Ground zero, Dec. 28.
As I approached from the subway stop a few blocks away, the crowd thickened. So did the vendors.
American flag hats, wallets, scarves, sweaters, even actual American flags. Everything one could possibly need for this patriotic pilgrimage.
It wouldn't be America, after all, if we didn't find a way to capitalize on everything and anything.
There wasn't really anything to be seen from the police barricades. Just empty space between the buildings. The air smelled like burning asbestos.
I sat down on some steps nearby. After crying for a few minutes, I looked at the crowd again.
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Tourists. I couldn't find a single face that looked like it belonged to someone who was there because they grieved the loss of so much life.
A number were snapping photos on disposable cameras. Three had made the faux pas of wearing the same exact ear-flapped red, white and blue cap. Occasionally, someone clambered up the stairs past me to get a better view.
But there were no tears or hugs. Nothing to indicate that anyone was actually affected by the memories in this place.
Since then, a new observation deck has opened. Something tells me actual New Yorkers aren't the ones using it. What's next? T-shirts that say, "I went to see the wreckage of the World Trade Center, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt?"
From the financial district, I found my way to that other haven of capitalism, where I happened to be meeting some friends: Times Square.
Maybe it's just that old pair of rose colored glasses I see the past through, but I seem to remember a time when midtown was just as seedy as the Port Authority Bus Terminal itself. But, no more.
Not that Times Square wasn't Tourist Central before, but now it's just one solid advertisement. Every inch of every street facing surface is covered in billboards ranging several stories high.
My friend Maria told me she had at first thought the perfect way to crown such supreme ridiculousness would be to build a roller coaster in the middle of Manhattan. Then, she said, some toy store actually did it.
I was relieved to find in Brooklyn, Washington Heights and Alphabet City that some neighborhoods retain that same comfortably worn-out, lived-in aspect that makes New York City great. Unfortunately, no amount of sentiment or disaster can prevent midtown or the financial district from becoming the latest corporate-name-here theme park.
It was, as I'd been warned, nearly impossible to get into a conversation with anyone in New York City or the surrounding area without coming eventually to the subject of Sept. 11. Of course, the tenor of such conversations is very different than they generally are here.
While the rest of the world may feel free to argue the politics of the aftermath of the events of Sept. 11, New Yorkers seem still much more focused on the event itself.
That isn't to say that people there don't have any political views on the subject. Even among those who actually lost someone, there is so much divergence that, while some say they want revenge for those they lost, others say that their own suffering has taught them to wish no further suffering for others.
I only suggest that, among New Yorkers, discussions of Sept.11 are generally less focused on expounding political views and more focused on bringing mutual consolation.
I'm very glad to be back home in Albuquerque. And very glad to bring one small bit of knowledge back from my former home: While it is well-worth it to stand by one's belief in what is just and right, it is also worthy to share comfort with others when it's needed, without asking whether their beliefs coincide.
