[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.

[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.

[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.

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.

[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.

[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?

[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?

[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.

[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.

[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..."

[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.

[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.

[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.

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

Yes, you read that correctly--the famous Neville Brothers will be performing live June 14th, the opening night of summer fest at Prospect Park's Bandshell, located in my home borough of Brooklyn, New York. The concert marks the start of the annual Celebrate Brooklyn series of events.

Perhaps this is coincidence and nothing more, but to me it's a simple twist of fate--or perhaps karma--that while I missed out on all the fun at this year's Jazz Fest due to the arrival of my bouncing baby boy, I now have the opportunity to see what may be one of the top acts to ever come out of New Orleans. Sweet!

Oh--did I mention it's FREE???

Ok, ok. I know many folks have a bee in their proverbial bonnets over the ongoing 'thing' between the Neville Brothers not performing at Jazz Fest since Hurricane Katrina, but I am still excited to see this act in my hometown. (According to my sources, the Neville Brothers didn't play last year due to Aaron's asthma and this year because, as Art Neville said, "...it's got to be right.")