I've told the story a hundred times, but I've never written it down. I can't imagine I will ever forget the day, and ten years later it still burns in my memory. I remember my confusion, the sinking feeling in my stomach, the acrid smell of the air enveloping my West Village neighborhood. But to tell my story of September 11, 2001, I have to start with the evening of September 10.
It's remarkable how the mind works. I can't remember what I did this morning, but I remember the evening leading up to the morning of September 11. On Monday, September 10 I left work around 6:00pm and, feeling a little under the weather, headed straight for my apartment. I fixed myself an unremarkable dinner as per usual and tucked myself into bed by 8:00pm. I heard my roommate come in shortly thereafter, and although I wasn't quite asleep I pretended to be because she kind of bugged me and I didn't feel like sitting up having some inane conversation.
I slept well that night and awoke feeling (surprisingly) refreshed. I stayed in bed for a while debating whether or not to go for my usual morning jog on the west side highway, and by the time I made up my mind not to go, I had to get moving to get to work by 9:00am.
The weather was amazing that morning. It was unseasonably warm for a New York September morning, so I dressed myself in a grey a-line skirt from Banana Republic, a white short-sleeve blouse and pink and purple faux snakeskin, open-toe kitten heels (they were cute at the time). I rode the subway to work and got off a stop earlier than usual because it was such a lovely morning and I had skipped my run, so I figured I could use the extra steps. It was around 9:00 when I emerged from underground. I was late for work yet the streets of midtown seemed a little off for morning rush hour. I noticed--and I never noticed things like this while living in New York--a woman on the corner of Park and 50-something crying. I remember thinking, "I wonder what she's crying about." You become so jaded walking the streets of New York that a homeless person peeing in the street seems like nothing, but a woman crying on the still sidewalk of what should be a busy street corner gives you pause. However, like a true New Yorker, I continued on my journey and didn't stop until I reached my office at 60th and Madison.
There was no one in the usually crowded lobby or elevator, but I attributed this to the fact that I was 10 minutes late, so I rode up quietly to the 14th floor. When I opened the door of the hallway leading to my office, I knew something was amiss. Every single office on the floor was empty (they couldn't
all be late) and when I walked into my own office, I noticed my message light blinking. As I reached for my phone, my coworker Megan rushed in from the conference room to tell me two planes had crashed into the World Trade Center. My first thought was "What?!" Followed shortly by, "This isn't an accident." Torn between checking my voicemail and rushing into the conference room where my coworkers had gathered around the TV, I dropped my things and joined the group. Both buildings were already burning, and I found myself in a conference room full of "whys, who did this, what is going on, do I know anyone who works there..."
It's here where details become fuzzy and things run together. At some point we learned that flights had been hijacked, that the Pentagon had undergone an attack, that there was another (and maybe another) plane out there, and that the world was coming to an end (at least that's how it felt). I remember seeing people who had made their way up to the observation deck of the twin towers hoping for a helicopter rescue, we saw bodies falling--and later learned jumping--from the burning floors. My boss's boss lit a cigarette and began pacing frantically around the tiny room. My boss, who was pregnant at the time, went white when she made the connection that her husband's flight from Boston was leaving for New York that morning (his plane was grounded before he even took off and he was safe, but now stuck, in Boston). Emotions were flying. Theories were abounding. I sat quietly in the corner, unable to avert my eyes from the television coverage. And then the first tower crumbled to the ground. My heart sank--for those trapped inside, for the symbol that it was, for the lonely tower still standing and for the soul of New York. Still unable to comprehend the enormity of the situation we were in, I was finally able to reach my sister on the phone--she lived in Arlington, VA--and that is when my first tears fell.
We stayed holed up in the conference room until noon when the CEO of our company decided it was time we all go home and reach out to our loved ones. Both towers had fallen. The bridges and tunnels were closed to traffic. Manhattan was a sheltered island. We were all alone yet together in our aloneness. Trapped about 60 blocks north of where I lived in the West Village, I opted to join my friend Megan at her cousin's apartment that was several blocks northeast of our office. Walking out to the street, I felt that we had suddenly become extras in a SciFi movie. There was no traffic on the streets of Manhattan, and I watched as a sea of bodies crossed over the Queensboro bridge. If you looked south, even from this distance, there was no question regarding the damage that had been done as a sea of black smoke spiraled into the skyline.
Late in the afternoon, after pizza and beer and hours of CNN, Megan and I left her cousin's place, and I walked 80 blocks home to my apartment in the West Village. Due to it's proximity to ground zero (were they calling it that yet?) I had no power, so I talked on my cell phone--to my mom, my sister, my brother--until it died and I was forced to try sleep. I drifted off still wondering what had happened and when we would recover. The only thing I didn't question was the spirit of New York and the strength of the greatest city in the world.
