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LETTER FROM NEW YORK
Site fleeing

BY CHRIS WRIGHT



Ground Zero is not a popular topic in New York. "No interest in it," says Davey, tucking into a plate of plantains at the Café Habana. Vikki, when asked if she’s visited the site, says, "No, I have not," adding, "And I don’t intend to." The talk quickly turns to whether George Clooney is a bigger hunk than Russell Crowe.

There’s a rule in New York: if you live there, you do not do touristy things. Locals would sooner admit to having had sexual relations with a squirrel than having visited the Statue of Liberty. And, since the city opened a viewing platform in late December, Ground Zero has become the biggest attraction in town, drawing tens of thousands of visitors, many of them toting video cams and fold-out maps. And yet New Yorkers’ reluctance to visit Ground Zero seems to run a lot deeper than the fear of looking like dorky out-of-towners. The fact is, there are many who cringe at the idea of turning the world’s largest mass grave into a tourist attraction (tickets are required).

These concerns are not without merit. Around the site, scores of sidewalk vendors hawk NYPD and FDNY hats. People walk about wearing Ground Zero attire. Parents tell their grinning kids to stand beside the barriers so they can have their pictures taken. Say cheese! Adding to the carnival atmosphere is the line for the viewing platform — two blocks long, three or four people deep.

It’s a bright and bitterly cold afternoon. On Broadway, the neo-Gothic buildings take on a tangerine glow, while plumes of steam blossom into the blue sky. You’d hardly know this had been the scene of such devastation if it weren’t for the faint smell of burning plastic in the air and the masses of T-shirts, caps, poems, flags, candles, and flowers lining the sidewalk. Every available space is filled with scrawled messages: WE LOVE YOU, NEW YORK; GOD BLESS AMERICA; R.I.P.

Still, standing in this line it’s hard to shake a sense of guilt — or at least embarrassment. After an hour or so, however, these emotions give way to feelings of chilliness, which in turn give way to feelings of impatience. Every now and then, a stout woman will come out and holler things like, "People with tickets for 3:30 come to the front of the line!" At this, a crowd of people bundle from the back of the line to the front, causing those of us who were at the front to look on with resentment. Finally, we are ushered up a wooden ramp toward the platform. I don’t want to use the word "stampede," but it’s all a little chaotic. You’ve never seen so many people jostling and craning to get a look at nothing.

It’s hard to imagine this blank space as the site of the World Trade Center, or even the World Trade Center disaster. Most of the debris has been cleared; in essence, all that’s left is a construction site.

Occasionally, a worker will gaze up at us gazing down at him, and those feelings of shame will return. For me, there is no closure, no catharsis, just the back of the head of the guy in front and the numbing wind. Fifteen minutes later, the next batch of visitors comes thundering up the ramp. Time to go.

On the journey home, the traffic is diabolical. At the end of one jam, we come upon a carnival of flashing blue lights. A truck and a couple of cars stand cockeyed by the side of the road. "Rubberneckers," I say, and the word seems to stick in my throat.

Issue Date: January 24 - 31, 2002
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