New York in the Aftermath of Sandy.
Down below us, there is a gas line -- mostly taxis trying to get fuel -- that has been there for a week. The line goes from 45th street down 10th avenue to below 14th. It feels like this is the only open gas station in Manhattan. But they wait. Patiently, until someone tries to cut in line, either inadvertently or accidentally. And even then, it doesn't take long for the interloper to be thown back 30 blocks to the end of the line.
Mark has been in the dark for a week. I kept leaving messages and he finally called, once he found a place with wireless. Andy's lights got turned on yesterday.
I can't go to church this morning because there's no easy public transportation -- if there's much as at all -- from Brooklyn back into Manhattan because those subway lines aren't working and it looks like the lines for the buses are long, long, long.
Mostly, Jim and I -- thankful that we have power -- have stayed close to home. There's a collection box in our lobby for clothing and food. I'm going to take the extra food I bought in case we lost power and put it all in there. We just got rid of a bunch of clothes only a few weeks ago, but I'm going to look for more. Maybe a blanket or two we don't use. The problem is that NY apartments are small. You can't live in them unless you strip down to bare minimums to begin with. All one really feels is helpless.