"Turn on the TV. I think the terrorists are attacking us."

I got back from the Montreal-to-Maine AIDS ride the afternoon of September 10 (flew Portland > Boston > San Francisco). Sarah picked me up at the airport, and took me to the beach at Half Moon Bay for some sun, schnitzel and wine. We parted ways early that day, because she had to get some sleep before her 3-11am shift at a local cable news station.

September 11.
My alarm went off at 6:15am, California time. The radio was tuned to NPR, and as I groped my way back to consciousness, I heard Bob Edwards repeating rather frantically that both towers had been hit. I jumped out of bed, and called Sarah who was monitoring the news feeds at work. "Turn on the TV," she said. "I think the terrorists are attacking us."

The rest of the morning was probably like every other American's 9/11. I watched in horror as the Towers collapsed, as the Pentagon was hit, and as the plane went down in Pennsylvania. I got a call from my brother who was living in New York City and temping on Wall Street. He let me know he was okay. Shortly afterwards, the city's telephone circuits overloaded, and we didn't hear anything from friends or family for two days.

Where were you on September 11?