The big city is badly bent

24 September 2001

NEW YORK - The train into Penn Station passes through Queens, curving around the island of Manhattan. At one point, there is a break in the buildings and the entire city is visible.

To a man and a woman, every passenger turns and stares. Chattering voices still. We are all looking for something that isn't there.

In a souvenir shop, I glance at postcards displayed on a rack: The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, magnificent views looking north, through midtown and Central Park.

But there are no views looking south.

The streets are filled with hawkers, peddling the ubiquitous watches ("Genuine Rolex. $10"), bootlegged CDs, foods of almost every nation sold from steel carts. And there are new products too, all of them red, white and blue: Flags, posters bragging "United We Stand," ribbons to be pinned to one's clothes.

And it's on the street that I find the missing postcards, the ones with the view that will never be again. The postcards now sell for a premium, collector's items, next to large photos of buildings in flames.

Many recent New York buildings were constructed with vast common spaces, a concession to the public for the lack of open space in the most densely packed parts of the city. They were like interior parks, respites from the crowded sidewalks. Now they are blocked off. "Employees Only," read hand-lettered signs.

Guards are everywhere, all decked out in new blue uniforms. Taking an elevator now requires one to sign in, showing an ID and giving a destination. It's chaotic. People slip by, unwilling to wait in line, unnoticed by the guards.

Bostonians are proud of the flags they display on their doors and fly from their car aerials. But they are nothing compared to New York, which seems positively festooned. In some restaurants every table has its own flag; the waiter encourages diners to take it when they are done.

The stock market may be down, but somewhere makers of uniforms and flags are doing very well indeed.

New York's newspapers, always pugnacious, are in exceptionally fine form. They take the attack personally and vow on behalf of the city that it won't bring them down. The New York Post distributes a giant poster with the face of Osama bin Laden. "Wanted: Dead or Alive," it demands, "For mass murder in New York City."

The streets are packed, as they always have been, yet, despite the braggadocio of the press, the city seems down. Hotels are empty. People stay home. There are few smiles, little laughter. It is as if a pall has settled over the area like the thick dust.

Nighttimes for many are spent going from one memorial service to the next. Posters for the missing are everywhere. The faces smile out, young and old, with their names and workplaces listed. Few New Yorkers have any hope left of finding them alive and so the posters have become memorials of a sort.

From afar, jets crashing and buildings tumbling were a spectacle. Up close, it's two sisters missing or a dad that never came home from work.

Even after the loss of over 6,000, there are still more than 7 million inhabitants of New York. Everyone speaks of a desire to shake off the gloom, to get back to business, to return to the wonderfully chaotic wildness of yesterday. They know it does not dishonor the dead for those who remain to live as they once did. But it's hard. It all seems too soon.

For now, New York is a city grieving, still trying to understand an empty wound in the sky.