This comparison is the corner closest to my house, July 2005 (top) and TWO WEEKS post-Storm (bottom).
Because of the one year anniversary of The Storm, I've been revisiting my feelings about all this. I'm working on a post describing them. Until then, here's something for my fellow residents.
You Know You’re From New Orleans When…(Post-Katrina Version)
Pre-K has nothing to do with the year before Kindergarten.
The flies are bigger than your Chihuahua.
Your bank, dry cleaner, and grocery store are closed but your bar is not.
You judge your elevation by the brown horizontal line in the city.
You have to show an ID to get into your neighborhood.
Your neighborhood has no children, so you actually start to miss the little boys across the street who used to throw rocks onto your roof.
You go to Sam's Club, but instead of coming home with a case of pop tarts, you buy masks, bleach, rubber gloves, and baking soda in bulk.
You know five remedies to get the smell out of your refrigerator.
You spend a lot of time talking with your friends about the five remedies to get the smell out of your refrigerator.
Ice becomes more precious than gold.
Your office goes from 40 employees to 5.
Living in a house with twelve other people is not a sign of how poor you are, but how rich you are with friends and family.
You know what a double-evacuee is. (Damn you, Rita!)
FEMA means "failure to effectively manage anything" and hearing the words "Red Cross" makes your blood boil.
You get sick of hearing people from Baton Rouge tell you how bad the traffic is now. You remind them that Baton Rouge traffic was terrible before there were 200,000 more people in town.
The strip clubs on Bourbon Street have power before your house does.
The Salvation Army, a firefighter from Michigan, and cops from Wauconda show up at your house to make sure that you are OK.
There is a pirogue on your roof.
You return to your home and all of your belongings fit into two boxes.
Contraflow just doesn't seem so bad.
You have to purchase hip boots to walk in your neighborhood.
You pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.
Lakeview becomes Lake.
The crosses on your wall and kitchen counter top remain despite the five feet of water in your house.
You know what it truly means to miss New Orleans.
