8 years on: time still stands still

Arvin and I left our flat in Astoria, Queens at the same time that morning, September 11, 2001. 7:30am. We walked the same path, up 34th Street to Broadway, right on Broadway, past Uncle George Diner. The cooks were wheeling in the young, skinned lambs, already sacrificed for us--for Souvlaki by lunch time. Past the sweet-smelling Greek bakeries making my stomach growl. Within 15 minutes we were down the 4 blocks, up the stairs, through the fare gates, and waiting on the platform for the Never train. Our nickname for the N.

It was crowded as usual. Smelly as usual. The typical morning smell: of morning B.O., heavy cologne, that sour morning breath smell that even toothpaste and mouthwash does not mask, pungent Dunkin Donuts sugar crack coffee, coconut-flavored shampoo and that strange, almost alcoholesque hair gel, and the condenser from the air conditioner of the subway car.

We got to 59th Street and Lexington, and I snuck a quick kiss from Arvin as I was pushed off the train by the herd, and shouting "I love you. See you tonight." I continued on to transfer uptown, and Arvin continued on that N train to Lower Manhattan.

I hopped a 4 train to 86th Street. I arrived at 8:30am. I walked along 86th Street to Madison, then swung a left to stop at Dean & Deluca at Madison & 85th for my usual morning ritual: blueberry muffin and large coffee. My morning could never get started without this ritual. After jockeying at the counter and hollering out my order, throwing down my money, and grunting my thanks with a smile, I continued walking to the Museum.

I walked up 83rd Street, crossed 5th Avenue, and entered through the Uris Center for Education of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Visitors were already starting to gather at the main entrance, as they usually do on a Tuesday morning, typically tourists up since dawn. They were always excited, since the Museum was always closed on Mondays. I slowed down as I hit the galleries, as I always did. Another morning ritual. That spiritual silence I relished, to look at the art with preciousness, reverence, and awe, before the buzz of the public took over.

I hopped the elevator, got off on the mezzanine level at the Department of European Sculpture and Decorative Arts, and walked all the way to the back, through the library, to my office. I turned on my computer, put away my bag, put down my breakfast, then headed up to the front office. It was exactly 9:00am.

One of the administrative assistants rushed into the Catalogue Room, where I had gone to gather the material to work on for the morning. It was 9:12am. He said Arvin was on line 1, and it was an emergency.

I reached over and picked up the phone, pressing the blinking line 1. On the other end was someone whose voice I barely recognized. Arvin spoke quickly, panicky. He sounded frightened, shocked. I could feel his heart racing, his head bounding, his stomach flipping. He said a plane flew into the World Trade Center. I could not comprehend what he said.

There was a commotion in the front office. I saw the light blinking for line 2.

Arvin repeated himself. A plane flew into the World Trade Center. I knew his office well. It was a mere few blocks from the Towers. From the window just behind his desk, the top half of the Towers hung gracefully in the air. Close enough to touch. They were ethereal giants, lit like angels in the night. I was trying to imagine a plane, and came up with a small commuter plane.

No, he said, a jetliner.

He continued to panic. He said that the other Tower was also on fire. I began to panic. We talked about a meeting place--our friend's apartment on West 13th Street. He told me to meet him there. He told me he did not know what was happening, or what was going to happen, but that he loved me very, very much. I could not believe what I was hearing. How bad was it? He told me hundreds of firemen were arriving on the scene. He and everyone in his office were witnessing people jumping from those upper floors of the Towers. I felt sick and full of disorientation.

The Director was ordering the closure of the Museum. Security was clearing the galleries of those tourists who were waiting so patiently just 40 minutes earlier. Rumor was that we were a cultural target. Yes, terrorism. I needed to get to Arvin. Every intuitive sense in my body felt he was in extreme danger.

By now, the phones were down. I no longer had contact with Arvin. All I could do was make my way downtown. All trains were halted throughout the city and boroughs. I did not want to be alone. I left with a curator who I had been working on a cataloging project with for several months, so was particularly close to. We walked through Central Park to the West Side to his residence. We saw people in the park, sitting on benches, seemingly in shock, trying to get their cell phones to work. To no avail.

Then we reached Central Park West.

We witnessed a sublime line of people, from it's starting point at 60th Street, and going all the way uptown beyond our range of sight. Many, many of them were covered with dust. A fine, white dust. What the hell happened?

One of them sobbed, "The Towers collapsed!"

I immediately panicked, asking him if I should rush down there? He said that we should probably go try and find out what is happening first. And get food into me. I had yet to eat.

As we walked, and reached Broadway on the Westside, it was the most surreal scenario. It was a picture perfect day. Clear blue sky. Pleasantly warm. People were out and about. Hauling around shopping bags touting boutique logos. Basking in the sun in all the restaurants along Broadway. It was like a normal day. What the fuck?

We grabbed lunch. I forced myself to eat, but my mind was reeling as I thought about nothing but bolting downtown to find Arvin.

We returned to his apartment, turned on the television, and were socked in the gut with the horror. We had yet to see the pictures. Of the planes slicing into the Towers. Of each Tower giving way, and collapsing in a cloud burst and a pile of grief.

I gathered my bag and bolted.

Practically running the 60 blocks, on pure adrenaline, I reached 14th Street. And was confronted by my first of several police lines. I spent 20 minutes screaming and cursing, trying to convince them that, with luck, my husband was in an apartment one block away. That I had spoken to him int he morning right after the second plane went in, and we had planned to meet here. And no, I did not have ID proving I lived below 14th Street. I lived in Astoria. Which I could not get to because there are no trains running. But I have a husband who I did not know was alive or dead, and need to get to this apartment one block away to find him.

They eventually let me through. Only to be directed around St. Vincent's Medical Center, the triage hospital and command center for rescue workers.

I repeated this scenario, of screaming and cursing at cops for access to Arvin, at 3 more checkpoints. The route took me to the edge of Ground Zero. The streets were covered with paper. All this paper. With peoples' names. And with other artifacts. Like shoes. And clothing. And work badges. And framed pictures. And more paper. Then a body part. I stopped cold.

I had to find Arvin.

The route took me past his office building. It was deserted, the streets were strewn with debris, and cops were telling me to keep going.

I finally made my way back up to 13th Street, coming east, on west side of the hospital. A police officer stopped me. I told him he can follow me if he would like, but that I have been searching for my husband, and have been yelling at enough cops. He followed.

I ran up the stoop, ran the bell, and was immediately buzzed in. I ran up stairs, and burst through the door. Our friend was there. And there was Arvin, in the back room.