Do You Remember Where You Were When The Twin Towers Fell?

Do you remember where you were on 9/11, twenty years ago this coming Saturday when under a terrorist attack the Twin Towers in Lower Manhattan fell, the Pentagon was struck by a hijacked plane and Flight 93 crashed into a field in Pennsylvania.
I do. Within hours, I was traveling from my home on Long Island, New York to the site of the fallen towers in Lower Manhattan to cover the attack for a British Sunday newspaper.

Do You Remember Where You Were?

Till that date, twenty years ago, the question, Do You Remember Where You Were… was most often asked about November 22nd 1963 — the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas.

In both instances, I remember exactly where I was. In 1963, I was a teenager attending high school in London and watching the news in the living room of my West London home. On a 8-inch, black and white tv. The news was shocking especially since only five months earlier I had seen JFK arrive in London.

My father had taken my brother and me to a location on the Great West Road — the principal route from Heathrow airport into Central London– to see the motorcade. Just like he took me to see the Queen riding into Buckingham Palace after her coronation. I was outside the Palace gates sitting on my father’s shoulders. I was a baby, but I was there.

Twin Towers Fall

 

In 2001 on the morning of 9/11, I was in our new home on the East End of Long Island when my husband, Joe called to say: “Turn on CNN. A plane just crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers.”

Shit, I thought. Just what I need to hear. Never a totally relaxed flier, I had steeled myself to get on a plane that coming Thursday to fly to Chicago with Joe and our son Daniel for the wedding of Joe’s eldest son.

I didn’t know at the time of Joe’s call that all air traffic would be shut down later that day and civilian flights would not resume before we were due in Chicago. Joe’s call came before news that a second plane had struck the second World Trade Center Tower.

Glued To TV

I switched on the TV and stayed glued to it for the rest of the morning. It seemed like the world was about to end. In that one moment in time, it seemed like nowhere was safe. I called my son Daniel’s school in Riverhead. Should we come and pick up our children? Bring them home?

I remember that the answer was to leave them where they were. I watched on TV as one tower, then the second collapsed. It’s hard, even today, to describe the feeling of dread, shock, horror and disbelief on seeing those towers collapse as if they were just silly, little Jenga blocks.

Haunting Thought

There was the horror of the memory that, just two weeks before, my British bestie on a visit with her three sons had driven into Manhattan from our house to see the sights. The visit included riding up to the Observation Deck on the 107th floor of the South Tower. She had offered to take my son Daniel with them.

I said: “No. Don’t be silly you have enough to worry about keeping an eye on your three. Daniel can go to the World Trade Center anytime.”

Obviously, not an option for Dan ever again — but what if the terrorists had decided to make their strike exactly two weeks to the day earlier? That thought has haunted me for 20 years.

Last Time I Saw The Towers

Then there was the shock that it happened just 11 days after I’d raised my right hand and become a U.S. citizen. I’d left the city without realizing that I’d never see the towers on the city skyline again. I blogged about that here.

On the day of the attacks, an old friend and a former colleague called from the News of the World where he was managing editor. They couldn’t get their reporters into Manhattan: Airlines were not allowed to fly into New York; bridges and tunnels into the city were closed. Was there any way at all that I could get into the city and report on what was happening?

I’ll see what I can do, I said, knowing  I wouldn’t  be able to get in as a private individual in my car. I called the Hampton Jitney, a bus company that transports passengers between Manhattan and the East End of Long Island.

“Yes,” they said, “we’re transporting nurses, doctors, clergy, essential workers into the city.”

“What about reporters? Journalists” I asked.

“Yes,” they said. “Those, too.”

I booked a seat and a hotel room. I got assigned a photographer and we arranged to meet at my hotel the following day. I checked in with the news desk before setting out with the photographer.

The news desk assistant on duty said: “We’re hearing reports that there was a firefighter who rode down on the debris as the tower collapsed and survived. It would be great if you could find him.”

Don’t be fucking stupid, I wanted to say to him. Instead, I said: “Sure, I’ll check it out.”

Driving To Chicago

I spent two days at Ground Zero. Filed my reports and then got back on the Hampton Jitney. I had to get home where Joe and Daniel were waiting for me to make the 800-mile trip to Chicago for the wedding. Driving. In a car. Attending a reception on the top floor of one of the tallest buildings in Chicago.

Those are my memories of that horrendous week. What are yours?