Sandy tore threw here like, well, a hurricane.
My Brooklyn neighborhood was lucky. Our lights flickered ominously a few times, but we never lost power. We stayed up half the night watching low quality horror movies, drinking cooking scotch, and listening to the wind whip by. When it was over, my roommates and I went out to look around.
The Gowanus canal was high up on its banks, but no longer overflowing. We walked through the streets and listened to the hum of people pumping polluted water out of their basements. Closer to my apartment, there was no flooding. A few old trees had come down in the wind. There is no place for a tree to fall around here without hitting something. In this case, they tore up asphalt and crushed cars.
Prospect Park is still closed, but I’ve heard that it will take months to repair the damage caused by the storm.
The subways are just starting to run again. By next week, hopefully, we’ll be able to move around freely. This week, though, has been a kind of hyper-local carnival. The Slope is mostly undamaged, but nobody can get to work. Everyone is feeling lucky. The bars are doing brisk business.
This weekend, though, I’ll probably be sticking close to home. I’ll be making soup, editing stories, and gratefully patting the solid brick walls of the building I live in.