I woke up about 9:20am in my tiny apartment in the East 20s near Gramercy park, to the sound of an unusual amount of sirens blaring. I turn on the TV and then barely remember what I did until the second plane SUPPOSEDLY hit and then you could hear dozens of people screaming.

So I pack up some stuff and head to Grand Central Station.
They closed it down. No trains in or out. Traffic is at a standstill all over Manhattan.

I'm trapped. You would not believe how quiet it was, people were really scared this was WWIII and bombs were going to start dropping any second. As I'm walking down second ave back to my apt I notice an upscale deli still open, so I go in and buy 50 bucks worth of food knowing I might be stuck inside for who knows what, or even having a last meal.

By the time I get back to my place, I noticed I hadn't received any phone calls. Not even my own mother. One of many revelations over the years. As the day wore on, nobody called me.

I left NYC in 2005.