It is very dangerous to be here, 2273.2 miles away from New Orleans. San Francisco is enticing and alluring. And seductive. It is seductive to be in an environment where:
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80 degrees is considered hot.
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Primary and secondary school systems appear not only to function, but to fuction well.
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People regard traffic signals as though they were words of widsom from elder relatives, not always obeying them, but usually.
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People live without the stress of hurricanes, preparing as best they can for the earthquake that will one day cleave the city from the California mainland and just hoping it doesn’t hit while they’re on the subway.
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The abundance of cute boys is distracting.
But of course, the city is not without its flaws–namely:
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Its sense of humor, which is tainted by lingering, pungent whiffs of political correctness.
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Its draconian drinking laws and the fact that no one seems to have heard of Pernod.
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The tendency for residents to overuse needy, whiny, ready-to-die-at-any-moment camelias in their landscaping endeavors.
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The aforementioned cute boys don’t talk to strangers.
Not to worry (as if you would): I’m not abandoning New Orleans like certain others we could name. I’ll be back on Sunday for good. After nearly a year in the trenches, though, it’s unusual and refreshing to be in a city where things work as intended. We could learn something from these people–people who rebuilt a uniquely American city in the wake of a major natural disaster, relying on stubborn willpower, community involvement, and a healthy dose of patience.
sturtle [dot] com 