When the levees failed in New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina’s landfall in 2005, my husband and I, newly married and living in San Diego, watched the national news replete with personal tragedy, political nonfeasance and geographic nuance in a permanent state of gasp. 

With 80% of the city underwater in what was to be somewhat of an expected event, we wondered: Why would anybody ever live there? 

Fast forward 16 years — fate, serendipity — and here we are. 

Into our fifth year in this 300-year-old, bowl-shaped, below-sea-level metropolis, we can say that we live here because we love it for reasons that could be a book: culture, the friendliness, the ad hoc second-line brass instrument parades that seem to come out of nowhere, the make-the-best-of-it attitudes, the food, the local lore and so on. 

After living in several major U.S. cities, we know all places have their problems. In New Orleans it’s the uncertainty of hurricane season. Despite our experiences with near misses, when that swirling mass of red on the Weather Channel shifts east or west of us and all we lost is sleep, and the ones that bring us wind and torrential rain, flooded roads and power outages, we haven’t been swayed.

The latest major hurricane made its way from the islands into the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico in late August: Hurricane Ida started off as a category 2, developed into a category 4 overnight and was predicted to hit the New Orleans region on an ominous day: the 16th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.

We stared at the television screen as we entered what the locals like to call the “cone of uncertainty.” Do we evacuate? Or do we stay? As we learned, the decision to evacuate comes with its headaches. Where would we go? What if we go to Florida and it shifts east? (And they always shift.) Ditto, Texas. Will the traffic be horrendous? (Record scratch.) 

“Hold that thought, honey,” I said, “I need to use the restroom.” Yes, again. We had our answer. 

At the time, I was entering my own cone of uncertainty: very, very pregnant, at risk and in the middle of a surge in infections during a pandemic in which the medical advice was to avoid public places. Because I was not a good candidate for a 10-hour car trip that is usually only four hours, plus bathroom breaks, we were going to “ride it out,” as we locals say. 

My husband did his best to keep our teenage boys and me calm and reminded me that “we got this.” This — I was fast learning — translated into enough survival gear to perhaps weather an apocalypse. 

I won’t go down the list but my husband — a former Marine and closet doomsday prepper — had apparently been waiting for this moment to shine (with his industrial, war-ready, battery-operated lighting fixture). In addition to a generator, portable air-conditioner and other must-haves for living (for days) in powerless luxury in a gulf state, his treasure trove of duct tape, radios, tarps, batteries, freeze-dried food, water purifying systems and other olive-drab survival gear (that included — how sweet! — some kind of toilet contraption in case we lost water and sewage) made its way from the nooks and crannies of our shed and attic to our dining room. 

We looked like we were either ready for a hurricane or kitted out to storm a government building. This, it seems, is how you live here: prepared.

In the end we made out OK. Hurricane Ida’s eyewall hit southwest of us and brushed along the outskirts of the city. The howling wind and tornado warnings were scary, as were the tree branches that went airborne. The looming threat of the massive live oak just outside our front door did little to calm frayed nerves. In the middle of it we lost power, which stayed off for 102 hours. In the aftermath we were clustered in one bedroom, cool and well-fed thanks to an outdoor grill, a generator-powered freezer and a pantry full of food. 

From the news, many know it wasn’t the same for a lot of folks, and we are grateful for our luck while feeling terrible about the misfortune of others. We also learned more and more about the resilience of the people, and that despite the challenges few ever leave New Orleans and those who do miss it so much that they often come swirling back. We also know that when the cleanup is finished, and the storm becomes another chapter in the city’s checkered history, locals will come together and make the best of things. Some drum will begin beating the pulse of the city like a heartbeat back to life and some trumpet will blare as if to say, “laissez les bons temps rouler.”