Dr. Greg - Leadership Lessons from the Eye of the Storm

Leadership Lessons Learned

2007-02-07T13:52:00.000-08:00

The fundamental truths I learned about leadership from my time in New Orleans during and after Hurricane Katrina are:

1) Accessing, Trusting & Acting on Your Gut Instincts: The process of becoming a leader starts by engaging your own gut level leadership instincts. It’s about developing your ability to access, trust and act on your intuition. It’s making what I call the leadership switch, which means switching your focus for direction to inside of yourself instead of outside to an "authority" figure. It means using your leadership instinct as a compass by which to navigate when the external landmarks aren’t clear or have been washed away, literally, as they were in Katrina.

2) Learning to be a Leader is an Experiential Process: In order to become the best leader that one can be, one must have direct experience of engaging one’s gut instincts. You can’t only read about how to do this. I believe that directly experiencing a personal challenge, even a crisis, enables one to fully maximize this leadership potential. Going through an outdoor challenge like Outward Bound is one way to tap one’s leadership instincts.

3) The Ability to Deal With Reality is Key: Developing the ability to keep up with a fast-changing reality is key to successful leadership. This involves being able to switch off what you thought would happen to facing what is actually happening. Further, it means being able to shift your "internal frame of reference" to quickly match a new, changed reality. Being stuck on "this isn't what's supposed to be happening" impairs one's ability to respond successfully.

4) Without Resolving One's Own Weaknesses, One Will Not Be Able to Develop One's Full Leadership Potential: Identifying and learning to overcome one's weaknesses is essential to developing your leadership potential. Unless one does this, these weaknesses remain as hidden obstacles, much like logs floating just under the surface of a river. Weaknesses may include fear, a lack of confidence, or even arrogance, for example. The central weakness I faced in Katrina was overcoming my fear of asking for help or even admitting that I needed help. Fear of dependency and "being a burden" followed closely behind.

5) Never Hand Over Complete Responsibility for Your Situation to "Authority Figures." Don't naively trust authority figures as if you'd be trusting God. They will do their best, but they have their own self-interest as well. Always hold onto some quotient of responsibility for yourself and your situation. Never ignore your “leadership instinct.”

My Long Trip Finally Comes to an End

2007-02-07T10:27:00.000-08:00

Thursday, September 1, 2005. Evening.

It only took Carol and her husband, Joe, twenty minutes to drive from their house to the restaurant. I had never met them before, and prior to Katrina didn't even know they existed. Yet, here I was riding in the backseat of their air-conditioned car on the way to spend the night at their house. But, given the events of the last week, nothing surprised me.

They graciously opened their home to me, which stood in stark contrast to the “every man for himself world” I’d come from. I felt as if I had just stepped out of the Nineteenth into the Twenty-first Century. Everything was a novelty: electricity, hot and cold running water, air-conditioning, television, refrigeration, even food.

I was filthy so I took my first shower. I lingered, letting the water run over my face and rest of my body, but felt guilty for taking so much for myself. I stepped out and grabbed a clean, white towel. I flushed the toilet just to watch it work.

Back in my room, I put on a dirty shirt and pair of shorts while Carol washed some of my other clothes. Now that I was clean I got the full impact of my unwashed clothes. I went to the window air-conditioner and put my face where I could feel the full flow of cool air, which brought such relief, but more guilt. Why was I getting all of this?

Carol knocked and delivered a load of freshly laundered clothes. Selecting a Hotel Monteleone tee shirt and khaki shorts, I dressed and began to feel a little like myself. At the same time though, I felt like a tuning fork, set in motion by Katrina, and I was still vibrating.

I called Kathy to let her know I was safely at Carol's and then Brian to coordinate my morning pick-up. He would drive down with a farmer friend and meet me around 10:00 a.m.

In the kitchen, Carol offered me food and drink. I wasn’t hungry, but accepted a beer, since they weren’t wine drinkers.

I watched a little television with them. An angry New Orleans Police Lieutenant was telling his story to a news anchor on one of the Baton Rouge stations. He had driven his family in his police cruiser from New Orleans to Baton Rouge and dropped them off at a relative's house. He then drove his cruiser to a shopping mall and abandoned it in the parking lot.

"Why did you do that?" asked the anchor.

"We were overwhelmed and the leadership of the city of New Orleans failed miserably. There was no plan to handle a crisis like this, even though this is exactly what we feared could happen," he said.

"What do you mean there was no plan? You mean the plan was outdated?" the anchor asked.

"No. It's not that the plan was outdated, there WAS NO PLAN," he added. "We had no emergency plan. We were told to show up for our normal shifts and do the best we could," he said bitterly. "What the...!?!?" I thought.

Feeling wiped out, I excused myself and went to my room. Being able to close the door and not suffocate nor worry about someone breaking into my room was a luxury. Before dropping off to sleep I turned up the window air-conditioner and made some notes in my journal. My mind was racing, trying to make sense of the last week. Finally exhausted, I switched off the light, slid between the fresh sheets and fell instantly to sleep.

The next morning, I awoke around 9 a.m. and had a light breakfast with Carol and Joe. By 9:30 a.m. I was anxiously listening for the sounds of a truck driving up to the house. At 10:00 a.m. Brian and his farmer friend pulled into the drive. I ran out and gave him a big hug and kiss on the cheek. He's my baby brother, but here he was rescuing me.

I thanked Carol and Joe, invited them to come and stay with us in California, and threw my bags in the back of the king cab. Since Brian and his friend didn't know what to expect, they had planned for total self-sufficiency. An ice chest packed with drinks and sandwiches was in the back of the truck along with a fifty-gallon drum of diesel fuel. A pump and hose was attached to the drum, as was a car battery to power it so that they didn't have to depend on finding open gas stations. Not knowing how dangerous it might be, they both had pistols with them. "Thank God for these Arkansas boys," I thought.

The drive to Arkansas took us around seven hours. Along the way we passed long lines of utility repair trucks heading south. They were keenly interested in hearing my story so I told them, and doing so helped me stay grounded and begin my transition back.

I marveled at being back in a world that worked. Speeding along in that truck was a novelty as was seeing all of the other moving vehicles and people going about their normal lives.

We arrived back at my mother's house, a place that I hadn't expected to see again this soon. After hugs and dinner, we settled down in the living room and I told my story again. In addition to my mother, Brian's wife Rita was there as were my brother Steve and his wife Sally. When I told them about not being able to light that little oil lamp I had taken from the Carousel Bar, I broke down sobbing. Steve moved over to sit next to me and put his arm around me. Normally I'm the strong one, but here I was, spent and being propped up by my brothers. It felt good.

The next morning, Saturday, Steve and Sally drove me to Little Rock to catch my flight home. I had finally managed to reschedule my Southwest flight to a day and place that it would actually happen. On the drive over, we stopped at a gas station and went inside the mini-mart. As Steve was paying for the gas we could see the Katrina headlines of the newspaper on the counter. "You know," Steve said to the cashier, "my brother just came from there" as he pointed to the headline.

"Is that right?" she asked. "Well, God bless you Honey."

As a final stop we went to the Cracker Barrel, which is a chain of "country style" restaurants in the South. The food was wholesome and the portions were huge. I again picked at my food while Steve and Sally enjoyed a full breakfast. I was amazed at all of the food and water, and had that feeling of almost being sick at the sight of it.

On my way out of the hotel I had carried a little green bag with three small half-filled bottles of water. As I got back into Steve's car, there it sat on the floor right in front of my seat. Not having enough food was one thing, but not enough water was something else altogether. I have that bag and bottles out in my car. I still can't let them go.

After Steve and Sally dropped me off, I made my way to my gate. As I sat waiting I made notes in my journal. Everything in the terminal worked. The people were normal, moving through experiences that they expected to happen: waiting for a flight, boarding, and getting to their destination. Having just come from days where few, if any, of my expectations of "normalcy" were met, I was feeling ill at ease. I wanted to get up and scream, "I've just come out of New Orleans. It's a nightmarish hellhole. Wake up people, we've got to do something."

We boarded and I managed to get an aisle seat at the front of the plane next to a nice tall young man named Congo and his mother. We had a pleasant conversation prior to takeoff and then again on our flight to Las Vegas, where we had a half-hour stopover, before proceeding on to Oakland. I didn't believe that I would actually make it home.

About halfway to Vegas we hit turbulence and I began to feel airsick, which rarely happens to me. With only twenty minutes to go before landing I began to feel really sick. The seat belt sign was on so I felt I couldn't leave my seat. I didn't want to throw up in the bag, so I fixed my gaze on the red heart logo on the front wall of the craft.

The flight attendants seated in front of me could see that I was turning white so one got up and handed me a wet cloth and advised me to turn the air vent directly on my face. These helped only slightly so they gave me the okay to hit the bathroom, even though the plane was bouncing hard.

I barely got in the door before I threw up multiple times into the sink. I sat down on the closed toilet seat and tried to get my bearings. All of this had brought on a kind of claustrophobic panic, a feeling that I couldn't stand another minute on that plane.

Once I felt as stable as I was going to get, I went back to my seat and tried to breathe deep and stay focused on that heart. Another five minutes of hanging on and we were on the ground. Once the Vegas passengers had deplaned, I asked the flight attendant if it would be okay if I stood in the walkway just outside the plane. "That would be fine," she said.

As I inhaled fresh air, I debated whether to get back on or not. I really didn't think I could handle a second flight, but so badly wanted to get home.

When everyone had boarded, I finally forced myself back onto the plane. We had a new flight crew, but they could tell that I was in bad shape. As soon as we left the ground I could feel the nausea and panic swell up, and they could see it too. One of them gave me the nod and I hit the bathroom again, only this time the results were more violent. I wanted to die.

It was all too much for me and now that I was safely out of New Orleans, all of the physical and psychological assaults of the last week came crashing down. I managed to get back to my seat and settle myself enough to endure the rest of the flight.

Once we landed, I exited the plane as fast as I could and made my way out to the curb, where my daughter, Kara Grace and my son, Conor, were waiting for me while Kathy and my daughter, Kaitlin, drove the car around. They both flew into my arms as did Kathy and Kaitlin when they found us. I wanted to pinch myself.

On the drive home we stopped once to get coffee. When we got back in the car I told them some of my story, and again broke down in tears. They all listened quietly and each reached out and put a hand on my shoulder.

The next day, Kathy and I went for a bike ride through the vineyards near our home in Healdsburg, in the Sonoma Country wine region. Being September, the vines were heavy with grapes and harvest was only a few weeks away.

Normally, when we ride I look at the vineyards and think how beautiful, what great "scenery" to ride through. Today, however, the first thought that came to mind when I saw those grapes was, "Look at all of that food."

I was back and I knew right then, I would never be the same. Against my will I had suffered through all that Katrina had brought, but now was grateful for the experience. I had become more fully human. I needed to be thrown out of my comfort zone, needed to experience deprivation, because without that, we all risk creating a world filled with people who just don't give a damn.

In the end, Katrina taught me not to let fear, a lack of courage, or the deadening impact of the "everyday" stop me from giving a damn or making my life what I want it to be.

I returned from my bike ride, took a long shower, pulled a corkscrew out of the kitchen drawer, and had a nice glass of wine sitting on the front porch with Kathy.

Partway to Freedom

2007-02-05T14:08:00.000-08:00

Thursday, September 1, 2005. Early Afternoon.

We traveled on back streets, driving around downed trees and power lines. Thirty minutes later we arrived in Kenner, the temporary "base camp" for the CBS News crews. Several large satellite trucks were parked in front of a building, from which most of its bricks had blown down and smashed into two parked cars. The rest littered the parking lot.

A Blackhawk helicopter landed in a field just behind us. "Will you have the sound of that chopper in one of your stories?" I asked him. "Hey, the sound of choppers in the background always makes it a great story," Jim said, smiling.

We were parked next to a Radisson Hotel with several shattered windows. Was it open? When I walked into the lobby the hotel manager immediately approached me. “Can I help you sir?” he asked.

“Yes, are you open?” I asked.

“No sir, our last guests are leaving right now,” he replied.

“I need to get to Baton Rouge. Do you know of anyone going that way? I asked.

“No sir, I’m afraid not. The best you can do is ask someone with a car for a ride,” he replied. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help and for being so forward in confronting you in the lobby. You just can’t be too careful right now.”

I approached people loading their car in front of the entry. No, they didn’t have any room for an additional passenger. I crossed the street and walked by the two brick-smashed cars, looking inside for keys. Had I found keys and been able to start one of them, I was going to take it and drive myself to Baton Rouge, cracked windshield, smashed hood and all. I didn’t know what I would do with the car once I got there, but that detail wasn’t important at the moment. Neither car had keys.

I walked up the line of parked CBS vehicles and noticed John Roberts, who at that time was anchoring the CBS Evening News. He was dressed in neatly pressed khaki trousers, a "safari" shirt, and his hair was nicely done. I took one look at him and thought, "Well John, it's clear that you haven't spent anytime in New Orleans yet."

I went back over and borrowed Jim’s phone to call Kathy. She told me that if I could get to Baton Rouge, my late stepfather’s niece, Carol, would take me to their house, where Brian would pick me up the next morning. I thought that was a great plan as well, but I hadn't found a way to get there. Carol had tried to drive to Kenner to get me, but had been turned back at a roadblock just outside of Baton Rouge.

Kathy also told me that one of Brian's friends had a private plane and was ready to fly down to pick me up if I could only get to the New Orleans airport. "The weather is so bad I wouldn't get on a small plane, plus I have no idea where the New Orleans airport is," I told her.

When we had driven in I had noticed a Louisiana Highway Patrol center on the other side of the freeway. I screwed up my courage and asked Jim if he could drive me over to see if I could find a way to Baton Rouge through them. "No problem," he said.

Jim pulled into the parking lot, which was crowded with highway patrol cars and vehicles from other police departments. While Jim waited in the car, I walked in and explained my situation to the officer at the front desk. "Do you know of anyone or have any officers who might be going to Baton Rouge?" I asked.

"No sir, we can't spare any officers to drive you up there," he replied. I didn’t bother to explain that I was simply hoping to ride with someone.

"Well, do you have any other suggestions as to how I might get there?" I asked.

"The freeway on-ramp that takes you north to Baton Rouge is just over there. You might try hitchhiking," he said. I walked back out and got in the van with Jim.

"Any luck?" he asked.

"No. No luck."

We drove back over to the Radisson and I decided to take a look at how many cars were taking the freeway north. I stood on the corner watching for fifteen minutes and no more than half a dozen cars took the on-ramp toward Baton Rouge. It didn't seem wise to give up the seat in Jim's van to try hitchhiking.

As I walked back, a couple pulled into the closed Shell service station next to us to use the pay phone. I waited for the man to hang up and asked if they were going to Baton Rouge. He politely told me that they might be the next day. I thanked him and returned to the van.

When I got back, Jim had just finished broadcasting his report. He asked me if I'd mind giving an "eyewitness" account for CBS Radio and within a couple of minutes I was on air relaying my story. As I finished, the gentleman from the gas station motioned for me to come over by his car.

I walked back over and he pointed to two young men, who were standing by the pay phone, and said, "These two gentleman might be able to help you." I thanked him, at which point he got in the car and drove off. His kindness touched me.

I introduced myself to two guys wearing "CBS News" caps, and asked if they were going to Baton Rouge. "Well, we usually do each night, but we won't know if we're going tonight for about an hour. That’s when they will tell us if we are done for the day," one of them said.

"Well, if you do go, can I ride with you?" I asked.

"Sure," he said.

Their names were Sean and Keith, they were both from New Orleans, and had been hired by CBS News to be local guides. They would also drive to Baton Rouge each night, buy water, food, and gasoline, and then bring it back the next morning. They were pulling an aluminum fishing boat that they used to ferry the news crews around in the floodwaters.

Before they left to go see if they were done for the day, I made them promise to come and find me. I told Jim that I might have a way out, but he said that I could stay with him in the van as long as I needed. I began to settle down.

About an hour later, I found Sean and Keith who had just been released and were, in fact, driving to Baton Rouge. I ran back to Jim's van to get my things, my heart racing.

It was hard to leave Jim. In the short time that we had been together, he had become my "guardian angel." When I said goodbye, he said that he didn't really do much, but that he was glad that he could at least help out one person in this whole mess. I swore I'd never forget him.

Sean's truck was a "king-cab" and I expected to sit in the tiny back seat, but Keith insisted that I sit in front. "Is that gas I smell?" I asked.

"Yea," Sean said, "on the drive down yesterday we spilled a gallon in the cab. I know it's pretty bad." I felt like I had my nose jammed into the end of a gasoline pump hose. Never mind that I might throw up or that we might blow up from even a small spark, I was headed north.

The drive north took just over an hour. "So what's your story?" I asked them at one point. I meant, what do you do, how do you like working with CBS, and stuff like that.

Turns out that Sean was actually a minister for a small Pentecostal church and waited tables on the side to make ends meet. Keith was heavily involved in the church as well.

This might explain how they interpreted my question about “their story,” as "How did you first come to know the Lord?” They didn't try to convert me and their testimonies took my mind off the fumes. Keith told me about the time he spent at a small Christian college back East. In fact, he had been recruited to play football. "Oh, how did that happen/" I asked.

"Well, the head of the college at first thought they'd have an ‘all preachers’ football team, but that didn't work out too well. They kept losing, so they decided they had to change that rule and that's when I got recruited," he said.

“An all preachers football team," I thought. We drove on.

When we rolled into Baton Rouge the city lights were on. All of the stores were open, the shopping centers were busy, and the traffic lights worked. It was a shocking re-entry, so close to New Orleans, but like another world.

I offered to buy the boys dinner and they said it wasn't necessary, but that it would be fine. We stopped at a Texas barbecue chain. While the cool air in Jim's van and Sean's truck was nice, it was nothing like walking into that restaurant. "I'll never take air-conditioning for granted again," I thought.

The restaurant was full of people sitting back, eating, talking, laughing and smoking. Table after table was loaded down with massive plates of barbecue, beer, wine, Cokes and ice water.

As we walked past all those tables I thought, "They have all the water they want and they're not even drinking it." I felt like collecting the full glasses of ice water to bring to our table.

I studied the pictures on the enormous menu and finally settled on a small barbecue plate. After my rations, those "Texas sized" portions were just too much.

What was familiar was now completely alien. I wanted to stand up and shout, "Don't you people know what's going on in New Orleans? Don't you give a damn?"

When our food arrived I could only pick at mine. Something didn't feel right about taking that much for myself. Sean and Keith had great appetites and I was amazed to watch the ease with which they ate. I called Carol to tell her where to pick me up and then said goodbye to the boys.

Finding My Own Way Out of New Orleans

2007-02-02T11:06:00.000-08:00

Thursday, September 1, 2005. Mid-day.

My first goal was to find the missing people and, hopefully, then the buses too. My best shot was the Holiday Inn, and as I briskly moved towards it, the sole of my left sandal peeled back several inches and began to flop. Normally, that would be no big deal, but today, I needed shoes.

When I got to the Holiday Inn corner, a half-dozen young mothers were standing and tending to their kids. I asked them if there was anyone at the hotel. The answer was "no." I realized then that I had no option but to go check out the convention center.

When I asked for directions, one of the women said, "We're going down there sir if you'd like to walk with us. Her kindness stood in marked contrast to the chaos.

"That would be great," I said.

I stood there a few minutes, and the longer I stood and thought about the morning, the greater my urgency was to move on. Walking with this group would only slow me down. Despite their kindness, I told them I was going to go on.

I walked a couple of blocks and then cut over to Canal St., where I came upon two guys loading their car. Awkward, I approached them. "Are you guys leaving town?" I asked.

"Yea, we are," one said as he put another bag in the car.

"Well, I need a ride. Do you guys have room for one more? I asked anxiously.

"I don't really think so. We've got a lot more stuff to pack and there's barely room for the two of us," he said without looking at me.

"Okay, can you tell me how to get to the convention center?" I asked.

"Well, you go up Canal Street to the Casino and turn right, but if I were you I wouldn't go down there," he replied.

"Why not?" I asked.

"There's some bad shit going on down there." I turned and headed up Canal.

I felt driven to see if the convention center held anything for me. The further I walked, the heavier my bags felt, so I stopped to see if there was anything I could throw out. After rummaging through my clothes and catching my breath, I decided that it wasn't quite yet time to throw things away.

The only other time that I've felt that same urge to throw things away to survive was when my seven-year-old daughter, Kaitlin, and I nearly drowned on a family vacation in Kauai. We had gone snorkeling and had been pulled too far out by the undercurrent. When I realized our situation I put Kaitlin on my back and started swimming for shore. I had an underwater camera on one arm, and my mask and snorkel on the other. The more I swam, the more the current pulled against us. I could feel the camera holding us back, so I let that go. Next, I threw off the mask and snorkel. We finally made it to shore, but not before I felt that our survival was in doubt. I felt that same way now.

I zipped my bag and started walking when I looked over and noticed a large ABC News satellite truck parked on the streetcar tracks in the middle of Canal. I hustled over to it. "Do you know where the CBS crews are?" I asked, now out of breath.

"I haven't seen them, but they might be down towards Bourbon," he said. I began walking down the line of news trucks that stretched for several blocks. When I encountered trucks that weren't marked, I would stop and ask if they were CBS. No luck.

As I approached Bourbon, I came upon a group of CBS vehicles with four guys talking in front of them. I introduced myself. "My name is Dr. Greg Ketchum. I'm the CBS 5 Workplace and Career Expert for the San Francisco CBS affiliate. I've been stuck in New Orleans for a week now and need a ride out. Are you guys leaving today?"

"Yea, we're leaving in about half an hour because it's too dangerous to be down here," said one of them.

"Could you take me with you?" I asked.

A young guy, who looked to be "on-camera talent" said, "Well, we really don't have that much room. I'm even going to have to ride in the satellite truck myself. We might have room in there, but I really don't know for sure." My stomach tightened.

What seemed like minutes passed before a guy behind me said, "I've got room in my van. You can ride with me, but we're only going to Kenner, which is about ten miles away."

"Hey, I don't care where you're going. I've got to get out of here," I told him. If he had told me I was to ride on the luggage rack of his van, I’d have done it.

I set my bags down. Jim Krasula, a national correspondent for CBS Radio Network, based in Charlotte, N.C., was the one who offered me the ride. As I stood there letting the relief start to sink in, I wondered, could I really trust this? What could I do to boost the chance that they'd actually take me?

I decided to pursue a strategy to make them connect to me as an individual, instead of seeing me as just some guy off the street: I would become a "super-networker." I went up to each person and introduced myself, showed them pictures of my children, and asked about their families and where they were from. The more I met, the more secure I began to feel.

After making the rounds of introductions, I saw an unfamiliar guy walk up to the group and announce, "We just got a call from Bob, a V.P. at a CBS affiliate station. He says he has three elderly relatives stuck at the convention center and he wants us to get them and drive them out of New Orleans." If they did that, guess who was low man on that totem pole?

While Jim was packing his van, the group began to debate whether they could meet his request. "It's pretty dangerous to go down there," said one.

"How in the world would we know who they are and be able to find them in that crowd?" asked another. The young "on camera talent" spoke up.

"Are we sure that these are Bob's relatives and not just some friends of his? That would be just like him to try to get us to go down there with a bullshit story about his old relatives," he said. If I was going to get tossed out it would be this guy, I decided.

While they were having this discussion I quickly hatched another plan: figuring it would be harder for them to throw me out of the car than it would be to prevent me from getting in, I picked up my bags and quietly set them inside the back of Jim's van. No one noticed.

I walked back over to hear the end of the discussion about the relatives. Led by the young guy, they had come to a consensus: if the old folks could make their own way from the convention center to us in the next fifteen minutes, they could come along. I knew that meant I was probably safe. Even if they could somehow get word to them to come on down, the walk itself was longer than that. It was a faux solution.

I felt bad for the folks, but realistically, there was just no way. If they drove down to the convention center people wanting food, water or a ride would mob them. Besides, it was too dangerous.

The New Orleans Police were out on the street guarding the news crews. From time to time a truck from Wildlife and Fisheries would drive by pulling a boat loaded with a half-dozen fully armed, flak-jacket-helmet-and-goggle-wearing-military-style-police-officers. They looked edgy and ridiculous, but I knew they meant business.

We were about ten minutes from leaving when I looked up Canal Street toward the convention center and saw the four people from the Holiday Inn who had been next to me in the bus line. I now realized there had been no buses. I felt immediate relief.

I ran to meet them and they recognized me. "What the hell happened this morning?" I asked.

"Well, the hotel told us they were out of food and water and that there was no place else for us to go but the convention center," one of the men said.

"Where are you going then?" I asked, as they were walking away from the center.

"We walked down and took a look and there's no way in hell we're going to stay there." Next came the question that I hoped they wouldn't ask: "What are you going to do?"

What am I going to do? What am I going to do? It was two questions: what was I going to tell them I was going to do, versus what I was actually going to do.

I don't know how long I paused. If I told them I had a ride I knew that they’d beg me to take them too. That's what I would have done. If I told the CBS guys that I now had four friends with their luggage who wanted a ride too, I was afraid they would call the whole thing off. They could have rightly said they didn't have the room, and it wouldn't be fair just to take one person. I hesitated, mulling over this moral dilemma.

"I'm just going to hang out with these guys for awhile," I finally said. "What are ya'll going to do?"

"We have no place to go," one of the women said.

"Well, the back door of the hotel is jammed part-way open and you can get in there. That's your best shot," I said, trying to help them in a way that I could.

"Good luck," they said.

"Good luck to you as well," I said. And with that, they walked off towards the hotel.

I couldn't believe what I had just done, but I knew it was the only way. I made a decision to boost the odds of my own survival when I might have been able to help someone else. I didn't even know them. Still, it was one of those decisions that I would revisit, over and over again.

Finally, it was time to leave. I started to get into the back of the van and ride in the cargo space, when Jim motioned for me to come and sit in the seat behind him. I moved up, but didn't want to make any move that might have him change his mind. Whether I got out of New Orleans today was, at this moment, totally up to Jim. I felt like a child.

Traveling with Jim was Cami McCormick, another CBS Radio correspondent, who was sitting in the front passenger seat. Just before starting the van, Jim offered me a beer and some trail mix. "Thank you all-powerful father," I thought.

The caravan of five CBS vehicles, with a New Orleans Police cruiser at either end, pulled out for Kenner. I had no idea where that was, nor how far away, but it was out of New Orleans.

Our route took us down towards the convention center, but we turned by the Doubletree Hotel, a couple blocks before it. As we made that turn I spied the first National Guard troops in full battle gear, M-16's at the ready. Their steel cold expressions combined with the positions they had taken around the hotel, told me they were protecting themselves, not us.

It started to rain. We passed many people including an old man, in terrible shape, pushing an old woman in a wheelchair through the rain toward the convention center. We drove on.

We drove up the on-ramps to the bridge that crosses the Mississippi leading to the "West Bank." Hundreds of people found shelter from the rain under the overpass amidst tons of trash. Others were going up the on-ramps, hoping to walk across the bridge. We passed a small pick-up with perhaps fifteen people standing up in the bed, whipped around by the wind and rain. One man was shirtless.

At mid-span, I was now officially out of New Orleans. I was headed for Kenner, not knowing if I had just jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. I didn't care.

Waking up, Alone

2007-02-01T16:15:00.000-08:00

Thursday, September 1, 2005. Morning.

It was near impossible to get any decent sleep. I woke up and glanced at my wristwatch. It was 8 a.m. Since my door was open, I could hear voices out in the hallway. Through the fog of waking up, it began to dawn on me that I hadn't heard any announcements about buses being located. Disappointed, exhausted and with no place to go, I dozed back off.

After getting a bit more sleep, I woke up, looked at my watch, and it was now 9 a.m. I could still hear people talking in the hall. "God, I'm still here," I thought. "I'm never going to leave." I drifted back off.

Forty-five minutes later and I woke up again. It was quiet. I froze and listened, but I couldn't hear anyone talking out in the hall. I got up, walked over to the door, stuck my head out into the hall, and didn't see anyone. "That's odd," I thought.

I came back inside, picked up the phone and dialed the front desk to see what was happening. The phone still worked and it rang twenty-five to thirty times. No answer. "That's weird," I thought. "Maybe I dialed the wrong number."

I hung up and dialed "O" for the hotel operator. Again, twenty-five to thirty rings later, there was no answer. "That's weird," I thought. "Maybe I dialed wrong a second time." I thought about that for a second. "How could I dial wrong? All I did was push 'O.' How the hell could I get that wrong?" I was trying to find a rational explanation as my heart beat faster.

I threw on my tee shirt, shorts and sandals and headed for the one elevator that still worked. Since this one didn't come to my floor, and was in a different part of the building, I had to go down my hallway, take the emergency stairs one flight to the fourteenth floor, and then reverse directions and cut back across the hotel to the elevator.

As I ran across the fourteenth floor I passed many rooms that had the doors propped open. Each one after the next was empty. I saw several trays with dirty plates on them, sitting on the floor just outside the room. Some even had leftover food. They looked like they had come from breakfast this morning. My heart and feet sped up.

I finally got to the elevator, relieved to see that it still was in operation. I pressed the call button and waited.

Damn! Where is the elevator? Finally, the doors creaked open and I hopped in. I hit the button for the first floor. My mind and heart were racing far faster than that old elevator could go. Finally, I got to the first floor, the doors opened, I popped out, rounded the corner, and was met by my worst fear: the lobby was completely empty. I had been abandoned.

"No, that's not possible," I thought, despite facing the evidence right there in front of me. The lights were on, papers were on the front counter, and everything was the same as the night before, except all of the people were gone.

I yelled out, "Is anyone here? Is anyone here?" No answer. I ran across the lobby. I looked over and the front doors were chained and padlocked shut.

My God. My one chance to get out of this hellhole and I missed it. At that moment, my greatest fear was the thought of facing Kathy and telling her that she was right, I slept through the P.A. announcements. "Get on with it man. Find the damned people!" I began to move again.

I ran up the mezzanine stairs and down the hall to the hotel executive offices yelling, "Is anyone here?" as I ran from locked door to locked door. Silence.

I ran back downstairs. I didn't know if I could even get out of the hotel, let alone find the people. I ran out to the garage exit, my heart pounding so loud that I could feel it in my ears. The sliding glass door was jammed open, leaving about a twelve-inch gap. I tried to push it further open, but it wouldn't budge. I was able to wedge myself through.

I wasn't trapped, but I didn't know where everyone went, and most importantly, what I was going to do. I decided to try to find them. Maybe I could spot the buses on the street, or maybe the buses were at the Holiday Inn loading up right now.

I ran through the lobby, caught the elevator up to fourteen, ran across the hotel and up to my room, threw my things together and flew back downstairs.

As I was running across the lobby in the direction of the garage, I was startled to see, through the glass front doors, two New Orleans Police SUV's and four officers in bulletproof vests, with guns drawn. The SUV's were parked in the middle of Royal, two officers were in the street, and the other two were up on the sidewalk right in front of the hotel doors.

One of the officers saw me and yelled out, "There's someone in there." "Thank God. I'm saved," I thought. The officer tried the door.

"You'll have to go around to the garage," I shouted. She understood me, so they got in their vehicles and backed down Royal. Feeling elated, I ran out to the garage.

As I rounded the last corner, I could see that they had backed both vehicles all the way into the garage, in a defensive posture. I squeezed myself and my bags through the small opening and two of the officers walked towards me, guns still in hand. "Where are all the people? What happened to the people?" I asked, in desperation.

"We have no idea. We heard that one of our officers was down here, so that's why we came," said the one closest to me.

By now, I was standing right next to an SUV. "What do you mean you don't know? I pleaded.

"Sir, we have no idea in the world where the people are. We just came to retrieve our officer," he said.

"Well, I haven't seen any officer," I replied.

I still didn't know if I slept through the announcement or what happened to the people. In addition to figuring out what I should do next, I was stuck on solving that mystery. I just couldn't believe that they had left me behind. "Well then, just what do you suggest that I do?" I asked him.

"About the only thing you can do is go to the Convention Center," he said blandly.

"You're kidding, right?" I asked.

"No sir, that's about all you can do right now."

"Well, can you guys at least give me a ride down there?" I asked.

"No. We can't really do that. If we drive down there in these police vehicles, we're going to draw gun fire," he said.

"You're joking, right?" I stammered.

"No sir, I'm not," he said.

Wait a minute. These folks were heavily armed, in fast vehicles, and they wouldn't drive me to the Convention Center, but they were suggesting that I just walk over there by myself. I was struggling to comprehend what he was saying and what that meant when he said, "Good luck." With that, they got back in their vehicles and sped off.

So there I stood, in the hot deserted garage, with one bag over my shoulder and one in my hand.

I realized now, in a way that I hadn't before, that this wasn't just an uncomfortable situation; it was downright dangerous: I could lose my life.

I had waited for the federal, state or local governments to help us. I had waited for the Red Cross, the National Guard, the Salvation Army and any other aid organization to help us. I had depended on the hotel management to take care of us. They had all, finally, failed.

As I stood there by myself, my thoughts became clear: if I was going to ever get out of New Orleans alive, it was going to be because of my own efforts. I had to find my own way out. No more looking outside for authority figures to make the decisions and make it happen for me. I had to trust my own instincts to lead me out. I walked out of that garage. I knew I wasn't coming back.

Back Into the Hotel

2007-01-31T17:52:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, August 31, 2005. Late Night.

Now what? Now what? That's all I could think. My mind wasn't able to generate any other thought, nor any answers. The one thought, the one target that I'd been fixated on was the arrival of those air-conditioned buses. I was going to be free of the heat, the humidity, the uncertainty, the deprivation, the strangeness, and the captivity. That all just came crashing down, and every single hope I had lay in little pieces at my feet. I barely had the energy to step over them.

I walked back over to Steve and the guys. "What are you going to do?" Steve asked me.

"It looks like the only choice is to go back into the hotel and hope to God that they find those buses. How about you?" I asked.

"I guess we'll all have to go back home, but how are we going to know if the buses show up?” Steve said.

"If one of you gives me your phone number I'll call you when the announcement comes," I said.

"Really? You would do that?" asked one of the others.

"Sure," I said.

He wrote his name and phone number on the back of one of my business cards that I'd handed him. His name was Mike. With that, they walked off into the dark and I stood there wondering what Steve's homecoming would be like. How do you walk back into your girlfriend's apartment, and face her after walking out and leaving her behind just a few hours earlier? With not much else to feel thankful for at the moment, I thanked God that at least I wasn't in Steve's shoes.

I picked up my bags, which now seemed heavier than when I brought them out, and trudged back down Royal and into the hotel lobby. It was an unbelievable sight: a mass of exhausted, strung-out, sweaty, and extremely frustrated people slumping on the few couches or sitting on the floor. It was difficult to walk without stepping on someone. I maneuvered my way through a narrow path and sat down on the last few steps of the mezzanine stairs. There was a little movement of air between the floors that kept me from feeling too claustrophobic.

A thirty-something woman sat a few steps up from me, crying. Through her tears she said, "Damnit. They should have known better. They should have gotten those buses in here sooner. They should have never let this happen."

I turned and said, "I know. It's awful, but you have to just reach deep down inside yourself and grab another handful of patience. That's all I'm trying to do." That was true too. I was grabbing deep for patience I didn't know I had.

A long line of people waiting to get new room key-cards passed me and stretched to the front door. I decided to wait, so I stayed on the steps turning my face to find any moving air. The woman behind me was still sobbing.

Dave walked into the middle of the lobby and announced that they had finally discovered that the buses had, in fact, been on the bridge at 7:00 p.m. when he spoke with them, but they had been seized by the National Guard, under the authority of martial law, and sent to the Superdome. Further, "We're going to keep trying to find more buses and if we do we will make an announcement over the P.A. system for all of you to come down. It doesn't matter if it's 2 a.m., or 4 a.m., or whatever time, we'll keep trying, so be ready to go at a moment's notice." What? I couldn't believe it. OUR buses had been seized that we had paid for? That wasn't fair, but fair was a concept from the "old world" and didn't work here.

Once the commotion began to die down, Dave announced that the hotel had just a couple of cases of bottled water left, which they were going to distribute. We were to go see a designated hotel worker to get our one bottle of water. He was just to my right, so I jumped up, took the few steps towards him, and got my bottle. I sat back down and tried to sniff out the moving air.

The best word that I can think of to describe the scene in there is this: wilted. Everyone, everything was just wilted. There were no more straight lines including people. When people stood up they slumped. When they sat down they leaned. I was wilted too.

After half an hour the line was more manageable so I joined in. How many lines had I been in over the last several days? How many days had I been here? I couldn't remember. This was my new normal. It was the world of "Mad Max," the "Road Warrior" come true and it was now my world.

After getting a new key card, I got back up to my room. I found a chair and propped the door open. I was more worried about suffocating than I was about someone coming in the room while I was asleep. Opening the door didn’t circulate any air, but having it open did make me feel less boxed in. I called Kathy, who by now was frantic to hear from me. Since my cell phone didn't work and I had been out on the street, it had been over seven hours since we’d spoken.

She couldn't believe the story I told her, in that she had called the "800" number for the hotel and had been told that we had left hours ago for Houston on the buses. It was easy to see how they got that wrong in that the call center was located in Canada. I assured her that, indeed, I was back in my room. She broke down in tears.

Kathy told me that my brother Brian had somehow networked his way to our late stepfather's niece, Carol, who lived in Baton Rouge, which is where I needed to go. It was only a little over an hour drive north of New Orleans, but it might as well have been on the other side of the country as far as my ability to reach it.

My brother, Mike, who lives in California, told me the night before that he wished he were there with me. My other brother, Steve, was doing what he could. Our son goes to school with George Lucas's son and Kathy even called his assistant, Sarita, to see if he could do anything to help. She said she'd see what she could do.

My nephew, Blake, told Kathy that he'd been thinking of different plans that sounded kind of crazy, but that might work. He was thinking that he and a couple of friends would drive their truck as close to New Orleans as possible. They would then drive dirt bikes on back roads into the city, find me, and spirit me out of town. He also thought maybe they could launch a boat and come down the river, land at New Orleans, find me and motor back up to where they left the truck. Either way, they were prepared, he told her, to shoot their way in and out if necessary. God bless all of them.

Before hanging up, Kathy said, "You're such a sound sleeper, I'm just afraid that if they do make an announcement, you'll sleep right through it."

"Don't be silly," I assured her. "The P.A. system is really loud and there is a speaker in each room. If they find more buses there's no way I'm missing any announcement."

By now, my facade of "I'm fine," had broken down. I told Kathy, "Honey, you've got to find a way to get me out of here.” It was the first time that I had let her know the depth of my longing to come home. "I don't want to be here anymore." She said that she knew and that she was working as hard as she could to make that happen. After realizing that I had likely scared her to death, I half-heartedly told her that, really, I was fine. I told her I loved her, she did the same, and we hung up.

I went over to the mini-bar fridge, opened it and did something I never thought I'd do: I grabbed a Bud Light, twisted off the cap, and drank it. I called Brian to see if he could drive down and find a way he could get through. He said that he'd thought about that, but had been warned by the State Police that he knew in Arkansas not to try that, as there were roadblocks on every road into New Orleans. I said, "Look Brian, I'm out of Heinekens, I just drank a Bud Light, and you know that means that I'm desperate.” We both got a laugh out of the absurdity of that. I told him I'd call him tomorrow to let him know where we were with the buses.

It was now well past midnight. I moved over to sleep in the other double bed by the windows. I thought if there was any transfer of air from the room to the hall it might be there. I tried again to open the windows, but one hundred twenty-nine years of paint held firm. The white sheets stuck to me when I turned over.

I thought about taking a chair and breaking out one of the windows. No one would have blamed me for such a desperate act, but I decided against it. Not only could glass falling from fifteen stories really hurt someone, I was far to "well behaved" to do it. One more night in that room, I thought, and that window would have to go.

Sweating like a pig, worrying about missing the P.A. call for the buses, exhausted from living in "Mogadishu" in America, and not feeling one scintilla of air movement, I slowly fell into another fitful night of sleep.

The Buses Are Comng, The Buses Are Coming

2007-01-24T13:29:00.001-08:00

Wednesday, August 31, 2005. Early Evening.

The promised hour of six o'clock arrived, with several hundred people lined up on both sides of Royal and around the corner onto Bienville. There were families with small children including infants, old people, couples, singles like me, and small groups. Overflow storm-water filled the gutters to the top of the curb, making the sidewalks narrow and difficult to navigate with all the people and suitcases. An empty shopping cart filled with trash was parked just at the end of the line.

Two New Orleans Police cruisers were parked in the middle of the intersection of Royal and Bienville and five flak-jacketed shotgun-totting officers stood around them. I suppose two hundred-fifty hotel guests with their possessions out on the street in the dark made a pretty tempting target for looters, so I appreciated the hotel management for looking after our security. It was good to see the police finally out of their vehicles, which also indicated the risk was real.

I sweated in line with everyone else, scanning for the buses. Now more guests from the Holiday Inn pulled bags up the street and joined the line including several old people being pushed in wheel chairs. A forklift from the other hotel drove slowly by, deposited a bench for the elderly and went back for another load. We all intently watched this slow motion migration.

About fifteen minutes later, I heard the forklift coming back, and when I looked over, a three hundred-fifty to four hundred pound man was being carried like a load of potatoes on the front. He was sitting sideways, facing us, and his right arm was wrapped around the vertical bar that the lift rides up and down. His feet were bare, his ankles wrapped in what looked like gauze, and his shoes were in his lap. He was talking to the driver, and paid no mind to us. "More power to you buddy that you've got the inner strength to do whatever it takes to get yourself out of here." I thought.

We were all exhausted, so our collective reserve of compassion for our fellow man, no matter what their size, was low. I heard one of the women behind me say, "Just look at how fat that man is. I hope he doesn't sit next to me." Her friend wondered aloud if he had had to buy two tickets because of his great size, and how unfair it would be if he only had to buy one.

The forklift operator carefully set him down by the seniors, whereupon several men standing by moved him over to the bench. Once this was accomplished, the driver turned around to collect his next load.

By now it was nearly 7:00 p.m. and Dave, the manager, who seemed to be the one most in charge, stepped into the middle of Royal and asked us to listen up. He had just spoken to the lead bus driver, the buses were on the bridge, and would be here within fifteen minutes. We could just about feel that air-conditioning. He spoke up again to remind us: “If you don't have your ticket or if you rush the buses, you're not going." I knew I wasn't going to do anything that would sink my chances.

For the first time, I could actually start to imagine that this would all be over soon. Mind you, it only lasted a second, and the relaxation did nothing to dial down my revved-up-third-born-competitor who was hell-bent on getting a good seat.

At dusk the buses were nowhere in sight, and the Louisiana mosquitoes appeared. That's when they come out, you know. I must have gotten half a dozen bites in the first few minutes.

The only light came from the fluorescent overhang above the hotel's front doors. Its green and white awning was torn, twisted and hanging down in pieces. Plywood covered one of the front windows. With all the people, trash, and standing floodwater, it looked like an evacuation scene from Bosnia. But where was the evacuation?

The closer we got to 8:00 p.m. the more the collective anticipation grew. I now had time to rethink my best-place-to-stand-to-insure-a-seat-strategy. Maybe I was not in the pole position. What if they came in from the opposite direction and the bus doors were on the other side of the street?

I asked the Canadian gal to watch my bags before I jumped over the floodwater moat and found Dave. I asked him where we "should be" lined up. He said that, yes, the buses were coming from the opposite direction, and would drive up Bienville. I thanked him, turned around, thanked the Canadian for her help, picked up my bags, and found a place on the curb on Bienville.

I was there no more than five minutes, when people began to queue behind me. A tall gum-chewing teenager planted himself across the street. Every ten seconds or so he would disrupt the quiet city (no power nor many cars) with a loud pop. "If I sit next to this kid on a bus for the next eight hours I'll go mental." I knew right then that my patience was now, officially, gone.

As I was strategizing to board a different bus from the Gum Popper, four guys lined up next to me. One of them looked familiar. "You guys getting on the bus?" I asked him as he sat down on the curb.

"Yea, my name's Steve. I run the bakery cafe around the corner on the walkway."

It was Mr. Bread Pudding. It all fell into place. Not only had he and his girlfriend given me the bread pudding, but he was also the guy that I tried to buy a cup of coffee from on Sunday. He and three of his buddies had decided to head for a relatives house in Arkansas. Steve was then going to catch a flight back to New York, where he was from, and figure out his next move.

"What about your girlfriend?" I asked.

"She decided that she couldn't leave the pets. I told her I couldn't handle it anymore and had to get out of here," he said.

"Man," I thought, "that can't have done much to move the relationship forward." What would I have done in that situation, how do you start that conversation, I wondered.

Steve asked me what I thought would happen to New Orleans. Did I think it would be out of commission long? How soon did I think it would take the tourists to come back? How long before he should return from New York? Did I think he should reopen his shop or just close up and leave New Orleans? Of course, I could only offer, "educated platitudes" which hardly helped Steve feel better.

There must have been something about sitting on that dark curb, waiting for those buses that enabled a conversation like that. Maybe it was more a "right here, right now is all we have" frame. Regardless, I didn't think Steve would be coming back to New Orleans anytime soon.

It was now around 8:15 p.m. and I could hear a commotion from around the corner. Several blocks down, in the opposite direction from where Dave said the buses would be coming, I could see headlights. When we could finally make out that these were in fact the buses, we cheered.

Wait a minute: there was only one bus. Where were the other nine? What was happening? What the...!?

It, a yellow school bus, pulled in front of us. There were only about a dozen people on it and Dave boarded to talk to the driver. We gathered around. After an eternity, he stepped off to talk to the police and then went to the driver again. As this was going on, the bus enveloped us in a cloud of diesel exhaust.

Dave walked back over to the police and the other manager. One of the guys near me had overheard part of the conversation and told us that the driver was offering to drive anyone to either the Convention Center or Baton Rouge for a hundred and fifty dollars. I was offended. So were my four buddies. Here we were, stuck and this guy was trying to take advantage. "Why would I pay $150 to go to Baton Rouge without air-conditioning, when I've got a $45 ticket for an air-conditioned super-liner that's going to take me all the way to Houston?" I said. No thank you.

The driver eventually closed the door and slowly drove off into the darkness, leaving us, once again, sitting on that curb. I was growing more restless and more worried.

Nine o'clock came and went as did nine-thirty. Dave had made one announcement that they didn't know exactly what had happened, but they were doing everything they could to get back in touch with the driver. That gave me some confidence. Besides, Dave had a way about him that signaled that he was in charge.

Just past 10 p.m., it was hot, pitch black, mosquito-ridden, and still no buses. I saw a baby asleep on his daddy's shoulder, another child asleep on its mother's lap, and two children lying on a blanket. The police were still ready with shotguns adding an element of menace to the scene.

I saw Dave conferencing in the middle of the street with one of the other managers before walking over to the police. I decided to trail Dave and listen in. "The damned buses aren't coming," Dave said to the police. "We have to figure out what to do with all of these people." My heart came completely unhinged and dropped to my feet.

"It seems to me that the only thing we can do is send them over to the convention center," said the other manager. I instantaneously moved from eavesdropper to full-bore active participant.

"Hey, hey, hey. You can put us right back into our rooms, no problem whatsoever," I blurted out. No one in that circle had noticed me until now.

Every head snapped my way, and the large, beefy senior officer said, "Sir, you're going to have to step back. This is a private conversation." His tone meant business, so I turned and walked back over to Steve and the others.

"The buses aren't coming. They have no idea what happened to them," I said.

"No way. Are you kidding me?" Steve asked in disbelief.

"Yea. They're talking about what to do with us right now. The one guy wants to send us to the convention center." At this point, we were the only ones who knew.

"What are you going to do?" Steve asked me.

"I don't know. I'm going to wait and see what Dave has to say."

Dave now finished with the conference, walked halfway down the middle of Royal, stopped and shouted, "I need your attention. Everyone. I need your attention.” Slowly, word spread down the line that Dave had some news. Everyone got quiet, waiting. "The buses aren't coming. We have no idea what happened to them. You're all going to have to go back into your rooms. Wait. Wait. We're going to keep trying to find them and we'll make an announcement over the PA system if we do." All hell broke loose.

"What do you mean the buses aren't coming," shouted one.

"We want those buses," called out another.

"We want our $45 back!" said someone else.

"We're not going back in our rooms!" a woman next to me shouted. There was a cacophony of cries, shouts and sobbing.

"Now hold on, hold on!" Dave shouted over the noise. "Alright. You don't have to go back into your rooms. You've got a choice. You can go down to the convention center." And with that, the reality of our situation began to weigh on my chest and I found it hard to breathe.

"Now, since we zeroed out all of the door key codes, you're going to have to line up in the lobby and get a new key card for your room." And with that, Dave headed for the lobby.

The Aftermath of Looting

2007-01-24T13:16:00.001-08:00

Wednesday, August 31, 2005. Late Afternoon.

I asked the desk clerk if I could put my bags behind the counter while I went outside to take a last look around. She said that would be no problem, and reminded me to start lining up at five for the buses. Not to worry, I assured her. There was no way in hell that I was going to miss that bus. It was now 4:30 p.m.

I walked out the main hotel entrance onto Royal and walked over to look at the now looted Walgreen's. When I got to the intersection, a man with two large brown paper bags printed "Walgreen's" and an additional plastic bag, was crossing Royal. I was surprised that after three days of looting there was anything at all valuable still inside.

A few seconds later another man emerged from Walgreen's pushing a shopping cart piled high with stuff, topped off by a grey garbage can. I took a photograph of him from a distance of about thirty feet and wondered if he would "mind" having his picture taken while looting. I quickly put the camera back into its bag, and then looked away. He slowly pushed his cart towards Bourbon. I don't think he cared one way or the other about having his picture made.

The whole scene was a mess. There was trash-filled water in the gutters, and the sidewalk in front of the Walgreen's was littered with now soggy paper, discarded boxes, plastic wrappers, and other sour trash.

I entered Walgreen's, which resembled nothing of the clean, well-lit store that I had been in on the prior Saturday. The floor was littered with even more trash than was outside, as if a giant had grabbed the building and shook everything off the shelves. There were empty soda cans, candy wrappers, plastic bags, and a variety of small items that apparently weren't worth picking up.

Just inside the door was a Krispy Kreme donut cabinet, and at the end of the next aisle was a Red Bull energy drink refrigerator, both of which had been cleaned out. The shelves behind the front counter, which previously held cigarettes and electronics, were completely empty. The cameras, electronics and film were gone from the shelves behind the photo counter. It was surprising that some shelves still held a good number of items, like hair spray, shampoo, and shaving cream.

I walked over towards the photo counter and found an empty box of “Alligator Bob's Gourmet Alligator Snacks” lying on the floor. A couple of guys were scoping the aisles as another man rode his bike through the store. A man and a woman passed by and he yelled out, "Could I get some help around here? Damn this Walgreen's has bad service." His lady friend laughed.

I spied something that intrigued me. I had bought Kathy a couple of boxes of Cafe du Mond Beignet mix and I was surprised to see the shelf that held boxes of it hadn't been touched. I thought the locals would go for one of the native New Orleans treats, but, surprisingly, beignet mix wasn't worth looting. I took a couple more pictures and hit the street again.

It was an altogether depressing scene and the fact that the couple thought it was a joke only made it more so. Where am I? What's going on? What's wrong with these people? Those and other questions were running through my head as I walked back to the hotel.

I was determined to get on one of those buses and sit near the front, as the back would be too claustrophobic, especially for eight hours. As I retrieved my bags from the desk clerk, I asked her just exactly where the buses would be, so that I could position myself in what I like to call the "pole position." She wasn't exactly sure, but thought they would be in front on Royal. People were already starting to gather around the front door, so I picked a place in line four people from the front. I put my bags down, sat on the green one, and leaned back against the stone hotel wall.

I was sitting right next to a young thirty-something Canadian woman and her mother. We struck up a conversation as the young woman chain-smoked the time away. They told me that "Dad" hadn’t come on this trip and that they couldn't wait to get home out of this mess.

Just about that time, two couples came walking up the street from the other hotel and got in line behind me. They parked their large suitcases almost on top of me and then stood in a semi-circle, blocking any possibility of air circulation, creating a private little "claustrophobic zone" with me now pinned between the stonewall and their legs. I asked one of the ladies if she would mind moving her bag back a bit and she said she that would be fine.

I had escaped the air-pocket trap the four tourists had unwittingly set for me, and I was in no mood for any further invasion of my space when a middle-aged man decided to station himself right next to me instead of going to the end of the line. Once he was in position, he started flirting like mad with the young Canadian woman.

I couldn't believe it. I mean, what was this guy thinking? Was he going to invite her up to his room, or was he just a compulsive flirt. Whatever, it was really getting under my skin. Here we were, stinky as all hell, sweating like pigs, anxious as cats, waiting for our best and only shot at breaking out of our Katrina imposed internal exile and this guy decides it's a good time to try to pick up the Canadian. “Well, more power to you fella,” I thought, “but if I weren't such a damned nice guy, I would slug you.”

The closer it got to six o'clock the more people came out and lined up along the front of the hotel. We were all, to a person, hopeful that this was our last hour in New Orleans.

Some Hotel Guests Get to Leave

2007-01-20T21:28:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, August 30, 2005. Mid-day.

I went out through the garage, and was surprised to see people waiting on the sidewalk, some standing, some sitting on ice chests, suitcases, or on the stoops of the old French doors on the side of the hotel. I asked what was going on, and the parking attendant told me that some of the guests and families of hotel employees were able to move their cars out of the garage.

It turns out that the hotel has a secondary garage just across the street, in which the majority of the cars are parked. They move cars to the upper floors by a car elevator, and since the generator power didn't reach the other building, those parked on the upper floors couldn't get their cars out. This morning the hotel staff had managed to run a makeshift electrical cable across the street to power that car elevator.

There was a mixture of people loading up while others waited for their cars. Right next to the main garage driveway was an older green Chevrolet, and a middle-aged man in jeans and tee shirt was loading an old woman in a wheel chair into the front passenger seat. Just behind them was a blue Honda with two guys in shorts and tank tops loading up, followed by a blue Ford Explorer with a family with two small children. Even though this street was one-way, half the cars were pointed in the wrong direction. With society broken down, there was really no reason to worry about little things like one-way streets.

It was as hot as the day before, if not hotter, and everyone looked worn down. The street was littered with trash, which now smelled of being in the sun too long. Although the release of these cars signaled that things were looking up, envy swelled up in me as I watched them drive away, one by one.

I headed to Bourbon Street and on my way could see that Canal Street was completely flooded. Looking straight ahead on Bienville, I could see the floodwater had come within half a block of Bourbon. I walked to the edge of the water and watched three young men and a woman, all carrying white plastic garbage bags loaded with stuff, splashing through the water. Where were they coming from, I wondered, but more importantly, where were they going? Unless they had friends or relatives with apartments on the high ground, the only place they could go was the Convention Center, a place I’d heard a thousand horror stories about.

I turned away from Canal and headed to reclaim my reading spot. I had read for an hour when I heard a door open, and I saw the young woman and man who had passed me the day before. She was holding the dog leash and he was carrying a very large oven tray that was covered with plastic wrap. When they got near me the woman smiled again and asked if I would like to have some bread pudding. As it turns out, he owned the little bakery café at the other end of the pedestrian walkway that I had stopped in on Sunday. Now he looked to be following her lead in the offer of kindness. Since food, and, most importantly water, were constantly in short supply or in the threat of running out, I was always hungry and thirsty so I said, “yes, I’d love some.” If you haven’t had bread pudding, if it’s done correctly, it will be moist and pudding like on bottom with a nice firm, crunchy top, and that’s how this pudding looked.

As I anticipated eating that bread pudding, the guy pulled back the plastic wrap, balanced the large tray on his left hand, and with his right acting as a shovel, scooped up a big hunk of that bread pudding and held it out for me. I offered the palm of my right hand, he plopped it down, and the bread pudding transfer was complete. Under Katrina rules, getting food was the important act, how I got it didn’t matter.

She smiled at me, he looked slightly embarrassed, and I thanked them and took a bite. I assured them that I found it quite delicious and thanked them again. Their, really her, kindness touched me and was one of those fellow-captive moments that I’d been searching for. A minute of pleasantries and they were on their way. I finished the bread pudding and tried to lick the sticky residue off my hand, at least enough so that I could pick up my book.

Another half hour passed in quiet reading when I again heard a door open and looked up to see the old man headed my way. We went through the same routine as the day before. After he left, it was getting on towards four o’clock, so I decided to go back over and get ready to leave. Only two more hours and I’d be in a sweet air-conditioned bus.

I went up to pack and as I did, I grabbed that last Heineken out of the fridge, popped the top in the door mechanism, and enjoyed my last drink in New Orleans.

Sitting on the edge of the bed I stared at that bottle of wine. I wasn’t going to take it with me as I had only liberated it for use during my Katrina emergency. I picked it up, walked across the hall, and carefully set it back on the shelf where I found it.

I forgot to mention that when Kaitlin and I stopped at my mother’s house in Arkansas on our drive cross-country, I borrowed two old photo albums to scan and make digital copies for my brothers and myself. As a kid, I used to spend hours looking through those albums. Her photos have never left the house before. I knew if I let anything happen to them I’d have to answer not only to my mother, but also to my three brothers.

As the room was so humid from the rainwater on the drapes and carpet, I worried the pictures might be sticking together. I had taken them out of my bag the day before and checked to make sure they were fine, which they were, and then set them out so that the light from the windows could hit them.

I very carefully put the pictures back together and set them in the middle of my bag so that they were surrounded and cushioned by clothing. I finished packing, looked around to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, then said goodbye to my room, and to my Katrina experience.

Hints of a Rescue Plan

2007-01-19T11:34:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, August 31, 2005. Wednesday Morning.

It was now my fifth day of being marooned by Katrina, and things weren't getting any easier. One way that I coped with the stress, aside from losing myself in TR's life story, was to sleep in. I figured, the later I slept, since I didn't have any place to go, the less I focused on the heat and chaos. I was putting myself in "suspended animation," or a kind of reverse hibernation. What I wouldn't have given to be in the Artic just then.

I got up around ten o'clock and went to the window. I could see the floodwater had covered more of the tombs and now was covering everything but the tops of the cars parked outside. I was fairly certain that was about as far as it was going to go from the reports that Kathy was giving me, but the sight of that cemetery underwater was chilling.

By now I had run out of clean shirts so I went through my bag and pulled one out of the wad of dirty tee shirts. I grabbed a teacup of water out of the bathtub and brushed my teeth. I'd had it with looking homeless, so I decided to wash my hair. I grabbed the ice bucket and dipped it into the tub. Bending over the sink I spilled just enough to get wet. I grabbed the tiny bottle of shampoo and gave it a whirl around my head, and finished up with a quick rinse. I felt some guilt over using water this way, but my self-esteem was taking enough of a beating from wearing dirty clothes, having no bath, and depending on others for my welfare.

I'm not accustomed to being in such a dependent state. I put myself through college, went on to graduate school, earned a Ph.D., set up and ran my own business, and took care of my family. I was the guy that others depended on, but here I was depending on the hotel to shelter and feed me, and was waiting for the government to free me. I didn’t want to ask for any more help.

With dirty clothes, but wet, mostly clean hair, I went down to the lobby and inquired, once again, if they had been able to put their hands on a corkscrew. Of course, they had no corkscrew, and probably thought, "What's with this guy who keeps coming by everyday to ask for a corkscrew?"

I went through the chow line and overheard people at the next table talking. I wasn't sure that I heard them right so I apologized for eavesdropping, and asked what they were talking about. Sure enough, the hotel had privately arranged for ten buses to drive into town and evacuate us and the guests from the nearby Holiday Inn. I could barely contain myself. I asked them where to get tickets.

I raced, I mean raced, down to the lobby where a dozen people lined up for the front desk. I asked the last person if this was the line for bus tickets and she said that it was. I didn't trust that the news was true, but waited in the barely moving line, terrified that I'd get to the front only to be told that the tickets were sold out.

Finally, I was standing in front of a clerk with a German accent. "Is it true?" Yes, she assured me. "Well, what's the deal," I asked? Ten air-conditioned buses would be in front of the hotel tonight at six o'clock, and they would take us to Houston Hobby Airport, at which point we could individually arrange our way home. The cost per ticket was $45, and we should line up on the street at five o'clock. The only conditions were that if you didn't get a ticket before they sold out you weren't going, if you lost your ticket you weren't going, and finally, if you tried to rush onto the buses when they arrived and cause a ruckus you weren't going. I could live with that so I plunked $45 down in cash and got my prized ticket.

I was leaving this hellish situation in an air-conditioned bus and I was barely able to speak. In another seven hours there would be an end point and that gave me the strength to cope until those buses rolled up.

As I stepped away from the counter I secured my ticket. It was small and red, like one of the old-fashioned movie tickets, which meant I could put into the deepest recess in my wallet. I walked around the rest of the day with my hand in my pocket on my wallet.

Relieved but fearful that it was too good to be true, I caught the elevator back upstairs in order to grab my camera, book, and some water. Since the local people had been moved out of the hotel, the elevator wasn't nearly as crowded and didn't make so many stops. When I got to my room, I thought about closing the drapes to keep the room from getting so hot, but didn’t as I'd be leaving town in just a few hours.

Before leaving the room I called Kathy and she was so relieved that she broke down into tears. I told her she could call off the rescue, that I loved her, that I couldn't wait to see her, and that I would call before I left for Houston.

I then phoned Southwest to arrange a flight from Houston. I was about to take one final tour around the Quarter and spend the rest of the afternoon in my reading spot. However, as I collected my things I started to worry that maybe we wouldn't get to Houston in time for the early morning flight I’d just booked. What if the buses were late or the traffic was bad or what if a million other things happened to delay us? I rang Southwest again and changed the flight to the afternoon.

Satisfied that I had done all that I could to get myself home, I hit the superheated street for my last few hours in New Orleans.

Civil Authority Goes Missing and Doesn't Show Up

2007-01-18T12:20:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, August 30, 2005. Late Afternoon

For the most part, I was engrossed in TR's world. As I was reading, I noticed a young couple walking a large, white dog. Oh no, I thought, more company. However, when they got next to me, the woman simply smiled and said “hello.” The man looked over with no particular expression while they kept moving. Relieved, I went back to reading, which due to its power to transport me, had taken on great importance. I started to worry about what I would do if I finished before I was able to get of New Orleans. To prevent that, I paced my reading.

Also vying for my attention were the rescue helicopters flying over. One must have flown over every twenty minutes, but I had no idea where they were coming from or where they were going. “Why they weren't stopping to help us?” I wondered. Even though I could rationalize that they were helping others in greater need, the fact that help was just that far above my head, but there was no way I could reach it was maddening. I tried to ignore them.

It was now around 6:30 p.m. and I had been reading most of the afternoon. I looked up and noticed a pink building lit up by that late afternoon sun, glowing gold. Then I saw another pleasant scent of normalcy: three guys sitting and talking on one of those French Quarter wrought-iron balconies. Well, except for the fact that all of the windows and doors on the first floor were boarded over with plywood with big red "X's" painted on them. Normalcy rests on a very shaky foundation, I thought. I wanted to be a part of that scene.

I didn't want to be out on the streets after dark, so I headed back to the hotel. After a full day of heat, the lobby was sweltering and the front desk clerk had no updates. Knowing that we were in for another night, I made my way back up to the ballroom, piled my plate with grits, butter, and white bread, and went in the opposite direction of the paramedics. I washed a few bites down with half a glass of tepid water, and went over and asked one of the serving ladies if they had a corkscrew, but she didn't. I thanked her and left.

I made my way to the elevator. I’m somewhat claustrophobic, but normally elevators don't bother me unless they’re crowded and someone is in my face. Well, since at most only two out of six elevators were working they were packed. I waited for the elevator with a crowd of people that grew larger by the minute. Finally, the elevator doors opened and disgorged a torrent of humanity. Once they cleared out, there was an immediate rugby scrum, not with as much violence, but with the same competitive spirit, moving towards the doors, and I was right in the middle of it. I wedged myself in near the door with my back against the wall and arms pinned to my sides. The elevator far exceeded the number of people permissible under "normal" societal rules. We had all gone two days without baths, it was stuffy, and we stopped at every floor on our way up. That added up to the perfect conditions for a claustrophobic fit.

Once the doors closed and we started up, I feverishly scanned the elevator ceiling for the emergency trap-door exit in case I might have to locate it in the dark. I knew for a fact that if that generator failed and we got stuck, I was going to freak out. Checking for that trap door was an indication of how quickly I had shifted over into survival mode, automatically.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the elevator hit the fifteenth floor, at which point I shot out like a human cannon ball. Sweating profusely, I escaped to my room. I had again been so happy to see the sunlight in the morning that I had opened the drapes and forgotten to close them, and now the room was sweltering so I propped the door open with a chair, hoping to get some air. However, since the hall was almost as hot, the law of thermodynamics wasn't working in my favor.

I had found out that we now had a curfew to be in our rooms by 8 p.m., and it was just past eight now. We all decided to obey that rule, so I guess the hotel still held some sense of order, although diminished, inside its walls. Being a good hotel citizen, I just stuck my head out the door to take a look as I could hear people talking. I could see three women, each sitting separately in the hallway, just at the entrance to their rooms. Feeling like I was pushing the boundaries, I decided to join them and so sat down in my doorway. Besides, whatever transfer of air that was happening, which wasn't much, was going on right there.

We didn't talk about anything in particular, just what they had heard about rescue, and how they were coping with the heat, the what's-your-story stuff. Finally, aside from my bird buddy from yesterday, here was a bit of companionship and since it was inside the safe walls of the hotel, I welcomed it. It was odd, the four of us sitting in the dimly lit and stuffy hallway, anchoring ourselves firmly to our rooms so as to not break the rules, and talking about the as yet, non-existent rescue. It was straight out of Waiting for Godot.

I sat out for maybe half an hour, and then excused myself. The hotel seemed "safe," but I wasn't feeling secure enough to leave my door open for the night, even though it might have provided some movement of air. So here I was, back in my dark room with the only light being my little squeeze light. I sat there on the end of the bed, shining my light around the room until it landed on that bottle of wine, still sitting in pristine unopened condition on top of the dresser. It was starting to drive me buggy.

Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore, so I did something I never do when staying in a hotel: I raided the mini bar refrigerator. It had long since lost any semblance of refrigeration so everything was room temperature. There were three Bud Lights and three Heinekins just sitting there waiting for me. I felt the tops of the bottles and determined that the Buds were the only ones that had twist off tops. I detest Bud, but given the emergency circumstances I very nearly weakened and drank one. Things were getting desperate, but they weren't that desperate.

I grabbed one of the Heinekens and started searching the room to see what I could find that might substitute for a church key (well that's what we used to call them when I was a kid) but found nothing. Frustrated, I walked over and opened the room door and tried to pop the cap in the doorjamb latch, but to no avail. I was going to open that damned bottle.

I came back into the room more frustrated than before. I had a beautiful Heineken in my hand and a great looking bottle of red wine on the dresser, and I couldn't open either one of them. They were doing me as much good as the helicopters that flew overhead all day. I shined my light onto the door looking for anything that might work when I noticed the mechanism that keeps the door from slamming shut, one of those metal gadgets with two arms that come out from the top of the door and meet in a very narrow "V" shape. I thought I'd give it a try. It took two hands to feel for the "V" and then to hold the bottle steady when it was wedged in. That ole dinky light only worked when you were squeezing it, so that was out.

I put the light down, grabbed the Heineken, walked until my fingers touched the back of the door, felt for the closing mechanism, and worked my way to the "V.” With one hand grasping the "V" and the other holding the beer, I nestled the rim of the bottle cap firmly into the "V" and gave it a good hard jerk. The bottle, with cap attached, slid out. I gave it three or four more tries, each time having to feel my way back up in the dark until the cap finally popped off. I had jiggled the bottle around so much that when it opened I got a beer shower. I gratefully drank it down.

I raided a second Heineken and repeated the process. I called my wife and found out that the heavy media coverage of the looting was being used as an excuse for not sending in rescue groups. That seemed like a lot of baloney to me, I mean, for God's sake, we were all there and we weren't being killed, so why couldn't the National Guard fight their way in? It made no sense.

I was slipping further into the abyss that was now New Orleans, but I did my best to assure her that it wasn't as bad as it looked on television. We talked for a few more minutes, and I hung up, having no idea what tomorrow would bring.

Out Into the Heat

2007-01-17T16:27:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, August 30, 2005. Mid-day.

I've mentioned how hot and stuffy the hotel had become, but that was nothing compared with the wall of heat that greeted me outside. I was looking for a spot, a place where I could sit down away from the craziness at the hotel and away from other people. I couldn't get it in my room, because it was just too damned hot.

No, you don't understand. It was really hot. It's quite impossible to convey just how hot it was. The heat was one of the most under-appreciated elements of the entire Katrina story, one that caused massive suffering. New Orleans in the summer is normally hot and humid, but the weather that followed Katrina had a nasty, punishing edge to it. The fact that two-thirds of the city was covered in water only made it that much more humid. The mass and weight of the heat pressed against my face and prevented me from getting any air. It was alive, holding me in a heat cocoon and there was no escape.

I left the garage, took the small pedestrian walkway to the other end, and walked past a small café to see what was happening at the police station next door. About a dozen police cars were parked outside, and a generator in the courtyard provided power to the station. A couple of officers were grilling burgers on an outdoor grill and as I walked past one of them grabbed a couple and whisked them into the station. They paid no notice to me. Well, I thought, it looks like these guys are taking care of themselves pretty well. I know I probably shouldn't have begrudged them these comforts, but something struck me as odd: they were taking care of themselves while the rest of the city was in dire need.

I walked back to the cafe and noticed two wire-mesh tables turned upside down, and half a dozen chairs stacked two by two. I could imagine people sitting and enjoying a cool drink and nice lunch, but instead dead leaves littered the ground. A bicycle cable locked the tables and chairs together. No one was around but me, so I decided this was as good a spot as any to stake a claim. I couldn't un-stack the chairs because of the cables, so I pushed the table over next to the two chairs stacked closest and sat down. Since we couldn't leave New Orleans, there was nothing to do but wait for help to arrive.

The book I had brought was titled Mornings on Horseback, a biography of Teddy Roosevelt by David McCullough. I wanted to forget about my situation, so my plan was to dive into the world of TR. By now, that feeling of "I want to go home," was all consuming, as was the heat. As much as I tried to get completely absorbed into the world of late 19th century New York that TR inhabited, time was crawling by. I can now see why a library and books are so important to people in prison.

The breakdown of society was particularly overwhelming, because the situation was dangerous, not just uncomfortable. Kathy relayed stories of rapes, murders and muggings at the Superdome and the convention center along with reports of random looting and shooting. When I met someone walking up the street, I didn't know if they were going to pass on by or knock me in the head and rob me. Think about it. When you can't count on this most normal of expectations, you're really in completely new territory. So just at the same time that I needed other people to get me through, my guard was up.

Across from me was an antique store, and just behind that was a door that led to an apartment upstairs. After I'd been sitting there for a couple of hours, long enough to feel some sense of security, that stairway door opened and out stepped an unshaven man, in his late sixties, wearing khaki shorts, tennis shoes, a dirty tee shirt and ball cap. He stood there taking in the whole scene. “Oh no,” I thought, “I hope he doesn't come over here,” but sure enough, he walked straight to me. He motioned to the two chairs stacked up on the other end of the line, and asked if I minded if he sat down. I told him to go ahead, and he plopped down.

As much as I had been looking for a connection with others, I was trying to escape into my book and the old man was bringing me right back, trapping me in the heat. He wanted to talk. He said something about how hot it was and how he had chosen to stay in his apartment during the storm. I listened politely, but I was giving him “I’m not interested” vibes. I would quickly look down at my book each time he stopped talking. Try as I might, he wasn't getting the message and kept on talking. Then he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and asked if I minded. I lied, “No.”

I have never smoked, except for a month following the break-up of a relationship in the late seventies. If I'm sitting near someone who is smoking, I'll get up and move, because I don’t like the smell. Well, here I was downwind with a hundred pounds of smoke-filled heat pressure on my face, and I was growing livid inside. The old man and his need to talk and his smoke were taking over my refuge. I turned, ever so slightly away from him, hoping that he'd get the message.

I know the old man was lonely and probably responding to the same need for connection as I had been, but I was in a different phase now, a self-protective mode, and he was an intruder. It may sound hard, but it gets back to what I said about not being yourself in a strange situation like Katrina. Call this my Katrina-induced-hyper-protective-mode.

Just when I couldn’t take it any longer, the old man excused himself and walked back over to the open door to his stairway, stepped in and closed it behind him. I could feel all of the muscles in my body start to un-clench. In addition to no bath and profuse sweating, I now smelled of cigarette smoke. Trying to calm down, I opened my book and re-read the last dozen pages I'd tried to read when the old man was there, since I had no idea what I'd just read.

Tuesday, First Full Day After the Storm

2007-01-16T13:03:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, August 20, 2005. Waking up to Chaos.

I woke up to realize that not only had the National Guard not come but that the city of New Orleans had now been sealed off to anyone other than police, officials, and the press. So now there was no getting out and no getting in.

Kathy was getting more panicked by the lawlessness shown on television and was calling anyone she could think of to try and get me out. My brother, Brian, who lives in Arkansas was ready to drive the eight hours to pick me up anytime. However, any kind of private rescue was now impossible. I reassured her that the area right around the hotel seemed to be fairly safe. At least I hadn't heard any gunfire. I was now totally dependent on the authority figures in New Orleans for escape.

Since this was all happening while I was still in bed, I decided to get up, get breakfast and take another look around. I brushed my teeth and tried to hospital-sponge-bath enough to keep myself somewhat decent. I already was not smelling like a rose and neither were any of the other guests. In addition, the room was musty from the wet carpet and drapes.

From my window, I could see a cemetery. Since they can't bury people underground due to the high water table in New Orleans, it was easy to see that most of the tombs were a little over half submerged. On the street next to the cemetery the water was almost up to the tops of the car doors. I made a mental note of how high the water was so that I could check its progress later.

I thought about the scene before me. The floodwaters had overtaken this one cemetery near the hotel, which meant that the water had likely flooded practically every cemetery around New Orleans. It was likely that most of those caskets had been breached, so that in addition to the gas, oil, garbage and everything else that the floodwater contained, it also now included residue from the cemeteries. Add to that the storm victims, whose bodies were still in the water, and I got a pretty good idea of how toxic and putrid that storm water was.

Before leaving the room I decided to change my flight. After changing it twice already, I was now scheduled to fly out the next day, Wednesday, around 5:50 p.m. but it didn't look like that was going to happen. Reaching Southwest and still optimistic, I booked my flight for Thursday, giving the "authorities" one more day. Since Southwest took the reservation, I hung up feeling I had a plan.

I grabbed my camera, a bottle of water, a handful of nuts, and my camera and headed for the elevator. In the dim lobby, which reeked of sweat and overflowing toilets, I looked for any reliable information. I made my way over to the front desk and there was a short line of un-bathed people, like me, wanting to know when help would arrive. Three hotel staff members stood behind the desk trying to answer. When I reached the front of the line, the clerk told me that the hotel management was working as diligently as they could to get us out. She also told me that all of the "neighbors,” who had come to the hotel for refuge were being moved out to the convention center. Although I was glad the locals had a place to be safe from the storm, I was also relieved to hear they were leaving, since the competition for scarce resources was quickly growing.

The staff stayed in the hotel during and after Katrina and suffered the same conditions we did. However, they had the extra burden of taking care of us. Wearing civilian clothes now it was hard to pick them out unless they were standing behind a counter. Most maintained their composure and did their jobs in an admirable fashion.

Oh, one more thing I asked the desk clerk: did they have a corkscrew. The clerk’s five-minute search produced nothing, so I thanked her and walked towards the still closed Carousel Bar. The shattered picture window was now boarded over with a very large sheet of plywood.

I braced myself for the impervious chow line. This morning we only had grits, butter, white toast, and lukewarm water. I got my food and passed the paramedics (who seemed not to notice me) to an empty table on the other side of the room. Here I was avoiding people, even though we should have bonded by our mutual need to escape from this weird existence.

I stirred some butter around my grits to try to flavor them and took a bite. Now, I don't know if you've ever eaten grits, but I never developed a taste for them. Even with the butter they tasted like nothing, absolutely nothing. I couldn't even taste the butter. It was as if the combination of grits and butter canceled each other out.

Deciding that was all the grits I could take, I decided to head outside. I grabbed my things and walked towards the hotel garage exit. In this hallway, someone had let their dog poop right on the old carpet and had just left it there.

In these few days, I had to reconcile a plethora of sights: looting, flooding, shootings, angry crowds, the whole city dark with no power or water, tense and anxious food lines, and now dogs pooping in the hallways of a grand old hotel, one that had withstood many storms for the past hundred and twenty nine years. These experiences were piling up in my brain, leaving me with one overriding feeling in the center of my heart, one that I was struggling to contain: I just wanted to go home.

Closing Out the First Day of the Storm

2007-01-16T10:33:00.000-08:00

Monday, August 29, 2005. Late Evening the Day of the Storm.

Being in the dark, except for my tiny squeeze flashlight, there wasn't much to do except to make sure I had everything I needed nearby. I set my stolen lamp on my nightstand and ran a match down the side of the box, but nothing happened. I struck it three or four more times and still nothing, so I decided to try another. Again, nothing happened except for the head of the match wearing off. I tried three or four more times until I finally accepted that the matches were too damp. The rainwater that had blown in the windows and soaked the carpet and drapes had given the whole room a damp, but hot feel.

I nearly cried. I had been keeping the thought of that little lamp in the back of my mind like some sort of prized safety valve and now my plan had failed. There is a saying that I think dates from World War I that goes something like "Trust in the Lord, but keep your powder dry." Well, I wasn't doing too well at either one just then.

I had to get my mind off of the disappointment of the lamp and I had noticed that there was a maid's closet just across the hall so I decided to see if there were matches or other supplies that I could use. I grabbed my squeeze light, crossed the hall and pushed the door open. I was met by a large laundry cart partly blocking the door. It looked as if it had been quickly shoved into the room. I pushed past it and opened a cabinet that was normally locked, and to my surprise sitting there on the shelf was a gorgeous bottle of red wine.

Now, you've got to understand that at this point the mentality of "scarcity" was already deeply rooted. It was clear that if you didn't have what you needed you weren't going to get it. So as I stood there in front of that wine I was torn. If I took it, wasn't I just like the looters? On the other hand, it seemed kind of dumb to, out of some high-minded principle, deny myself something that could be a great source of comfort. This was the second "moral" decision facing me after my encounter earlier with the looters. After thinking it through I decided that I would "liberate" the wine. After all, I could always tell the hotel and pay them for it later. I grabbed the wine along with some extra towels and rolls of toilet paper and crossed back to my room.

When I got back, I started to look around for a corkscrew or bottle opener of some sort. It was no easy task with that tiny light, but I did a pretty good search and turned up nothing. Just then I remembered that I had bought a pocket knife, a kind of Swiss Army knife, at one of the wineries near our home in Healdsburg, CA. and it had a tiny corkscrew in addition to all the other jazzed up stuff. Where was it? Talk about ironies, but I had given it to Kaitlin before she left for Houston on Saturday both because I thought she might need it and I only had carry on bags for my flight home and so couldn't have taken it.

I set the wine bottle aside, snacked on one of my granola bars, and drank some of my water, both of which I had started rationing. Since the story of Katrina was evolving so rapidly, I now had no idea how long I'd need to depend on my own food and water, nor how long the hotel’s supply would last.

From my wife and brothers, I had discovered that major flooding, looting, and lawlessness had broken out; in fact, sounds of gunshots were being reported. It was beginning to look like the greatest danger now lay in other people, rather the forces of nature. It was as if Katrina had wiped out the rules of society, and people were acting on their basest impulses. Knock out society’s rules, couple it with an overwhelmed police force that had no plan to handle a crisis of this magnitude, and we were in chaos.

Settling in for the night, I locked the door securely. I might have gotten a little air circulation with the door open, but I wasn't going to take any chances. I brushed my teeth with a tiny bit of water, took my contacts out and lay down on the bed. My mind raced over the events of the day and what the next day might bring. I was hoping against hope that when I woke up in the morning I'd find the city crawling with National Guard troops and Red Cross workers. I fell into a sweaty, light sleep.

The Katrina Plot Thickens

2007-01-11T23:11:00.000-08:00

Monday, August 29, 2005. Evening on the Day of the Storm.

After sitting by the river with my bird buddy, I decided to walk the seven-blocks to the hotel. As I got up I saw a huge line of dark green pick-up trucks, some pulling aluminum fishing boats, driving by. It was hard to make out the insignia, but I finally could see that they were all Louisiana Wildlife and Fisheries trucks. There must have been two dozen of them headed away from downtown. I had no idea what they were doing. I thought it was a bit strange to see so many from that agency now, but figured they were there to help with rescue.

After they passed, I headed for the hotel. Remember how I had seen both New Orleans Police officers and Sheriffs Deputies on foot earlier in the day? Well, walking back alone now through the darkened Quarter, I didn't see a single one. However, twice on my walk I saw two New Orleans Police cars speeding by with blue police lights flashing. With the only police presence being the occasional cruiser, and after my earlier encounter with the looters and their supporters, all my senses were on high alert: my scanners were working the environment around me double time. It's funny how quickly you can slip into a self-protective mode.

When I got back to the hotel lobby, one of the first things I overheard was that a levee or levees had broken and the city was flooding. I stopped and asked these people what they knew. They said they hadn't seen any flooding, but had heard that eight feet of water was headed our way as we spoke. Suddenly all of those Wildlife & Fisheries trucks with their aluminum boats started to make more sense. I asked what we were supposed to do and nobody seemed to know. Since no one else seemed worried about the wall of water headed our way and since the hotel was taking no specific action, I decided to take a wait and see attitude.

I decided to get some dinner and when I climbed the mezzanine stairs, I was greeted by the same mass of people. Before crossing what seemed like a picket line, I headed for the bathroom, as I hadn't had an opportunity to make a stop for half a day.

There was one public restroom across from the ballroom, but it had no light. The hallway was lit by emergency generator lights, but none of that light penetrated the bathroom. I was reluctant to walk into that darkness, because I was wearing a pair of Mexican sandals, which meant my feet were exposed to whatever I might step in.

It had only been one day with no power or water, but the bathroom already smelled. I willed my way inside and tried to let my eyes adjust, but it was so dark there was no light to adjust to. So I started very slowly, step by step, like Frankenstein, with my arms stretched wide out in front of me feeling for whatever might be in my path. I thought I was heading towards the wall that the urinals were on, but I wasn't quite sure so I kept slowly inching my way forward. Just about the time my fingers touched a cold tile, I took one more step forward and my right foot landed in about four inches of mystery liquid, but I had a pretty good idea what it was since the toilets were now plugged up and overflowing.

I steeled myself and felt down the wall. I could feel a lever, then the top of what I believed to be the urinal, so I took one more step and took care of business. There was nowhere to wash my foot, as there was no running water. I had seen some rainwater pooled along the curb in front of the hotel earlier in the day so I headed back down stairs and out the front doors to the street, where, sure enough there was about four inches of water up to the curb, now dirty with trash that had been blown around by the storm. I rushed over and put my right, sandaled foot into that water and moved it rapidly back and forth a couple of times. A woman, who happened to be walking by, looked over and said "Ooouu, you don't know where that water has been."

"Lady if you knew where my foot has been you'd understand," I said.

Now that I had done what I could to clean my feet, I headed back to the ballroom. The salad lady gave me a helping, followed by a big dollop of white rice, and a couple of slices of white bread. I saw the paramedics sitting by themselves in the back so I went the other way. No reason to engage in more awkward conversation.

I wanted to spend as little time as possible at my unoccupied table since the dining hall was dim, hot and stuffy. I chased the salad, gummy rice, and doughy bread down with lukewarm water. I collected my plate and utensils, and deposited them in the clean up area.

I cruised back to the lobby to check the eight feet of water rumor and there was no update, so I figured we were safe for the moment. Although I was now ensconced high and dry on the fifteenth floor, that would be little consolation if the emergency generator failed and I faced fifteen flights of stairs.

Satisfied that we weren’t all immediately about to drown, I took the elevator to my even hotter, stuffier room. The hotel had no coffee, nor was there any place else to get any so after a full twenty-four hours, I had a throbbing caffeine-withdrawal headache.

I found my tiny flashlight, made my way to the phone and called my wife, who turned out to be my main source of information. I could only follow an eight-block radius of my hotel and since that was all in the Quarter, I could hardly see any flooding. However, she was glued to the coverage of the storm’s aftermath, which focused on areas that sustained the most damage. In addition, the news was picking up the stories of looting, shootings and other acts of lawlessness, so Kathy was shook up when I called her. She was desperately trying to find a way to get me out of there, and I assured her that I was confident that the authorities would come in to start evacuating us the next day.

My First Look Around After the Storm

2007-01-11T15:27:00.000-08:00

Monday, August 29, 2005. Later Afternoon on the Day of the Storm.

Watching that looting made me realize that the people who adjust the fastest to the changing reality around them are the ones who have the highest chances of survival. It's like you get a picture, a "mental frame," in your mind of your reality that usually that matches the outer reality. For example, my mental frame on the Friday before the storm was that I'd just gotten to the end of my father-daughter road trip cross-country and would hang out for a couple days. When that all changed on Saturday, it took me a little while to adjust my new reality, in fact, my captivity in New Orleans. You go through that "this isn't supposed to be happening" mental phase in which you keep comparing what you thought was going to happen to what's really happening and you keep trying to fit the two together. For that period, until you get in tune with the new reality, you are essentially impaired, "one click" away from reality, meaning it takes you just a little bit longer to process information, to make decisions, and most importantly, to make the right decisions. This ability to shift quickly to embrace a changed circumstance or a dashed expectation is one of the qualities that a good leader possesses.

Standing in the intersection in front of that Walgreen's, which had now been transformed into a "looter's holding cell," I was still stunned by what I had just witnessed. The mood of the crowd was one of disappointment, but with a barely suppressed thread of hostility running through it as the police ended the fun. So I decided it was time to move.

I walked the short block down to Bourbon Street and it was surreal to see the street with all of the stores and clubs shut and with only small wandering groups of people. I’d only been there when the street was really cooking. To walk down Bourbon Street at night, just about any night, is to take a trip into another world. I mean, with the street closed off to cars, with all of the people crowding the street with drinks in hand, with the music and cigarette smoke billowing out of the bars, with the smell of sweat, perfume and garbage all mixed together, with the glittery tourist shops and their carnival masks, pink wigs, tee shirts and feather boas, you might as well be in a different country, a much more exotic one than the United States that I know.

I couldn't really get my bearings. There was very little damage from the storm aside from the occasional sign blown down or a tree titling sideways. We were a strange looking bunch, mostly out-of-towners like myself, who had emerged from the downtown hotels. We were just strolling, taking in the famous Bourbon Street after the big storm. I wanted to walk up and stop someone, anyone, and say, "Can you believe this? Isn't this weird?" to validate my current take on reality, which was getting quite slippery. I don't mean that I was going nuts or anything like that, but that reality itself was shifting pretty quickly and I was running as fast as I could to keep up, and I was falling behind.

I decided to head over to Jackson Square and see what was happening there. Remember, this was not the Hurricane Katrina story as you've come to know it just quite yet. I had no knowledge of any flooding or levee breaks and as far as we knew, we had just come through a Category 5 storm relatively unscathed. So as I walked, I saw little damage. I was feeling pretty lucky and looking forward to going home the next day.

When I got to Jackson Square, a row of banana trees lined the fence on the inside of the Square. Banana leaves are large and grow out of the top of the tree trunk, and the trunks of these trees were just about as high as the fence. The result was that the leafy tops of the trees had all been blown forward over the fence. They looked like bright green curtains that had been draped over the fence in some sort of Christo project.

It was now twilight, and I crossed Jackson Square to see the famous Cafe du Monde, which has been around in one form or another since 1862. It's open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, except for Christmas and "on the day an occasional Hurricane passes too close to New Orleans," according to their website. I think they thought that was cute, but today it was too real to be funny. The cafe has one of those red Spanish tile roofs, and several of the tiles now lay shattered into small pieces on the sidewalk. I had spent good times there with Kaitlin having chicory-laced cafe au lait and beignets so I, like many people, have an emotional attachment to the now darkened place.

I decided I'd pick up one of those broken tiles as a souvenir for Kaitlin, you know, your chance to own a piece of history, a piece of Cafe du Monde blown off by Hurricane Katrina. It took awhile to select a piece with a nice shape, but not too heavy as I’d have to carry it. I finally settled on a couple of pieces that, despite being small, were still pretty heavy due to the thickness of the tile.

I put them in my camera case and headed up the levee to what's called the "Moon Walk," or the walking path that runs along the top of the levee on the Mississippi River. The river was quiet as I walked down the path and finally settled into a bench overlooking the water. By now it was near sunset, and over my right shoulder the sky was turning from gray to pink.

As I was sitting there a small bird, probably a sparrow flew down and landed on the walkway in front of me. He looked up at me as if to say, "Man, can you believe what just happened?" It was either that or "Man, I'm starving!" Regardless, I was touched by that little bird and I asked him out loud, "Well how did you get through the storm? Where did you stay that got you out of that killer wind?" He just looked at me, but I finally felt a bond with another living creature, one who had gone through Katrina, like me, and come out the other side. We sat there for maybe five minutes, neither of us wanting to strike out on our own again. I'd been looking for connection in all of the people around me and hadn't found it, yet here now sitting on that bench with that little bird looking up at me I finally had.

The Looting Starts

2007-01-10T08:50:00.000-08:00

Monday, August 29, 2005. Late Afternoon on the Day of the Storm.

After standing and watching the tail end of the storm I went back to my room to get ready for my first excursion. Despite my air conditioning blast, the room was heating up. After the long darkness of the night before, I welcomed the open curtains and sunlight. Those old windows once opened, but had been painted shut a long time ago, so getting any fresh air was out of the question.

Sensing that the storm’s impact might be much worse that I could see, I called Southwest and changed my flight from Tuesday to Wednesday. I called my wife to tell her my flight plans and let her know that I was all right. It was now late afternoon, the rain and wind had stopped, and the cloud cover was still there, but with occasional breaks.

I grabbed my wallet and camera, caught the elevator downstairs, and headed out the front door onto Rue Royal. It's only about a quarter block to the next cross street and on that corner was the Walgreen's drug store in which I had bought my sunglasses. As I approached the intersection, I heard a large crowd cheering. What was happening? When I got into the intersection I got my answer: looters were walking out of Walgreen's with double armfuls of goods and as each one emerged from the store, a cheer went up.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I mean, the looting was shocking enough, but to have people standing around cheering was even more disturbing. Where was I, how could this be happening, had people completely lost their minds? I stood there not knowing what to do, but feeling I had to do something. I could see some police officers at the corner of Royal and Canal Street, so I decided to alert them. I've got to tell you, it was so weird, going for help, against the grain of the crowd, and feeling like a spoilsport.

As I was making my way down the street, I passed two New Orleans Sheriff's deputies who were walking toward the Walgreen’s. I turned to see how they would handle the situation, and to my astonishment, they walked right past that Walgreen’s, without even so much as looking over.

Dismayed, I continued towards the police officers at the corner. When I got about three quarters of the way there, two of them turned and headed in my direction towards the Walgreen’s, so I waited for them to pass, then trailed along to see if they were going to take any action. They headed right for the Walgreen’s and as they got near the front door, a couple of looters came out. One officer stood watch facing the crowd while the other one calmly confronted the looters, turned them around, sent them right back into the store, and then slid the glass doors shut. This sealed all of the looters in an instant holding cell.

The looters had grabbed whatever they could and were carrying bags of stuff, some even pushing shopping carts full of electronics, cameras, film, sunglasses, water, food, and DVD's among other items. People weren't desperate for food and water yet, so this seemed to me to be a target of opportunity. In fact, a teenage boy ran by and asked someone near me, “Where’s the Shoe Locker store?” I don't know where the first incident of looting started, but it was like the castle wall had been breached once those first few stores went down and now it was open season for looters.

In the days that followed I tried to find a reasonable explanation for that scene, to see it as the corrosive impact of poverty, of people feeling deprived by society and, therefore, entitled to take what they could given the opportunity. However, that moment signaled that Katrina was bringing more than I bargained for. The American society I knew was coming apart at the seams.

My First Meal After Katrina

2007-01-05T12:52:00.000-08:00

Monday, August 29, 2005. Late Morning of the Storm.

By the time I'd made my way into that ballroom, it was late morning. As I opened the door, I found a scene similar to the one in the other ballroom: a cafeteria-style line was set up with four ladies, who worked in the hotel, dishing up portions of food. The lights were dim, the room was stuffy and there were a dozen round tables set up for us to sit at once we'd gotten our allotted food. As I stood there, I thought about how many elegant balls and functions had been held in that old ballroom over the hundred and twenty-nine year history of the hotel and how different it looked now.

I got behind four other guests, picked up my plate and silverware and started down the line. Each lady would plop a big ole dollop of whatever they had onto my plate. First, I got the big spoonful of hotel-style-scrambled-eggs. Next came the helping of Southern-style-one-big-sticky-mashed-potato-like-mound-of-grits. Finally, there came slices of bacon cut so thin I could actually see through, followed by two slices of white bread toast. At the end of the line was a big container of water and one of apple juice, both room temperature.

I poured myself a glass of juice and turned to find a place to sit and as I did one of the serving ladies called out "Don't you want some butter for your grits darlin?" I thought about it for a second and, even though I grew up in the South we weren't the grits eating kind of family, but decided, what the heck, it was more food, so I said yes and walked back over to where she was holding out a mass of butter on the end of her long stainless steel serving spoon. I held my plate mid-air and she expertly aimed and topped that white pile of country goodness with a golden crown. Man oh man.

I turned and surveyed the room to find a spot. Now I'm the kind of person that is always careful about selecting where I'm going to sit in a public dining room even under normal life circumstances, but now I really wanted to make the right choice. I didn't want to intrude, nor did I want to sit by myself, and as you know, I had been looking for some kind of connection with others. Some tables held people already in conversations and looked like they knew each other, so I passed on them. As I slowly walked I looked for some invitation, some eye contact, but got none so I kept moving.

I got towards the back of the room where there were several empty tables, and a couple sitting at one. The man, in his mid-forties, balding with a beard and glasses, looked at me and made eye contact, which was just enough invitation for me, so I sat down. The woman, who also looked to be in her mid-forties, had long wavy blond hair and was wearing a fanny pack over her khaki shorts. We started that my-name-is, where-are-you-from, and what’s-your-story conversation. It turns out that they too were from the San Francisco Bay Area, were paramedics, and were in New Orleans for a paramedic convention. Well now, I thought, Bay Area people. Maybe I could hang out with them for a while for even though I wasn't getting any overwhelming “connection” vibe what I was getting seemed enough.

As we ate our meal and continued with the small talk, I wanted to talk about how strange and disorienting the whole experience had been thus far: the waiting for the storm, the great weather prior to the hurricane, the "party on" attitude in the days prior, becoming a virtual prisoner in New Orleans, the air of tension and competition out in the hallway, and the juxtaposition of being in a four-star-luxury hotel with so many from the neighborhoods and housing projects. Things were going along fine until I mentioned that last point about the hotel and the mix of people there now. I was looking at the man and I remember his face going completely blank at that moment. I glanced over at the woman and her face was blank as well. I knew they had taken me the wrong way and I imagined they now thought they were having breakfast with George Wallace.

What to do, what to do? There was some awkward silence, a few more superficial comments about the weather, and I excused myself from the table. As I walked over to drop off my dirty dishes, I knew that any chance of hanging out with them was gone. Well, you may say I was reading more into it and stuff, but at that moment I was feeling pretty stressed and alienated, a condition that would only deepen.

I made my way back out into the hallway, through the mass of people and downstairs. I decided to go out to the garage and see what was happening on the weather front. A long hallway led through a sliding glass door into the garage.

When I got to the garage, nearly thirty people stood just inside the door watching the rain and wind blow down the street. If one didn't know that this was the tail end of a hurricane one would have thought it a bad rainstorm. I stood there for maybe half an hour as we all just wanted to get an up-close look at the storm that had already changed the last several days of our lives.

Katrina Peaks and Moves On

2006-12-14T23:06:00.000-08:00

Monday, August 29, 2005. Katrina Passes Through New Orleans.

I got back up around 10:15 a.m. and went to the windows. I parted the heavy drapes and could see over the city for maybe a mile, which lay under a heavy, grey cloud layer. Katrina was still going with rain and wind gusts, but I could tell we were on the backside of the storm. I don't know what I expected, but I couldn’t see any activity on the streets and it seemed only the roof of a building about a block and a half away was damaged. I thought there would be more visible damage, but this early look revealed a fundamental truth about the character of Katrina: each person's experience of the hurricane in New Orleans was centered on the relatively small part of the city in which they found themselves, making for thousands of vastly different stories of what it was like during Katrina.

As it happened, I was in the French Quarter, which didn't flood for the most part due to its unique geography. The Quarter lies next to the Mississippi river, one of the high points of the city, with the land sloping down and away, meaning that the closer one was to the river, at least in the Quarter and the Garden District, the less likely one was to be flooded. From my perspective, Katrina hadn't caused much damage.

After lingering at the window, I figured this would be a day to hang out, survey the damage, see what was working and what wasn't, and generally get a sense of what a Category 5 storm can do. I knew we wouldn’t be “rescued” on the first day of the storm, but by Tuesday, I fully expected that the government and disaster groups like the Red Cross would take over and begin rescue, recovery, and evacuation. That is the way it had always happened before.

With no power and the cloud cover, it was still fairly dark in the room. I got dressed, brushed my teeth in the dark and headed out the door to the elevator, just a few steps out of my door. There was water leaking from the hallway ceiling just in front of the elevators and someone had moved the large floor ashtray, (the kind that hotels use sand in and rake to try to make them look like Zen gardens), into the middle of the hall. I think there were six elevators total in the hotel and two were working on generator power. The hallway lights were also working on the generator, although in a somewhat reduced state, much like my own.

As I mentioned, two of the three sets of double glass doors at the front lobby had been boarded up with plywood, and sand bags had been placed around the bottom, leaving only the one door open. Those doors and the dim lighting gave the formerly elegant lobby the look and feel of something out of Long Day's Journey Into Night.

I walked over to the Carousel Bar and it was taped off with yellow "caution" tape. I could see that one of the picture windows was blown out and the rain and wind were whipping and drenching the bar as I stood there. Still, it hadn’t suffered any real, lasting damage. Clearly, the Carousel would not be open from 11 a.m. to midnight.

I wandered over to find the concierge so I could ask about breakfast. The emergency instruction sheet had stated that buffet style food would be served in Le Cafe, however, the doors were closed and the restaurant was dark. I found the concierge and she told me that the meal would actually be served in a ballroom upstairs on the mezzanine, so I decided to go up and take a look.

I've talked about layers of normal "civilized" society being stripped away by Katrina. Well now, this morning, it was beginning to dawn on me that as layers of civilization were being removed, layers of Katrina were taking their place. In other words, it wasn't just that the normal civilized society of early 21st Century America was being stripped away leaving a vacuum, but rather, the new and unaccustomed experiences that Katrina brought were hitting us, layer by layer.

I found the mezzanine stairs and as I climbed, I could hear the buzz of people talking and milling about. I followed the noise around the corner and down the dim hallway until I came to a "T" intersection where the ballrooms were located. There was a ballroom to my left with a large knot of people gathered around the door and a long line of people stretching away from the door. Within these tangles there was a definite sense of competition for whatever food was in that ballroom.

It looked to me like most of these folks were the locals that had come to the hotel for refuge, meaning that most were black and poor. Why is it important to note that? Well, one layer of strangeness that Katrina brought was throwing one into extraordinary situations and out of one’s normal life. As such, I began to experience a mixture of feelings, attitudes, fears and judgments, which I didn't normally encounter. The result was that one was truly not “one’s self.” In other words, not only are the situations you now find yourself in strange, but you're also a stranger to yourself. For me then, there was the struggle to adapt to the changed outer world at the same time that I was struggling to cope with the strange inner world being stirred up inside me.

Here’s what I mean: As I surveyed that scene of mass confusion, I became conscious that I was the only white guy amidst the several hundred people crowded in that stuffy and dark hallway This was new. I really wasn't sure which way to turn.

Another ballroom door stood just to the right, but the snaking line blocked the entrance. I wanted to stick my head in to find anyone in charge and see what the heck was going on, but I was reluctant, really a bit scared, to try to squeeze through that line, and I wasn't getting any green lights from the folks in line either. I was also feeling territorial and was being rocked, full force, by thoughts like "well I'm a paid guest and these folks are eating all the food and I can't even get through their damned line to get to the dining room."

Since I grew up with three brothers, I'm a pretty competitive person and I usually think ahead, as far as looking out for my family and myself. Whenever I go to a conference where lunch is served, I pick a table near the front, but close to the food so I have the inside track on lunch. With those three brothers, I learned very fast that I had to jockey for position if I didn't want to end up eating the chicken wing instead of the breast.

Finally, I moved. I politely excused myself and stepped through the line into the second set of ballroom doors, which, as it turns out, led to the very same ballroom that everyone was lined up for. There were people setting up a chow line so I walked over to ask what the drill was. One of the ladies asked me if I was a hotel guest and I told her I was. "Oh, well then, there's another dining room for hotel guests in the ballroom next door. " I thanked her, walked back out into the hallway and cut back through the line to get out.

Well, finally, I now not only knew what to do, which was comfort in itself, but my sense of fairness was assuaged and my competitive instincts taken down a notch by learning that the hotel guests were still being treated like guests and not being thrown into one big pot of desperate people in that hotel. I walked the few steps to the next ballroom door, once again excused my way across the line and entered the ballroom set up for food service for hotel guests, ready for breakfast.

Katrina Blows Into Town

2006-11-02T22:43:00.000-08:00

Monday, August 29, 2005. The Morning of Katrina.

After I got into bed, it took me awhile to fall asleep. My thoughts kept racing to the morning: what it was going to be like when the storm hit. I really didn't know if the roof would come off or if flying debris would blow through the hotel. I didn't think the building would come down, but I didn't know. My greatest fear was that the windows would blow out, which seemed pretty likely, so I securely closed the heavy drapes just before I got into bed. If the windows did shatter, I knew I'd escape to the hall, but that's about as far as my plan and the hotel instructions went. All I could do now was wait out the storm, so I did what I did as a kid when I was afraid: I got under the covers, tucked the sides in around my whole body mummy-style, and pulled them up tight around my neck. When that storm hit I was going to be in that bed covered up to my neck in a blanket-cocoon. Man, there must be something primal about that, you know, like being back in the womb or something, but it gave me enough security that I was finally able to fall into a fitful sleep.

I probably woke up at least every half hour listening to the wind and rain grow stronger just on the other side of the quarter-inch thick glass separating me from that storm. Once when I was awake I thought about the story I'd seen on TV of a family who'd decided to ride out a Florida hurricane and how when interviewed after the storm, they explained that they'd had to retreat to the bathtub (the only part of the house still standing) in order to survive. More importantly, they swore they'd never do it again, ever. I remember thinking that they were pretty big idiots, but here I was now, one of those very same people with a bathtub full of water that I couldn't even crawl into. I tried to quit thinking and just go back to sleep.

Another time I woke up and thought about all of those hotel bathtubs full of water and worried that the sheer weight could bring down the building. Had anyone done the calculations on that? When the Golden Gate Bridge turned fifty they closed the roadway to cars one early Sunday morning and let people walk out onto the bridge. It was wall to wall people, so many in fact, that the roadway, which normally has an upward curve, completely flattened out. The weight of the people was more than any collection of vehicles and nobody had anticipated that. It was only afterwards that the bridge engineers got concerned when they looked at the photographs. I was one of those people on the bridge and I've visualized many times two hundred thousand of us crashing into the water. If the bridge engineers had missed that I didn't have much faith that the hotel building engineer had calculated the weight –and impact- of the bath water. I’ve got to go back to sleep, I kept thinking.

When awake, I could hear the sheets of rain pounding on the windows. As I told you, we'd been warned to stay away from the windows, so I was leery even to look out. I had repeatedly fallen to sleep and woken up to find myself under the covers, completely in the dark and alone, as the building shook and swayed.

I finally got out of bed around 6:30 a.m. and looked out the window. I carefully pulled the heavy drapes open just enough to see out. The wind was howling, and the rain was being blown completely sideways. There was a heavy dark cloud cover and the combination of the clouds, the rain and wind made it difficult to see beyond a couple dozen feet. I felt like I was breaking a rule by standing there; worse, I imagined that the next big gust would take the windows out and me with them.

The wind gusts had been so strong and in so many different directions, including up, that rainwater had been driven into the seams in the window casings, so the inside of the drapes and the carpet were soaking wet and water had pooled on the window ledges. I laid some towels on the ledges.

I didn't know for sure, but it looked like I had made it through the worst of the storm. I stuck my head out into the hallway to see if anyone was up and about, and found it completely empty and dark. I could hear no other sound than the storm and the creaking of that old building. I didn't know how much more was to come, so I decided to get back in bed. I had no electricity and I was wiped out from all of the adrenalin not just from the previous night, but also from the several days leading up to the hurricane. Before drifting back into intermittent sleep, I was relieved that the hard part was over.

My Last Night in Civilized Society

2006-10-30T12:24:00.000-08:00

August 28, 2005. The Evening Before Katrina.

It was now around 7:30 p.m. For the cross-country trip, I had brought one bag with an extra pair of shorts, half a dozen tee shirts and my shaving kit. I also had an "over the shoulder" briefcase that I used for my computer, some magazines, a book, writing paper, pens and the like. I started to pack my bag and flipped on the television. No change. It still looked like the "one that we've been dreading." Great. Watching that coverage of the storm increased my anxiety. No, honestly, I was scared, but I wasn't letting Kathy know how worried I was.

Being in that room and packing for the storm by myself I was feeling terribly homesick for Kaitlin. We'd just spent the last week together on the road in Little Red or shopping for her apartment and setting up her room. I found myself thinking that this would be easier to go through if she was there with me. But, then again, I thought, it's much better that she's not here in harm's way and, realistically, it will be easier for me just to have to look after myself, so I let go of her in my heart.

As I was just about finished packing the fire alarm went off, immediately followed by an announcement over the P.A. system that we were to exit the building immediately by the stairs. "Is this some kind of joke?" I said out loud. Great. Here we are, nervous as cats, and it's more likely that somebody pulled the fire alarm than the building actually being on fire, but the alarm kept ringing and the announcement kept playing so I stuck my head out into the hallway to see what was happening. I didn't see or smell any smoke, but people were filing out of their rooms towards the stairway.

This is about the time that I started to have a major regret about changing my room from one on the fourth floor to this one on the fifteenth, the top of the hotel. Dang, why did I have to be so particular?

Surrendering to the moment, I headed for the stairs, and tried to familiarize myself with the layout of the stairwell just in case I might have to run down later in the dark. Fifteen flights down and I was on the sidewalk with the rest of the hotel guests, all of us wondering what the heck was going on. As I had in the corner market, I searched the faces for some openness, for some commiseration, but none invited contact so I just milled around the crowd: a stranger among strangers.

After fifteen minutes, a staff member announced that it was safe to go back in, so we single-filed-it back into the lobby, crowded around the elevators and took turns going back up to our rooms. I finished packing my little bag and placed it next to the door for a quick escape. I didn't pack my computer briefcase yet as I'd be surfing the web and emailing for the rest of the evening while I still could. After I checked the TV I decided to see what kind of meal service the hotel offered.

When I got down to the Le Cafe the hostess informed me that dining was buffet-style only, just as the emergency notice had said it would be. I don't suppose I was that hungry, but I couldn't pass up the chance for a last good meal. She showed me to a table for two that was in a line of tables with chairs on one side and a long padded bench on the other. I sat down on the bench next to a young couple who were already halfway through their dinner. I again looked for a friendly conversation with a stranger, but everyone seemed to be busy eating or talking to someone else.

I walked over to the buffet and surveyed the food: mashed potatoes, gravy, chicken, fish, green beans, and salad so I picked out a few things and went back and sat down. I finished eating, and went around the corner to the Carousel Bar in the lobby.

If you've ever spent any time in New Orleans, you've probably been to or heard of the Carousel Bar, with the patrons sitting at a circular bar that slowly revolves around the bartender. Adding to its allure is the fact that it has a long and distinguished literary history. Truman Capote used to hang out there and even once claimed that he is where he was born. William Faulkner and Tennessee Williams also spent their share of time at the Carousel. It's a well-loved fixture of the city.

I ordered a beer and sat at a small table in the corner by the large front picture window, as all of the carousel seats were taken. The bar was dimly lit and the two televisions suspended from the ceiling were turned to the all-Katrina-all-the-time local news channels. The patrons at the bar were slowly encircling the bartender, smoking, drinking, talking loudly and laughing, as predictions of doom flashed on the two television screens. The contrast was so stark that it only added to my now Titanic-sized feelings of alienation and anticipation. If they were all this relaxed about it why was I so concerned?

As I drank my beer, I noticed the small glass oil lamp burning on my table, which couldn't have been larger than about four by four inches. It was one of those candle lamps that bars have to add "atmosphere," but it was now going to be my own personal storm light. I decided that I was going to take it back up to my room, but I needed matches, so I asked the bartender if he had any. I felt pretty guilty for my planned theft, like somehow he'd know what I had in mind and was going to stop me. I think that has something to do with growing up in a home where my mother always said she could read the guilt on my face long before I ever confessed to my crimes. Nevertheless, the bartender turned out not to have that same ability, either that or it was too dark in there for him to get a clear view, so he handed me a small book of matches.

I took the matches and walked back over to my table where I slowly and casually picked up the lamp, tucked it into the side of my body opposite the bartender and walked out. When no alarms went off and no screams of "stop that man" followed me out of the bar, I felt elated, making up for not having found a flashlight to buy earlier in the day.

I caught the elevator back up to my room and set the lamp and matches on the nightstand and practiced finding them with my eyes shut. I undressed, flipped on the television, got my computer out and started surfing the web while I watched storm coverage. The news repeated the same coverage of the last seven hours, so I flipped to the Discovery Channel and watched a soothing "nature" program. I called my wife one last time repeating the facts about how long the hotel had been there and how many storms it had been through. I got off the phone and turned up the air conditioning. I knew we'd lose power, so I was thinking that I'd get the room as cold as possible, so it would stay cooler longer after the electricity went off. Despite the fact that I knew no matter how cool you get a room, once that air conditioner goes off, the New Orleans summer heat would quickly take over.

At about that time I heard a knock, and since I didn’t know anyone, I wondered who it could be. I opened the door but no one was there, so I looked around and saw a maintenance worker walking down the hall with a small cardboard box under his arm. He was hanging something on each door. I couldn't tell, but whatever it was, it was pretty small. I looked down at my door handle and there was a tiny, white flashlight hanging on a small key chain. It was one of those plastic flashlights that you have to squeeze to turn on and keep on. I closed the door and went back into my room. “So that’s how they managed to have a flashlight for everyone,” I thought.

I walked over to the windows to look out at the city lights as if I was taking my last look at the world, as I knew it. I even took three or four pictures to capture New Orleans before the storm even though you couldn't tell if I was in New Orleans or Memphis. I knew it was silly, but I had to do it.

Finally, around midnight, as the wind was picking up and rain sprinkles were starting, I shut down the computer, packed up my briefcase, set it next to my bag by the door, laid out my clothes on the other double bed so they'd be easy to find, flipped off the light, and slipped between the cool sheets in my pitch black room waiting for Katrina.

Back to the Hotel For Final Preperations

2006-09-13T10:15:00.000-07:00

August 28, 2005. The Early Evening Before Katrina.

It was now around 6:30 pm. I paid my bill and walked out of the Oceanic, which had become, in that short period of time, a last little island of life before Katrina. I had no idea what life during and after Katrina would be like, but I knew it would be different.

I walked the several blocks back to the Monteleone and entered into a lobby that was bustling with activity aimed at getting the locals into rooms before the storm. I looked back out the glass-front doors and saw a New Orleans Police Department SUV dropping off another half dozen local people, which was something that would continue throughout the evening. The hotel was becoming, quite literally, a safe port in the storm.

I was already wearing my last clean shirt. What to do? There were no laundry services nor would there be any soon and if you've ever spent time in the South in the heat and humidity, you know that it takes only a few minutes outside for sweat to start soaking your clothes. As such, wearing week-old, rolled-up-into-a-wad tee shirts seemed like it was now going to be the new “normal” for me.

I walked towards the elevator and passed the hotel gift shop. Normally I believe that to buy anything in a hotel is to get ripped off. However, not wanting to gross myself out for the next several days, I parked my reservations at the door and walked in. A young woman greeted me with a nice smile, which helped ease my transition from "judgmental-hotel-gift-shop-boycotter" to "grateful-last-minute-natural-disaster-on-its-way" shopper.

I was determined to minimize the "rip off" factor, so I bought the minimum that I thought I'd need: two tee shirts for $20 each. After all, the storm would hit tomorrow, the Feds would take a day to mobilize and I'd be out by Tuesday at the latest, so two seemed about right. Actually, the shirts were quite nice, one black and one red, with the Hotel Montelone name and crest embroidered on the front.

Feeling satisfied that I was now ready for the storm from a wardrobe perspective I caught the elevator to my room. On the way up, I wondered when the hotel was going to give "emergency instructions" on what we should do to not only prepare but what we should do during the storm itself. After I walked in, I found a sheet of paper slid under my door. Here is what it said.

"Dear Guests:

Please be assured that the Staff of The Hotel Monteleone is taking all precautions for your safety during this storm.

For your reassurance, this Hotel has been continuously operative since 1886, and has survived many hurricanes. Many local residents come to The Hotel Monteleone for safety.

We ask you to fully cooperate with us by observing a few safety measures, should the storm actually hit New Orleans. Please bear with us under these unusual conditions:

1. FILL YOUR BATHTUB WITH COLD WATER (this will be used to flush your commode). Simply use your ice bucket to fill commode with water then flush.

2. IN THE EVENT OF POWER FAILURE, EMERGENCY POWER WILL OPERATE IN SELECTED AREAS ONLY. WE WILL ISSUE FLASHLIGHTS TO YOUR ROOM FOR EMERGENCY USE. DO NOT WANDER ABOUT IN AREAS WHERE LIGHTS ARE OUT.

3. DO NOT USE THE TELEPHONE, EXCEPT IN AN EMERGENCY. WHEN POSSIBLE PLEASE DIAL DIRECT.

4. KEEP ALL DRAPES CLOSED TO PROTECT AGAINST FLYING GLASS IN CASE OF BREAKAGE. STAY AWAY FROM WINDOWS.

5. IF YOU NEED IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE ADVISE THE TELEPHONE OPERATOR. THE ASSISTANT MANAGER WILL CONTACT YOU.

6. HOUSEKEEPING SERVICES WILL NOT BE AVAILABLE DURING THIS TIME.

7. FOOD SERVICE WILL BE AVAILABLE ONLY IN LE CAFE. Breakfast (6:30-10:00am), Lunch (11:00am-2:00pm) and Dinner (5:00pm-8:00pm), BUFFET ONLY, NO A LA CARTE SERVICE. BAR SERVICE WILL BE AVAILABLE IN THE CARUSEL LOUNGE (11:00am-12:00 midnight).

8. WE SUGGEST YOU STAY TUNED TO CHANNEL 3 FOR THE LATEST STORM INFORMATION, PROVIDED WE HAVE POWER, OR 870 AM ON RADIO.

9. PETS MUST BE LEASHED WHEN OUTSIDE YOUR ROOM. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR CLEANING UP AFTER YOUR PET.

10. WATCH ALL CHILDREN CAREFULLY.

During this stressful period we are doing our very best to accommodate everyone's needs. We thank you for your patience and understanding.
THE MANAGEMENT

I was glad for the information, but I still didn’t know what to do if things didn’t go well when the storm hit. Was I supposed to go into the hallway if the windows blew out? Was I to go down to the lobby? If there were no power and no lights, how was I to find my way down? Actually, come to think of it, the concierge's response to my question a little earlier told me that assembling in the lobby was not the plan.

I was glad to know that I would be getting a flashlight after all and wouldn't be completely in the dark. “Man, that's a lot of flashlights to have on hand,” I thought. The instructions about not using the phone "EXCEPT IN AN EMERGENCY" struck me as pretty funny, because as I saw it, the whole situation constituted one giant emergency. I pictured using the phone, but having to reassure the hotel staff that this was truly an emergency, not just some excuse to get on the phone and shoot the breeze with my wife.

Nonetheless, the instructions did help. Feeling a little better knowing that the café and the Carousel Bar would be open, I started to get ready, figuring I'd go down later and check them out.

In Search of a Final Meal

2006-09-12T11:03:00.000-07:00

August 28, 2005. The Late Afternoon Before Katrina.

It was now around 5 p.m. and I left the hotel in search of a final pre-Katrina-still-got-power meal. I left by the garage exit and crossed to a little pedestrian walkway, Exchange Pl., which took me by some small shops, offices and old empty storefronts. As I began walking down this path, I noticed a small bakery coffee shop with the door open and lights on. Feeling hopeful, I walked in. A distressed looking guy behind the counter was busy, moving trays of pastries out of the display case. When I asked him if he had any coffee, he looked at me and said, "You've got to be kidding. There's a hurricane on its way." I turned around and walked out.

I walked the one block to Bourbon Street, and if you've ever been to New Orleans you know that something is always happening there. Well today, twenty-four hours before Katrina just a few people walked the street, and I couldn't see any store, bar, club nor anything else that was open. Nothing.

With each new strange experience, I kept saying to myself "OK, that's weird." It was as if the inner model of what the world is "normally" like was being constantly proven wrong. You know, you have a flight booked and it actually takes off. Wrong. This mental and emotional work required to keep up with what was now my new fast changing “normal” was one of the biggest challenges of the whole Katrina experience. The central question for me and, in fact, how well I fared through Katrina, became how quickly I could let go of what I thought was going to happen, accept what was actually happening instead, and deal with it.

I walked a couple of more blocks on Bourbon St. when I noticed a small group of people crowded around the entrance to a bar, all holding and drinking cold beers. I headed straight for them. I wasn't sure if they were still open and if they were if they had room or food, but I was going to find out.

I maneuvered past the crowd and let my eyes adjust to the low light inside, but I could already see that the bar was open and there was food. Feeling relief, but not knowing if they were still serving, I made my way to a table near the end of the bar and sat down. Nobody paid any attention to me, but I did expect someone to walk up and tell me to leave. No one did. I held my ground.

I sat taking in the place, which was full of people drinking, eating and talking. The TV over the bar was on and, of course, tuned to Katrina coverage. There was a hand-printed sign on the door that said "The Oceanic Welcomes Hurricane Katrina." I can't tell you how reassuring that sign was, because it was what I expected of New Orleans. Carrying on with life and laughing in the face of danger fit neatly into my inner category of "normal for New Orleans" and that little sign restored a tiny sense of my normalcy.

Finally as the waiter passed my table, he looked back over his shoulder and asked if I'd been helped yet. Hey, I thought, this is normal. “No,” I told him. He delivered what looked like Gumbo and came back with a menu and a cloth to wipe off my table. I ordered a big beer and a glass of water. While he was getting those, I checked out the menu and settled on fried calamari and salad. What I was going to eat was much less important than the fact that I was going to eat.

My water and beer arrived shortly and I quickly drank them both. Walking just a couple of blocks in the heat had worn me down. When my food arrived, I dove in and ate everything. I felt like I couldn’t get enough food. No, I was scared that I wouldn’t get enough.

So there I sat in the Oceanic Bar loading up on carbs and protein for what was to come. It wasn't a conscious decision, but my body and soul were switching into survival mode and preparing for the storm in ways that I would only come to appreciate later, much later.

Taking My Supplies Back to the Hotel

2006-08-02T19:29:00.000-07:00

August 28, 2005. The Late Afternoon Before Katrina.

It was now around 4 p.m. and I was still snaking my way to the cash register. In addition to the granola bars and nuts, I had a six-pack of bottled water, and six little boxes of raisins. That seemed to be the best pickings and despite what I said earlier about not getting anything that required refrigeration, I was holding a couple of containers of yogurt. I figured that even when the power went off, the mini-bar refrigerator in my room would keep them edible for at least a day.

Of course, the one thing that I really wanted most of all, aside from water, was a flashlight. Even before I got to the store, I knew that would take a minor miracle.

As I inched my way to the checkout counter, I scanned the racks behind it and saw only empty shelves where the flashlights and batteries normally sat. I'll bet had there been any left they would likely have been sitting on those shelves for a couple of years anyway. Nonetheless, facing the reality that I was going to spend a lot of time in the dark over the next few days did leave me with a feeling I can only describe as my own private Richard III moment. What I would have given for a flashlight for my room.

As I mentioned earlier we were all strangely quiet in that line. We weren't really talking nor were we even making much eye contact. When I did make eye contact with one of the others there was no flicker of recognition, no "how's it going" crinkling of the eyes. There was only a furtive look. I think we all felt foolish in a way. You know, we were the "rabbits" who had played too long while the turtles had been steadily accumulating their supplies. It was as if standing in that line was a public admission of laziness or at the very least poor planning so we avoided eye contact out of shame and pure competition.

Finally I reached the goal that I had been fixated on for the last half hour: I was standing in front of the cash register. A young Asian woman took my money while an older man, perhaps her father, stood just behind her watching both every move she made and all of us. He looked as if he expected trouble and I guess I couldn't blame him. Maybe he'd been through this before. I paid and finally walked past the growing line into the late afternoon air.

On my way back to the hotel, a guy stopped me, just as I had done earlier, and asked where I had gotten my supplies. I directed him down the street and made my way to the hotel. I took the stuff to my room, crammed the yogurt into the mini-bar refrigerator, which was one of those that counted a "sale" when you picked an item up and took it out. I wasn't sure if I had just purchased 3 Heinekens, two Bud Lights and a couple of bottles of water.

I flipped on the TV to catch the latest on the storm and nothing had changed. It was a Category 5 storm, it wasn't turning away from New Orleans and it was expected to make landfall the next morning around 6:30 am. I haven't talked much about the anxiety and fear, but I've got to tell you I was afraid. It's the strangest damned thing, waiting for a hurricane. I mean, I'm used to earthquakes which strike with absolutely no warning, but this, this having a couple of days of dread and fear was all new.

I decided to see if I could find someplace to get a late lunch. I thought the chances were slim, but I couldn't just sit in my room stewing. On the elevator ride down, I realized that I had no idea what I was supposed to do when the storm struck nor any idea of what the hotel was prepared to do, so I stopped in the lobby to ask the concierge.

It took me a minute in the crowded lobby, which by now had become a refugee center, but I found her standing next to the concierge desk answering a question. When it was my turn, I asked her what we were supposed to do. "Should we come down to the lobby or a ball room or something when the storm hits" I asked.

"What, do you mean all of the guests coming down to the lobby? God I hope not. I don't want all those people down here,” she said. I didn't find this very reassuring. That "concierge demeanor," that professional wall that normally separates "guest" from "hotel staff" was cracking. I knew that I was hearing what this woman really felt, completely unedited by whatever "concierge" filter was normally there.

With my sense of "normalcy" just about completely obliterated, I set off into the Quarter looking for a bar or a restaurant where I might find my last meal: my last normal meal.

Getting Ready Sunday Afternoon

2006-07-20T14:15:00.000-07:00

August 28, 2005. The Last Day Before Katrina.

It's around 3 p.m. Now that I knew I wasn't going anywhere, I switched into "get ready" mode and decided to go and find food and water to stock in my room. I caught the elevator and when I came out into the lobby, I noticed that it was filling up fast with people, mostly black, who either had suitcases or bundles of belongings piled at their feet. I stopped and asked the concierge what was going on, and she told me that since the hotel had been there for 129 years and had been through many hurricanes, it was used as a refuge for indigents who had no way to get out of town. She also said that some members of the staff were moving their families into the hotel as well.

This influx of poor from the housing projects into a Four Star hotel as a Category 5 hurricane bore down on us on a gorgeous sunny day only added to the "surreal" nature of the whole experience. As I was standing in that lobby, those surreal elements started to pile up and push my sense of "normalcy" out the window. At the same time, excitement, fear, and a feeling of disequilibrium were being sucked into that space in my head that "normalcy" usually occupied. This was only the beginning of the "migratory strangeness" that Katrina brought with her to New Orleans.

I came out of the hotel and made a right on Rue Royal to look for supplies. By now most stores were boarded up or were in the process of putting up the plywood. I walked the half block to the next intersection and there was a guy sitting on a little wooden box right in the middle of Rue Royal, playing an electric guitar through a small old amplifier. Sheez, I thought, this guy sure doesn't look worried about the storm and another surreal moment added to the fast growing pile.

I walked on and noticed a man coming my direction, carrying a couple of bulging plastic shopping bags in each hand. He looked like he had just bought the stuff, so I stopped and asked him where he got it. He told me that there was a little store about four blocks down Rue Royal that was still open, and that I should not waste any time as people were buying up everything in sight. I thanked him and power-walked towards the store.

By this time hardly any cars were moving around, so I briskly walked right down the middle of the street. I was going to get some of that food and water or else. When I was about a block away I could see the line of people outside the store. It was just one of those little neighborhood corner stores that looked like it hadn't changed much in the last fifty years. I got in line.

Everyone was pretty quiet, which struck me as odd, because I kept expecting some sort of comradeship, you know, the ole "we're all in this together" to break out. However, at that same time, I realized that they were all my competitors for whatever was left in that store. It was an odd mixture of feelings, wanting to make a connection at the same time that I was unconsciously sizing each one of them up to see who posed the biggest challenge.

After waiting fifteen minutes in the sun, I made it inside to the musty, cramped store. There were three small isles and the line went right up the entry aisle, took a left turn at the beverage coolers, and then another left turn right back up the next aisle and headed towards the front of the store. Once it got to the front, it took a sharp right u-turn and headed down the next aisle back the opposite direction. It made one final u-turn up the last aisle and ran straight for the cash register.

As I slowly lined my way through the store, I checked each shelf to see if there was something that I could use. As I passed the first few shelves, I grabbed several granola bars and a container of nuts. The biggest challenge was that I didn't know what was around the corner on the next shelf or the one after that so I had to chose from what was right in front of me even though I might find something better later. I also didn't want to seem "piggish" by buying up everything in sight while there so many breathing down my neck and watching my every move. Simultaneously, I was watching the ones in front of me, seeing what they were getting and if they were going to leave anything for the rest of us. I'd spot something on a shelf a few people ahead and just hope that it would still be there by the time I single-filed my way to it. No pushing, no shoving, just slowly snaking my way towards that six pack of bottled water four people ahead of me.

What to buy, what to buy? How do you shop for a Category 5 hurricane? I had no personal experience to draw on, but I knew I couldn't get anything that required refrigeration and could only get what I could carry. I didn't know how long I'd have to depend on this stuff, so I thought I’d better get too much than too little. At the same time, I didn't want to look panicked by buying too much. I had to keep my cool, or at least look like it. That need to look like I was keeping my cool would rapidly change over the next few days.