An American In London On That Day

by Dick Mac

It was about 1:30 PM, twenty years ago, my lunchtime, and I sat at my desk in an office looking toward The Tower and the Thames, at 1 Undershaft, near St. Mary Axe, in London.

This was when I usually chatted with friends back home in New York City, five hours behind me, who were now starting their day. I was on AIM with my friend Leeza, a florist in Manhattan who hadn’t yet left for work.

“Hold on a minute,” she said. “Something’s happening on the television.”

I don’t remember if she was watching CNN or NY1, but she typed back: “Something’s going on downtown. It looks like there’s an accident at the World Trade Center.”

We typed back and forth a few more times until she had to go, and she said I should look at a television.

I walked down the hall to the managing partner’s office, another American ex-pat, and told him something was happening.

We set-up a television in a small conference room and watched the first tower ablaze. We decided to start contacting New Yorkers.  It was about 8:45 AM and only a few people were in the NY office, which officially opened at 9:30, and most people were still commuting. I was sitting at my desk on the phone and various chat applications when I heard yells that a plane had hit the other tower.

We knew this wasn’t an accident.

We started monitoring local news, and the City of London Police announcements, awaiting guidance. There were concerns that London and other European cities might be next.

My wife was working a few blocks away at the old London Stock Exchange, and we decided to sit tight until we heard something from our employers or the authorities. London is a city that has experienced a lot of terrorism, and I knew that there would be guidance about what to do, how to proceed, etc. My English colleagues were upset and concerned but had a certain calm, a stoicism that was reassuring to me. My thought was that we would get the next plane home.

We had televisions in the conference rooms and most staff were gathered on the 18th floor. I joined them. I think I was the only American in that room, the only New Yorker, when the first tower came down. I just looked at everyone in the room with my mouth agape and said: “No! No!” I bolted from the room, ran back to my office and tried to call friends back home. It wasn’t long before the second tower came down.

We had friends and acquaintances who worked downtown, in and around the towers. There was no way to know if they were OK. Nobody in NYC answered their phone, NYC friends were no longer on chat services or listservs. We could see video from the news services but couldn’t talk to anyone.

I let my siblings in Boston know I was OK in London. That was the first time I felt angry that I was in London. I wanted to be in NYC, I wanted to be in my city with my friends and my colleagues, I wanted to help. I felt helpless, useless.

I started calling the parents of some NYC friends, but they had no contact with them either. They couldn’t reach anybody in NYC. We didn’t know yet that most of the phone companies, landline and mobile alike, ran their primary transmissions from the Towers. With the towers compromised, there was no phone service.  

The skies above London became eerily silent as all air travel was cancelled. The tube was stopped, the trains and buses were stopped. 

Eventually it was announced that the City was closing and everyone should make their way home. My wife’s company told her to call a car service and go home. I left my office, met her and we made our way back to our flat.

We lived in a busy neighborhood near Westbourne Grove and Notting Hill Gate, and like the City, it was noticeably quite.

The ensuing hours were painfully void of information. The television kept showing the same horrific videos over and over again.

I stopped calling NYC and sat helplessly in front of the television. There was nothing to do except sit and wait.

It was a very long day in a far away place.