After Hurricane Milton Left, My Town Revealed Itself

I spent most of my life in Green Bay, Wis., cheering on the Packers, frequenting supper clubs and becoming a pro in winter wardrobe layering. I was a Wisconsinite through and through and would have been happy to stay there the rest of my life.

That changed two years ago when I got engaged. My fiancé’s new job took us to Florida — a state I knew little about, including its hurricane season.

We were among the many who moved to the Tampa Bay area, part of the so-called great Florida migration. I had visions of weekend beach trips, during which I’d drape myself in linen neutrals and stroll palm-lined streets. I’d squeeze my own orange juice, learn Spanish and listen to Ricky Martin in the car.

Other than my wearing more linen, none of this has come to pass. Despite my best efforts — which included joining a gym, volunteering, exploring a new career — I didn’t feel connected to Florida. That was before Milton.

Tampa, we had been told, was usually spared from hurricanes, and in my first year in the region, that proved to be true. The city hadn’t taken a direct hit from a major hurricane in more than 100 years. Instagram memes told me Native American burial grounds protected the area. We’d be fine.

As it became clear last week that a hurricane was indeed bearing down on Tampa, I did what prudent Floridians do: I prepped.