A guest post from a good New Yorker friend of mine, Sexy Feminist co-founderJennifer Keishin Armstrong. I asked Jennifer to give me a picture of what was happening in her neck of the woods post-storm, about who was okay and who wasn’t and what’s happening right now.
By Jennifer Keishin Armstrong
It turns out that if you aren’t in absolute immediate horrible danger during a hurricane (as many people were, and that is unimaginable) … if you get through a hurricane having experienced just a power outage and a lot of howling winds from the relative privilege of your sixth-floor apartment in an all-brick building … then, the worst can still be yet to come. My boyfriend, Jesse, and I had a romantic evening the night Hurricane Sandy hit, shrugging as the second episode ofLouie we’d cued up on Apple TV cut out along with our electricity. We had candles and flashlights ready, so we just switched over to cuddling on the sofa and reading Jonathan Franzen (me) and David Sedaris (him). We went to sleep early. What else did we have to do?
The next morning, we felt lucky, like we’d survived a hurricane, and relatively unscathed. (We were not impressed with Hurricane Irene last year — we prepared for days and ended up feeling almost nothing. We made chocolate fondue with a candle fondue set, even though we hadn’t lost power, just because we’d bothered to get a candle fondue set.) We headed out in the frigid rain that continued in the aftermath, just to see what was going on. We’d been out of the news loop for 12 hours. As we walked, it started to dawn on us that life was not to continue on as usual. Lines snaked outside darkened bodegas, the shop owners letting people in two at a time to prevent looting. We grabbed bread and batteries and coffee and beer. (You see our priorities.) We decided to walk north as it became clear that our part of the city — 14th Street and Avenue B, just above the East Village and the Lower East Side, a block from that exploding power plant that was all over the Internet — was without power and ostensibly shut down. (Aside from the bodegas.)
As we headed into the wind up First Avenue, Jesse lost his favorite baseball cap in a puddle. Both of our glasses misted with rain. I voiced my desire to turn around and go home — what were we expecting to get out of this? Still, we soldiered on with others from our neighborhood, people in sweats and pajamas heading north, trying to get their cell phones to function. Texts were intermittent, internet and phone capabilities down. I got a text from a friend who lives near us: “There is power north of 40th.” This kept us going. Sure enough, at 41st Street, a wine store, totally civilized, running, credit card machine functional, power outlets to spare. We bought three bottles of red wine and kept going. I don’t even know what we thought we’d find, or what we wanted. We were just so happy to see regular civilization. As others crossed 40th, you saw it over and over: “Oh my God, you guys! That place is open!” We went up a few more blocks and wandered into a Hallmark store for candles. It took a while to find unscented ones, but we got about a half dozen. Then I noticed a whole power strip in a back corner, most of its outlets brazenly open and available. We plugged our phones in for a half-hour or so while we read horribly un-clever cards and thanked god we’d never buy “bachelorette party favors.” As we left and paid for the candles, we found another godsend: a solar-powered flashlight.
We felt invigorated, ready to face this thing. We would spend the evening reading by candlelight, drinking wine! It would be relaxing, like a vacation! But when we finally returned home, tired from our 60-block round trip, another discovery: Our water service had disappeared. Apparently water needs electricity to travel upstairs. There was no hope of it returning, except perhaps intermittently with the use of tiny emergency generators.
We called Jesse’s mom in Pennsylvania, but she’d also lost power, and it would have been hard for us to get there anyway. We kept texting friends in the area to see who had what resources, but it was hard: Every text had to be sent three or four times before it went through. Finally, a miracle: Jesse’s friend Chris, who lived just over the bridge in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, had electricity, warm water, and wifi. I almost sobbed at how wonderful that suddenly sounded. We ravaged our apartment for maps to figure out how to walk there — hmm, yeah, we didn’t have those anymore. Chris managed to text us Google maps walking directions. We set out on the 3.5-mile trek, dragging our rolling suitcases in the opposite direction from where we’d gone that morning.
Here was the real dire situation. By just 3 p.m. the day after Sandy, things looked bleak throughout the East Village and Lower East Side. Awnings were toppled, a few windows were broken. Everything was dark and closed. Stoplights, of course, weren’t functioning. Bodega shelves were emptied.
When we finally crossed the Williamsburg Bridge, we entered another dimension, one even better from what was going on north of 40th Street: We were shocked to find people drinking in bars, restaurants preparing for the dinner rush, hipster vintage clothing boutiques up and running. One place was seriously selling home accessories, as if that might be what someone wanted to pick up that day. And someonedid. Shoppers were inside. We joked about being offended that this could go on so normally. But it was soothing. We could see lines being drawn already: The Haves in Brooklyn and North of 40; the Have-Nots in Lower Manhattan.
We’re still at Chris’ place two days later, bless his heart. He even gave us his bed and slept in his living room. He has warm water that comes out of the faucetany time you want. He has internet, clearly. We’ve been enjoying pretending to live in Williamsburg, which, if you don’t know, is the hipster capital of the universe. We hit the local American Apparel for underwear, socks, and T-shirts to get us through a few more days. I hit an overwhelmingly packed yoga class full of gorgeous, skinny people with oversized glasses and aggressively cool haircuts. We’re obsessing over the news. I loved seeing Chris Christie defending Obama and sticking it to Fox News. Hell, I just loved seeing Chris Christie, windblown and wearing his custom “Chris Christie, Governor” fleece.
Things are still really shitty back home in our complex; we live in Stuyvesant Town/Peter Cooper Village, where 20,000 people are now heading into their third day of trying to survive with no power or water. (If you want to see some serious drama, check out the management’s Facebook page right now.) We’re going back there tomorrow to check on things, and ConEd swearsthe whole city will be powered by Saturday. Suddenly, in a city where people are nowrationing bread, waiting in hours-long lines forbuses, and flashing cash on the street to get cabbies to stop, that feels unthinkably, uncomfortably luxurious.
We’re hoping for the best, and we know how lucky we are.