Grey's Journal

On the morning of September 11th 2001, I gave a spectacularly boring presentation in Rochester on my work with time-resolved, radio-frequency plasmas to the sponsoring researchers at Kodak.  We sat in a small, basement room isolated from the world as I droned on about peak identification methods and optimal bin size.  When done, my professor and I went to his car to drive back to my college, SUNY Geneseo.

Had we turned on the radio rather than listening to a cassette, we would have heard about United Airlines flight 175.  Both my mother and my aunt are flight attendants for United.  The professor and I drove on, oblivious to the attention being drawn to New York.  We arrived in Geneseo late and the professor ran off to his class, hoping to get there before the students invoked some imaginary variant of the five-minute rule and disappeared.

The campus was quiet.  I walked into my dorm room just as the phone began to ring.  This was unusual.  I hate the telephone, almost never giving out my number and actively discouraging others from calling me.

Phone calls mean trouble.

I picked up the receiver and found my mother on the other end crying, ``We're okay, we're okay.  I just wanted you to know we're okay.''

I paused a moment before asking ``Why?  What's wrong?''

* * *

On July 7th 2005, I woke up and, leading the small life that I do, rolled out of bed and onto the Internet.  I intended to visit a science exhibit by the Royal Society that day, but London news websites informed me that the tube was down because of power outages.  Assuming this was just another fallout of the private-public partnership, I paid little attention to it.  But, as the headlines coming in began to include words like `explosion' and `bomb' I switched to the radio I bought for a news moment like this and heard the story unfold.

It took perhaps an hour before the bombing sank into my mind and it occurred to me to call my parents.  The five-hour time difference let me return the favor they paid me four years earlier.

I called the house.

``Hello?'' It was my father.  By the sound of his voice, I could tell I had woken him.

``Hi, Dad.  I just wanted to let you know I'm okay.''

He paused a moment before asking, ``Why?  What's wrong?''

* * *

Above all others, the BBC impressed me with their reporting.  Early in the day, I listened to BBC Radio 4 as one of the reporters started in on his story about the bombs.  Mere seconds after he said the word `bomb', he abruptly stopped speaking.  ``I apologize,'' said the reporter, clearly having just been chastised over his ear piece.  ``I meant to say `explosions'.  We have no confirmation at this time that they are bombs.''  The BBC won my heart forever in that moment.

Tony Blair came on, upset and nearly moved to tears, though maintaining dignity and sounding intelligent and articulate as he usually does.  Regardless of his politics, the man has leadership qualities that have to be respected.  Then came Bush, sounding like a fifth grade understudy for the school play pushed on stage when the lead called in sick.  With trademark style, he completely failed to inspire confidence when it was needed.

Not sure what to do, I sent out emails to the people I knew in London to see if they were okay.  It was a gesture of concern that made the priority of my friends uncomfortably clear.  Emails first went out to those on the King's College course with me, then a few other people who I remembered.

As the day went on, however, some other people would pop into my head, and I'd feel guilty for not thinking of them sooner as I sent off a quick note.  Not emailing someone until 3 PM wasn't so bad, but what about 6 PM?  What about the friends I didn't remember until the day after the bombing?  Was it too late to send an email then?

I was not the only one to worry about social etiquette during a terror attack.  ``Send text messages instead,'' a Londoner friend told me.  ``No one expects them to arrive on time when the phone network is overloaded.''

Since I was off from school for the summer, I had nothing to do on the day of the bombing.  By noon, there was little news coming in, but I felt obligated watch it all.  Eventually though, I had to give up and, not knowing what else to do, I watched a movie with my American flatmate to pass the time.  When we ran out of food, I went to the local store.  The guy behind the counter made some small talk about the news as he checked out my groceries.  He seemed to realize for the first time that I'm American and he asked questions about New York and 9/11.  Then, something more important came into his mind.

``Hey, do you live with that American girl?''

I assumed he meant my flatmate, who had complained about him hitting on her.

``Yeah,''

``You aren't her boyfriend are you?  I mean, is she available?''

* * *

Two weeks later I missed the second attack by 300 meters and thirty minutes -- information I neglected to mention to my mother when I called her about my safety.  I was supposed to meet a friend at the attacked station, Warren Street, but due to my inability to understand her directions we settled on the more mutually convenient Tottenham Court Road.

I arrived at Charing Cross to find it closed.  Annoyed at the delay, I took the bus.  Sitting in the row next to me a small Indian woman who had been talking frantically in Hindi on the phone now yelled at everyone: ``There's been another bomb!  There's been another bomb! Get off the bus!''

In the blue corner, weighing in at 114 pounds, logic.  And in the red corner, weighing in at 300 pounds, raw emotion.

I didn't want emotion to win that fight -- the chances of a suicide bomber being on this rather empty bus were slim.  But, trying to think logically was like trying to read a book while in a veterinarian's waiting room.  You should be able to ignore the seething, uncomprehending panic all around you, but you just can't.  Still, I forced myself to compromise: instead of running out of the bus immediately, I got off two stops later.  Oddly, every other person on the bus did the same.  Nothing to do with terrorism, mind you, just a lovely day for a walk.

I met with my friend, Sam, and we went into a nearby pub to check the news.  As impressed as I was with the BBC, I was as unimpressed with the other stations.  Because we were on the edge of the zone cordoned off, I could simultaneously see the reporter on the TV screen in the pub and the camera crew filming him outside the window.

I listened as he described `chaos on the streets' and `panic-stricken crowds' while watching a normal London day.

Even though at this stage I didn't know that the bombs had failed, it was hard to get worked up this time.  We were in the middle of the action, but everyone was calm and reasonable -- the best of all possible reactions.  My companion shared those feelings.  We left the pub and as we walked and talked of the recent attacks she would interrupt with thoughts such as `Now that's a good price for those chairs' and `Oh look at that cute dog' all the while her major pressing quest was to find a Tesco Metro for a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

She was a practical girl from Essex and I admired her for it.  ``Nothing I can do about it now, everyone I know is okay, so there's no point in worrying.''

We turned a corner and found another street cordoned off with many police, some carrying guns, a rare site on London streets.

``Bloody Hell...'' Sam said, expressing surprise at what I thought were the numbers of police, but when I looked where she pointed, I realized otherwise.  ``A Tesco Metro!''

And indeed there was one just outside the police boundary.

On the edge of the attack, with police and media everywhere, London life continued on as normal.  We ate our doughnuts and I didn't want to live anywhere else.

 

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Copyright © 2005 Wellington Grey


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