The other evening, a nor’easter bore down upon NYC with sudden sleety volleys of wet snow. I decided to visit my neighborhood diner to take in the view from a warm place with big windows. I joined a group of local folk at the bar, some of whom I’d seen in there before, and we traded Sandy tales.

One guy there, a teacher, has a student who told the class his family lost their car. It just floated away in the storm and they have no idea where it went. This teacher’s brother lives in the Rockaways, and the storm demolished half of his house. He is still there, living in a dark, surreal place where a bedroom door now opens up to the storm-ravaged outdoors.

The teacher’s sister lives up in the exurbs north of NYC (he said the place, but I didn’t catch it — I’m still vague on the geography up there). He went up to visit her last week while her power was out. Ordinarily he hates visits up there; they have three TVs that are always on, even during the night. He can never get any sleep there. But this visit was different. He sat with his sister and niece and nephew in candlelight, and played board games. They were actually looking at each other, and talking to each other.

I had my own stories to tell from last week, and the teacher and the others listened intently. I’m starting to feel like a local myself.