I followed up with some news stations this morning - trying to figure out what happened to my resumes and resume tapes.
It was a bad time to call.
“Bad time to talk,” someone said in a DC newsroom, “Bombing in London.”
I called around 7:30 AM - PST….three hours behind the east coast and several hours behind the rest of the world. After making the calls - I flipped on the news. London survivors, covered in bloody bandages and soot, described the chaos of the bombings. My heart sank slowly into a pit of desolation. Reports on the casualities and injuries left me numb in shock. I recoginzed the streets I used to walk on. Now emergency vehicles and injured bodies on stretchers covered those streets. I remember taking the Tube every morning to work and riding it every evening back home to Mark.
We loved living in London last fall. It broke my heart to see this beautiful city and its people suffering from the terrorists attacks.
Those fucking bastards. How does blowing up Tube trains make their cause honorable? How can they feel justified in any of this pain and death? How can they be such barbarians?
Before we left for Europe, some folks, like Mark’s mom - said she was worried about us being attacked by terrorists. I scoffed at her concern. Out of all the destinations the global journalism students headed for - London was the safest spot on Earth. In my mind - we’d have more problems with the currency exchange instead of worrying about the next terrorist attack.
I was so fucking arrogant. I was so wrong.
News reports said Victoria Station got a bomb threat that day. Nothing happened. Thank God. Mark and I took the tube to Victoria, every Sunday. Our church was at that stop.
Today - I felt so sad. I know the body count doesn’t match 9/11 - but the Londom bombs it so close to home. London was our home last fall. We loved it. I miss walking around my neighborhood - parallel to Bond Street and Saville Row. I miss my morning coffee and Mozart at Cafe Nero. I miss going out on interviews to Christie’s and Soethby’s. We made it home - our little flat next to the Burlington Arms. Mark often did laundry. We took turns cooking. We watched DVD’s on Mark’s laptop. We had dinner parties for our Medill friends Andrea and Cub. It’s tough to live in London - expensive….thick accents… people driving on the wrong side of the street. But we worked hard to adjust to this new country. We made it home.
It hurts when your home and the people there, suffer needlessly.
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