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It's been seven years since 9/11, and on this anniversary, I find myself sitting in an airport. Baltimore, to be exact. On my way to Atlanta. It occurs to me that it's the first time I've flown on the actual date since the national tragedy all those years ago.
Everyone remembers where they were when it happened. I was on the very last plane they let continue beyond Europe, headed to the U.S. It was a Delta flight from Shannon, Ireland to Atlanta. We would be the last of 38 planes that would be diverted to Gander, Newfoundland. They didn't tell us what happened until we landed. With all the other jumbo jets already landed beneath us, we thought there had been a catastrophic Y2K failing of the air traffic control system.
The previous night, I had treated myself to a hotel night in a former castle in Ireland. The rest of the nights that week – seven – I would sleep on the floor of a Canadian elementary school, waiting to be allowed back into the U.S.
I was traveling alone, and that made for a very strange and disconcerting week. We were the final plane evacuated from the Gander Airport. We sat on the plane for 36 hours waiting, watching movies, worrying. When we were finally evacuated, we were taken to a very tiny town named Lewisport more than an hour away. They wouldn't let us have our luggage or our toiletries.
All the video that you watched seven years ago today – we first saw it on 9/13. Two days later. Everyone still cried. We knew the entire world had changed.
I played cards. I waited in line for my turn at the one pay phone so I could call the CAMPUSPEAK office where Tracy held things together like a champ. We waited. I flirted mercilessly with a hot gym teacher at the school.
After three days in the same clothes, a group of men and I hitched a ride in a pickup truck to a mall (honestly, by American standards, not really a mall) and bought them clean out of socks, t-shirts and boxer shorts so that most of the 330 passengers from my flight could have at least one clean article of clothing.
We were the last plane to land, and the last to be released from Gander. Seven days stranded in a remote area of Canada. The people had been nice to us, but our patience was long gone. Seven days of mass produced spaghetti, donated blankets and nasty clothes. Our senses of humor felt distant and unfamiliar.
They came around 3 a.m. to wake us and load us on buses. Our plane was finally headed to Atlanta. The Delta crew had spent the week in hotel rooms, and we hated their guts for it. How nice it must have been to shower whenever you wanted, instead of during a 5-minute pre-assigned time slot.
In the scheme of things, I know we should have felt lucky. We could have been passengers on the planes that flew into buildings. But, when you're stressed, uncertain, and frightened, you want to be home. We wanted to be home.
When we landed in Atlanta, the plane erupted in applause.
As we pulled up to the gate, hundreds of Atlanta based Delta workers were gathered on the tarmac at the gate. They were waiving American flags and cheering. Hundreds of them. Their final plane had come home. For the second time that week, I sobbed. The whole plane sobbed.
Today, I'm landing in Atlanta. I'll be welcomed by the typical surly, disinterested airport employees. But, I'm going to think about that day, the flags, the cheering. Today, I'm going to be thankful, and introspective, and calm. I'm thankful that we haven't had a repeat of 9/11, and I'm going to be a little more patient as I navigate the TSA security line.
Life goes on, even after the most devastating moments. Doesn't it?
