This is when it happened. This is when we left: early Sunday morning, the 28th--so early that it might as well have been Saturday.
Everything went so fast. Friday morning we were joking about the storm, lamenting the fate of Pensacola, which looked to face yet another direct hit. By Friday afternoon, the storm's track had changed. That night, I went to see a play some friends had written, and although turnout was good, there was something more oppressive in the air than run-of-the-mill August humidity. I filled up my car with gas, just in case.
Saturday morning was worse: Katrina was stronger, and the predictions dire. I went through the motions of a normal day--cancelling, however, a highly anticipated canoe trip because of the impending contraflow. The gym was nearly empty that afternoon. Riding home on my bike, I saw cars being packed with stuff, people, pets. The usual neighborhood sounds of radios and kids and dogs were replaced by the whine of electric drills securing plywood to windows.
Jonno and I, we didn't know what to do. Neither of us had ever evacuated before, and we're both stubborn. When someone or something tells us to get the hell out of the way, that only makes us dig in more.
We halfheartedly made some preparations. Reserved a room at the Hotel Monaco. Took artwork off the walls. Then I sat on the sofa, and he sat at the computer, and for a long time, we didn't speak.
At 10:00 that night, something changed. I don't know what. I walked to the back of the house and we looked at each other and we said "We have to go, and we have to go now."
We didn't call anyone. We didn't tell a soul. We didn't want to give people yet another cause for alarm. We'd been downplaying the storm all day, trying to make everyone feel calm. It'll veer to the east like always, we assured them. We've never left before, we said, and we're not leaving now. To go back on that would've just made people worry more, and at that point, we were all worried enough.
Then, of course, there were the practical reasons we kept quiet. We didn't have room for everyone in our car, and even if we did, we couldn't invite everyone to our friends' house in Lafayette.
Now, of course, we know how stupid that was. We should've called. We should've checked in, just to make sure everyone had a plan. We would've made room in our car, no matter how many folks needed to go. Drew and Don would've welcomed anyone we brought along. Our friends are important and wonderful and giving, and we were stupid to leave them out.
But, 20/20 hindsight. As it was, we threw the rest of the artwork upstairs, packed some toiletries and a couple of days' worth of clothes, threw the dogs in the car, left the cat a goodly supply of food and water (another major mistake), and at 12:10am, we said goodbye to our house, hoping it would still be standing in 48 hours and not wanting to think too much about the alternative.
The drive was smooth once the dogs calmed down. Traffic flowed nicely, and it only took about three hours to reach Lafayette--an hour longer than usual, but given the fact that people were clocking eight hours just to reach Baton Rouge the previous afternoon, we considered ourselves fortunate. We called as we were driving in, and Don--whom we'd barely met--graciously came out to meet us. We shuffled through the dark house already packed with people, trying not to disturb the folks sleeping in the den as we made our way to the guest room that would become home for the next six weeks.
After we awoke, Drew and Don took us to a beautiful new museum in Lafayette. It was less to see the art than to get our minds off things. Looking out at the bright afternoon sky through the building's glass walls, I saw bands of clouds spiraling up from the Gulf in long, stiff arms. The sight made me feel like I'd been kicked in the stomach: nauseous and winded and dizzy. I get the same feeling today when I see trailers for Katrina-themed TV specials. Acknowledging loss can be a shock to the system.
