DAY THIRTY FOUR:Oct. 14:
Today was a travel day; thirteen hours of riding, flying and sitting in airports in a trek from Seattle to home. Time spent in Seattle, breathing clean air, seeing great friends was refreshing, despite the heavy work load. But every day away from New York felt wrong.
The journey home was seamless, and security procedures at the airports (Seattle, Denver and LaGuardia) appear to have improved tremendously over the last week. Procedures were consistent, smooth and efficient, taking little time but appearing appropriately vigilant.
The pilot for my United flight from Seattle to Denver announced as he taxied the jet for take off that this was his last professional flight. After 32 years he was retiring. No one on the plane asked why. When we thought about it, it seemed a wonder that anybody still wants to work as a pilot on commercial airlines. The passengers put together a card, thanking the pilot for his 32 years of service. Some of the notes were humorous, but most simply said, "Thank you. Good luck." If anyone doubted why the pilot was quitting he made this announcement immediately after take off: "Folks, due to current conditions I'm going to have to ask that you stay in your compartment throughout the flight. First class, stay in First; Business in business and Economy please stay in Economy. It's the only way we can keep track of who is, and is not, where they ought to be during the flight. I'm sure that you all understand."
When my meal came the flatwear was all metal, except the knife. As of September 11 passengers will have to make due with plastic knives.
Somewhere over Pennsylvania the pilot of the Denver-to-NYC flight announced that the Yankees beat the A's, 7-2, and I was startled to hear a quite loud yelp of joy come out of my mouth. For a second I looked around at other passengers, wondering who the noisy one was. As I sat puzzling my reaction the pilot nearly made me yelp again when he announced that the Jets, too, had won their game of the day. Tomorrow, then, the A's and Yanks face a crucial game in the Bronx, and I know that every New Yorker Ð even diehard Mets fans Ð will be praying for victory. We desperately need something to cheer about. Another Yankees World Series would be a Balm of Gilead for this town.
I know I am home because the bridges are closed, and traffic is bizarre. I know I am home because my larynx has tightened against the Ground Zero emissions, making every swallow feel as if it is passing through a tight bottleneck. I know I am home because the lead story on the evening news is three more cases of anthrax exposure in Manhattan, delivered with deliberate calm by news anchors who two months ago would have nearly shouted hysterically over a lead tidbit of Jennifer Lopez gossip. I know I'm home because everybody looks tired. I know I'm at home because Al Sharpton is challenging this week's primary election, claiming a miscount, and hinting at racially motivated deliberate fraud.
I know I'm at home because the cabbie was listening to a football game on his radio while bantering nonstop all the way from LaGuardia, his topics bouncing between gripes about traffic and classic Brooklyn critique of each and every play executed earlier today by the Yankees. I know I'm home because all sorts of people, from all walks of Brooklyn life, could be seen hanging out in front of the neighborhood fire station, just chewing the fat and boosting the spirits of the two-thirds of the firefighters who survived The Calamity, but now spend all their off-hours either at funerals or the homes of grieving widows and children.
I also know I'm home because the Empire State Building, lit in red, white and blue, stands out like a gorgeous beacon across the river.
I'm home.
Tomorrow, I must face my mail.
Be well. Be safe. Stand defiant.
Laurie Garrett
