Like a hurricane

The last and only time I saw New Orleans was in September of 2002. Corporation X had flown 100 of us there and put us up in the Wyndham New Orleans at Canal Place downtown, right across the street from Harrah's, for a week of training-style meetings, Power Point presentations, spooky morale event graveyard tours, and unscheduled bouts of employee drinking. What no one had planned for in making these arrangements, however, was the arrival of Hurricane Isidore.

Downtown shops began to dutifully board up their storefronts and send home their employees a day after we arrived. In some cases they seemed to do so with a joking air, as though it were a rote schoolyard fire-drill. Tourist attractions closed. Bourbon Street was eerily bereft of tourists. Hotel guests were advised by remaining skeleton crew staff to stay inside the hotel as the storm was due to blow that night through town. Dinners and activities were tabled, and employees gathered, muttering, in the hotel bar to drink it out.

New Orleans got lucky that day. The hurricane lost its momentum on reaching the US, and was downgraded to a tropical storm. That night, it rained. Three of us ventured outside for only a moment and were instantly swimming-pool soaked, through our raincoats. The wind blew hard, hard enough to scare you a little when you held out your arms.

By morning it was over, and the sun came out. We likely walked to Mother's Restaurant for lunch, because it was back open again, and everything was, thankfully, business as usual.