I arrived at Union Station early Monday morning determined to make it back to Georgetown. I had just traveled on a sold-out Amtrak train packed with homebound Washingtonians hoping to beat the worst of the storm.
The station was packed with hundreds of travelers settling in for the night: a family with a baby had secured a corner to sleep in; a throng of students huddled in the waiting area; an elderly couple dozed off on a wooden bench. About 150 travelers stood in line waiting for taxis that never came.
Our traveling options were cut thin. The Metro bus system: shut down. The underground Metro: closed. Taxis: not one in sight. Since I couldn’t rely on the city’s transportation system, I decided to rely on my own two feet to get home.
Stomping through unplowed streets and unshoveled sidewalks, I noticed that the snow had brought peace to the city-no cars, no tourists, no noise. Many motorists had braved the snow but were now stuck. Even an ambulance had lodged itself firmly into a snow bank. An occasional car passed-many SUVs, some cop cars and a Metro transportation car. I asked the cops and the Metro car for a ride, but each told me it was against policy to offer one.
Even in the midst of Washington’s snow emergency, the homeless were still out—some were sleeping in dug-out bunkers, some were wandering and one had taken off his pants and was sitting in a bus stop.
I wondered why the city hadn’t taken more precautions. Why hadn’t the underground Metro stayed open a few more hours to help transport stranded families? Why had only a few streets been plowed? Why were people sleeping outside during the ‘Storm of the Century’? Call me a na?ve, idealistic student, but I have never seen snow-a predictable natural occurrence-wreak so much havoc in so many ways.
In the morning, from the comfort of my dorm room, I turned to the papers. Front-page articles announced the obvious—the city was closed and government officials stressed patience. We were in a state of emergency and we’d have to rely on the government to get us out.
Interestingly enough, I found a passage tucked within the Associated Press’ snow coverage explaining how Mayor Anthony Williams had been vacationing in sunny Puerto Rico as the storm approached. He hadn’t gotten back to D.C. until Sunday night.
A poet couldn’t dream up a better metaphor. As emergency systems failed and thousands were left stranded, the mayor had to be pulled from paradise to be rushed back to save his collapsing city.
I couldn’t help wondering—had Mayor Williams missed the weather report? Had he forgotten the chaos his predecessor, Marion Barry, caused when he left town right before a snowstorm knocked the city’s infrastructure out?
How can steps be taken in an emergency situation without the mayor there to organize them? No wonder the Metro was closed. No wonder only a few streets had been plowed. No wonder people were still sleeping outside. In an already faltering city, the last question that needs to be asked in a time of emergency is,”Where is the mayor?”
The covering of snow had uncovered some of the District’s dark realities.
