the terror and, as I've noted many times before, are resilient and keeping up the good fight. But it can be hard. It can be too hard. And it can be a false exterior to what is rumbling not so deeply within. One day, out of nowhere, PTSD, or whatever you want to call it---call it depression or a monster or what you will, but call it something because it exists--strikes. It does so without warning.

It can bring on panic attacks in some, which is a visible sign that something is wrong. Can it kill? I don't know--I'll leave that up to the professionals. Stress can aggravate other pre-existing problems, though, and I would accept a theory that it can do so to the point that those pre-existing conditions, when exacerbated, can be fatal.

I can speak to this from personal experience. I wouldn't say that I suffered from PTSD but I did suffer something--that monster?--from the fallout of September 11th. I know I bring that up all the time but it is amazing how very much what happened still affects me, how it has shaped my life. And I'm doing ok. Think about those who are not. It's been over 5 years since 9/11 and I'm still not over it. Not that I ever will be, How can you get over something like that, completely, I mean.

I ask the same of the victims of Katrina, those still with us. How will they ever get over it? They won't. They will go one with their lives. They may find forgiveness for whomever they blame for the failing levees and the lack of funds or support but they will carry on. Visibly they will appear to be doing their thing.

Inside though another story is being told, I can assure you. It goes without saying that the story is coming to the forefront of their brains when they think about the upcoming hurricane predictions. Can it happen again? they ask themselves. They answer themselves that, yeah, sure it could--it was allowed to happen before, which was unthinkable, so why not again? It's not like much has changed, in their eyes.

Not much has changed in my eyes either. I'm on the outside looking in, ever trying to be a casual observer without bias. Hah! That's impossible. Given my love for the city and her people, that's impossible.

I guess what I'm trying to say is I feel ya', New Orleans, even if you don't want to think about it, don't want to talk about it. I feel ya' the way our spokesperson Chris Rose feels for his kid's friend, who went through therapy and everything else to get her back in shape. And she's eight.

So yes, whether we wish to admit it or not, whether we can 'prove' it or not, Katrina continues to strike and to claim victims. How long it will be before she ends her wrath is anybody's guess. I just hope said wrath ends before that of another hurricane begins.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

You know, New Orleans is a lot like New York City. You'd think that would be obvious given the special place in my heart I have for both. It is. Even now after all these years of visiting New Orleans, I am still consistently amazed at the things I uncover about this city. Some of them, like the Cabildo, my recent first visit to which is rather like the proverbial elephant footprint in the butter, are rather large. Still others are so darned small it's the eighth wonder of the world they survived Katrina at all. It's these little things, and my ongoing discovery of them, that keep me coming back to New Orleans year after year. You know, aside from the kind people, amazing food, glorious revelry and famous architecture.

Take, for example, this museum. According to their website, the Backstreet Cultural Museum is dedicated to showcasing "the unique cultural traditions and institutions of African-American culture in New Orleans." That sounds pretty freakin' cool--how come I never heard of it? I just randomly stumbled across it while surfing the web the other day. Nowhere in Nola have I ever seen this museum advertised. Perhaps they need no marketing campaign. More than likely I was caught up in the glorious chaos of it all, and simply wasn't looking.

I certainly could have missed them amidst all the other museums. If I had to I could make a case for New Orleans having more museums than any other city in the US besides NYC. Hmm, it is possible that Nola actually has MORE museums than NYC--I'll have to check into that and let you know.

New Orleans seems to have at least one museum dedicated to anything or, in the case of the Backstreet Cultural Museum, a little but of everything. Although I have yet to visit the Backstreet Museum, where I'd find everything from Mardi Gras Indians to Second Lines, I have seen my fair share of what Nola has to offer. I've seen some pretty weird stuff over the years in New Orleans, aside from the day to day stuff I see on the street. I've seen Napoleon's death mask, which I think should count for something. I've seen the inner workings of the Mint, the picture of which, when viewed, provokes people into asking "where y'at" in the literal sense of the phrase.

Yes, Nola has its share of weirdness indeed. Possibly, the lion's share. Such weirdness--all of it wonderful--makes me wonder why the authors of the "Weird" series of coffee table books (such as Weird New Jersey) haven't created one for Nola. Perhaps referring to Nola as weird is redundant (who knows?). Not that there's anything weird about backstreet. To the contrary, I'm sure, it's chock full of fantastic information and insight regarding Nola's ultimately undefinable culture.

Just last week I asked the good folks of this dixie city if I could have honorary citizenship. Moments before that I posed my anti-corporate (and inadvertently anti-tourist) stance against Starbucks in Jackson Square. Now it seems that with the discovery of yet something else I didn't know about New Orleans I may have to retract my request, or, at the very least, put it on hold. In other words, by many standards (and quite possibly my own) I'm still just a tourist.

What interests me these days is not so much about what's going on in New Orleans--the new restaurants opening, the corporate chains moving in, the FQ being turned into luxury condos, etc.--but the 'HOW' of it all. Despite such hardship and in-your-face abandonment by big brother, the city carries on the good fight. Businesses, and lives, both big and small, seem to be plugging right along. They continue to do their best to attract customers or return to normalcy--to do things like eat out and go to school and, you know, get by.

As for me, I'm still trying to figure out what it is that makes this city tick, and why I love it so darned much--still! I live in NYC, one of the greatest cities in the whole world. What reason would I have to be fiending for a trip to New Orleans?

Perhaps it is all those little unique museums and businesses. There are simply so many to consider. This recently unearthed (by me, not everyone else who probably already knows about it) Backstreet Museum is one such establishment. Before I read about the museum I'd never been interested in visiting Treme. I mean, I'd heard of Treme, been intrigued by it; I think I heard the Treme Brass Band play at Donna's once. Yet I'd never had call to get over there. I guess that's one way in which I am still just a tourist. Next time I visit, though, I will make a point to get out of my regular haunts and over to Treme, even if it is just to visit yet another museum. I guess that's another way I'm just a tourist.

Not that there's ANYTHING wrong with being a tourist. Surely both NYC and New Orleans have always greatly benefited from the visits of our friends from afar. I like to think that my visits to Nola have been mutually beneficial. I give the city a little of my money and a lot of my attention. What I get back in spades can't be classified, or even identified.

I guess the 'WHY' of my love for New Orleans, much like that which her own people have for her and keeps them here, helps answer the 'HOW' of it all.

With this latest discovery I have a reason to get back to Nola (like I needed a reason) and enjoy a little more of that mutually beneficial relationship. Hopefully my trip to Treme will be one of many, the start of my journey off the beaten (see: touristy) path of Nola. My guess is that there's an unbeaten path for every soul in New Orleans. Perhaps while I'm busy walking theirs I'll be beating one of my own.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

For more than a year now I've been documenting my love for New Orleans, generally one week at a time. It's been a long year in some ways as we all slowly continue to try to move out from under the shadow of Hurricane Katrina and back into the pale moonlight--perhaps the kind Nola's old pal Anne Rice would've imagined. Despite Katrina and the unfortunate calamities of late, I love the city of New Orleans perhaps more than ever.

The question of 'why?' is one I'll probably never be able to answer fully; the question of 'why now?' I certainly won't be able to answer, and I shouldn't have to. Not at this point, not after all we've been through together.

My courtship with New Orleans has always been a rocky one. Our geographic distance has certainly contributed to the emotional one between us. An excellent case in point is in the days after Katrina. I was nowhere to be found, grieving from afar, watching the atrocities unfold and, sadly, I admit, glad I wasn't there.

That feeling passed quickly, however, and I've been fervently searching out ways to get back down to the old Big Easy, trying--still! Amidst all the crime!--to justify moving down here. And, yes, I'm going to refer to Nola as the Big Easy. I think I've earned it.

As I look around my apartment, I'm sure I have. Sure, anyone can drum up a copy of a New Orleans travel guide and call themselves an expert. Perhaps someone could even go as far (as I have) as to order a Jazz Fest poster to display proudly in her home, proclaiming to all that not only has she been to Nola, she took in some tunes while she was down there. That still doesn't make her an expert. I'm no expert, rather, I'm more of a connoisseur of New Orleans.

Whom else, let me ask you, received not one but two Mardi Gras-colored baby blankets to celebrate the arrival of my own little mirliton? Whom else uses pens from the Column Hotel--pens foisted from the front desk, perhaps, but pens nonetheless? Whom else preserves the finish on her end tables with coasters handmade by Jeannette Landphair purchased at the open-air flea market in the French Quarter? And whom else, I ask you, flaunts a Big Easy Roller Girls t-shirt instead of one with an un-ironic tee with a 'chocolate city' reference scrabbled on it?

How about the shot glasses tak--borrowed from Pat O'Brien's? (Ok, I realize that may be a tad touristy, but I had to start somewhere). What about the shelf of books on New Orleans history and culture? How about the two pictures of New Orleans historic locations my father-in-law sent me when he uncovered them in a storage unit? How about the tattoo of the Fleur De Lis in the center of my back? How about the fact that I actually know how to spell Fleur De Lis? Without having to look it up.

None other than me. To Nola, however, these things are meaningless. See, the thing is, like I said in my very first column, although New Orleans has stolen my heart, I'm technically married to New York. A recent article on nola.com says moving to New Orleans isn't quite as crazy an idea as it may seem. Actually, a closer look at the article, whose author is extremely skeptical of statistics (and rightfully so--those in the article are skewed), reveals it's actually not such a great idea. I'm still not convinced either way.

After all, people don't necessarily move to a new city based on statistics, shaky or otherwise. They move there for a job, perhaps, or because of family. Outside of those things they move because of something entirely intangible--like the perfect snowcone (from Sal's, no joke!) or the way it feels to bask in the shade of the magnolia trees.

All I know is that I still love the city and want to be a part of it--and its recovery--in any way possible, even if I can only be there in spirit. If that doesn't make me at least an honorary citizen of New Orleans, then I don't know what does. Plenty of folks have left, many of whom never came back--and never will, most likely--but I'm still as enchanted as ever.

Sure, I was upset when Brangelina moved into the neighborhood and I was mighty hot and bothered about the prospect of Starbucks setting up shop in the French Quarter, but none of those things can really change the very heart of what makes New Orleans special, can they? Well, at least they can't in my mind.

So, exactly where am I going with all this, you may ask? Well, I'd like to be going with it to New Orleans, but since I can't currently make it--the job, the rent, the husband's schooling, the baby--I'll just have to keep my feet planted firmly on Terra Nola. That said, I think I should be able, after all these crazy years, to count myself as a New Orleans citizen, even if honorary. What do you think? Have I earned my stripes, even if from afar? Do my countless visits, my weekly sonnets to the city, my love of all things New Orleanian add up to the real thing (or at least close to it)?

If not, tell me what it would take to become an honorary citizen of New Orleans. I may just accept the challenge. After all, she's captured my heart, if not yet my feet.