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A year ago—or even just six months ago—I would never have imagined visiting Louisiana, let alone sitting on the front porch of some random LSU apartment, drinking Abita beer and learning how to talk like Boudreaux.

Just as astounding, I survived my first holiday season among palm trees wearing Christmas lights—a far cry from my snowman-making days of yore. Someone actually told me the only time leaves fall off the trees around here is when they die of old age, or just get bored of hanging there for so long. And you know what? A green Christmas isn’t half bad. It kept the seasonal depression at bay. Up north, naked trees are the first sign of a long, lonely winter indoors.

As cliché as it sounds, I also think a random act of fate has led me to Louisiana. It is a part of the country where life goes on just as it does in the Midwest, but in a slightly different style. You engage in a life technique that I find intriguing. Case in point: I found myself adopting the Louisiana drawl. As an Ohio native, where it is said we have the perfect American accent (which is to say none at all) I was conscious of my attempt at a sorry southern inflection. I could identify the twang and would think “What the hell am I doing?”

I’m just so caught up in the romanticized notion of Louisiana culture that I’m hoping to take a little home with me, although my Ohio friends might find it puzzling to hear something new in the way I speak. Shoot, maybe they’ll finally realize my family actually moved somewhere different.

In this time of intense sameness, when people in one part of America can’t imagine how anyone a few states away could be unusual, experiencing a culture as unique as Louisiana’s reveals the importance of holding onto roots.

Here, there’s a sense of cultural pride that I can confidently say is unmatched in the Midwest. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a traditional Ohio dish served at special occasions. And we definitely don’t get a day off from school for a celebration like Mardi Gras. The closest we have to a native people are the Amish, and no offense, but I doubt we’ll be seeing a Krewe of Amish anytime soon.

So what will I take away from my first extended stay in the great state of Louisiana? There’s a lot to love about life on the Gulf Coast. When my family shared the news of our move with friends, most wondered why we would leave Ohio for a place we didn’t know from Texas.

But now I see the importance of a life-changing move such as this. There are millions of people in the world, and inherently we may all share a common thread. Those subtle differences, those matchless perspectives, those blended heritages, are what make an encounter an experience.