Long Island Woman
November 2001
----------------------T R A V E L ------------------------

THE VIEW FROM ABROAD
FEAR AND HEARTACHE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC
By Jennifer Smith Huntley

I knew my responsibility was now as an ambassador for the United States

"How are you getting home?"

A thin gnarled hand touched my shoulder and I looked up at the face of an old man. At first I thought he was talking about the hotel. After biking more than 30 miles with our group to the Mediterranean
resort town, home meant a soft bed in the luxurious ranch in the Camargue. But of course, that is not what the grandfatherly Englishman had meant at all.

The day before, I had ridden my bike from Arles to the sea, pedaling down the long white pebble driveway lined with round oleander bushes, their last remaining blossoms of pink and red about to fall. It was the kind of place designed to take your breath away, a hacienda with vine-covered terraces and manicure lawns tucked away from the wind-blown marshland. "Isn't this beautiful?" someone was saying behind me, but I was alert to the couple walking toward us. "Two planes have crashed into the World Trade Center," he said. She was shaking her head. "Its unbelievable."

The fatigue from the ride kept me calm. In my room I turned on the television and saw the towers burning, then exploding and an announcer spoke seriously in French. More than ever a stranger in a strange land, I could not comprehend what had happened to my country. And I couldn't get the darn
remote to switch channels. Finally, CNN delivered the terrible news.

Of course, anyone's first reaction is whom do I know who could have been there? Friends who worked close by, but not in those buildings. And they rode different subway lines. Tourguiding friends would not have been there so early. I continued my personal checklist.

I was the only New Yorker on this bike trip in Southern France, a single woman and even as we huddled around the TV in the hotel lobby, I felt alone. People were on their vacations. Their cities were intact. Sure, they were shocked and worried, but tomorrow was another day of biking in France. At breakfast the next morning someone read a FAX from the president of the Canadian-based tour company expressing his condolences and assurance the trip would continue. "As if that's what's important," I raged silently.

My television was on whenever I was in my room. I didn't try to call home. My family had my itinerary if they needed me. I biked to Saintes Maries, across the salt ponds that looked like Death Valley, and wandered the small streets where I had been before. Everything looked different, like a town the day after the carnival has left.

In a touristy café the old Englishman offered the first true expression of compassion.

"We think its just awful. Such a tragedy," his wife said. "How do you think George Bush will be in all of this?"

I knew my responsibility was now as an ambassador for the United States. "He’ll be fine," I answered, "and he had good people around him."

"Yes," she added, "and I think his wife, Laura is just lovely."

Our farewell dinner was meant to be a celebration, but standing in the lobby watching the gypsy singers wail with passion, I was shouting inside, "Where am I?" A young woman handed me a portable
phone. I could barely hear my ex husband's voice. "Are you OK? I've been trying to phone all day but couldn't get through. Everyone is all right. Your Dad. Morgan,” our son. He paused. "Roberta's husband Bob worked on the 77th Floor."

Roberta was a spunky time buyer for our company who had married late. For years a sign in her office read, You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.

"We called all the hospitals. She's sure he's dead. With emphysema he could never get down. He told someone on the phone at the time, ‘there's been an explosion and we all have to leave. I've just got one more thing to do and then I'm going.’ Roberta said that was so typical of him."

"What's it like there, at home?" I asked, at home, looking through a vase of sunflowers.

"Everyone is putting out flags." I could hear his voice crack. "Its just not right." I knew he was crying, and with an ocean between us, and half a lifetime that connected us, we silently cried together.

The bike trip ended the following morning in Nimes. Others boarded trains for Paris, but I planned to see the Roman ruins in this beautiful, ancient city.

Now I was totally alone. I checked into a nice hotel and turned on the television. It was a day of mourning and Americans were gathering in churches and on the streets. I was the tourist and went out to see the sights. But I wanted to be home. When I bought a bottle of water I told the shopkeeper, "je suis Americanne."

"Ah, triste," and I saw real sadness in her eyes.

The annual feria and bullfights in the Roman arena had been canceled, but teenagers still gathered in front of food stalls into the wee hours, looking for fun. I watched SKY News from Britain.

The airports in New York had opened and then closed again after a suspicious person was arrested. The Airline phone lines were busy.

In the morning I strolled in the park and shopped in the bustling food market, a normal Saturday morning in Nimes, but I was killing time. I tried to converse in my broken French with the cab driver on our way to the train. He was worried about US retaliation. "If there is something nuclear," he said.

There were lines at the airport, but I relieved to be at last with Americans, who, like me, wanted to go home. When the agent handed me my boarding pass, I asked "Am I definitely on this plane?"

He nodded with that same look of sympathy.

Most passengers on the huge Air France 747 were Americans. The pilot told us in heavy French accent told us, "We are very happy to have the opportunity to be bringing you home." And eight hours later, as we approached JFK Airport he said, "For the last four days I have been carrying Americans in my heart because of this nightmare."

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