Some dates people remember.
My parents remember December 7, 1941. They were planning to have dinner with Dad’s parents when the radio announced the attack on Pearl Harbor.
My wife and I remember November 22, 1963. We were in high school when the PA announcement of President Kennedy’s assassination came through.
And, of course, September 11, 2001. We were in the one place where no announcement was made of planes hitting the twin towers – on a plane. We had left Houston early in the morning on our way home with a change of planes in Denver. In Denver it was all quiet in the terminal. We were just sitting waiting for our next flight. Our youngest son called from Houston to tell us what had happened. The airline staff had no idea what was next. All the CNN TVs were turned off; one in the bar had attracted a crowd. My wife said we have to get out of here. The line for rental cars stretched to the terminal exit. We headed for the taxi line. It was also long. But a taxi that had just picked up a passenger stopped and said he was going downtown if anyone wanted to join. We hustled over.
From the taxi I called the office. Thankfully, no employees were on the hijacked planes. I had our travel agent find a hotel. One of our fellow passengers tried to stiff the driver, but was caught. The fare to the hotel was $50.
I tried for a few days to get a rental car with no joy. Finally the travel agent found me one. The challenge was that home was outside Toronto, Ontario, Canada where I was on my expat assignment. Getting a car to cross the border was the challenge. The taxi fare to the airport rental car facility was $50.
After driving for a couple days, we prepared to cross the border: fearful of long lines, we ate and used the restroom first. But there were no cars in any of the lanes. The immigration agent asked where the car was going. The answer was Toronto airport. And so we made it home several days later than planned.