Rather, I’m walking in New Orleans. That’s what you do when your car isn’t moving. Why wasn’t my car moving, you ask? Oh, you know, water. Everywhere. (Lousy pump system, teeth gritted *&%$!!).
It was a nice rainy Monday morning, when you wake up and hear the drizzle through the window, that glorious happy sound of water that makes you want to cuddle up and read a book. But it was my last day in town, and there were things I wanted to do, so I got dressed and drove to Rue de la Course where I opened up my journal and wrote for the next two hours.
After that, my hand said no more, and I decided to drive to my old school, but the rain was heavy by then and the water was too much when I got towards my school, so I turned back around and headed back to Magazine Street where I had been. Unfortunately, when I returned to Magazine Street, I could not find a viable parking spot, and then I wound up making a frenzied turned onto the WRONG street.
I spotted heaven in the form of a high ground parking lot half a block up, and was confident I could make it.
(Let’s take this moment to remind ourselves to NOT always trust in our own confidence.)
I was five feet or so away from heaven when my car sputtered and gave out.
No.
Nononononononononononono.
I restarted the engine. It started back up. I moved another foot. Stopped again.
(Repeat entire procedure one more time, complete with the “nonononononononono”)
There was a man standing on the sidewalk watching me, the whole time motioning with his hands for me to “come on, you can do it!” and I kept looking back to him like, yes, you are my compass, I am going to make it! But on the last stop, it was obvious I was not going to make it. I stared at him through my window with the windshield wipers flashing back and forth between us, and he just shook his head. A second later, he was taking his shoes off and rolling his pants up.
I opened my car door and water immediately sloshed into it. I stepped out and the water rose to just above my knee. The guy and I pushed my car about a foot or two when we spotted another guy a block away and waved him down. He immediately came over, took his shoes off and rolled his pants up and stepped into the water to help us out.
Together, we pushed my car into the parking lot. I thanked them, we bade farewell, and went our separate ways. I was about halfway home when another downpour started up, and soaked me from head to toe. I didn’t care by that point, because a certain thought was on my mind (aside from “I’m soooo blogging about this”):
Chivalry is not dead. These men were strangers to me, and to each other. And in the middle of a flooded street, in a lull between downpours, they immediately kicked their shoes off and rolled their pants up to help me push my car. They did not question and they did not complain. They just did it. Although I don’t consider myself too much like Blanche DuBois, I do love her remark, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” Those words have come into my life on many occasions. This is one of them.
To Andrew and the nameless man, I thank you both.
***
I am now back in California, surrounded by ash and soot. What is usually a striking cobalt blue sky is a hazy mist of brown, like someone took the sands of the Mojave Desert and threw it into the sky. School has been cancelled for the second day in a row and the school’s Fall Festival that would have taken place tomorrow has also been cancelled. We’re going to receive an update on Sunday as to whether or not school will start up again on Monday.
First a flood, now a fire. What next? Locusts?
Oh. Grasshoppers.
wordless wednesday
