New York - Day 1

August 18, 2004

0630 in the morning. From my window in the Carlton Hotel New York I enjoy a view of urban tranquility. A featureless cityscape of gray, dirty blocks devoid of any color but nevertheless peaceful for such a place. Welcome to the Carlton on Madison Avenue reads a leaflet next to my makeshift bed. It's difficult to believe that in this very city a disaster of the proportions of September 11, 2001 could ever have taken place. It's a wet, overcast day. As I lie in this bed my mind races. Droplets running down the windowpane are signaling perhaps that its time to rise and make a start. I stumble helplessly over equipment through to the adjoining room where two of my crewmembers snore heavily. The bathroom light flashes like a beacon where in a state of sub consciousness I prepare for the day. I take a stroll along the sidewalk outside the makeshift entrance to the hotel. Scaffolding dust and paving stones are scattered liberally against the building in preparation for its ongoing renovation. Cabs and trucks squeeze past me down the side streets with little sympathy for a pedestrian. From a vantage point at the top of a flight of steps I study the comings and goings of people across the street. An old people's community hall opens its doors to the excited cries of huddled groups trying to escape the light rain.

Back at the hotel. For a magical moment, sunlight flits across the building opposite. Few souls have ventured out onto the street level except now two of my crewmembers can be seen huddling on a far corner. They offer a wave almost simultaneously as if they are joined at the hip. Members of management from the hotel appear from nowhere eager to participate in the day's events. As if by clockwork others arrive for the great day. Inside the hotel's temporary reception excitement is total. I am greeted at the doorway by Carol Bullock-Walter General Manager of the Carlton. An incredible lady with such charisma. In turn I am introduced to her assistant Jennifer a rapacious New Yorker who diligently writes notes in double time. As if on cue, security observers appear eyeing us suspiciously. Their black uniforms hang untidily as if inherited from past generations. They line up respectively behind their General manager ready to receive orders for the day. We march like soldiers one by one out onto the sidewalk heading for Madison Avenue. I picture fleetingly my dear Father on parade back in his army days. We stop abruptly at the corner entrance to the hotel where our banners stand proudly on the walls of the hotel; elevated for all to see.

I dash from one side of the street to the other talking and sharing with people a passion that I have been consumed with for so many months. I feel a change and an emotion not experienced before.