Next Monday I will return to New York for the first time since Sept. 11. It's been almost 10 weeks since I went through that slow-motion day, curled up in front of the television in my apartment, only blocks away from the site. Time has helped me return to normalcy, but now that I'm facing the journey back east, I am reminded of the images of that day.

On the morning of Sept. 11, I had been in New York for less than 24 hours. Although I've lived in Portland for three years, I keep an apartment in the village on 13th Street, about forty blocks away from Ground Zero. I get back there every eight weeks or so to see clients, massage media contacts and get a fix of urban energy.

The first conversation I had on Sept. 11 was with a 411 operator. In her sassy urban twang, she said "Ma'am, you better turn on your television."

With the air conditioner going I can't hear street traffic outside the building, much less something going on 40 blocks away. That morning I had gotten up, made coffee, checked my to-do list and picked up the phone. After 20 tries to reach various people, I finally got through to the 411 operator.

I could not believe the images I was seeing were only blocks away. I wasn't watching TV, I was living in a war zone. It was inconceivable that my benign business trip had turned into a terrifying visit of uncertainty. How do you deal with this kind of fear? I had leftovers in the fridge but did I need to stock up on water, bread, chicken?

I called Owen, an old friend. We were scheduled to meet for drinks that evening. As usual, we debated where to meet: a new upscale Asian restaurant? A local brewery? A neighborhood bakery/cafê What kind of cuisine is a good fit when your city is burning? We agreed to meet at AZ.

At 5:45 p.m. I rode the elevator down from the fifth floor. Marty, the evening doorman, said hello and we exchanged words of sorrow. I turned left out the door, toward Fifth Avenue.

The city was beyond quiet. I walked carefully, hesitant yet dying to see this changed world firsthand. People were stopping, walking, staring at the sky. Everyone seemed softened, almost puffy, as if the planes had rounded their edges. It was like being in the wilderness or looking out at the Grand Canyon. Amazingly quiet. The city had simply stopped or frozen in time.

The thing that struck me most was the eye contact. Instead of our usual way of passing each other briskly, looking down the street, carrying on rapid-fire cell phone conversations, we slowly surveyed each other's faces. A handy man from next door locked eyes with me. Without a word, we exchanged an entire world of meaning. We were probing for life. We looked and wondered, Are we still the same New Yorkers? Who are we now that we are vulnerable?

This is a new New York.

The view from 13th and Fifth has always been dramatic — an unobstructed sky with the Washington Square arch and the Twin Towers. We were below the check point so there were no cars. Students from Parsons and The New School walked in small clumps down the middle of the street. I felt that constrained adrenaline you feel when you walk in the doors of a funeral home. You know you may burst into tears so you try to hold your muscles tight, as if your structure can help hold back your internal chaos.

I stopped on the corner. Turned to the right, with a view straight down Fifth Avenue. Huge clouds of mudlike smoke roiled into the air where the towers should have been. How could they really be gone? Rollerbladers, tourists, businessmen: We all stopped to look. A young couple with a small white terrier stood in the middle of the street and shot a photograph. I hovered like a balloon: tethered to the sidewalk, floating in disbelief.

When I walked north to meet Owen, there were two Army humvees on the corner of 14th. New York City Policemen and national guardsmen were checking ID's.

I passed Mesa Grill, a famous Southwestern restaurant. Closed. Paul Smith, a men's shop. Closed. Every single business I passed had a little handwritten sign taped to the inside of the windows.

"Due to today's tragedy, we are closed. We have gone home to be with our families."

At AZ, Owen walked toward me, hitting his head with his hand. What were we thinking? I guess we weren't. We were just doing what New Yorkers do.

"You know," he said. "The only place that's going to be open is an Irish pub."

We walked down 18th toward Old Town, a 100-year-old pub. As we got close, there it was: the now-familiar white sign in the window. We walked up to it anyway. It read: "No terorist is going to keep us away from our pints. Come on in!"

We sat and were comforted by the familiar noise and energy of New York. We craved the invincible attitude, although we knew it was forever changed.

New York's spirit had survived, it was just tender and fragile, and we needed to cherish it more than ever.

As I exit Newark airport next week and drive toward the skyline, I will look for the familiar, but I need to remember this is a change we must all absorb. My view from 13th street was firsthand but these events have been universal alarms to wake up and hold things we cherish much closer to our hearts.

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This article appeared on November 23, 2001, in The Business Journal.