On Saturday, I was whining to my sister about the sorry state of my life. That I’d spent 12 years in a talent-wasting career and now was barely getting by on freelance work. That I’d never been to Europe because I’d used my vacations to visit friends and family back in Mississippi (which is not, I reminded her, anyone’s travel destination of choice). And that in my 11 years of living away from home (in actual vacation spots like Los Angeles and Seattle), not one of my friends had ever come to see me. Visits from family members? I can count them on one hand.

Of course, my sister saw this as a personal attack, which it wasn’t. But that’s how everyone in my family interprets things, so she proceeded to tell me her version of, "You think you have problems? Try being me for a day." My sister thinks people with kids are the only ones who lead stressful lives. (Pre-child, it was a different story…)

But after we’d each gone on at length about our particular problems, we acknowledged how much the other was struggling (although she was adamant that my lack of European travel experiences was a non-issue. "I’ve never been to Europe either," she said.).

Two days later, Hurricane Katrina hit.

My ex-boyfriend who lives in Gulfport managed to save a few things: his father’s paintings, a laptop, computer files, his photos and letters. Everything else is part of the landscape now. Even his car. He had to bum a ride to Georgia where he’s staying with his girlfriend’s parents indefinitely, because how could anything be definite now?

On Thursday, my sister called me crying. She had been helping organize donations for Katrina survivors at her church in Memphis. One woman she met was looking for clothes for a job interview. She needed to relocate and would have to find work. Another woman just needed some diapers for her son.

There is talk of rebuilding New Orleans, of rebuilding the Gulf Coast, but first these families have to set about rebuilding their lives.

It puts the "never having been to Europe" crisis into perspective.

One day I may get to Europe, but for now, it is enough that I have walked in the French Quarter. I have been to New Orleans at least a dozen times, probably more. I’ve caught huge granny panties from a float at Mardi Gras. I’ve nearly gotten heatstroke at the Jazz & Heritage Festival. I have liberally coated my clothes with powdered sugar eating beignets at the Café Du Monde. I’ve had an unsatisfactory palm reading in Jackson Square, and I’ve had the obligatory Hurricane at Pat O’ Brien’s. I have given money to a homeless man a block from the Ritz-Carlton because I liked his approach ("Hey, pretty lady, could you spare some change?") and I’ve seen peacocks running wild at Audubon Park. I’ve ridden a streetcar (not named "Desire") and envied people in houses I could never afford on St. Charles Ave. I’ve used a port-a-potty in a cemetery where no one is actually buried. And more than once, I’ve considered moving to the city that always makes me feel happy to be alive.

But the New Orleans I know isn’t the one I saw on CNN–a city where thousands of people were left stranded with little food or water for days. Where people died without access to needed medication. Where shots were fired at a helicopter that was rescuing people. Where 250 police officers abandoned their duties, many fearing for their own safety. That couldn’t be New Orleans. That couldn’t be America.

I watch the news from my house in Greenwood, and I am more aware than ever of how much I have, and how fortunate I am not to be starting over. I realize that the earth under my feet could shift at any minute, and I could lose it all, too. Or that a rescue could come too late.

This is as close as I’ve ever been to a natural disaster. I may live in Seattle, but Mississippi is my home, and Katrina hit my friends and family.

So I’ll spend another Christmas vacationing in Mississippi rather than in Tuscany. And that’s ok.