On the eve of my departure (Im still in New York) these are a few of the things going through my mind:

Im trying to contextualize myself, and my decision to return to my long lost city. I was born there, in the Garden District, 27 years ago. Before too many childhood memories were made, my family, Mother, Father and Older Brother, moved 20 miles away (across Lake Pontatrain) to the North Shore. I was 5. My moms side of the family continued to live, and still does, in the city proper and my Dad commuted to work, back and forth across the Lake, for the next 22 years. (My Dads family are born and bread Yankees)

I remember, after the last box was packed, lying my head in my mothers lap as we drove across the Causeway Toll Bridge, which connects the city to the North Shore, and crying the whole way because I didnt want to move. I loved New Orleans and didnt want to leave. Well, I got over that real quick. For the next eight years I was happy as a clam rolling in grass, chasing dogs, riding my bike, attempting, but never actually succeeding in TIPPING a cow, rolling neighborhood houses, going to private school with the same 100 kids for all 8 years and eating family dinner each night a half hour after my father returned from work. We went to church in the city, had family dinners in the city and spent most holidays there as well. New Orleans was always on my radar, part of my life in the peripheral, but I didnt spend much time physically there.

When I was 15, I went away to boarding school in the North East (yeah, the coat and tie variety my fathers family attended) and from there headed to Los Angeles for a year when I was 19 and then New York City for the last eight. Im now 27.

So, since I headed off for Prep School I have really only returned to Louisiana for holidays and special events averaging about 3 visits a year. And that is all to say, I have spent less than a 1/5th of my life actually in New Orleans.

YET I HAVE ALWAYS CONSIDERED MYSELF A NEW ORLEANIAN.

Admittedly, the byproduct of this proclamation has been guilt. I cant help but ask myself (What kind of New Orleanian cant find I-10?) (What kind of New Orleanian has only drank at The Boot twice?) (What kind of New Orleanian hasnt been to Jazz Fest in 10 years?) And I suppose the answer is,

A Bad One.

When I sit down and think about it, I first wonder if I have lost touch, lost connection with my birth city. Then I ask a tougher question. What if I never had a connection with the city in the first place? I cant bear to think that the answer might be NO, No in fact, I never did have a connection with the city. I understand that I left at a young age, but I believe that New Orleans is in the heart. Its something that flows in your blood from day one. I mean, theres a reason that I walk in to a room of strangers, hit it off with a random selection of 5 or 6 of them, and find out later that theyre all Southern. Birds of the feather, I guess. 15 years out of the Southern Womb, and in Yankee Land to boot, and my Dirty Cajun Radar hasnt been scrambled yet. I mean, after 15 years I still havent adopted You Guys. YALL just rolls off the tongue so natural like. Its gotta stand for something.

So why am I going down to New Orleans, back to my birth place, to work reconstruction? (Im not yet there. My flight leaves in 2 days. Im actually writing this entry from a cafe on 82nd and Madison Avenue, a block from The Metropolitan Museum of Art on Manhattans Upper East Side. Yikes. How Bourgeois of me.) I just woke up on this Saturday morning and my gears were turning, anxious about my next adventure, so I grabbed my computer and plopped down with a cup of jo and here I type, curious about the very reason I will be boarding a Nawlinz bound plane in 48 hours. Is it for selfish reasons? Easing my own guilt? Doing the right thing? Thumbing my nose at The Man? Proving something to myself? Proving something to someone else? Maybe. Maybe some of that. Maybe a part of my humanitarian side is rearing its head.

MAYBE I WANT TO GIVE BACK TO A PLACE THAT I FEEL HAS GIVEN SO MUCH TO ME.

For the simple fact that I was born there, born in New Orleans, rushed to a hospital in Jefferson Parish with my mom squealing in the back seat of a cab, I am given free bills of Social Currency for the length of my life. For all of my days, if ever Im stuck in a rut, flailing in an interview, dying at a painful dinner party, trying to meet the girl, wanting to impress, spark conversation, keep things moving, effectively change the topic, or spice things up a bit, I simply have to mention or make the subtle transition to the fact that I was born in the city of New Orleans. It is the master social lubricant. It perks peoples eyebrows. It elicits intrigue. It evokes curiosity. And lord knows I have used these things to my benefit; transitioned out of a tricky spot, slipped the resume on the sly, saved a terrible eve, even gotten the girl.

NEW ORLEANS, YER THA BEST WING MAN I EVER HAD.

Even if just for these simple things, 7 weeks of blood sweat and tears is not enough.

I wish I could roll in to town on my own back-hoe, and start laying foundations for the homeless slick talkin Southerner, the harmonica jammin bad boys, street buskers, Mardi Gras Indians, Story weavin Cajuns, crawfish boilin Chalmations, Red Dragon Break Dancers, Clairvoyant street gypsies, Cafe Ole sippin UpTowner, tuba packin funeral celebrants, Hurricane servin sassy bar wenches, beautiful gender bending tranies, and the table top booty shakin Bourbon Street personalities! Oh I wish. I would build them the home of their dreams. I would give them what they needed to keep the dream alive. To keep New Orleans cookin by day and drinkin by night. I would give them all, all the citys beautiful souls and personalities, what they needed, what they wanted, what theyre hearts desired to help put, KEEP, New Orleans on the map, churning out stories and tales that keep the rest of America and the World shocked, horrified and gossiping around their water coolers. I would give it all to keep that Disney Land for Heathens up and running.

But I am a mere single soul. And a back-hoeless soul at that. So, I pack a single sack and head out with a pair of work boots instead. Ill be in the Crescent City in 48 hours from now, trigger finger ichin to roll up my sleeves, powder up my beignets , get back to my roots and help out my lost city when she needs me most.