From afar when terrorists attack
Everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing the day terrorists attacked the World Trade Center in New York and the Pentagon in Washington, D. C. Sunday, September ll, marks the tenth anniversary.
I was in Kent, England because a brochure of the world’s best garden tours came in my mail. I had never even considered a trip like this, and ordinarily I cull mail over the waste basket. But a new 16-day tour called the Gardens of England and France caught my attention.
I had completed Master Gardening requirements, was a member of the Native Plant Society and had already put in native gardens where we lived in Atlanta, Texas. I had designed and revamped all the landscaping on the first house we bought in Longview, and was working on the garden at our second Longview home.
In addition I learned the first hotel we were staying in in England was across the street from the famous Islington Antiques Marketplace. Wow! The place was even listed in Frommer’s Guide. While living in Atlanta, I had an antiques booth and another booth in Jefferson. The antique bug bit and I refurnished our house in traditional style.
On the flight to England, the 777 Boeing was only about a third filled, and I found three seats and stretched out for a night’s sleep on the remainder of the ten-hour flight. I had just dozed off when the stewardess woke me and said I must sit up and fasten my seatbelt because of turbulent weather.
The “Fasten Your Seat Belt” sign never went off the remainder of the trip. I’d never been on a plane in worse weather. No one was allowed to leave their seats, even to go to the restroom, until about thirty minutes before we landed.
At the hotel I tried to make up for eight hours of lost sleep and adjust to the six hours difference in the time zone and I slept through the time I had allotted myself to walk through the rows and rows and rows of wonderful antiques right across the street.
On the day the World Trade Center was hit, I’d been in England nine days and knew restrooms were called loo, that the trunks of cars were the boot and answered to the phrases “carry on,” “do you have a minute, love?”
I’d fallen in love with London’s architecture, many fountains, and all the decorative chimney pots atop all the apartments and residences. I loved drinking hot drink tea with sweetener and milk, and was thoroughly spoiled with splendid accommodations, sumptuous meals and jugs of white and red wine at every dinner.
We’d seen the Thames and its many bridges many times, and for the first time I realized the “bridges” we sang about as children in “London Bridges Falling Down” were many bridges instead of one bridge, with an apostrophe to show possession, which is the way I thought of it when we sang the song way back when.
We’d seen the famous Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, House of Parliament, changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and Westminister Abbey. We’d been to Stonehenge, the city of Bath and its famous bath houses and sampled and bought chocolate made famous by the novel and movie Chocolat.
We had toured the gardens of the Royal Horticulture Society, King Henry, VIII’s Court Garden and Seville Garden while enjoying views of Windsor Castle, the summer home of England’s queen. Past Oxford we saw the birthplace of Winston Churchill and the Duke of Marlborough and visited these impressive gardens before continuing to Shakespeare’ s Stratford-on-the-Avon and Anne Hathaway’s quaint thatched roof cottage and its typical English garden.
We’d toured the garden of landscape designer, John Brooks, and Stourhead, considered England’s finest garden with statutes of Hercules, water nymphs and Roman goddesses.
We went into Wales for dinner at an ancient monastery with its huge apple crushing stones still intact.
We had spent one night in Kent and would be there two more nights. At the childhood home of Anne Boleyn we saw the imaginative gardens laid out by William Waldorf Astor.
By now I’d seen so many gardens and palaces I’d begun to mix them up and wondered why I didn’t take notes.
We traveled via the ancient seaport of Rye to visit Sissinghurst Castle Garden. The entrance archway with its trio of chimney pots flanked by roses was royal. I liked the sweeping flowerbeds, the view of the tower and the brick hop houses, and wished I had some swags of hops to make wreaths like the English.
Most of those traveling on our coach were through walking the Sissinghurst Garden and were in the gift shop about 5 or 6 p. m. Europenan time, when a tourist who had been listening to the radio made the announcement terrorists had attacked the World Trade Center in New York and tried to strike the Pentagon in Washington, D. C.
In the bus, the driver put the radio on speakers. Everyone listened, too stunned to speak. Intent on hearing every word, no one talked on the drive back to the hotel.
We went to a chateau for dinner. If I hadn’t written down the sumptuous menu, I couldn’t tell you what we ate or that we had champagne over kir, pate’ and canapés in the courtyard. At dinner, one of the men in the group said he had written a prayer he wanted to say, but he didn’t think he could get through it, so he asked everyone to bow their heads in silent prayer.
I’m sure the food was superb and the entertainment excellent, and we hadn’t even crossed the channel to France yet, but we all talked about how we would all go home in the morning if we could.
All the things we’d seen, visited and explored the castles, the gardens, the grand antiques and tapestries, the food and wine were incidental to what had happened in the United States.
On the bus going back to the hotel after dinner, quiet was thick. The tour director didn’t talk. The bus driver switched the speakers off. In the midst of this unusual silence someone with a beautiful voice started singing “God Bless America,” and everyone on the bus joined in. When that song ended, someone else sang the beginning of “American the Beautiful,” and everyone sang along. Another began “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee.” We sang every patriotic song we could recall.
We were all patriots.
Singing patriotic songs was all we could do.
Back at the hotel we watched the day’s events unfold. Those two planes hit the twin towers over and over and over. At midnight we turned off the television, emotionally exhausted.
The next morning someone woke early enough to buy the only remaining newspaper available. That paper passed from hand to hand.
By now we’ve seen the repeats of the planes hitting the World Trade Center so many times we can see the tragedy unfold without looking at the screen.
No one could send or receive a phone call. I tried to send an email or receive an email from home to no avail. Without a doubt we would have all gone home then, if we could have, without going to France.
It would be a while before we learned no planes would fly in or out of airports for a week.
All phone lines were busy. Getting a phone call in or out was almost impossible. The desk delivered a fax from Bill with the name and address of a relative of a sister-in-law who lives in London in the event we were stranded, the tour was stopped, or we couldn’t get out of the country for an extended time.
Crossing the English Chanel the next morning, we had a total of three newspapers for this large group to share. The White Cliffs of Dover weren’t as magical as that sighting would have been last week. The Super Sea Cat got us across the Channel in about an hour and a half.
In Calais we left for Monet’s home and garden at Giverny. Nearing Giverney, a man stepped out of his car and relieved himself on the side of the road.
Shocked, I said to my seatmate, “We’re not in Texas anymore.”
Monet’s Giverny is “roped off” compared to the gardens in England, but there was that beautiful curved green bridge seen in so many paintings. Monet’s home interested me more than the gardens with the light just right, wing chairs near the fireplace, and paintings worth several fortunes lined the walls.
The spacious kitchen would look at home in one of today’s home tours with white tiles and blue and white checked curtains. The adjoining dining room was yellow with blue and white accents with subtle country French furnishing everywhere.
Tonight in Caen we couldn’t get an English speaking channel. Frustrating. All those repeats of the planes hitting the towers and all the talk and we couldn’t understand what was said. The next morning someone in the group got up early enough to get the only English newspaper available and it was passed around all day.
We visited the D-Day landing beaches. Going into Normandy we passed a statute of Eisenhower in a large round-about and the U. S. flag was flying at half-mast.
The cemetery for Americans killed in the Normandy invasion sloped gently to the sea where rows and rows of white crosses marked the graves. The lump it brought to my throat was worse because of the tragedy back in the states. Somehow everything got tied together there in the early morning light and brought back other remembrances. Mile markers along the way outlined Patton’s march.
The next day, England, France and all of Europe observed three minutes of silence at noon. We were standing on the corner of a very busy street in Tours as the silent period started. The mounting death toll and its effect on all the families were incomprehensible.
Traffic was not stopped, but I had no idea so many vehicles could pass by so noiselessly. At the end of the three minutes of silence, all the vehicles honked their horns and the noise was as astounding as the silence had been.
We stood on that corner watching and wiping away tears and saying silent prayers. At the end of the silence we sang “God Bless America,” wishing we were back in the states.
That night in Tours we could finally get CNN in English. We learn all airports had been closed. Reports said the attack might mean weeks before Paris flights resumed. It was beginning to sound like we might be in France much longer than planned. Still no phone calls in or out. No one can send or receive email.
Day 14 is Sunday, and mass was in progress as we visited the impressive 13th century Cathedral of Chartes with its magnificent stained glass windows. Most of the cathedrals were spared from the bombings during WW11, but this is the only cathedral where all the stained glass windows are all original. Standing in the hushed interior looking up through all that glorious glass was awesome.
The next morning we were in luck, there were three newspapers in English to share.
The first Paris dinner started with kir, apparently Europe’s favorite aperitif. Everyone at our table ordered escargot for an appetizer, and we didn’t even know how to get the escargot out of the shell. After what’s happened back home, what the heck. Eat snails.
Paris by Night was an optional package, which meant you paid extra. Considering the events of the past few days, we said “why not?” Ditto to the Ambroise where several Italian artists introduced the Renaissance to France. We saw Leonardo ‘D Vinci’s paintings and learn he was a scientists and saw working models of his mechanical drawings and other reminders of the period.
We added the tour and tasting of one of Frances’ largest wineries with lunch at La Cave. Lunch is served in an amazing troglodyte cave which lines the River Loire. We walked into an elegant restaurant awash in white linen napkins and tablecloths. Troubadours with violins and accordions went from table to table singing and encouraging diners to join. One in our tour group surprised himself singing along. “They take you out there and prime you,” he said, “then bring you in here. And suddenly, everybody’s a s-i-n-g-e-r.”
Why not? This takes our mind off the tragedy in the states.
Ditto again, as almost everyone in the group signs up for the Left Bank tour.
If you have much time to think, you know where your thoughts are going. We welcome the diversions until we can get home.
One woman in our group was so emotionally distraught; she remained on the bus the entire day after the bombings and didn’t participate in the extras.
We may be a few extra days getting out of France, but the way things look now, we will probably never come back to Paris. Some have already announced they will never fly again.
There were four of us at our table looking over the famous Paris designers’ department stores and the theatre district. The waiter brought two liter bottles of both red and white wine. Bon Appetite.
And thank goodness, in a few days it would be back to What A Burgers in good old U. S. A.
After dinner we drove a short distance to the Eiffel Tower. We all ascended to the second stage for a panoramic nighttime view. No one seemed inclined to go to the top. Too reminiscent of the Trade Center.
Tomorrow we would visit the Louvre and Notre Dame. It is said it takes seven months to see the more than two million works of art that fill the Louvre. We had a guide who showed us the most memorable pieces, the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo and the glorious Winged Victory.
In all the castles and chateaus and gardens the past few days I’d walked so many miles I’d wished I had a pedometer. I’d climbed a thousand stairs. At the Louvre, I climbed another thousand. The English and French are short on trams, elevators and escalators.
Rumor was rife that France was a terrorist target. Newspaper opinion pages said terrorists struck the World Trade Center because the financial area represented what was dear to the American people. In the Louvre I was a little antsy.
After the Louvre we walked to Notre Dame. In Notre Dame, all the doors in the cathedral were open. At every station, people were lighting candles. The dimness and the flickering flames gave off an eerie light that increased my uneasiness.
In France more than 65 percent of the residents were Catholic. The Eiffel Tower had been a terrorist target. The Louvre and Notre Dame represented reverence for the French and was very close to French hearts.
I am not Catholic and had never lighted a candle involving religion, but as a near panic attack rose, I held a taper to my candle and as soon as the flame caught, I left that beautiful cathedral fast.
After the Louvre and Notre Dame, we went to the Left Bank of the Seine and the Latin Quarter, seat of learning for over 600 years.
We would be in the heart of chateau country and the Loire Valley for the next three nights. I never imagined so many castles existed. We saw beautiful moldings, architecture and tapestries.
In Versailles we visit the 13th century Cathedral of Chartres with its magnificent stained glass windows, visited King Louis XVI’s palace, toured unbelievably beautiful gardens that stretched over 250 acres.
At the farewell dinner, everyone was worried about their flights home. Because of the added security, I was told I must leave the hotel for the airport at 4 a. m. I left a wakeup call for 3:30.
When the phone rang, I hit the floor and start brushing my teeth.
I looked at my watch and it was only 2 a.m. and we didn’t get to bed until almost midnight. I was afraid to go back to sleep, worried the desk wouldn’t call again. If I missed my taxi, I couldn’t get to the airport.
At the British Airways Terminal, there was already a long line. We shifted from one foot to the other for two and a half hours before a gate even opened. No one was allowed to sit until we’d cleared customs.
In every direction there were camouflaged soldiers carrying submachine guns. That sight did not help ease unrest.
Finally inside the departing gate, a man, who I imagined looked like one of the terrorists, waited in line in front of me, accompanied by a woman wearing a burka and carrying a child. I thought, if he were a terrorist, surely he couldn’t have cleared customs. Surely even a terrorist wouldn’t take along his wife and child. Then I remembered the suicide bombers.
I was ashamed of myself for the thought. I’m against bigotry in every form and fashion. Two weeks ago such a thought would never have crossed my mind.
The Boeing 777 was full. Not an empty seat anywhere, not even one seat in the middle section where seats in every row were twelve across.
I was ready to get home to Longview. Twelve hours later we landed in Dallas.
It took an hour and a half to clear customs and get my luggage. I hoped my husband was on the other side of that door. Security wouldn’t let anyone enter baggage claims. I’d been up almost 24 hours without sleep.
Bill brought my mail that had accumulated while I was gone, but I was too exhausted to look at anything. I stretched out on the backseat and slept on the way home.
Two weeks later, almost every time I turned on the television, there were those planes hitting the Trade Center and updated reports on the attempt on the Pentagon. Meantime the death toll mounted.
Every time I heard a patriotic song, saw a survivor’s pain on TV, or saw a memorial service I cried.
The attack on American had changed our world and made us afraid and apprehensive of our future.
Later I heard from a friend from California who was in our group. Pearl wrote their United Flight was on time, that they had mega security every time they turned around, even as a former airline employee had trouble getting into the Red Carpet Club after showing their cards.
When they got home, they learned one of their sons knew everyone on the United Flights that went down, and each of her boys knew someone in the Towers.
Her husband leaned months later that one of his former colleagues at United was on one of the flights. “Terrible times that still bring tears to all of us,” she wrote.
Yes, I remember where I was when I learned terrorists had attacked the United States.
God bless America, my home, sweet home.
I was in Kent, England because a brochure of the world’s best garden tours came in my mail. I had never even considered a trip like this, and ordinarily I cull mail over the waste basket. But a new 16-day tour called the Gardens of England and France caught my attention.
I had completed Master Gardening requirements, was a member of the Native Plant Society and had already put in native gardens where we lived in Atlanta, Texas. I had designed and revamped all the landscaping on the first house we bought in Longview, and was working on the garden at our second Longview home.
In addition I learned the first hotel we were staying in in England was across the street from the famous Islington Antiques Marketplace. Wow! The place was even listed in Frommer’s Guide. While living in Atlanta, I had an antiques booth and another booth in Jefferson. The antique bug bit and I refurnished our house in traditional style.
On the flight to England, the 777 Boeing was only about a third filled, and I found three seats and stretched out for a night’s sleep on the remainder of the ten-hour flight. I had just dozed off when the stewardess woke me and said I must sit up and fasten my seatbelt because of turbulent weather.
The “Fasten Your Seat Belt” sign never went off the remainder of the trip. I’d never been on a plane in worse weather. No one was allowed to leave their seats, even to go to the restroom, until about thirty minutes before we landed.
At the hotel I tried to make up for eight hours of lost sleep and adjust to the six hours difference in the time zone and I slept through the time I had allotted myself to walk through the rows and rows and rows of wonderful antiques right across the street.
On the day the World Trade Center was hit, I’d been in England nine days and knew restrooms were called loo, that the trunks of cars were the boot and answered to the phrases “carry on,” “do you have a minute, love?”
I’d fallen in love with London’s architecture, many fountains, and all the decorative chimney pots atop all the apartments and residences. I loved drinking hot drink tea with sweetener and milk, and was thoroughly spoiled with splendid accommodations, sumptuous meals and jugs of white and red wine at every dinner.
We’d seen the Thames and its many bridges many times, and for the first time I realized the “bridges” we sang about as children in “London Bridges Falling Down” were many bridges instead of one bridge, with an apostrophe to show possession, which is the way I thought of it when we sang the song way back when.
We’d seen the famous Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, House of Parliament, changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and Westminister Abbey. We’d been to Stonehenge, the city of Bath and its famous bath houses and sampled and bought chocolate made famous by the novel and movie Chocolat.
We had toured the gardens of the Royal Horticulture Society, King Henry, VIII’s Court Garden and Seville Garden while enjoying views of Windsor Castle, the summer home of England’s queen. Past Oxford we saw the birthplace of Winston Churchill and the Duke of Marlborough and visited these impressive gardens before continuing to Shakespeare’ s Stratford-on-the-Avon and Anne Hathaway’s quaint thatched roof cottage and its typical English garden.
We’d toured the garden of landscape designer, John Brooks, and Stourhead, considered England’s finest garden with statutes of Hercules, water nymphs and Roman goddesses.
We went into Wales for dinner at an ancient monastery with its huge apple crushing stones still intact.
We had spent one night in Kent and would be there two more nights. At the childhood home of Anne Boleyn we saw the imaginative gardens laid out by William Waldorf Astor.
By now I’d seen so many gardens and palaces I’d begun to mix them up and wondered why I didn’t take notes.
We traveled via the ancient seaport of Rye to visit Sissinghurst Castle Garden. The entrance archway with its trio of chimney pots flanked by roses was royal. I liked the sweeping flowerbeds, the view of the tower and the brick hop houses, and wished I had some swags of hops to make wreaths like the English.
Most of those traveling on our coach were through walking the Sissinghurst Garden and were in the gift shop about 5 or 6 p. m. Europenan time, when a tourist who had been listening to the radio made the announcement terrorists had attacked the World Trade Center in New York and tried to strike the Pentagon in Washington, D. C.
In the bus, the driver put the radio on speakers. Everyone listened, too stunned to speak. Intent on hearing every word, no one talked on the drive back to the hotel.
We went to a chateau for dinner. If I hadn’t written down the sumptuous menu, I couldn’t tell you what we ate or that we had champagne over kir, pate’ and canapés in the courtyard. At dinner, one of the men in the group said he had written a prayer he wanted to say, but he didn’t think he could get through it, so he asked everyone to bow their heads in silent prayer.
I’m sure the food was superb and the entertainment excellent, and we hadn’t even crossed the channel to France yet, but we all talked about how we would all go home in the morning if we could.
All the things we’d seen, visited and explored the castles, the gardens, the grand antiques and tapestries, the food and wine were incidental to what had happened in the United States.
On the bus going back to the hotel after dinner, quiet was thick. The tour director didn’t talk. The bus driver switched the speakers off. In the midst of this unusual silence someone with a beautiful voice started singing “God Bless America,” and everyone on the bus joined in. When that song ended, someone else sang the beginning of “American the Beautiful,” and everyone sang along. Another began “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee.” We sang every patriotic song we could recall.
We were all patriots.
Singing patriotic songs was all we could do.
Back at the hotel we watched the day’s events unfold. Those two planes hit the twin towers over and over and over. At midnight we turned off the television, emotionally exhausted.
The next morning someone woke early enough to buy the only remaining newspaper available. That paper passed from hand to hand.
By now we’ve seen the repeats of the planes hitting the World Trade Center so many times we can see the tragedy unfold without looking at the screen.
No one could send or receive a phone call. I tried to send an email or receive an email from home to no avail. Without a doubt we would have all gone home then, if we could have, without going to France.
It would be a while before we learned no planes would fly in or out of airports for a week.
All phone lines were busy. Getting a phone call in or out was almost impossible. The desk delivered a fax from Bill with the name and address of a relative of a sister-in-law who lives in London in the event we were stranded, the tour was stopped, or we couldn’t get out of the country for an extended time.
Crossing the English Chanel the next morning, we had a total of three newspapers for this large group to share. The White Cliffs of Dover weren’t as magical as that sighting would have been last week. The Super Sea Cat got us across the Channel in about an hour and a half.
In Calais we left for Monet’s home and garden at Giverny. Nearing Giverney, a man stepped out of his car and relieved himself on the side of the road.
Shocked, I said to my seatmate, “We’re not in Texas anymore.”
Monet’s Giverny is “roped off” compared to the gardens in England, but there was that beautiful curved green bridge seen in so many paintings. Monet’s home interested me more than the gardens with the light just right, wing chairs near the fireplace, and paintings worth several fortunes lined the walls.
The spacious kitchen would look at home in one of today’s home tours with white tiles and blue and white checked curtains. The adjoining dining room was yellow with blue and white accents with subtle country French furnishing everywhere.
Tonight in Caen we couldn’t get an English speaking channel. Frustrating. All those repeats of the planes hitting the towers and all the talk and we couldn’t understand what was said. The next morning someone in the group got up early enough to get the only English newspaper available and it was passed around all day.
We visited the D-Day landing beaches. Going into Normandy we passed a statute of Eisenhower in a large round-about and the U. S. flag was flying at half-mast.
The cemetery for Americans killed in the Normandy invasion sloped gently to the sea where rows and rows of white crosses marked the graves. The lump it brought to my throat was worse because of the tragedy back in the states. Somehow everything got tied together there in the early morning light and brought back other remembrances. Mile markers along the way outlined Patton’s march.
The next day, England, France and all of Europe observed three minutes of silence at noon. We were standing on the corner of a very busy street in Tours as the silent period started. The mounting death toll and its effect on all the families were incomprehensible.
Traffic was not stopped, but I had no idea so many vehicles could pass by so noiselessly. At the end of the three minutes of silence, all the vehicles honked their horns and the noise was as astounding as the silence had been.
We stood on that corner watching and wiping away tears and saying silent prayers. At the end of the silence we sang “God Bless America,” wishing we were back in the states.
That night in Tours we could finally get CNN in English. We learn all airports had been closed. Reports said the attack might mean weeks before Paris flights resumed. It was beginning to sound like we might be in France much longer than planned. Still no phone calls in or out. No one can send or receive email.
Day 14 is Sunday, and mass was in progress as we visited the impressive 13th century Cathedral of Chartes with its magnificent stained glass windows. Most of the cathedrals were spared from the bombings during WW11, but this is the only cathedral where all the stained glass windows are all original. Standing in the hushed interior looking up through all that glorious glass was awesome.
The next morning we were in luck, there were three newspapers in English to share.
The first Paris dinner started with kir, apparently Europe’s favorite aperitif. Everyone at our table ordered escargot for an appetizer, and we didn’t even know how to get the escargot out of the shell. After what’s happened back home, what the heck. Eat snails.
Paris by Night was an optional package, which meant you paid extra. Considering the events of the past few days, we said “why not?” Ditto to the Ambroise where several Italian artists introduced the Renaissance to France. We saw Leonardo ‘D Vinci’s paintings and learn he was a scientists and saw working models of his mechanical drawings and other reminders of the period.
We added the tour and tasting of one of Frances’ largest wineries with lunch at La Cave. Lunch is served in an amazing troglodyte cave which lines the River Loire. We walked into an elegant restaurant awash in white linen napkins and tablecloths. Troubadours with violins and accordions went from table to table singing and encouraging diners to join. One in our tour group surprised himself singing along. “They take you out there and prime you,” he said, “then bring you in here. And suddenly, everybody’s a s-i-n-g-e-r.”
Why not? This takes our mind off the tragedy in the states.
Ditto again, as almost everyone in the group signs up for the Left Bank tour.
If you have much time to think, you know where your thoughts are going. We welcome the diversions until we can get home.
One woman in our group was so emotionally distraught; she remained on the bus the entire day after the bombings and didn’t participate in the extras.
We may be a few extra days getting out of France, but the way things look now, we will probably never come back to Paris. Some have already announced they will never fly again.
There were four of us at our table looking over the famous Paris designers’ department stores and the theatre district. The waiter brought two liter bottles of both red and white wine. Bon Appetite.
And thank goodness, in a few days it would be back to What A Burgers in good old U. S. A.
After dinner we drove a short distance to the Eiffel Tower. We all ascended to the second stage for a panoramic nighttime view. No one seemed inclined to go to the top. Too reminiscent of the Trade Center.
Tomorrow we would visit the Louvre and Notre Dame. It is said it takes seven months to see the more than two million works of art that fill the Louvre. We had a guide who showed us the most memorable pieces, the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo and the glorious Winged Victory.
In all the castles and chateaus and gardens the past few days I’d walked so many miles I’d wished I had a pedometer. I’d climbed a thousand stairs. At the Louvre, I climbed another thousand. The English and French are short on trams, elevators and escalators.
Rumor was rife that France was a terrorist target. Newspaper opinion pages said terrorists struck the World Trade Center because the financial area represented what was dear to the American people. In the Louvre I was a little antsy.
After the Louvre we walked to Notre Dame. In Notre Dame, all the doors in the cathedral were open. At every station, people were lighting candles. The dimness and the flickering flames gave off an eerie light that increased my uneasiness.
In France more than 65 percent of the residents were Catholic. The Eiffel Tower had been a terrorist target. The Louvre and Notre Dame represented reverence for the French and was very close to French hearts.
I am not Catholic and had never lighted a candle involving religion, but as a near panic attack rose, I held a taper to my candle and as soon as the flame caught, I left that beautiful cathedral fast.
After the Louvre and Notre Dame, we went to the Left Bank of the Seine and the Latin Quarter, seat of learning for over 600 years.
We would be in the heart of chateau country and the Loire Valley for the next three nights. I never imagined so many castles existed. We saw beautiful moldings, architecture and tapestries.
In Versailles we visit the 13th century Cathedral of Chartres with its magnificent stained glass windows, visited King Louis XVI’s palace, toured unbelievably beautiful gardens that stretched over 250 acres.
At the farewell dinner, everyone was worried about their flights home. Because of the added security, I was told I must leave the hotel for the airport at 4 a. m. I left a wakeup call for 3:30.
When the phone rang, I hit the floor and start brushing my teeth.
I looked at my watch and it was only 2 a.m. and we didn’t get to bed until almost midnight. I was afraid to go back to sleep, worried the desk wouldn’t call again. If I missed my taxi, I couldn’t get to the airport.
At the British Airways Terminal, there was already a long line. We shifted from one foot to the other for two and a half hours before a gate even opened. No one was allowed to sit until we’d cleared customs.
In every direction there were camouflaged soldiers carrying submachine guns. That sight did not help ease unrest.
Finally inside the departing gate, a man, who I imagined looked like one of the terrorists, waited in line in front of me, accompanied by a woman wearing a burka and carrying a child. I thought, if he were a terrorist, surely he couldn’t have cleared customs. Surely even a terrorist wouldn’t take along his wife and child. Then I remembered the suicide bombers.
I was ashamed of myself for the thought. I’m against bigotry in every form and fashion. Two weeks ago such a thought would never have crossed my mind.
The Boeing 777 was full. Not an empty seat anywhere, not even one seat in the middle section where seats in every row were twelve across.
I was ready to get home to Longview. Twelve hours later we landed in Dallas.
It took an hour and a half to clear customs and get my luggage. I hoped my husband was on the other side of that door. Security wouldn’t let anyone enter baggage claims. I’d been up almost 24 hours without sleep.
Bill brought my mail that had accumulated while I was gone, but I was too exhausted to look at anything. I stretched out on the backseat and slept on the way home.
Two weeks later, almost every time I turned on the television, there were those planes hitting the Trade Center and updated reports on the attempt on the Pentagon. Meantime the death toll mounted.
Every time I heard a patriotic song, saw a survivor’s pain on TV, or saw a memorial service I cried.
The attack on American had changed our world and made us afraid and apprehensive of our future.
Later I heard from a friend from California who was in our group. Pearl wrote their United Flight was on time, that they had mega security every time they turned around, even as a former airline employee had trouble getting into the Red Carpet Club after showing their cards.
When they got home, they learned one of their sons knew everyone on the United Flights that went down, and each of her boys knew someone in the Towers.
Her husband leaned months later that one of his former colleagues at United was on one of the flights. “Terrible times that still bring tears to all of us,” she wrote.
Yes, I remember where I was when I learned terrorists had attacked the United States.
God bless America, my home, sweet home.