A New Orelans Journal

He spent two days, Robert says, waiting out the high water on an elevated bridge without food or water. And when the National Guard helicopters finally arrived, “they got out holding their M-16s on you,” he says, and left almost immediately.

He was bussed to Houston with his wife, daughter and one grandchild, but doesn’t know where his three other daughters are, or their three children. He’s heard it may be six months before people can return to New Orleans, and though there’s enough food and donated medical supplies here to keep everyone alive, he doesn’t know how long Houston’s hospitality will last. “This is gonna wear thin on their nerves,” he says. “There’s a lot of people here.”

Back in my hotel a few blocks away, the array of fliers stacked on the coffee table in the lobby suggest a certain degree of ambivalence towards Houston’s new guests. Most of the fliers offer hot meals and prayer services. A few advertise cheap apartments, and a few are pre-hurricane tourist brochures. “Dear Friends,” one of them begins. “Please stop stealing, raping and robbing you will go to prison for a very long time and you will do just about all of your time … IN JESUS NAME WE LOVE YOU!!!!!!”