I made it up to my fifteenth floor apartment without incident (I've had good training -- the elevator in my building in Chicago was so slow that I lived, for all intents and purposes, in a sixth floor walkup). With my mother and a surprise houseguest who was stranded when his car got stuck in a midtown garage, we prepared the apartment for night -- opened the windows, found the batteries, made spaghetti sauce for dinner. Thank God for gas stoves. I will never, ever have an electric if I can avoid it. We ate up on the roof with a number of our neighbors. It was really quite festive, partly because everyone was relieved that it wasn't a terrorist attack, and partly because it's that kind of building, and partly because there wasn't everything else to do and -- it being the Upper West Side -- everyone had quite a lot of rapidly uncooling white wine to drink. We all got tipsy and watched, for the first and last time in our lives, the stars as visible from Manhattan Island.
Friday, August 15, 2003
a dark night in New York
Megan writes better than Lileks: