Scale of the Destruction
I am still struggling to find stories that convey the scale of the destruction. This is an old story that I never got around to putting up on the blog.... (PS. I am back in my home town, but will continue to catch up on old postings for a few days)
My friend Christina recently visited and she wanted to see the hurricane devastation. It is the same request I get from everyone who visits. Even though I only get one day off, I usually take them on the tour. So far, I have given four or five, and they all are the same.
We started off and got to the Lower Ninth Ward and Christina was amazed by the destruction. Every few minutes she wanted to stop and get out of the car to capture an image. Collapsed houses, cars resting on other cars, boats on top of houses, cars standing on end, propped up against an old oak tree. “I have to take a picture of that,” she said over and over as I stopped the car and she hopped out. i total snapping 40 photos in the first 15 minutes. The car was full of questions about what happened and general small talk.
Christina, like everyone who I have taken, had an enthusiasm that almost bordered on giddiness. Disaster touring is, after all, part of a modern New Orleans vacation, and moments before we were being serenaded as we sipped café au lait and ate Beneigts at an outdoor café in the French Quarter.
As the tour continued, Christina became quieter and stopped taking so many pictures. Occasionally, she would see a more dramatic site, a house with two feet of marsh much covering its roof or a house in the middle of the street and she would ask to stop. Maybe she got out of the car, maybe she would just roll down the window.
The ruined, molding urban world enveloped us to the South, East and West for miles, if not dozens of miles. To the North lay marshes backed by ocean, the cause of all the destruction.
Two hours later, we had stopped talking. She just stared out the window silently, shocked and numb. She hadn’t taken a picture in an hour.
Then, I knew it was time to head back.
My friend Christina recently visited and she wanted to see the hurricane devastation. It is the same request I get from everyone who visits. Even though I only get one day off, I usually take them on the tour. So far, I have given four or five, and they all are the same.
We started off and got to the Lower Ninth Ward and Christina was amazed by the destruction. Every few minutes she wanted to stop and get out of the car to capture an image. Collapsed houses, cars resting on other cars, boats on top of houses, cars standing on end, propped up against an old oak tree. “I have to take a picture of that,” she said over and over as I stopped the car and she hopped out. i total snapping 40 photos in the first 15 minutes. The car was full of questions about what happened and general small talk.
Christina, like everyone who I have taken, had an enthusiasm that almost bordered on giddiness. Disaster touring is, after all, part of a modern New Orleans vacation, and moments before we were being serenaded as we sipped café au lait and ate Beneigts at an outdoor café in the French Quarter.
As the tour continued, Christina became quieter and stopped taking so many pictures. Occasionally, she would see a more dramatic site, a house with two feet of marsh much covering its roof or a house in the middle of the street and she would ask to stop. Maybe she got out of the car, maybe she would just roll down the window.
The ruined, molding urban world enveloped us to the South, East and West for miles, if not dozens of miles. To the North lay marshes backed by ocean, the cause of all the destruction.
Two hours later, we had stopped talking. She just stared out the window silently, shocked and numb. She hadn’t taken a picture in an hour.
Then, I knew it was time to head back.
posted by JNA | 8:26 PM
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