It was a gorgeous September morning, nary a cloud in the sky, as I left the front door of my Hoboken brownstone and walked to the end of the street to catch the bus into Port Authority. My backpack hung evenly from both shoulders to ease the strain on my crooked spine, and I held a freshly homemade coffee in my hand. It was only a few days into the fall semester and I was determined to start off this year on the right foot with proper habits—that right foot shod in sensible sneakers that evoked just the right amount of “New Yorker Native Cool” with “I’m still a student.” I wanted to make a habit of leaving my apartment by 8:15am, of making my own coffee and lunch to save money, and of prioritizing my health. I was learning that the program director at NYU’s Institute of Fine Arts judged every book by its cover, as well as academics, and I sensed they had found me wanting.
As the bus shot through the Lincoln Tunnel, I forced myself to shake off my feelings of imposter syndrome, instead focusing on the day’s schedule. Today was especially exciting because it was the first day of my small group class at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was taking a course on polychromed wooden sculpture with Jack Soultanian, one of the few conservators and professors who did not intimidate me. Despite his faux-British way of speaking that was so prevalent in the almost exclusively white upper echelon of the Upper East Side, he was warm and friendly, with a nose for wry humor and a lot of common sense. The only other student in the class was my best friend, Beth Edelstein and, together, we would be examining a painted wooden sculpture in the museum’s collection, at the museum’s lab. Finally, after two years of slogging through lectures, I was going to be at the bench— that too, one of the most revered benches in the entire world!
As I continued my journey uptown and crosstown on the MTA, I reflected briefly on how the scales continued to tip between my personal and academic/professional life. It was just over seven months since I had met Samir on a blind date—I had squirreled away the receipt from the restaurant, so that if ever we got to a point of celebrating an anniversary, we would have proof that February 5th 2001 was the day we met. He was the first Indian man I had ever dated, and it was interesting how weirdly comfortable we were together. We had an instantaneous fit. No drama, no questions, no second-guessing myself. Just… comfort. However, he had long-standing plans to leave in less than a week for a six-month sojourn in India—a self-imposed pilgrimage to discover our shared motherland for himself —and I didn’t know if our fledgling relationship would survive the time or distance. After all, a girl, especially a poor graduate student, has to eat! In a couple of days he would be back from Cleveland, where he was saying goodbye to his parents, and I guess we’d make a lovers’ vow that would be based somewhat on reality.
I alighted from the crosstown bus at 79th and Fifth and checked the time. It was 9am, exactly when Beth and I planned to meet so we could head to class together. She waved at me from the opposite corner and I crossed the street. We linked arms and headed up the block together, pleased we were 15 minutes early to meet Jack at the museum’s entrance. I breathed in the crisp fall air as she commented on how beautiful the morning was, and she was right. It was perfect weather; sunny and not-too-warm, with a bright blue sky above. The day promised exciting possibilities.
As we mounted the front steps, I saw red ropes blocking the entrance and guards turning people away from the door. I wondered why the museum was closed on a Tuesday. Our steps faltered as we approached the guards, who continued to bark, “Museum is closed!” and gestured people away. Beth tried to explain that we had a meeting with Jack Soultanian, that we had to get inside to call him. I began to feel nervous about being late and making a poor impression.
Just then, Jack came out and said, Phillipe has closed the Museum but I feel like it’s one of the safest places to be, so you can come in. Beth and I looked at each other and then back at him, puzzled. Taking in our bewilderment, he explained to us in a gentle yet firm voice, A plane has hit a building all the way downtown, so they’re closing public places out of caution, but I feel perfectly safe here. I think we can still meet. His reassuring tone belied the gravity of the situation. Not knowing what to do, we nodded mutely in assent and followed him inside, accepting his authority as if we were ducklings following their mother.
The museum was eerily quiet. Our footsteps hardly made a sound as we walked through the Great Hall and to the elevators leading up to the conservation labs. Normally the cavernous space would be bustling with noisy school groups being led around by the museum educators, docents starting their tours, foreign tourists following a guide waving a small flag, visitors jostling with one another to pay the entrance fees so they could get their pins to enter. Instead, it felt airless. Usually the fresh flowers in the urns at each corner of the Great Rotunda softened the inert nature of the marble walls, a thoughtful gift in perpetuity from one of the museum’s greatest benefactors, Lila Acheson Wallace. But at that moment, it felt as if we were traversing a tomb.
As we headed up the elevator, Jack continued to apprise us in his soothing baritone. Most of the museum staff has left, he said, but we should be fine in the lab. We can discuss how you would like to proceed with your project. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan, and I glanced at Beth for her reaction. Her gaze was focused on Jack, her expression was neutral. Jack was exuding such calm confidence, and I realized Beth wanted to stay with him. As did I.
We entered the brightly lit lab, made all the more cheery from all the sunlight pouring in from the far wall of windows. It dispelled any notion of death and doom. What a terrible accident, I thought. I shied away from any further thoughts as we took out our notebooks. It must have been around 9:15 when we stood with Jack in front of a sculpture to discuss the work’s materials and production techniques within its historical context. It was a painted wooden figure of Saint Sebastian, made in Spain in the early 1800s, and quite beautiful. Though it was missing all the protruding arrows, the figure’s pose and facial expression made it easy to identify. It had been painted many times over, and some of the paint was flaking and at risk of loss. From the class description, I knew our job would be to make a thorough examination of the work, including making x-rays and micrographs of the paint stratigraphy to identify the layers and pigments used, and then plan and execute a treatment.
As we began reviewing the possible types of wood from which it could have been made, a phone rang and Jack excused himself to answer it. Beth and I continued to look at the sculpture, exchanging observations and noting them down. I felt as if we were two medical students looking at an unconscious patient and trying to figure out a (or many) diagnosis. Snatches of Jack’s conversation drifted towards us. Yes, I saw her this morning, she was here and then left for home… I know, it’s a terrible accident, I hope everyone is okay. Another phone rang and we both looked apprehensively at Jack. He motioned to us to answer it. I lifted the receiver and said, Hello?, my voice slightly dry and cracking. The worried family member at the other end asked if their loved one had been seen. I covered the receiver and called out their name to Jack. He nodded and gave a thumbs up, and I repeated his assurances: they had been at the museum and had headed home.
Another phone rang and Beth strode briskly across the lab to answer it. Jack and I finished our calls and rejoined at the front of the sculpture. Her voice drifted towards us echoing the same phrases we had uttered moments earlier, her calm tone in stark contrast to his grave face. Another plane has hit the other tower, he told me. I stared at him, uncomprehendingly. I don’t understand, I said. He looked at me gently and, using the same unemotional tone doctors use to give families bad news, he explained, Two commercial airplanes have hit the Twin Towers downtown. I sensed there was more to what he was saying, some details that I was not grasping, that I was too stupid to figure out, but I couldn’t get there. Beth returned, her face ashen. She must have heard the same updates on the phone. Surely they’ve gotten most people out of the building, he reassured her.
We passed the rest of the surreal class time alternating between answering the phones and examining the sculpture. When it was time to leave, Jack walked us to the door and wished us a safe trip home. As if it was a regular school day, Beth and I walked back to The Conservation Center, just two blocks away, to have lunch before our next class. We were met with the director at the door, who explained that in times of crisis, she was guarding the building to protect against looting. Unsure of what to do next, we explained we needed to go upstairs to attend our next class. She nearly laughed out loud at our naivete.
Classes are canceled today, she said. As we tried to digest that news, she leveled her gaze at me. Do you have a place to go?, she demanded.
I’ll… I’ll go home, I said, shaken by the seeming non sequitur.
Where do you live?, she interrogated.
In Hoboken, I answered meekly.
No, no, no, you can’t go there, she said dismissively. They’ve closed all the bridges and tunnels.
I stared at her, mouth agape. A burning sensation crept up the back of my neck and hot lashes of fear whipped against my stomach. The details I had pushed aside all morning started rushing back with a force that made me feel dizzy. My body recognized before my brain that this was not a precaution, but that we were in real, mortal danger.
Beth noticed I was beginning to panic, and she put her arm around me and pulled me tightly to her side. My parents live near Columbia, she shared, we can stay with them. We turned around to retrace our steps. Beth pulled out her cell phone and tried to call her parents, but the phone made the honking busy signal that recalled our summers spent on archaeological digs in the Mediterranean, mere weeks previously but what now felt like a lifetime ago.
As we walked, first through Central Park and then up Broadway, we saw hundreds of pedestrians, more than usual for the middle of a workday, most pointed dazedly towards a vague direction that promised safety, or at least a return to a private sanctuary. Some, with nowhere else to go, were spilling out of their favorite bars onto the sidewalks, desperate for the solace of their tribe, or maybe just determined to find an explanation at the bottom of a glass. Still others were emerging from Gristedes with paper brown bags of groceries, toilet paper spilling out of the top. Though a thick smog of uncertainty had settled over the entire city, we were uncharacteristically united in our efforts to keep it aloft with kindness and compassion towards one another.
We passed by public phones and overheard people saying, Yes, I’m okay. I’m uptown. I’m safe, and realized the “pay” part of the phones had been suspended so everyone could call their loved ones. Beth made the call to her grateful parents, who promised a hot meal when we got there. As we continued our trudge uptown, we witnessed outward displays of nearly the entire range of human emotion—despair, rage, penitence, laughter. It felt as if we were in a passion play, except each stage was one of the twelve steps of grief. We realized we were starving and stopped to grab some sandwiches from a cafe. Two fighter planes fly overhead, silver eagles against the deceptively blue sky.
It was close to 2pm when we finally reached 116th and Broadway. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as we took the elevator to the eighth floor. Though I was grateful I had worn my backpack and new sneakers, my feet were sore from walking so far. Beth’s parents opened the door and enfolded us in their arms, and for a moment everything seemed unchanged, as if we had entered a portal and gone backwards in time. We sat at the dining table where I had been a guest at their Passover seder dinner earlier in the year. As I gratefully accepted their food and drink, I said a silent prayer for those Children of Israel who made a much longer exodus than Beth and I towards sanctuary.
The TV was on in the background. Peter Jennings’ forehead filled the screen and his familiar voice comforted me, though I wasn’t really paying attention. Dr. and Mrs. Edelstein asked us about our morning and our walk home, trying to gauge our emotions. Something moved in my peripheral vision and my eyes darted to the screen. Frozen in our seats, Beth and I watched for the first time as ABC news replayed the video of the two planes crashing into the Twin Towers. I gasped in horror and Beth burst into tears, her mother hugging her as she covered her face with her hands and dropped to the table. I felt hot tears pricking my eyes and tried to draw a deep breath.
I have to call my parents, I said.