Roger’s visit to the
I peered around the scattered blotches of frost on the
windshield as I pulled out of the Residence Inn parking lot just after
breakfast. I didn’t know if Dollar
Rent
A
Car stashed scrapers in their vehicles, but I didn’t expect it. While one
would think it standard fare in rented cars in
“How will the bus be identified?” I asked him, because I wasn’t sure if it was going to be a generic shuttle bus or company-owned.
“It’ll say ‘Dollar Rent A Car’ on it,” he said with a tone that revealed he thought it was an idiotic question.
A five to ten minute wait turned into twenty, and the young African American driver finally dropped off two other businessmen and myself at the rental car office. By the time I figured out the small group of people I stood next to were actually not in line, the two men who followed me off the bus were now in front of me and there were a total of four people in line. Two employees were working the counter. I hoped I wouldn’t get the miserable-looking middle-aged woman who was hacking violently with an obvious cold. Fate was with me – at least for a moment – because I eventually found myself in front of the second clerk. He was a Hispanic Gen X’r with short spiked gelled hair and a voice that sounded exactly like the one I heard on the phone a half-hour earlier.
“Driver’s license and credit card,” he stated, and I handed them to him.
“The only cars we have left are a Kia Sportage and a Jeep Wrangler. The Jeep Wrangler is a free upgrade.”
I had been hoping for a quiet, unassuming car, like the Dodge Stratus the web site said I had reserved. But since the Stratus was unavailable, I chose the Jeep Wrangler, with the logic that it was a higher quality vehicle because it was a free upgrade.
My
heart sank as I entered the parking lot to pick up the Jeep. There
was no roof to speak of – only a thin layer of gray canvas wrapped over the
roll bars and fastened to the windshield. A
zipper around the clear plastic that was the rear window meant that anything I
stored inside would be freely available to anyone who felt like pulling the
zipper. I thought for a moment how
this Jeep could be a lot of fun in
But
none of that bothered me as I cranked up the radio to drown out the violent
flapping of the canvas as the Jeep accelerated to 75 mph on I-95 that Sunday
morning. I was about to experience
what some say is the “greatest city on earth”, and whose residents former mayor
Guilianni
called the “greatest people”. I was
going to lower
But
the main reason I was going was for the buildings that no longer existed.
Less than five months earlier nearly 3000 people lost their lives when the buildings
collapsed. Terrorists had hijacked
two jet airliners and crashed them into the twin towers of the
For two nights after the tragedy I sat in front of the television watching CNN in a zombie-like trance, struggling to grasp the magnitude of what had happened and wondering how life would change. Although I didn’t know anyone directly affected, I thought it unfair for only the victims and their families to suffer, and so I spent considerable effort imagining the terror of being in the airliner or of being trapped on the upper floors. I tried to feel a piece of what the relatives and friends must have felt concerning their loved ones. A little of this, but not much, I accomplished.
After two hours of driving I parked in the parking lot of the New Haven Metro-North Railroad Station. I intended to ride the train to Grand Central Station and then take a cab to the observation deck. I had thought about taking the subway instead but I didn’t know which one to take or which stop was closest to the deck. I figured a cab driver would know where I wanted to go.
As I walked in I noticed the next train was leaving in fifteen minutes. Perfect timing. I stepped to the counter.
“I need a ticket to Grand Central Station, please.”
“Round trip?” the friendly ticket lady behind the glass asked.
“Yeah, I’ll be coming back later today,” I said, in case that made a difference.
“Twenty three dollars.”
I plopped my VISA card in the depression beneath the window so she could grab it.
“Sorry, no plastic.”
I put the card back in my wallet and gave her the cash. Now I had fourteen dollars left. I was about to go to downtown Manhattan for an entire day, sample the delicious food and drink, take a couple cab rides, and maybe visit a museum. With fourteen dollars. My face must have shown my worry because the ticket lady offered “There’s an ATM down the hall if I took all your money.”
Of course. Just get some more money and I’ll be fine. I started feeling silly for getting on the plane with less than fifty bucks in the first place. Why didn’t I bring more cash? I reprimanded myself for my lack of good judgement.
I
grabbed my round-trip ticket and hurried to the ATM. I
opened my wallet and reached for my ATM card, but it was gone!
I instantly knew what had happened but I thumbed through every orifice in a desperate
hope it had been mistakenly placed in another compartment. But
of course it was nowhere to be found. In
what seemed a clever move two nights earlier I had removed all unnecessary junk
from my wallet and left it in my bedroom back in
There was a flash of panic before I realized I could withdraw cash from my credit card. I rarely do such a thing because of the high fees, but this time I could make an exception. I would withdraw a hundred bucks and deal with the consequences later. As I reached for the card a new revelation hit me in the face like a pail of cold water. I didn’t know my PIN. I searched my wallet again, this time for the scrap of paper with my PIN scribbled on it, but I had removed it over a year earlier since it never came in handy and was a security problem, even if I did rearrange the PIN in a crude attempt at coding it. Without my personal ATM card or a PIN for my visa, there was no way I could coax any cash out of this ATM. Without more cash, I couldn’t afford a cab ride so I would have to figure out the subway system and which stop I had to get off. This was certainly not an impossible task, but it was more complicated than my first one. And I would have to pay for everything by credit card, which meant simple luxuries like mochas or a Philly sandwich were no longer an option. I headed for the train full of worry.
As I boarded the train from the platform, I noticed all the window seats were full so I sat down in an aisle seat while politely acknowledging the young Asian man sitting opposite me. He had headphones on and looked like he wanted to take a nap. My row of seats did not have a window, and the best outside view was out the window of the door behind me. Although I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the view on the way to Grand Central, I was determined to not get into a bad mood on a day when, in the big scheme of things, my life was full of joy and there really wasn’t anything worth getting down about.
I looked around and observed the other people around me. To my left across the aisle were two women complaining about their lives. Two children were sitting behind them, occasionally poking one of the women with questions about how long the ride would take and if she could please have a snack. There was a clean cut middle-aged man a few rows down flipping through the newspaper. I pulled out my book and started reading it, trying not to think about how I would stretch fourteen dollars to last the rest of the day.
A couple of minutes after the train started rolling a uniformed man punched each person’s ticket and slipped it into a crack at the top of each seat. At each stop the train picked up a few more passengers and soon the train was standing room only. After a while I decided to stand next to the door so I could look out the window. The train passed from city to city, but I had no idea where one ended and the other began. We passed industrial parks, office buildings, suburban homes, and tightly packed apartment complexes. The ride was smooth and fast and although I enjoyed it, it was because it was a new experience and not because I would like to do it every day.
After we left the second to last stop the train descended into a tunnel for a few minutes before coming to a gentle rest at Grand Central. I followed the rest of the passengers out the train door, down the concrete platform, and up the stairs to the main concourse. I stopped and gaped at the scene before me. The concourse was nearly as big as a football field, with a beautiful curved roof high overhead. It was wide open with only a small information booth in the middle. Around the perimeter were several large doors that led to various subway stations. Everything was covered in marble and exquisitely detailed. People streamed in and out of all the doors and seemed to know exactly where they were headed.
Except me. I didn’t have enough money for a cab and I had no idea what subway to take. As I considered my options I remembered the cell phone in my pocket. Maybe if I called VISA and explained the situation they would tell me my PIN. I found a seating area in an adjoining room and called the toll-free number on the back of my card. The woman kindly offered to mail my PIN but that was the best she could do. Oh well. Plan B – figure out the subway system.
I walked up to the small information booth in the middle of the giant concourse. Glass separated me from the woman inside, but there was a microphone and speaker system so we could talk.
“Can
you tell me what subway to take to get to the
“Take
the number 4 subway and get off on
I walked down the giant hallway to the number 4 subway, and just before I descended the stairs, I spotted three police officers quietly talking. My head filled with the thoughts of the high number of police officers and rescue workers killed when the towers collapsed. I wondered if they lost any close friends. I wondered if they were angry at people like me who came to the city to view the destruction. I wanted to tell them I felt their pain, too; that I wasn’t out for a voyeuristic joyride. I wanted to connect with them.
Partly as an excuse to talk to them and partly because I really was curious, I decided to ask them how the subway worked.
“Excuse me, I’m new in the city and I need to take the number four subway, but I was wondering how it worked. I mean, do you buy tickets or what?”
“Just go down the stairs and buy a ticket. You’ll see it,” a white 40-something officer quickly said. He pointed down the stairs and returned to his conversation. I thanked them, walked a few steps toward the stairs, and then stopped. That was not the bonding moment I had hoped for. I wanted them to know how much I appreciated the work they do and the sacrifices they make to keep society safe.
I turned and faced them. Before I had a chance to do anything else, the officer who spoke before spoke again.
“Yeah, that’s it. Right down the stairs.”
That intimidated me enough to abort my mission and just get down to the subway. I walked down the stairs, bought a token for $1.50, put it in the slot and pushed through the turnstile. The waiting area had dirty concrete floors, concrete walls, and partially open concrete ceilings that exposed cables and duct work. It was not as magnificent as the concourse, and I felt out of my element and just a little nervous that I could be the victim of criminal activity at any moment. I pushed that thought out of my mind and patiently waited for the subway.
It arrived in a couple of minutes and I stepped aboard and sat down in the nearest empty seat. The car was only half full, and I was relieved that there weren’t any evil-looking folks on board. As it pulled away from Grand Central, I noticed a pile of clothes outside the window lying in an out-of-the-way spot on the waiting platform. Must belong to someone living there, I figured. My tension level rose slightly.
The
third stop was
I
snapped a picture and walked upstairs to the outside. This
was my first real look at
I walked toward the ramp, and quickly became fixated on the plywood wall that had been erected next to the line of people. It was a memorial, and was filled with pictures of loved ones, flowers, teddy bears, poems, words of hope, words of perseverance, and words of vengeance. The line of people in front of it prevented me from getting too close. I figured there would be time later to study the wall; for now I needed to get my ticket to the observation deck. I approached the nearest police officer.
“I understand I need a ticket?”
“Six
blocks that way,” she said, pointing to the east. “At
the
I took advantage of the walk to call my girlfriend Margaret. I was pretty stressed, what with having nearly no cash and almost getting robbed on the subway. Her soothing voice was immensely helpful, and I started feeling better immediately. I told her about my cash trouble.
“Can’t you call your credit card company?”
“Already did. The PIN should arrive in the mail in three business days. If you could call me when you get it, that would be helpful.” I figured at least I could get some cash by midweek.
“Do you have it in the house? Could I look it up for you?”
“Maybe. If I had it it would be in my credit card folder in my desk. But there are a lot of papers in there and you might not find it. If you do, though, give me a call back.” She immediately started rummaging through my folder.
“Here it is. Chase Platinum. Are you ready?”
I couldn’t believe it. I now had my PIN number! I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to call her earlier – I could have saved myself a lot of stress. I was reminded of a professor in college, who used to say in response to stupid questions, “It’s intuitively obvious to even the most casual observer.”
I
strolled six blocks to the ticket booth for the
My first order of business was grabbing some lunch. Next to the ticket booth was a shopping area with a food court on the third floor. A Philly steak sandwich sounded good, so I strolled up to the counter and placed my order.
“Philly with the works, please.”
“Onions and green pepper?” asked the bored employee.
“Yes,
please.” With those words it dawned
on me that perhaps I was overusing the word please. This
was
I
chowed
a delicious lunch while observing surprisingly normal-looking people all around
me. Small children nipped at the
heels of their parents like excited poodles; high-schoolers
busily chatted with their friends; an occasional tourist here and there had a
camera looped around the neck. It
really didn’t look much different from any mall scene elsewhere in
After lunch I retraced my steps back to the observation deck, and I took a closer look at the street vendors. I was initially repulsed by their obvious attempts at capitalizing on the tragedy, but each vendor was quiet and respected the privacy of the passers-by. No one tried to talk me into purchasing anything, even though I carefully studied each vendor’s offerings. The most aggressive vendor did nothing more than inform me of the prices of the different-sized photographs of the NYC skyline. And none of the products was offensive. Within a few minutes I was actually enjoying their presence – they gave the city a personality and helped offset the coldness of the concrete, steel, and asphalt surrounding me.
My eyes caught a row of ATMs embedded in the side of a building. At last! I slipped my Chase card into the slot, entered my PIN, and requested the $100 fast cash option. A few seconds later a receipt spat out, but the cash slot remained empty. Puzzled, I studied the receipt and noticed the following message: “Transaction denied. Request not allowed at our bank.” That was weird. The ATM had a sticker claiming it allowed VISA cards. Why didn’t it work? I took a few steps back and studied the building. I was at Chase Manhattan Bank. As I walked away cashless I couldn’t help laughing out loud at the thought of Chase denying their own card. A few minutes later I would find another ATM that gave me the money without question. It was Fleet, a direct competitor to Chase.
I decided to walk a complete circle around the disaster area. Barricades, guarded by police officers, completely surrounded not just the crumpled buildings, but included a single layer of standing buildings around the perimeter. Between the standing buildings, behind the barricades, were high temporary walls blocking any view of the site. But the walls didn’t obstruct the damaged skyscrapers that stood across the street. As I walked in a counterclockwise movement, I was able to see how each of the remaining buildings suffered from the fall of the towers. Many were draped in flexible material meant to retain any debris that might break loose. Broken windows were plugged with plywood. One building was missing a corner at the top. A huge flag hung over the side of another.
The
most severely damaged buildings within the World Trade Center grounds had
apparently been demolished soon after September 11; the buildings still
standing had the benefit of a street’s worth of distance and looked repairable. Yet
they were empty. The toll of the
destruction went much further than the loss of the towers, which alone had more
office space than
I discovered another memorial wall along my walk around the site, but this one was smaller and there were only a dozen or so people in the immediate area. I spent about twenty minutes reading the words written by many different people affected in so many different ways. I think the biographies of people killed were the hardest for me to read, because it was so easy to relate to them. Each victim was an important person in somebody’s life. There were mothers, fathers, siblings, best friends, and coworkers.
I wandered slowly around the south side as I nearly completed my circle. A giant, portable, drive-through tent was spraying huge trucks with some kind of liquid as they exited the site in an effort to keep any contamination from spreading beyond Ground Zero. These trucks were full of debris and came out in a steady stream of one every few minutes. One of the trucks was a flatbed semi that carried nothing other than the twisted remains of two huge steel beams.
Rather
than finish my circular walk of the site, I decided to veer south to the end of
the island to catch a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. After
a few minutes I was standing on the south shore looking at the statue far in
the distance. I thought of how that
green lady greeted millions of immigrants over the years, offering promises of
freedom and prosperity for those willing to work for it. If
the
I headed north and turned right on Wall Street. The street was narrow and very few cars drove by, but the sidewalk supported several wide-eyed tourists. The buildings were ornate – marble and complicated concrete architecture was everywhere. And they seemed so tall from the narrow street. I passed an intersection that a historical marker called “the most expensive intersection in the world.” The fake pillars of the New York Stock Exchange were decorated with red, white, and blue Christmas lights that formed a giant flag.
I
continued walking, and eventually found myself back at the ticket booth at the
South Street Seaport. It was
It was now time to go stand in line at the observation deck. I walked the six blocks and handed my ticket to the police officer. The line was about twenty minutes long, and I spent the time reading memorial messages written on the temporary plywood wall next to me. I couldn’t help overhearing the middle-aged, overweight man behind me expressing his opinions to the woman next to him.
“I’m all for believin’ in God and stuff, but some people take it too far. They think their way is the only way, and they try to force it on everyone else.”
Eventually we made it to the deck. I leaned against the railing and stared at the scene before me. Since the sun had set, the entire area was lit by powerful lights powered by noisy portable generators. A row of ten or so construction trailers lined one side of the site. So much debris had been removed over the last few months that all the construction equipment was below ground level, and the observation deck was not high enough to see into the giant hole in the ground. In fact, the only evidence I had that construction crews were working was the constant drone of their machinery and the occasional piece of equipment that crawled up the ramp to ground level. In fact, the area looked no different than any other construction area I’ve seen.
After
a few minutes I slowly walked down the ramp, reading the messages scrawled on
the plywood wall as I went. With a
last look at the empty space where an entire block of buildings once stood, I
descended the stairs to the subway. The
ride back to Grand Central was uneventful, as
was
the train ride to