September 11, 2001: Morning Commute
I woke on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, at about 7:15am like every other workday. Went through my morning routine, had an oatmeal bar with fresh strawberries and fair-trade coffee, and fed my beautiful Japanese Bobtail cat before heading out the door. As a 20-something in New York City, I loved my apartment. I’d found it by walking around the Clinton Hill/Stuyvesant Heights neighborhood in Brooklyn one day. I simply asked a gentle, older man who was sweeping leaves out front, if there were any apartments available in the brownstone. Turned out he was also the owner, and the first floor was available. With a tall tin ceiling, marble mantel fireplace, and tranquil garden views, my apartment was an oasis.
That morning, I left home around 8:15am to catch the local C train to Manhattan. I worked at CondéNet, the very cool, in-house digital agency for Condé Nast in Time Square, so my commute was usually about 45 minutes give or take. After what seemed like an eternal wait, the train finally arrived. I boarded with my latest subway read, Memoirs of a Geisha, in hand. I did my best reading during these commutes. On this morning, the train had been delayed in the subway tunnels and at several stations along the way. As it stopped and started, I read the fictional story of a geisha in Kyoto, Japan during the early 20th century.
By 9:15 am, the C train eased into Time Square. I was now late for work, but quickly found out it didn’t matter. On the subway platform, a transit worker in a neon yellow vest and hat began to speak into a bullhorn. “There’s been an accident at the World Trade Center and all New York City subway service is suspended. You’re going to have to find another way home.” Everyone looked around at each other in slight confusion. Not sure what was going on, I ascended the stairs to street level and began to survey the mayhem that was taking over.
My Nokia was useless. With no time to waste, I headed into a nearby stationery store to ask to use their landline phone to make a local (718) call. Miraculously, the call went through, and I spoke to my uncle and aunt asking them to let my mother in Miami (305) know that I was fine.
As I walked down 6th Avenue in a comfy pair of olive and blue sneakers, the magnitude of what had happened was starting to come together. The low humidity, bright blue skies, and pleasant breeze made for impeccable walking conditions. I walked past people standing in long lines curled around the block to use what must have been one of the last public pay phones in the area. With mouths gaped open, tears streaming down faces, and dazed looks, we watched minute by minute LIVE coverage from televisions in appliance stores, in local diners and coffee shops, or listened to radio reports in cars. It was clear that something profoundly traumatic was unfolding at the World Trade Center.
When I reached W. Houston in Soho, I slowly began to see people in a dusty haze. A heavy, white-greyish soot had fallen on their shoulders, into hair, and on clothes. With a foggy look of shock, anguish, and pain, men and women held each other up as best they could as they walked. Others had paused and sat on the curb with blank stares.
W. Houston became E. Houston, where I then turned right onto Bowery and the sights were more or less the same as droves of people walked in utter disbelief. I did my best to keep thoughts of bridge explosions from entering my mind as I crossed the Williamsburg Bridge. Helicopters hovered above in surveillance. I looked over my shoulder and saw plumes of deep black smoke rising in the New York City skyline directly where the iconic Twin Towers once stood. With a hard sinking feeling in my stomach, but a steely determination, I moved forward as quickly as I possibly could. Relieved as I reached the other side of the bridge, water stations had been set up for those coming from Manhattan. Bottled water in hand, I walked at a slow and somewhat leisurely pace, deep in thought, through the neighborhoods of North Brooklyn to Clinton Hill.
