The following is an account of time spent in New York City during Hurricane Sandy by Trail reporter Jezebel Lightly.
It’s 5 p.m. on Sunday. I’m on a New York City street, somewhere on the lower East Side. Today, the winds have begun to pick up. Trash is scattered everywhere and it’s beginning to pour. So, at a glance, not too abnormal. But you can feel it. This one’s different.
The name “Sandy” is heard muttered beneath people’s breath. Stores everywhere have been boarded up. Pizzerias, with neon lights flickering just enough to make a signal to the outside world, remain the only vendors left open.
“Yeah, storm’s ragin’, you wanna slice or you wanna get the hell outta’ my store?” the old man behind the counter yelled gruffly over the clamor of his kitchen.
One Brooklyn resident who I ran into talked of the rains, and how at first they had only caused a trickle. But they now coursed with a fury through the overwhelmed subway system; untold underground tributaries seething and merging into a single subterrainian Mississippi. Standing on the precipice of a flooded, churning subway enterance, an exasperated “too mainstream,” was all he could manage. His disdain for the flood was evident. Through sips of espresso he noted the inconsistent wifi access, which meant there were no weather updates, but more importantly, he’d lost the ability to be the first to tweet about them.
The sun sets and as I continue my way down the unlit street, a jet ski passes me by. As it rounds the corner, I realize that it has an illuminated taxi sign on its rear. I guess him as being 15 knots over the speed limit. Damn foreign drivers.
Making my way to the train station, I pass by a local soup kitchen. The head chef is harshly ordering volunteers about his small shop. Rat Minestroni. Hard times make for innovative cooking. A family of five has huddled up to the window to get their dinner. The chef serves them, making no eye contact. They leave without a word, into the night.
