New Orleans, August 2005, After. Episode VIII
New Orleans, August 2005, After. Episode VIII
The Storm had moved north. Somewhere else. It was the Day After. Walking down Royal, Chartres, Bourbon - all looked the same, except for the plants torn, trees cracked and broken. Take away the plywood, clean the balconies, all good again. Or, if not good, the way things were. But it was a narrow sliver of deception. We were higher, built for the ages, dense and protective of each other. It was eerie, like a movie set was eerie when the crews had gone, the lights turned off. There was no flooding here, no fallen walls or breached levees. An island.
We'd had no news yet of the rest of the city. There were no police, no national guardsmen, no federales. Just us, the diehard locals. We exchanged tales, planned a meal, shared still cold beer. We planned on sitting on a balcony, or a banquette, or a stoop, glass in hand and ready to welcome everyone back. Meanwhile a good friend came through with an offer of housing in the Quarter. My old neighborhood, the quiet end of Bourbon. Secure, it seemed, behind a gate in a renovated Slave Quarter. Close, but not too close.
But now rumors were everywhere. Guns were appearing, as well as strangers. The night was intense, threatening, pitch black. Rifles and shotguns, pistols or knives, wary and protective. Events of the new few days run together. A suicide across the street, said to be a young man who may have drunk himself to death. The generous grocer at the corner who'd given away everything and was left eating crackers. Our island became an actual repair, rapidly encroached from the east and north. Water deep enough for boats came within 2 blocks of the Quarter itself. Then the gas was shut off and, finally, the water as well. No more showers, cooking, flushing toilets. No night time strolls or casual visits. Look both ways after dark, run stealthily, take turns at guard against looters. And more rumors.
Over the next 5 days we saw no New Orleans police, no National Guard, in the French Quarter, the Marigny or the Bywater. No bullhorns or water trucks. No FEMA personnel or explanations. Each story was more extreme, more irrational, than the one before. People trapped, looters with chainsaws, explosions and fires.
To be continued . . .
The Storm had moved north. Somewhere else. It was the Day After. Walking down Royal, Chartres, Bourbon - all looked the same, except for the plants torn, trees cracked and broken. Take away the plywood, clean the balconies, all good again. Or, if not good, the way things were. But it was a narrow sliver of deception. We were higher, built for the ages, dense and protective of each other. It was eerie, like a movie set was eerie when the crews had gone, the lights turned off. There was no flooding here, no fallen walls or breached levees. An island.
We'd had no news yet of the rest of the city. There were no police, no national guardsmen, no federales. Just us, the diehard locals. We exchanged tales, planned a meal, shared still cold beer. We planned on sitting on a balcony, or a banquette, or a stoop, glass in hand and ready to welcome everyone back. Meanwhile a good friend came through with an offer of housing in the Quarter. My old neighborhood, the quiet end of Bourbon. Secure, it seemed, behind a gate in a renovated Slave Quarter. Close, but not too close.
But now rumors were everywhere. Guns were appearing, as well as strangers. The night was intense, threatening, pitch black. Rifles and shotguns, pistols or knives, wary and protective. Events of the new few days run together. A suicide across the street, said to be a young man who may have drunk himself to death. The generous grocer at the corner who'd given away everything and was left eating crackers. Our island became an actual repair, rapidly encroached from the east and north. Water deep enough for boats came within 2 blocks of the Quarter itself. Then the gas was shut off and, finally, the water as well. No more showers, cooking, flushing toilets. No night time strolls or casual visits. Look both ways after dark, run stealthily, take turns at guard against looters. And more rumors.
Over the next 5 days we saw no New Orleans police, no National Guard, in the French Quarter, the Marigny or the Bywater. No bullhorns or water trucks. No FEMA personnel or explanations. Each story was more extreme, more irrational, than the one before. People trapped, looters with chainsaws, explosions and fires.
To be continued . . .
posted by Piety Research at 1:18 PM
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