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.