The alarm went off at 6:30am; we woke up listening to Seattle’s NPR station, KUOW. An airplane had flown into the World Trade Center. I pictured a small, private plane, gone horribly off course. An accident.
Then came the report about the second plane, and the second tower. It wasn’t an accident.
At 7 o’clock my friend and neighbour, Barbara, was standing in her doorway, looking tense; we walked together every morning before work. She used to be on Joe Lieberman’s staff, and still had lots of friends in Washington. Phone lines weren’t working.
Later on I sat at my desk, staring out at the clear blue sky. It was a gorgeous day. We lived below a flight path to SeaTac, and suddenly the lack of planes seemed creepy. Everything seemed ominous.
In the evening we walked to the Madrona Ale House, our favorite local pub. CNN was playing on a big screen TV; they kept showing the moment of impact. Until then we’d just seen pictures on the internet. The mood was subdued, but it was still good to get out of the house, be around other people. We didn’t go to Aaliyah and Vestienn’s because it was a week night, and didn’t want to disturb the kids’ routine.
I recently heard that an estimated 90% of Americans supported Bush in the immediate aftermath. I worried about how they were going to exploit the situation. And everyone’s fear. I distinctly remember wondering what the world would be like in five years.
Now we know.
Frank Rich’s column yesterday detailed how all the good will around the country, and around the world, has been squandered. Friends here tell me there were hundreds, probably thousands, lined up in Auckland to pay their respects at the U.S. consulate in 2001. On Saturday night, TVNZ One, a public station that usually shows uplifting documentaries and British sitcoms, aired "Fahrenheit 911."
Yesterday I head there were protests in Chicago because
Marshall Field’s is no more. It’s latest corporate owner, Federated, has changed the name to Macy’s. The homogenization of America is a tragedy of a different sort. But a tragedy, nonetheless.
I woke up this morning at 6:30am to bake a pie. Since I moved to an office on the Property Department’s floor a few weeks ago they’ve adopted me as one of their own. Today they’re having an international potluck to celebrate Spring. Pie is practically NZ’s national dish, but they’re silly little things. Filled with meat.
I told them I’d bring a real pie. Apple. American as.
The way I like to remember it.
Cheers,
Sandie
