An American in London on 9/11

So I'm finally back in Shelby after a vacation spent at weddings, bars, and baseball games. Saw lots of good friends and came home with more money than when I left. You can't beat that.

However, I'm now on a steady diet of Dimetapp and cough drops. Yeah, it's August and I'm sick. Looks like a sinus infection. Wonderful. Damn sinuses and their infections!

But enough about that. Let's get to the real point of this blog, inspired by a film I saw earlier this week...

I was fortunate to visit London, England 5 years ago. My parents went over for a business trip in June of 1993 and I never let them forget they left me behind. When a second trip was planned my dad, now retired from the Air Force and working as a military analyst, thought it best to make it a family vacation so I could come with.

I was in the middle of my year away from college, working full time at Giant Foods, and very eager to enjoy a week as far away from DC as possible.

Our flight out of Reagan National was around 10:30 p.m. We had a bite to eat at the airport and went to board the plane. I remember seeing one of the stewardesses talking to a Middle Eastern man as I went to take my seat.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the plane. Sir..."

Obviously that gets your curiosity going. But it was late, I was tired, and I was honestly more worried about how I could occupy myself for the next 7 hours on a cramped airplane than why that man was asked to leave.

The in-flight viewing consisted of "Chocolat" and "One Night at McCools." I passed.

We arrived at London's Heathrow Airport around 8 a.m. local time (3 a.m. EST). After a rather lengthy trip on the tube - during which I took notice of all the local school kids who use the subway to get to class - we found our apartment for the week, located in the Earls Court district.

The parents went to bed, exhausted from the lack of sleep they received on the plane. I watched an episode of "ER" and then did the same. It was around 10 a.m.

Several hours later I heard a knock at the door.

"Graham?" my mom asked.

I mumbled, not quite ready to verbally communicate or look up but enough to confirm I was awake.

She told me something happened at the World Trade Center and Pentagon and several people my dad knew were probably killed.

Though he is retired from the military, my dad's job sends him to the Pentagon on a regular basis. He's there almost every day.

I laid in bed a while longer and tried my best to go back to sleep without success. I eventually gave up, rolled out of bed, and walked into the living room to see what was going on.

Black smoke spewed out of the towers as I sat down to watch the live coverage from Fox News, via England's Sky News. I watched the footage of the 2nd plane hitting. Then I watched it again and again as the panel discussed the possible culprit and motive behind the attack.

"It was Osama bin Laden," my dad said.

It was another 20 minutes before anyone on TV mentioned that name.

I was captivated. New York City was a war zone and I couldn't look away. I watched as people jumped to their deaths. I watched as the towers came down, killing hundreds and engulfing city blocks in ash, and leaving the view of that TV set was the last thing in my mind.

It had all the intrigue of a big budget Jerry Bruckheimer summer blockbuster. It didn't seem real.

In the meantime, airspace over London was closed and Americans in England were asked to be cautious.

"Wonderful," I thought. "I come to England on vacation and I might end up a target."

Dozens of questions came to mind as I watched the news. We knew there were four planes involved but were there more? And why did the plane in Pennsylvania go down? What happened on those planes before they crashed? How long had this been planned? How was this possible?

After several hours of watching the replays, the commentaries, and the live footage from the newly dubbed Ground Zero, the parents and I ventured out for food.

It was a gray Tuesday evening, just on the verge of dusk. We found a corner grocery store and picked up the necessities before crossing the street and grabbing Subway for dinner.

I remember laying in bed that night still trying to comprehend what happened. I popped in Dido's "No Angel," which I picked up the day before to help pass the time on the plane. I thought about the thousands of wives left widowed and the thousands of children left orphaned.

I didn't hear you leave
I wonder how am I still here
And I don't want to move a thing
It might change my memory

Oh I am what I am
I'll do what I want
But I can't hide
I won't go
I won't sleep
I can't breathe
Until you're resting here with me

Obviously my week in London wasn't what I expected it to be. In the days that followed I did all the touristy stuff. I visited Piccadilly Circus. I saw Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables. I ate at some very nice restaurants. But it just served as a temporary distraction from what was going on in New York.

There was a lot of bad on Sept. 11 but there was also a lot of good. Firefighters and policemen running past the bloodied victims and into the burning buildings to save what lives they could. And then rescue workers and volunteers from around the world giving their time, money, and food to help the survivors.

I watch all the TV specials, even the conspiracy theory ones. I saw United 93 (fantastic film, by the way). I even downloaded audio of that morning's Howard Stern Show; it's about halfway through where they learn about the planes.

With much anticipation, I saw Oliver Stone's World Trade Center Tuesday night. There's a scene toward the end of the film where a family is at one of the NYC hospitals and sees a wall of people missing immediately following the WTC attacks. Hundreds upon hundreds of faces, each with their own name and story.

It's really overwhelming if you stop to think about it.

I'm a storyteller by profession. In all my 25 years I can't think of a more captivating story of herosim and tragedy than what happened on and immediately following Sept. 11, 2001.