I lived in Asheville, North Carolina until June, 2021–when we moved to Valencia, Spain.

In the last five weeks, both have experienced natural disasters on a monumental scale.

On Friday, September 27, after multiple days of rain, Western North Carolina was hit by Hurricane Helene, causing flooding on a scale never seen before.

On Tuesday, October 29, after multiple days of rain, the region of Valencia was inundated by even more rain, causing flooding on a scale never seen before.

Between Tuesday, Sept 24 and Friday, Sept 27, Hurricane Helene dumped 13-24 inches of rain in much of Western North Carolina.

On Tuesday, October 29, Valencia, Spain, received 19 inches of rain–in 8 hours.

Two years ago, my husband and I moved from Valencia to northern Spain. My parents were visiting us here in the province of Asturias (on the Atlantic coast of Spain) at the time Hurricane Helene hit. I remember preparing a meal in the kitchen while, in the living room, my parents watched television coverage of the destruction. I couldn’t see the television, but I could hear it. And, in that moment, couldn’t hear anymore. Through tears, I yelled from the kitchen for them to turn it off.

In the coming days I would consider flying back to Asheville to help my friends and my community only to read that this was going to hurt more than help (initially). It wasn’t even clear if I could get to the neighborhood where we still own a home–the neighborhood we chose because of all the large trees shading the road, because of the 500 acre forest behind our home.

We started to check in with friends and neighbors. “Whatever you’re seeing on TV, it’s like that or worse,” numerous friends told me.

When calls and texts to another Asheville friend went unanswered for three days, I made a call to the boarding school where she worked as a nurse, hoping her lack of response was because she was working and not because of anything more grave. Thankfully, it was the former.

Many friends, once they could find roads still intact on which to drive, left town. So many more had no ability to do so–roads blocked by downed trees or washed away, cars flattened.

My friends from around the US knew I no longer lived in Asheville, but kindly reached out, asking if our house, our tenants, our friends were okay.

Friends in Valencia–the ones who knew we’d moved to Spain from Asheville–reached out as well.

My friend Kristin, who left Asheville to move to Portugal just over a year ago, reached out. “It’s a weird form of survivor’s guilt,” she said. That was the closest anyone had come to naming my feelings in those days and weeks.

I tried to offer support in whatever way I could from afar. I sent texts and emails. I made donations and phone calls. I re-posted Facebook posts about where to find water, food, bathrooms, internet.

But as more and more damage came to light, as more and more bodies were discovered, what little I did never seemed enough.

Three days after the hurricane hit, Jose Andrés–the famous Spanish chef who started World Central Kitchen to feed the hungry in disaster zones–arrived in Asheville; I sobbed.

His organization went to Ukraine soon after the war broke out.

They are still there.

They went to Gaza.

They are still there.

Closer to home, World Central kitchen has helped feed Americans after Tropical Storm Ernesto hit Puerto Rico and after the wildfires in California. They are still in both of those places.

They go to disaster zones–places where people are in such great need so suddenly.

I never imagined they’d be in my town. That their volunteers would be there to feed my community. That Jose Andrés himself would be walking streets I once walked.

My former hometown has joined a list no one wants to be part of–the list of locations where World Central kitchen volunteers have served.

As days turned into weeks, some friends started to get power, cell signal, and running water (though, to this day, not drinkable). I talked to some more than others. They moved from survival mode to an in-between state where things were not “normal” at all, but better–though even that word seemed too promising, too hopeful.

“We’re the lucky ones,” they said. “At least it was only my car that got crushed.” “The tree hit the house, but that can be fixed.” “At least I’m alive. ”

And then on Tuesday, a friend texted me. “Did you see the news about Valencia?”

“Nooo. . .”

She sent a picture of a headline: At least 13 dead in flash floods in Spain. The text below talked about recovering bodies in the Valencia region.

A numbness came over me.

I couldn’t bear to think that another place I’d so recently called home had been hit with devastation.

I remembered that the Turia river, which once went through the heart of the Valencia, was diverted after a 1957 flood killed dozens of people. In 1982, the former river bed began its rebirth as the “Green Lung” of the city. Over the next 30 years, gardens, sports fields, walking paths, a science museum, an arts complex would be interspersed along the 9 km/6 mile river-turned-park–a park I walked in at least once a week during the 17 months I lived there.

The decision to divert that river saved lives two days ago–perhaps the lives of my friends.

I’ve been in a surreal state of shock these last couple of days.

“Valencia is the name of the city, but also the name of an entire region,” I tried to explain to my father.

This is one reason I haven’t been in touch with many of my Valencia friends. The Spanish language sites told me the towns in the region (Valencia Comunidad) have been affected, not the city–whereas it seems many of the English language sites are not clear on the difference.

I trusted the Spanish papers. I trusted the river diversion. I trusted my friends, who all lived in the city of Valencia, were okay.

And then–literally as I was writing this tonight–I remembered the friends who recently purchased a home outside the city.

I have yet to visit their home, so when I think of them, I picture our time together in the city, I try to tell myself as an excuse as to why I haven’t thought of this earlier.

I can’t think of the name of their town. I search WhatsApp posts, my friend’s Facebook page.

I finally find it.

An internet search tells me a tornado hit the industrial area of their town on Tuesday–the same day the nearby river flooded to the point that the bridge into town was impassable. The town was without power.

Internet sources say there is a passable road into the town now. But that bridge has given way.

And then I see a headline declaring their town as “one of the areas most affected.”

I read the interview with the mayor. “Lots of material damage, but no personal injuries.” How do they know this? Have they checked in with all 16,000 of the inhabitants?

When I started writing this post, it was because I could hardly speak about any of this, so I thought maybe I could process it by writing. It’s now 1 a.m. For those of you still awake, or whenever you read this, whatever it is you do in times like these (pray, put out positive thoughts, etc.) can you please do that?

• For my friend (who I hope didn’t respond to my texts simply because I sent them so late at night—and her phone is on silent mode when she sleeps)
• For the people of Valencia
• For the people of Western North Carolina
• For those of us who know people in these regions

And, if I may ask, for those of us who have read twice now that a place we once called home is in such a state that we should not, at this moment, return.