That Monday - when the floods began to rush and roll and creep into the city - I was traveling from Portland, Oregon to Bogota, Colombia. I clung to the New York Times I had just bought because I couldn't watch the TV anymore. Somehow, information helped to ease the pain of a tragedy that had struck a city and people I will always call home. As we waited in line for the flight to Bogota, I cried a slow rolling tear onto page A1, into the grey floodwaters on Canal St. "Que te pasa? - What's wrong?" said the voice behind me. The kind elderly Colombian woman on her way to visit family in Cali patted my shoulder . "It will be ok," she said. I couldn't help thinking, though, "when, when will it be ok?"