Can You Be Lonely For a Place You've Never Lived?

  I was driving home today with Liam, from an appointment and decided to cruise around the neighborhood a bit. With the weather warming up, it seemed like a shame to go straight home and just sit around. After a few minutes Li fell asleep and I was free to drive around, without any real purpose, letting my mind wander.   As I drove I had this overwhelming feeling that couldn't be named. It suddenly hit me. I was lonely, not for a person or people but for a place.
  Many years ago I became fascinated with New Orleans, as many people do. Saving my pennies, I was able to go for a weekend. It was the only place I've ever been that I knew in an instant, could be home. It was a strange occurrence for me, because I never thought I'd want to leave New York. But it fit. Going to New Orleans was like finding your favorite jacket, that somehow wound up stuffed under your bed. You pull it on and it feels just as good as it always did, and looks even better.
  At the time I was dating someone who worked for an airline and I was able to go to New Orleans once a year, (one year I made it twice), for four years for a mere ten dollars each way. It was heaven.
  All the oddities that made me stand out and alone in high school and college seemed to be quickly embraced. Though my love for New York runs deep, New Orleans didn't have that bit of turned up nose that some New Yorkers have about people. For the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged.
  As someone who lacks any sense of direction, I learned the streets quickly, and almost instantly found favorite places to eat and hang out. By the time I took my mother, I was able to walk around, comfortable, pointing out my favorite shops and actually knowing where the hell I was going, another first.
  For years I wanted to spend a summer, just one, in New Orleans, writing. For some reason I could see myself in some little one room walk up, working at a local shop during the day or tending bar and writing every night, all night. The idea of sitting in an unknown yet known city, soaked in sweat, wearing an old t-shirt and boy shorts, bare foot, pounding away on a typewriter with a five and dime turning fan to try to move the heavy air was my idea of a perfect summer. But I could never manage to tear myself away from my home life and responsibilities, from the need to work, not to go away but to pay for school. When my mother got sick I knew my chance was pretty much gone.
  Do I romanticized New Orleans? Somewhat, yes. Is there crime, and poverty? Yes. Name one place in the world that doesn't have crime or poverty. It also has amazing food, open and accepting people, art and music like no other and a style all it's own. Like anywhere else you live or visit, you do not check your reason and common sense at the door. The tourists that come to New York, stand in the middle of the sidewalk looking up, mouths wide open might as well hang a neon sign on their necks reading, "Out of towner, not paying attention, please lift my wallet." Looking comfortable, being aware and not performing actions that scream tourist is always essential when you go anywhere.
  I miss walking around with a bag of my art, jewelry and soaps on my back; popping into stores and making a sale; leaving with my bag lighter and my wallet heavier.  I miss the lack of pretension and delicious otherness of the streets, the cultural blend of the food that made it so damn good that my mouth waters just thinking about it.  I miss it like you miss an old friend.
  I haven't had a chance to go back since Katrina. By then I had dumped my airline worker boyfriend and just couldn't afford it. Part of me is afraid that that uniqueness, that utterly beautiful charm will be gone. I want to go back. I need to go back. I will go back. And, I'll bring my husband and my son, and show them the beauty of a city that was beaten but never broken.