JFK Airport -- Heading Out the Door:
“You’re paid up, right?” my wife asks in that sarcastically “I love you but you’re an idiot” tone that defines our relationship at moments like these.
We’ve had these moments before… when I covered the War with Iraq, September 11th, the wildfires on Long Island and others. This time we said our goodbyes over the phone. She is in Florida with our 10—“daddy, I’m practically 11”--year old daughter.
Once again, I find myself heading into a place that just about everyone else is running away from. It’s in the reporter’s DNA. I do think about the risks but everything in life is a bit of a gamble. For a reporter, the opportunity to witness and report on the human experience is simply too compelling to pass up.
As I wait to board the plane that will put me in the path of hurricane Gustav, I go over the life I have just put on hold. I told my teenage sons I loved them (and not to trash the house with wild parties), I fed the pets and I left notes for my wife and daughter. Then I have to put all of that out of my head.
So, yes, my life insurance is paid up. Let’s just hope that the money is still going from my wallet to the life insurance company and not the other way around…when I come home.
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Landed in New Orleans:
I wasn’t here during Katrina but it is very obvious how much things have changed from the reports we watched and heard three years ago. Instead of desperation, there was an immediate sense of calm urgency. Local officials had the most important commodity in abundance …information. Unfortunately, for me, that meant finding out that my hotel had been evacuated and closed down. Ditto on my car rental. Since I’m not sure everything I did to secure my ride and room were entirely legal, let’s just say I did get both.
I made a couple of stops on my way to the French Quarter. I met bus drivers helping to evacuate residents, National Guard troops keeping a watchful eye, and New Orleans PD on just about every street corner.
What I didn’t find were the locals. They left by plane, by bus, by car and by the tens of thousands. Imagine Times Square being completely empty. No noise, no energy, no people. This is in sharp contrast to the chaos and confusion of three years ago.
The French Quarter is New Orleans’ version of Times Square (just add a dozen more bars and drunks). Today though, the streets are empty, the stores are boarded up (see my photo gallery), and I am getting desperate for a little food and water.
I am heading to Bourbon street for a look.
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Bourbon Street:
Still many hours from Gustav’s assault. The French Quarter is still empty. Or is it? A few blocks down on Bourbon street, I see an store with its lights on. Mr. Chubby’s is open for business.
I walk in. No patrons but there is a jolly (o.k., chubby) man cooking up chopped steak on a grill. As soon as he sees my microphone with the 1010 WINS logo, he smiles and starts singing. It’s an awful rendition of New York, New York but I need food and water, so I immediately egg him on by nodding my enthusiastic approval of his obvious talent.
Mr. Chubby is actually Mr. Cohen, a transplant from our neck of the woods. He is open because he says he wants to do something positive during the storm. Mr. Chubby is providing coffee, steak-n-cheese subs, soda, and a friendly face for New Orleans’ finest.
He is also the food lifeline for the few folks who have chosen to ride out the storm. It’s where I met Cynthia. She knew enough to evacuate when Hurricane Katrina hit three years ago but this time she’s staying. When I asked her why, she became quiet. Her eyes teared up, she shrugged her shoulders and she said, “because I am tired of running.” Cynthia will try to ride out the storm with two friends and her dog.
And a steak and cheese sub from Mr. Chubby’s.
Gustav
Well, the Big Easy got a Big Break Monday. Hurricane Gustav huffed and puffed, but he could not blow the levees down.
He did however put on a hell of a show here. In the French Quarter, Gustav blew across as a Category 1 hurricane. Even at that minimal level, the wind gusts knocked out a few windows, tore apart some store signs, and turned all kinds of debris into high speed projectiles. I took a shot to my left leg from a flying piece of metal. The flat side of the 2 by 2 sheet smacked into my thigh. It stung and my calf muscle is sore but all I could think about is what kind of damage it would have done had it been traveling at the rate of a category 2 or category 3 wind gust.
In contrast to the incompetence and misery born out of Katrina three years ago, officials handled Gustav correctly. The lessons learned then and implemented now? Coordination instead of chaos, information and action instead of questions and paralysis, and a rebuilt system of levees that withstood the storm surge.
As I do one final walking tour of the French Quarter, it’s clear that New Orleans got away with one this time. There was minor damage, scattered outages, and some very scary moments but here in the Big Easy they’ll probably name a drink for it, then get drunk toasting to their creativity.
Just give them a few days to clean up the mess.
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