REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK -- Deepa Bharath

Sept. 8, 2001.

It was a bright and beautiful Saturday morning in New York City.

My husband and I opened the window of our hotel room in upper

Manhattan. There was no view except that of a fourth-floor balcony of

another building littered with candy wrappers and soda cans.

But we could still hear the sound of cars, buses and subway trains.

Even on a Saturday, the city was bustling. It seemed so full of life.

As we headed out close to noon, armed with bottled water, some

Tropicana orange juice and much-needed maps, we saw people pacing up and

down Broadway like they had some place to go at 11 a.m. on a Saturday.

My husband, Bharath, his cousin Arvind and I were engaged in a

discussion as we neared a bagel store. The subject of our conversation:

Do we go to the Empire State Building or to the World Trade Center?

We had time only for one. So which one was it going to be?

My vote was for the Empire State Building. It somehow seemed more

romantic. It seemed to stand with such elegance, such majesty. The World

Trade Center? Well, it was this very tall building that housed many, many

offices. But it didn’t really appeal to me.

But Bharath and Arvind were all for the World Trade Center. So,

pushover that I am, I gave in. We made our plans. We’d take the train to

Wall Street, walk around and then go all the way to the top of the tower.

And that’s what we did. The markets were closed, of course, but we

walked all the way down Wall Street, past the Starbucks, Brooks Brothers

and Taco Bell. It was a hot, humid day.

We went down by the water and tried to take a ferry to the Statue of

Liberty. I tried to make a case to go to Ellis Island instead of the

World Trade Center. But as luck would have it, the famed crown was closed

that day and the ferries were so crowded it would have taken us at least

four hours to get to the base of the statue and back.

So we retraced our steps, walked through Battery Park, took some

pictures outside the New York Stock Exchange and near the statue of a

raging bull -- an icon that symbolized what the neighborhood stood for.

Then we slowly walked up to the tower. I craned my head to see if I

could catch a glimpse of the building. I couldn’t. It was too high.

“It’s that steely building over there,” Arvind said pointing his

finger toward the tower.

As we came close by, I saw the gargantuan towers. Several tourists

with cameras slung on their shoulders and around their necks crowded

nearby.

We crossed one of the towers that has a mall in the first floor.

“Gosh, all these malls look alike,” I remarked. “They have the same

smell.

“Even the same music,” I added as I heard Kenny G playing on the

system.

We went to the main tower and bought tickets. As we neared the

entrance, we were asked by officials there to pose for a photo in front

of a facade that bore the cardboard skyline of the city.

We were amused and talked about how it was clearly something they did

for security purposes but made out to be some tourist stunt like they do

in the Jurassic Park or Splash Mountain rides.

We then took the elevator to the 107th floor, which was built like an

observatory. We spent an hour going around and around, looking at the

great city from a lot of different angles.

Suddenly, Bharath saw people coming down on escalators.

“Hey look!” he exclaimed. “We can go all the way up.”

So we took two escalators to reach the top. It had a breathtaking view

of the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, New Jersey and the

rest of the city.

“I’m glad we decided to come here,” I told my husband.

We took some pictures again. Spent almost an hour there. It was much

cooler up there. And less humid.

There were at least 50 people up there on the roof. But nobody talked

that much. Everybody just seemed to take in the view.

It was beautiful.

Then we came down the escalators and the elevators and headed out of

the towers, took the subway train and never came back to the area. We

left New York on Sunday night.

Two mornings later, our television was on in our apartment.

And as we watched the repeated shot of an airplane fly through the

tower, it was like watching the devil piercing the heart of a strong and

powerful gladiator.

It was like seeing a real person, a good friend -- some stranger we

had gotten to know intimately barely two days before -- being tortured,

ravaged and blown to bits.

The small streets we had walked all over about two days before were

covered with ash, the air filled with smoke and untold sorrow.

The film that bore images from the magnificent tower still lay rolled

up in our camera.

And on Thursday, as I sat at my desk, still in disbelief, as my

fingertips tapped the keys of my computer, I didn’t know what I was

feeling.

Happy that I was one of the last people who got an opportunity to go

up that tower? Or sick to my stomach that the buildings that have assumed

personalities of their own for locals and tourists over the years had

been reduced to a mountain of concrete, glass and steel?

Ask me 50 years from now. And I still won’t know.

* Deepa Bharath covers public safety and courts. She may be reached at

(949) 574-4226 or by e-mail at o7 deepa.bharath@latimes.comf7 .