We are running out of life as my guy constantly reminds me.
So I am throwing caution to the wind and travelling while I can.
But I am beginning to wonder if there is a pattern happening here.
As you know, tireless readers, I was in England in September and the Queen died at age 96.
In October I went to New York City and Angela Lansbury died at age 96.
And now I hear Dick Van Dyke is throwing $5 dollar bills around to the homeless in California. He is 96 years old. I shall be sure to stay away from Los Angeles.
It’s impossible to avoid the subject of death it seems especially on a whirlwind trip to the city which never sleeps: New York.
I went to the Metropolitan Opera to see Tosca. For those who don’t follow tragic Italian opera, Tosca is a diva who commits murder then suicide all in the name of love.
How uplifting you are saying. Well at least her famous aria Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore (I lived for art, I lived for love) was.
Then there was the visit to Ground Zero which stirred up all the memories of that unforgettable day on September 11, 2001.
The memorial site was tastefully constructed to honour the lives of the 2,996 people who died on that fateful day. Outside, on the perimeter of the footprint of the World Trade Center, each and every name was engraved in granite surrounded by a water feature.
Beautiful and peaceful.
The visit to the museum was overwhelming as there was so much to see.
Again, it was tastefully done as it documented the lives of every victim, putting a face and a personal story to their names.
There was none of that footage we saw on television of people jumping to their deaths. The bloody shoes and clothing we saw were those of survivors. The escape stairwell on display was the one where survivors ran down.
As I said, it was done in good taste with respect to the deceased as well as the survivors.
I expected to feel more emotion and I am not quite sure why I didn’t.
Perhaps it seemed all too surreal or maybe because so much time has passed, the impact is lessened. Or could it be with the constant onslaught of death and misery in the world today, we have become immune to tragedy.
Anesthetized.
Having said that, I was a girl on a mission.
My first trip to New York was in October 2000, where I had my photo taken with two firefighters from Ladder 7.
I knew Ladder 7 was one of the first fire departments on scene that fateful day.
I have been carrying that photo with me for 22 years and I needed to know if the two first responders in my photo had survived.
I learned that 6 guys from Ladder 7 had died.
I took a taxi to the fire station in a rather dodgy part of lower Manhattan and found it empty.
However, I persisted to knock on the door willing someone to answer.
A young firefighter from Queens answered the door.
I told him my story and he was confident that my two firefighters had survived. He said he would ask a senior member of the house and get back to me. I left him with a copy of the photo and my contact information.
I heard nothing.
I feel disappointed but relieved as now I have closure.
Moving on with my life, I am now heading off to Mexico.
Nonagenarians beware.
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