Once upon a time, I lived in the World Trade Center for a week.
Actually, I was staying in the Marriott World Trade Center Hotel, which was connected to the twin towers.
It was October 1992, and I was a naive Midwestern girl, attending a college radio conference. I did not budget nearly enough money for cab fares and underestimated the cost of food, so I actually did not stray very far from the hotel.
The Twin Towers became my home away from home. I ate so much Sbarro Pizza that I almost went off pizza completely after the trip.
I wondered at the size, the majesty, and at the sheer number of people living and working in these buildings.
I returned to Michigan and was thankful for the relative calm of my college campus.
Then, a few short months later, I saw my former “home” destroyed. I watched news reports of terrorists ignited 1,500 pounds of explosives in the One World Trade Center parking garage, right under the Marriott Grand Ballroom. I saw footage of that very same space where I watched bands perform and heard from record executives utterly destroyed by terrorists. I was in shock.
And then, 9 years later, to hear on the radio, the surreal events of this day, eleven years ago, I was stunned.
The whole tragedy affected me; but having been there, having walked in the halls, ridden in the elevators, having checked out the view from the top, this all became so much more real to me.
I rubbed shoulders with men and women who very well may have died 11 years ago today.
I will never forget.