Personal Memories
Today is the sad memory of the attacks in Washington and New York, and a field in Pennsylvania, that left well over two thousand dead. It was afternoon here in Spain, and we watched it live at the tail end of the midday news, which then didn't go off the air for hours. A neighbor, whose son lives in New York was anxiously watching with us for a while, before she went off to try to get through to him again by phone. And I watched my memories disappear.
Though I grew up and lived in Boston for twenty-two years, New York was as far away to me as Los Angeles. My parents didn't believe in travelling for the sake of travelling, and I never went much further than a couple of hours drive around Boston on a Sunday afternoon. But New York was a magnet of ebullience that had always intrigued me. The only time I saw part of it was on our trips to and from Spain, when we had to fly from JFK airport on Long Island. I wished we could spend a few hours in town on those occasions, but though there was time, there wasn't time enough, and my parents would never have left the airport, anyway.
So, one night in 1989, a chance came my way, and I pleaded with my mother. Eastern Airlines was suffering a strike, and to attract lost clients back, offered shuttle fares at twelve dollars each way. The fares were normally ninety-nine dollars, so for a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in March, they tried the gimmick. The peculiarity about the Eastern shuttle was that you didn't have to reserve a seat, just show up in time for the next flight and buy a ticket. Friday and Saturday I spent trying to convince my mother it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She caved in and we got up at six o'clock Sunday morning and went to the airport, where we caught a ticket on the nine o'clock shuttle.
Once there we were a little bit at a loss as to where to go on a Sunday in March. We approached the taxi rank, and a thought popped into my head. "The World Trade Center," I told the cab driver. He took us to the lobby entrance of the South Tower. We followed the directions to the Observation Deck and got to the elevator. Along the way, my memory tells me parts of the lobby were roped off, probably because it was Sunday, so as not to let tourists stray to closed offices. I also remember going up to a mezzanine level and seeing abstract artwork on the walls. The elevator ride took ages, and opened upon a floor where the windows let us look into forever.
The Deck was different from the Observatory in the John Hancock tower in Boston. It was more open, the floor was terrazo, and it was not as muted as the Hancock. Here, I have to rely on my memory and my diary. I kept a diary during most of my adolescence and early adulthood, and this was one of the experiences I wrote down. I hadn't thought to take my camera with me, and there were no smartphones with cameras then. I do remember it was a cloudy day, yet we could still see most of the surrounding city and ocean. The Statue of Liberty was a small green dot down in the water. That, and the snow that started drifting from the close clouds is what sticks in my memory, though I wrote that we could also see Manhattan, Brooklyn, and New Jersey. I also remember buying a postcard, though I've either lost it, or have it in an incongruent place. In my diary I kept the boarding passes and the tickets to the Observation Deck.
When we came down, we walked north, and eventually found a cab back to LaGuardia, arriving back in Boston late in the afternoon, unlike many others who had taken advantage of the fares, but had to spend the night in the city they visited. The onslaught of customers made Eastern run out of airplanes and seats.
When the Towers came crumbling down seventeen years ago, I thought of the people I had seen working in the Deck, and if they had perished, as well. Most likely not; I had been there thirteen years earlier. Surely they had gone on to other jobs or maybe even retired. I learned that the artwork I had seen was by Joan Miró, and though I don't applaud his work, I feel I should have stopped to observe it more closely.
Every place I visit, I tell myself I will return because it will still be there. But, while New York will still be there with its vibrancy and its shout to life, this particular piece of my memory is gone forever. If I ever return to New York, I don't know if I will visit the spot again. Right now it is inviolate in my memory. I think I want it to stay that way.
Though I grew up and lived in Boston for twenty-two years, New York was as far away to me as Los Angeles. My parents didn't believe in travelling for the sake of travelling, and I never went much further than a couple of hours drive around Boston on a Sunday afternoon. But New York was a magnet of ebullience that had always intrigued me. The only time I saw part of it was on our trips to and from Spain, when we had to fly from JFK airport on Long Island. I wished we could spend a few hours in town on those occasions, but though there was time, there wasn't time enough, and my parents would never have left the airport, anyway.
So, one night in 1989, a chance came my way, and I pleaded with my mother. Eastern Airlines was suffering a strike, and to attract lost clients back, offered shuttle fares at twelve dollars each way. The fares were normally ninety-nine dollars, so for a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in March, they tried the gimmick. The peculiarity about the Eastern shuttle was that you didn't have to reserve a seat, just show up in time for the next flight and buy a ticket. Friday and Saturday I spent trying to convince my mother it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She caved in and we got up at six o'clock Sunday morning and went to the airport, where we caught a ticket on the nine o'clock shuttle.Once there we were a little bit at a loss as to where to go on a Sunday in March. We approached the taxi rank, and a thought popped into my head. "The World Trade Center," I told the cab driver. He took us to the lobby entrance of the South Tower. We followed the directions to the Observation Deck and got to the elevator. Along the way, my memory tells me parts of the lobby were roped off, probably because it was Sunday, so as not to let tourists stray to closed offices. I also remember going up to a mezzanine level and seeing abstract artwork on the walls. The elevator ride took ages, and opened upon a floor where the windows let us look into forever.
The Deck was different from the Observatory in the John Hancock tower in Boston. It was more open, the floor was terrazo, and it was not as muted as the Hancock. Here, I have to rely on my memory and my diary. I kept a diary during most of my adolescence and early adulthood, and this was one of the experiences I wrote down. I hadn't thought to take my camera with me, and there were no smartphones with cameras then. I do remember it was a cloudy day, yet we could still see most of the surrounding city and ocean. The Statue of Liberty was a small green dot down in the water. That, and the snow that started drifting from the close clouds is what sticks in my memory, though I wrote that we could also see Manhattan, Brooklyn, and New Jersey. I also remember buying a postcard, though I've either lost it, or have it in an incongruent place. In my diary I kept the boarding passes and the tickets to the Observation Deck.
When we came down, we walked north, and eventually found a cab back to LaGuardia, arriving back in Boston late in the afternoon, unlike many others who had taken advantage of the fares, but had to spend the night in the city they visited. The onslaught of customers made Eastern run out of airplanes and seats.
When the Towers came crumbling down seventeen years ago, I thought of the people I had seen working in the Deck, and if they had perished, as well. Most likely not; I had been there thirteen years earlier. Surely they had gone on to other jobs or maybe even retired. I learned that the artwork I had seen was by Joan Miró, and though I don't applaud his work, I feel I should have stopped to observe it more closely.
Every place I visit, I tell myself I will return because it will still be there. But, while New York will still be there with its vibrancy and its shout to life, this particular piece of my memory is gone forever. If I ever return to New York, I don't know if I will visit the spot again. Right now it is inviolate in my memory. I think I want it to stay that way.
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