90 West Street, New York Survivor Story, Pt 2 12-2-07

When I left you last Sunday, I thought we would be sailing in the Ionian Sea today. Instead my New York home is mired down in the sludge of mud.

Anne is camped out in Carversville, when I should be celebrating the beauty of Christmas in New York.

Returning to Manhattan last Monday, I received an email message on my Blackberry at 11:32 am, advising me that my home at 90 West Street was under siege. Mara, my trainer called seconds later, with news that eight fire trucks were outside 90 West, and cars were submerged under 12’ of water in our garage.

Tenants without BBs or a cell phone registered in our building database, returned home to chaos on Monday night. I was a fortunate one, turning my car around in front of the Holland Tunnel, and heading back to Carversville.

Fire officials explained that, per WNBC”rain flooded a re-routed sewer pipe, and the water sewage came flooding back in because of the high tide.” The Lower Manhattan Development Corporation, which owns 90 West, said that the flooding occurred “when a sewer main pipe near 90 West St. was temporarily cut and not capped during the relocation of a transformer vault as part of work at the World Trade Center site.”

What were they thinking!

90 West was under attack, not from terrorists, but from careless workers, who couldn’t be bothered to close a storm sewer. All our utilities (electrical switch room, gas boosters, heat and fire protection) were devastated.

Proudly Defiant

I expected to be very sad, when I returned from Carversville last Friday, needing clothes and legal papers from my apartment. Bracing myself psychologically, I called the garage for instructions on where to park.

The now familiar traffic-directing policewoman nodded to me, as she opened the barricade on Albany Street.

Entering the street, I remembered the firefighters who grimly welcomed me on August 20.

A huge transformer truck, Con Ed construction crews, and the OEM (Office of Emergency Management) bus, now permanently installed on the street since the August fire, dwarfed my small car.

Once again, the big guys are in charge.

Sparks of Connectivity

My new garage manager lost his car in the roaring flood, but he had a smile on his face. Greeting me warmly, he reminded me that my car was always safe, because he had moved it upstairs permanently two months ago.

No extra-generous Christmas bonus will be required. It’s New York City, though, so someone else will try to buy my spot.

A resident with a new $100,000 Mercedes was not so lucky. Her car lies in a temporary grave of luxury cars, buried in the muck.

The garage manager and I enjoy a cordial relationship, but I couldn’t help noticing that he touched my arm at least four times as we were talking. And he offered to come and get my bags upstairs, carrying them to my car, temporarily parked on the other side of the Marriott.

Tragedy binds people in new ways.

Don’t Cry for Me

My dear 90 West Street greeted me with a powerful message. She’s much too busy getting back to normal to contemplate all her tragedies.

I walked into an astonishing bustle of activity, a tactical command post of some 40 people in the lobby. The scene was orderly madness.

Louis, my wonderful doorman, was cheery as usual and extra handsome in his leather jacket.

Our valet service was open by lantern light, and the manager found my Anthropologie box, via flashlight. I stood there, wondering if she could possibly sort out the dry cleaning in the dark, when a man walked in asking for his.

The Show Goes On 

Flashlight in hand, she began her search in the dark. This is New York, and just like on Broadway, the show will go on … always.

The day we stop climbing on ladders in the dark in search of a freshly-pressed, pin-striped suit, the lights will dim around the world.

I didn’t have to climb 19 floors of stairs (which I can do). My mailbox was full of Christmas catalogs. And the noonday sun streamed brilliantly through the windows, as I entered my apartment. Water taxis still darted across the water from Jersey City to the marina.

Open For Business 

Life was nearly normal.

90 West Street is rallying one more time, refusing to submit to terrorists or in this case, human stupidity. Her soaring, magnificent spirit is mending quickly, and she is scheduled to open midweek, ahead of schedule.

Eureka

The human mind is a fantastic contraption. In a light bulb moment earlier this week, I connected the two most influential books of my life: The Little Engine That Could and Atlas Shrugged.

It now makes complete sense to me that Dagny Taggert, the beautiful and relentlessly competent head of Taggert Intercontinental Railroad, is my hero. And the child in me swallowed hook, line and sinker the optimistic message of The Little Engine That Could.

Both Dagny and the Little Engine have the determination to fit right in at 90 West Street. Their spirits would reinforce our will to rebuild this neighborhood, from the quiet command post of our small but gorgeous jewel of a place.

I may look out my soaring cityscape windows, wearing rose-colored glasses and ear plugs these days, but 90 West Street remains an incredibly special, soulful building.

To be truthful with you, I get a winesappy tear in my eye, just thinking about everything this great girl’s been through.

For the rest of her challenging story, please read Part 1 of today’s journal, just following this entry.

Love,
Anne

Photo credits:
Tenants in lobby: Flickr
Emergency crews: NY Daily News