October, 2001

The first time I visited New York City was in October, 2001, just one and a half months after the attacks on the World Trade Center. Someone got me tickets to see Bjork at Radio City Music Hall and, while I considered it, I decided NOTHING was keeping me from seeing that show. I flew into Long Island and took the train to Grand Central Station, watching the Manhattan skyline grow from an unimpressive, distant outline from far away, into this mostrous, unimaginable beast.

Emerging from the underground bustle and chaos that is Grand Central onto the loudest street I’d ever been on was indescribable. I could hear the hum of this big, intricate machine in the sounds that consumed me. There were people and cars and buildings everywhere.

“My God, the streets are empty.” So spoke my companion, who’d been to New York countless times before, as we walked and looked for available taxis. We were able to find one fairly quickly. Once in the back seat I found, along with the rules and a list of commitements to the rider by the city-approved cab service, a poster with a smiling man’s face on it.

“I MISS MY DADDY,” it read. “Last seen on Fl. #56 of WTC Tower 2.” Another photo with his smiling, petite wife. His address and phone number and his name was listed. Now, three years later I’ve forgotten his name.

Times Square, which we visited that first night, was draped in white. Many of the ads associated with Times Square were covered or missing. All the lights seemed dim. Though the people seemed abundant, they looked nothing but lost. And not that touristy heel-spinning, I mean they looked like they had no idea where they were going or how they were going to get there. They all moved just from habit. I couldn’t get a sense of anyone while I was there. Restaurants sat empty, chairs all tucked neatly under tables, the wild-haired owners or chefs with clean hands would be on the stoops offering half-off for two entrees. It looked like everyone was staying home. That, or they were dead.

The Bjork show was a phenomenal event that I’ll be forever grateful for having the oppurtunity to see. I was in a desperately volatile place that month–that year–and was moved to tears and sobs at the sound of her voice. The symphany, the Icelandic choir, her being completely MAGIC and shit was too much. I broke down like a Yugo. It was a little ugly. But not as ugly as the brutal girl-fight that happened while we were in line outside.

That entire trip was surreal. I was there so soon after the place had been devestated, doing what I was told might help, seeing plays and eating out and spending money to try to fix some of these fresh wounds, even just the tiniest little bit. But it all felt wrong. I felt like I was partying at a big-ass funeral. Having cocktails during the wake.

I’ve been back to New York since that trip, later spending time in both Brooklyn and Manhattan. I was happy to find New York had gotten her the groove I’d heard so much about back. But when I was there the first time, in October, 2001 I visited a ghost town. They all say you’ll never forget the first time you visit New York City. They are right. I will always remember New York as the biggest, shiniest, saddest place I’ve ever been.