Ground Zero, NY, October 27th

As soon as the door opens at the last subway stop, the smell hits you immediately, even two stories below street level. It's the smell you sense when walking by a building being razed, a mixture of old wood, concrete, steel and plaster But here, the smell is combined with an acrid undertone, perhaps imagined, probably real. Here, thousands of people were cremated, and this commanding odor must surely be infused with their flesh and bones.

It was near midnight, clear and mild, but the streets were unusually quiet save for the lone policeman stationed at a barricade, and the occasional passerby wearing a neck tag signifying residence within the restricted area.

I walked east along a dark Chambers Street, then turned south onto Broadway, opposite City Hall Park. Up ahead, a few people were standing at the intersection of Fulton Street looking towards the site. When I arrived, I looked right and, a mere two blocks away, stood the remnant of a burned-out building, maybe six stories remaining, its uppermost girders bent over hanging three stories down toward the street below. I stared for some time, almost mesmerized by the glow of the huge bright lights and the smoky white haze. This was my first glimpse into Ground Zero, and it was chilling. This wasn't surreal, this was real.

Further down Broadway, at Cortland Street, is as close as one is allowed. The lights are even brighter and there are four massive cranes, a couple more than twenty stories high. Dump trucks and other machinery can now be heard as they labor over the pile of ruin. To the right, a short block away and the most striking sight, is another building, perhaps eight stories remaining, its beams pipes and concrete so mangled that its original structure is barely discernable. And to the left, further back beyond the pile and the illuminated haze, stands the lower portion of WTC 2, its vertical girders cut off just above the horizontal beams creating (no embellishment intended) an image of crosses one sees at a military cemetery.

The fences at the intersections are irregularly arrayed with a mixture of wilted flowers, makeshift cloth and cardboard banners signed with magic markers, pictures of some who perished, American flags, etc. The people standing around are few, the conversations muted. And, when strangers catch each other's glance, the acknowledgement is a sad shake of the head accompanied by a reverent sort of low sound. The mood is shared, and they move on.

I turned down Rector Street and walked two blocks to Greenwich Street, on the south side of Ground Zero. Coming from the site, through the manned gates, are the loaded trucks each carrying one or two massive girders. The trucks, covered with ash, are quickly washed by two hosemen before they enter the streets. One of the trucks stopped just outside the gate and I walked over to examine its load more closely. It was an I-beam, as large, sturdy and imposing as any I had ever seen. A thick portion of concrete was still attached at one end. Undoubtedly, this one beam could, by itself, support a large house. But now it was bent, twisted and charred, indicating the power it must have taken to create such a distortion. After a while, the hearse continued on its way.

I slowly retraced my route, stopping again at each intersection to confirm my disbelief, if one can do such a thing. During the month I've been here, I've met many residents of this great city, and most have not been to Ground Zero. When I ask why not, they're not entirely sure which, I suppose, is as good a reason as any. It was nearly 2 AM when I hailed a cab to return uptown, myself not entirely sure what to think. What thoughts can you possibly have when you've just seen, smelled, touched and felt the place where the world changed.