[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.