Fifteen years ago today

I was in the Westin Burlingame on a business trip when I learned the news.  Gina, who was in the same hotel on this trip, pounded on my hotel room door, woke me up, and we watched in horror as the plane hit the second tower.

I wasn't in New York.  I lost no friends in the attack.  Yet I still feel sick about it.

That Friday, I flew home on the first flight to leave the Bay Area since the attacks.  We had to arrive over three hours early for the flight.  Lines were huge.  Everyone was somber.  Most were shell-shocked.  No one complained.

Almost everyone on our flight sighed in relief when it took off, but people remained tense the whole time we were in the air.

On Monday, I flew into La Guardia on a business trip.  As we drew closer to the airport, I could see out the window--I was on the left side of a small commuter plane--the smoldering ruins and the helicopters still patrolling the airspace.  The anger in the plane was palpable.  I felt it.

The ripples of that day have cost a probably unknowable number of human lives and an also probably unknowable amount of money, to our country and to others.

I wasn't in New York.  I lost no friends in the attack.  Yet I still feel sick about it.