Hurricane Sandy is headed our way. It seems strange to be sitting in our 27th floor apartment, looking out the windows on a regular-looking Sunday afternoon, knowing that the view will change in hours.
People walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, some push strollers, others stop to take pictures; runners and bicyclists pass them by.
A Circle Line harbor tour boat, dotted with passengers on her bow and stern, heads leisurely down the East River.
Traffic flows smoothly.
Vendors peddle hot dogs.
I could nod off for a nap.
Yet, the winds cornering the building have a whistle to them that I didn't hear a couple of hours ago. They warn that their bigger, stronger, more powerful sister is on her way, like the Billy Goats Gruff who convince the waiting troll that the best (or worst) is yet to come.
We're prepared for her.
Flashlights, batteries, Stick N Click lights, water, food, an empty bathtub just waiting to be filled at the first sign of flickering power.
The building management has assured us that our 76-floor building will withstand hurricane force winds, that the emergency generator will provide lights in the halls and power for two elevators (rather than twelve.) Our job is to close and lock all our windows. Done.
Thankfully, our building is in Zone C of Lower Manhattan so we can stay. Less than a mile away, residents in Zone A, must evacuate. Those who need to leave via public transportation must do so before 7:00 p.m. on subways or 9:00 p.m. on buses, when those services will stop. While others are boarding up, loading up, headed for higher ground, I feel only mildly inconvenienced at the prospect of losing power, internet connection, phone service, or running short of. . . . nothing.
How do people weather such storms when they have no clue, no warning, no time to ponder, "Should I go buy a couple of more gallons of water?" Even if Sandy tramps through New York City with the fiercest force she can muster, we have been forewarned.
With that thought in mind, I'm off to buy a battery-operated radio, then start a big pot of soup.
People walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, some push strollers, others stop to take pictures; runners and bicyclists pass them by.
A Circle Line harbor tour boat, dotted with passengers on her bow and stern, heads leisurely down the East River.
Traffic flows smoothly.
Vendors peddle hot dogs. I could nod off for a nap.
Yet, the winds cornering the building have a whistle to them that I didn't hear a couple of hours ago. They warn that their bigger, stronger, more powerful sister is on her way, like the Billy Goats Gruff who convince the waiting troll that the best (or worst) is yet to come.
We're prepared for her.
Flashlights, batteries, Stick N Click lights, water, food, an empty bathtub just waiting to be filled at the first sign of flickering power.
The building management has assured us that our 76-floor building will withstand hurricane force winds, that the emergency generator will provide lights in the halls and power for two elevators (rather than twelve.) Our job is to close and lock all our windows. Done.
Thankfully, our building is in Zone C of Lower Manhattan so we can stay. Less than a mile away, residents in Zone A, must evacuate. Those who need to leave via public transportation must do so before 7:00 p.m. on subways or 9:00 p.m. on buses, when those services will stop. While others are boarding up, loading up, headed for higher ground, I feel only mildly inconvenienced at the prospect of losing power, internet connection, phone service, or running short of. . . . nothing.
How do people weather such storms when they have no clue, no warning, no time to ponder, "Should I go buy a couple of more gallons of water?" Even if Sandy tramps through New York City with the fiercest force she can muster, we have been forewarned.
With that thought in mind, I'm off to buy a battery-operated radio, then start a big pot of soup.
Scary! I can do blizzards, but have no hurricane experience.
ReplyDeleteBe safe.<3
Neither do we, so we're faithfully following the city's directions. I'll let you know. Thanks!
ReplyDelete