With ages and vaccinations to go until my next trip, I decided to share some other tales that happened before World Chump came into being, among them this tasty little bit that happened after I returned to the U.S. from Morocco as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

In 2002, Liebi and I had just completed our Peace Corps service and decided to settle in New York City, of all places, after Liebi decided to pursue a Master's in non-profit management at The New School in Manhattan. That meant I would have to look for work. Eventually, CAMBA (The Chruch Avenue Merchant Block's Association), a non-profit specializing in immigrant services, hired me to work for them at their main office in Flatbush, Brooklyn. At that time, Liebi and I lived on East 94th and First Avenue on the Upper East Side in Manhattan, in a one-bedroom apartment we paid $1,300 per month for. Reasonable, until you realize that it was a Sixth-floor walkup. To work in Flatbush, I had a one-hour commute. The Q Train to Brooklyn, every day, and it was advisable to look for something to read.

I enjoyed life as a New Yorker, and after a while, I became one of them. I no longer paid attention to the Manhattan skyline while riding over the Manhattan Bridge, even with the conspicuous absence of the World Trade Center that had crumbled to the ground a few years ago. Joining me in New York would be my former site mate in Morocco, Frank, who would become my colleague at CAMBA and later the best man at my wedding. Frank still lived in Queens, although we still ran into each other on occasion on the trains. Frank's office was right next to mine in Flatbush, so we had daily contact. We were just punching our clocks, regular 9-to-5 Joe New Yorks. 

August 14, 2003 was just another day in the neighborhood. At around 4 p.m. my class had just been dismissed, and I was working on forms for my clients when the lights went out. In the building, we all shrugged. Okay, so no A.C. Not good, because it was piping hot out there, but there wasn't much time to go until we left, so Frank and I just had a chuckle and decided to make ourselves useful to the company without the assistance of computers.

Five minutes later, the power was still out. Ten minutes: nothing. 15. Then 20. This didn't look like somebody had just tripped a circuit. From the office further down on Church Avenue, we heard that they didn't have any power. Okay, so this was not just our building, but a few blocks, at the very least. On my cell, I received a text from Liebi that the power was out at The New School. In Manhattan. Oops. Now we weren't talking blocks anymore, but zip codes. Frank came in and told me that the metro wasn't running. At five o'clock, we packed our backpacks and left, wondering how we were going to get home.

The busses were full, no dice, and I mean packed-in-a-can-like-sardines full kind of way. The bus driver didn't even bother stopping. Frank and I trudged on, past Prospect Park, with New Yorkers everywhere trying to stay cool. Eventually, we did hop on a bus and were dropped off at the Brooklyn Bridge, which looked like a mass migration was taking place. Thousands of people were walking in both directions, with most people cracking jokes. After 9/11, this wasn't going to bother New Yorkers too much. On the contrary: mercenaries brought out chilled water and umbrellas, their business minds now charged to über-drive. Some restaurants fed the tired pedestrians, knowing that a) their food would probably perish anyway and b) it would do wonders for their PR. Somewhere over Brooklyn Bridge, we learned that the power had gone out in several states. Wow.

At 59th Street, Frank and I parted, since he lived in Queens and I was heading for the Upper East Side. Liebi was at home, and I believe we relied on a battery-powered fan to stay cool. No work the next day, no metro without power. The power didn't return until August 16th. We were in our apartment when the power went back on, and we heard a collective cheer in Manhattan as if the Yankees had just won another World Series title, only this was tinged with relief. Liebi and I celebrated by going to the park with a picnic basket...and a few bottles of icy cold water. And that was our recollection of the Northeast Blackout of 2003.