Twenty-four hours after the strongest winds were felt, New York City is in recovery mode, idle, disoriented, licking her wounds. It could have been worse, yet it could have been so much better. Wide-spread power outages and flooding, downed trees, drifting cars, sinking tunnels, skinned buildings, collapsing cranes, casualties, the Media has shown it all, there is nothing I can add.
All transit is still shut down. Lower Manhattan – aka the Financial District – remains dark, countless people are left assessing irreparable damage, generators and water pumps are roaring, emergency services are probably maxed-out, and our two presidential puppets, of all people, are gambling on the right tone of voice and the proper commiserative gesture. Still, there can only be one – and he has to be Obama. Better gambler, I hope, and cleaner guts.
Marie and I were out for an assessment stroll this evening, through Red Hook, major flood victim in Brooklyn, soberingly taking note of our own personal luck. We live a good 35 feet plus 3 stories above sea level, we had prepared, we were lucky. Only a gutter went airborne. And this was only a weak cat. 1.
This is all too close to home, bad memories awaken. There was a time when worse damage was a yearly fine, an unavoidable curse, yet so easily bounced away by the mighty hand of Murphy’s Law and meteorology’s unaccountable variables. One never knows. I laughed out loud when I read a newspaper headline saying that hurricane veterans had felt that one coming.
I’ll post a few pictures, local and rather limited in scope, when I get around to developing them. For now, telecommuting and gratefulness.