The sky, clear and blue. The sun, warm and lemony. Very like the weather people described for New York City six weeks previous. That day, September 11, 2001, ended grotesquely, dusty and dark. In contrast, October 21, 2001, ended jubilantly, clear and light-filled.
I'd spent so much time watching television footage of the September 11 attacks that my head rocked with the stories and my heart cracked for the loss. I wanted to stretch my arms as wide as a comic-book hero's and embrace the city in a giant hug. To kiss the tips of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings and nuzzle the Brooklyn and George Washington bridges. Enfold all of Central Park in my arms, caress the tops of its trees and murmur that it would all be okay...one day...again.
William and I arrived in the city on Friday, October 19. I didn't want him on a flight without me. The fear was irrational and yet, If something happens, I want us to be together played over and over in my head. This way of thinking had become a nationwide phenomenon.
Equally important was a desire to see the city for myself. To know that New Yorkers could and would survive the nightmare. Back in Los Angeles, workers were about to bring down walls and dig huge holes in the earth to expand William's house. Here in New York, other workers were bringing down wreckage and imagining a new landscape.
We settled into our hotel, across from Madison Square Garden. I peered out a window in search of the city's mood. I tried to gauge the emotional climate, but our hotel room was far too high. Not good enough.
Let's go out. We won't know anything until we hit the streets.
We left the lobby and stepped into the night air with the intention of a long walk, a longer drink and dinner. The very least we could do was support the local economy. I dressed in black, seemly for New York on an autumn evening, and because I imagined things might be somewhat funereal.
Our sense of solemnity was quickly shattered in an abundance of...well...sheer frivolity. Restaurants and bars overflowed with New Yorkers in high spirits. It could have been New Year's Eve or St. Patrick's Day. In the Village, we hunted for a drink or dinner only to find every establishment filled to the brim. Customers thronged, jovial in boisterous, raucous laughter and loud chatter.
We put our names on a list and waited on a crowded street, marveling at the energy of this recovering patient. We ate, drank wine and listened in on conversations around us. No one talked of "it," which made sense. At this point, "it" was still too fresh and horrible to speculate or regurgitate. I had the sense that New Yorkers longed to buck up and laugh, remember they were alive, their city was alive, and a new year was on the horizon.
After dinner, we wandered south toward Canal Street and smelled acrid, bitter air. At Chambers Street, our walk ended. The city's laughter had stopped far behind us, replaced by the sound of graders, backhoes and trucks. The night sky billowed dusty smoke, backlit in super-white illumination. Sawhorses and patrolmen prevented us from going further. William and I stopped and held hands.
On our way back to the hotel, we passed nightclubs and watched mini-skirted young women dance in the street. They threw their arms around any fellow in a uniform. Gratefulness concocted a spirited affection. Anyone in a uniform appeared likely to score in New York City that October. Even a mail carrier could count on getting bussed by a cute gal.
No comments:
Post a Comment