Rock Me Like a Hurricane

You may have heard that New York has had a bit of bad weather lately. Between last week’s earthquake and this weekend’s tropical storm, it kind of seemed that naturepocalypse was imminent. Frantic news reports predicted the destruction to be caused by Hurricane Irene. Stores sold out of water. The MTA, the main artery of the city, was totally shut down. Low-lying areas were evacuated (except for the chill bros who stocked up on brews and barricaded themselves indoors to weather the storm while wasted). Businesses closed up shop. I bought enough granola bars to feed an entire overnight camp for three summers. Some articles estimated that the wind, rain, and general storm shenanigans would leave billions of dollars of damages in its wake. Shit was poised to get real. 

But by the time Irene reached New York, she had hung up her heels and packed it in for the night. Though other cities sustained considerable damage, by the time Irene got to NY, she wasn’t even a hurricane anymore. The big hurricane that would became the moderate storm that didn’t.

When I woke up this morning, the morbid anthropologist in me was eager to get out and survey the damage. I anticipated a sense of post-apocalyptic calm. I expected fallen trees, down power lines, and shattered glass. There wasn’t much to see. Instead, I just encountered other adventurers sleepily emerging from the apartments where they’dhunkered down to wait out the rain. We grabbed some coffees and strolled around, lining up to snap shots of the one huge fallen tree—the surest sign that our careful preparations hadn’t been silly or paranoid (even though I’ve got a few dozen juice boxes and fifty bottles of water to suggest that I might have gone a little overboard). 

It’s great that the storm largely bypassed this tiny, crowded island. Irene was more of a drizzle than a doozy, but in case you’re curious, here are some shots from the morning after.