Eleven years ago. My goodness, we were young and green! DH, in his mysterious ways, culled together a honeymoon trip that was out of the pages of Fodor’s. When I think back to our trip to Europe for those 10 days, it’s with mixed emotions — happiness, excitement, and a little anxiety.
Happiness, to be surely attributed to really starting our lives together as a married couple. At that point, we’d been married a three months, but had delayed going away until we both had some time to really enjoy it. Happiness for sure to be in Europe, traveling to places familiar and new with someone I loved. While I’d already been to Barcelona and Paris, it was a first for DH and I was excited to show him what I remembered. Las Ramblas, the Sagrada Familia and Casa Milia of Antonio Gaudi, and the Christopher Columbus Monument. The Erotic Museum of Barcelona. We were on our honeymoon, afterall.
I was excited to break out my “frenglish”, especially when we got caught in a nasty bout of cloudy and windy days and DH was without a jacket. Going to La Galleries Lafayette, just browsing and then buying (even if it was for DH). Visiting Notre Dame, the Louvre and the Winged Victory (always awe-inspiring), and the food! Oh, the food. *le sigh*
The anxiety, though stems from what happened on the first full day of our trip. We left DC on September 10, 2001. We arrived in Madrid, checked into our hotel, explored a bit before jet lag gave us the one-two punch.
September 11th, 2001. How we spent our morning is kind of hazy to me. I’m sure we ate breakfast or lunch and planned our day. What I remember was walking around, window shopping. In one of the many squares that are laid out throughout the city, there was a giant video screen, similar to the one in Times Square. Tons of people were crowded around it. It must have been close to 1pm local time, but the crowds were thick. On the video screen, GW Bush was talking, in Spanish. DH and I figured it was some kind of news report and we kept walking. It was siesta time for us, so we headed back to the hotel.
Once in our room, DH excused himself to the bathroom while I flipped through the TV stations as I dozed. Everything was in Spanish, except for one channel that was showing airplanes flying through the sky, buildings on fire, sheets of paper fluttering to the ground like leaves off of autumn trees. “What movie is this?” I thought. So, I kept watching, thinking once I saw some actors, I’d figure it out.
DH came out of the bathroom, asked me what I was watching. “I don’t know,” I said as someone launched themselves from the top floor of a skyscraper. “I thought it was a movie, but then the news ticker started running across the bottom.”
And in minutes, everything became painfully clear. Hijackers. Airplanes. Twin Towers. We were watching it live. We were transfixed. We were watching when the second plane flew into the tower. News centers had no idea what was going on, the magnitude of it all, so nothing was edited. Nothing. The cameras showed those who managed to escape, staggering about, soot and grime covered, bleeding, crying. The boom mikes picked up soft whumping sounds, which we later discovered were people falling from the sky.
We watched. We waited. We thought, “What in the world are we doing here?!”
We went to the nearest Internet cafe we could find and started banging off emails to family and friends in New York, begging them to respond to let us know they were okay. We called our parents who reassured us that they were alright. They said that we might not be able to even get home, so try to enjoy our trip as best we could. It was probably safer where we were, they said. We sat in the hotel lobby, striking up conversations with other English speaking travelers about what in the holy hell had just happened.
One couple, who had planned to leave Madrid that day anyway, was waiting to get an all clear sign from the airport. They’d been gone from Beaumont, Texas two weeks on a golfing trip and were tired of living out of suitcases. The husband said, they’d gotten to the airport, then got turned back to the hotel. Then they’d gotten the call to come back to the airport. They went back, got on a plane, then got turned back. They’d gotten another call to the airport, got on the plane, got as far as Canadian airspace, and were turned back. To Madrid.
I remember sitting on the yellow and ivory striped sofas of the lobby, listening to the soft whirring of the elevators, the gentle clicks of the keyboard as people were checked in and out. I remember listening to the southern drawl of Mr. Beaumont, Texas and wondering when we’d hear from DH’s brother, who was living in the city. We wondered about DH’s fraternity brother who worked not far from the towers, and my good friend who lived in Manhattan. How could we possibly continue on a honeymoon? It seemed so foolish. And yet, what choice did we have? Could we even get home? And once we did, then what?
We stayed.
We heard from Brandon, Billy, and Tanja.
We enjoyed the rest of Madrid, inhaling the history, the culture and the people. We went to bullfights, tapas restaurants and flamenco dancing performances. We traveled to Barcelona, rubbing our fingers along the walls of Picasso’s house. The aquarium, Las Ramblas, and Pans restaurant, which seemed to be the only place to get some lettuce in your sandwich. We traveled to Paris. We dined on escargot, zoomed to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and walked, walked, walked all over the city.
We readied ourselves to go home and when we did, witnessed the marked difference in airline security. The new normal, as it come to be.
Every generation has a turning point that defines them. The “where-were-you-when” scenario that connects one person to another. Most assuredly, this is mine.
