As the plane descended through the clouds over New Orleans, just as the sun was setting, it seemed as though most of the passengers were craning their necks for a glimpse of the city – a bird’s eye perspective on the last 10 months.
I was just as bad as the rest holding my monocular to the window trying to see the streets below as the altitude lessened. I couldn’t see much. There were pockets that were bright and lit up by street lights – a baseball diamond with those high-powered florescent outdoor lights – but then again there were streets dotted by the occasional streetlight, but not much else. I wondered if these were devastated areas full of unoccupied houses, or if I simply couldn’t see well enough to see the lights on in smaller buildings.
When I stepped onto the jet way from the plane that unmistakable New Orleans air hit me – thick and heavy the way humidity is in the South, as if the air is wrapping you up in a stifling hot blanket.
The airport terminal looked like a ghost town. Parts of it had the lights turned off and none of the usual airport gift shops or restaurants were open. Airport staff guided us down the hallway to the escalator that led to baggage claim. Baggage claim seemed slightly more normal as several flights had just arrived and several conveyor belts were loaded down with bags and surrounded by people.
The bags came quickly and I was off to the airport shuttle. It was full of librarians ready for the week ahead at the American Library Association annual meeting. I was dying to take advantage of this captive audience, but patiently waited and listened to their conversations. Finally, half way through the ride, I shared with the driver who I was and why I was there. I asked him what had happened to him during the storm.
“I got the heck out of here,” he said, “We were evacuated to Baton Rouge, then to Houston, then to Dallas.”
Ron, the driver, had only been back in his city for a few weeks. He’d come back to see what had happened to his house for the first time and determine whether anything could be saved. He thinks the house can be rehabbed and is currently in discussions with contractors about how much repairs would cost – but if he fixes it someone else will live there. Ron would sell the house, if he can.
“I’m not coming back,” Ron, who never answered when I asked him his last name, said, “I can’t risk going through this again.”
Ron and his family have found a place to live in Dallas. His kids are in school there, and his wife found a job. Evacuating, and then losing everything they owned has financially drained the family. They have no savings left. “We just couldn’t do it again.” he said.
He’d heard about the shuttle company needing drivers and figured working a few shifts would be a good way to earn a little much needed cash while he settled his New Orleans affairs.
“I’ll always be from New Orleans,” he told me, “I love this city. I just can’t live here again.”
I was just as bad as the rest holding my monocular to the window trying to see the streets below as the altitude lessened. I couldn’t see much. There were pockets that were bright and lit up by street lights – a baseball diamond with those high-powered florescent outdoor lights – but then again there were streets dotted by the occasional streetlight, but not much else. I wondered if these were devastated areas full of unoccupied houses, or if I simply couldn’t see well enough to see the lights on in smaller buildings.
When I stepped onto the jet way from the plane that unmistakable New Orleans air hit me – thick and heavy the way humidity is in the South, as if the air is wrapping you up in a stifling hot blanket.
The airport terminal looked like a ghost town. Parts of it had the lights turned off and none of the usual airport gift shops or restaurants were open. Airport staff guided us down the hallway to the escalator that led to baggage claim. Baggage claim seemed slightly more normal as several flights had just arrived and several conveyor belts were loaded down with bags and surrounded by people.
The bags came quickly and I was off to the airport shuttle. It was full of librarians ready for the week ahead at the American Library Association annual meeting. I was dying to take advantage of this captive audience, but patiently waited and listened to their conversations. Finally, half way through the ride, I shared with the driver who I was and why I was there. I asked him what had happened to him during the storm.
“I got the heck out of here,” he said, “We were evacuated to Baton Rouge, then to Houston, then to Dallas.”
Ron, the driver, had only been back in his city for a few weeks. He’d come back to see what had happened to his house for the first time and determine whether anything could be saved. He thinks the house can be rehabbed and is currently in discussions with contractors about how much repairs would cost – but if he fixes it someone else will live there. Ron would sell the house, if he can.
“I’m not coming back,” Ron, who never answered when I asked him his last name, said, “I can’t risk going through this again.”
Ron and his family have found a place to live in Dallas. His kids are in school there, and his wife found a job. Evacuating, and then losing everything they owned has financially drained the family. They have no savings left. “We just couldn’t do it again.” he said.
He’d heard about the shuttle company needing drivers and figured working a few shifts would be a good way to earn a little much needed cash while he settled his New Orleans affairs.
“I’ll always be from New Orleans,” he told me, “I love this city. I just can’t live here again.”
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