I flew into New York on election day. I expected the plane to be full, maybe even a party atmosphere as American passengers bit their nails and backed their man, and news reports to be the main topic of the captain's announcements. I was wrong. The plane was half empty and the mood surprisingly sombre.
The atmosphere was more sombre still when my friend Tammy drove me to The Rockaways, shrouded in total darkness, the broken carcasses of boats littering the streets and nothing but humvees and fire trucks on the move. The houses were all dark and deserted, piles of sand and garbage blocked avenues, lines of people huddled together for warmth and waited patiently in line to pick up rations or just see what they could do for others.
We slept that first night in her apartment, wearing hats and gloves and every available piece of clothing. The temperature inside hit 39 degrees, one point off freezing, and all night long the sirens wailed as emergency services raced up and down Beach Drive.
The next morning, I could see why. Burned out houses, cars pile haphazardly in yards and on sidewalks, like someone had thrown them down to earth.
We shoved the two dogs in the car, one a Great Dane, the other a Pug, put the cat in the trunk and headed north to get the animals to a safe place. When the snow hit near Woodstock, I began to wonder what else nature had in store.
But when we returned the next day, already things were different. No street lights, that's true. But there were a few more folk on the streets, a couple of hand-painted signs with the kind of New York humor you expect in the movies but not so much in the face of a truely breathtaking disaster. "Gone fishing" read one, propped against the stern of a cruiser.
We walked the boardwalk on the ocean side and the sun came out. I say walked. Torn, bent and buckled, it looked more like a rollercoaster ride. It had been there since the twenties. People were charging their phones at mobile charging units. The santitation guys - the same guys who'd been working all night - were still out there clearing. Much of the garbage had gone from the streets.
Two nights later, we were eating pizza at the famous place on Howard Beach. We sat next to Brendan and his wife. They offered me a glass of red wine. We drank wine to help us sleep in the cold night to come. It was good wine, good company, and I slept well, thanks to the sanitation guys, the firemen and women, the police, the army, the guard, and not least, the volunteers, those who just stopped by to lend a hand. Respect to all, and never forgetting New Jersey, Cuba that lost 100,000 homes and all those coastal towns that took the full, frightening force of Sandy head on. Respect.
The atmosphere was more sombre still when my friend Tammy drove me to The Rockaways, shrouded in total darkness, the broken carcasses of boats littering the streets and nothing but humvees and fire trucks on the move. The houses were all dark and deserted, piles of sand and garbage blocked avenues, lines of people huddled together for warmth and waited patiently in line to pick up rations or just see what they could do for others.
We slept that first night in her apartment, wearing hats and gloves and every available piece of clothing. The temperature inside hit 39 degrees, one point off freezing, and all night long the sirens wailed as emergency services raced up and down Beach Drive.
The next morning, I could see why. Burned out houses, cars pile haphazardly in yards and on sidewalks, like someone had thrown them down to earth.
We shoved the two dogs in the car, one a Great Dane, the other a Pug, put the cat in the trunk and headed north to get the animals to a safe place. When the snow hit near Woodstock, I began to wonder what else nature had in store.
But when we returned the next day, already things were different. No street lights, that's true. But there were a few more folk on the streets, a couple of hand-painted signs with the kind of New York humor you expect in the movies but not so much in the face of a truely breathtaking disaster. "Gone fishing" read one, propped against the stern of a cruiser.
We walked the boardwalk on the ocean side and the sun came out. I say walked. Torn, bent and buckled, it looked more like a rollercoaster ride. It had been there since the twenties. People were charging their phones at mobile charging units. The santitation guys - the same guys who'd been working all night - were still out there clearing. Much of the garbage had gone from the streets.
Two nights later, we were eating pizza at the famous place on Howard Beach. We sat next to Brendan and his wife. They offered me a glass of red wine. We drank wine to help us sleep in the cold night to come. It was good wine, good company, and I slept well, thanks to the sanitation guys, the firemen and women, the police, the army, the guard, and not least, the volunteers, those who just stopped by to lend a hand. Respect to all, and never forgetting New Jersey, Cuba that lost 100,000 homes and all those coastal towns that took the full, frightening force of Sandy head on. Respect.
