Jan. 1, 2002 New Year's morning.

After the clock struck midnight, the waitress in the coach car called to say that there were a few cases of hard cider left over from the New Year’s Celebration and anybody interested could just grab 'em for free.

I rushed to the coach car and grabbed two 5% alcohol ciders for later and then went back for two more but was told that they were all gone.

I found it almost impossible to sleep in those old Amtrak coach seats. Six hours after taking my first sleeping pill, I took another, which pretty much did the trick. I slept soundly for about seven hours and then had the Floridian breakfast in the dining car: eggs easy over, hash browns, roll, and coffee. Only $8 with tip. I sat with a contractor who let me eat his bacon.

It’s freezing out there. Where has all the sunshine gone? I'm starting to put everything in order --- always a big ordeal for me. Can’t find the little case for my inflatable pillow. Aside from that, health is ok and the trench rot I picked up in Florida is quickly subsiding as I enter dryer climates. What a relief!

6 p.m. I arrived in New York, Penn Station on time and Gatsby, my nephew, was waiting for me in front of the station in his new blue Mercedes SUV. I was so glad to see him after being on the train for over 24 hours.

Gatsby drove back to his gorgeous apartment in midtown Manhattan where I dumped my stuff off onto the floor. They had just returned from a ski trip in Tahoe and had their stuff all over the floor too. I gave Daisy a hug and also the kids who seemed to appreciate my modest gifts, especially the chess set and high tech flashlights. Then we gathered up our stuff and headed out to Chinatown. Gatsby, an expert driver, somehow found a parking space and we sat down at a table on the third story of a “Sum Din” restaurant where nobody spoke a word of English.

Waiters walked around the tables with carts stacked high with all sorts of delicacies. You caught their attention, pointed to what you wanted, and they gave it to you: A bowl of soup here, a dish of shrimp there; you name it and you got it. You basically grab the food when you see it. There's no guarantee it will come around again and you ought not to even think of requesting something that has already made the rounds.

“You snooze, you lose,” as my old drug dealer used to say, back in the bad old days. When you did ask for something (like “sticky rice” for the kids) the server nodded agreeably, shouted out something in Chinese, and then disappeared, never be seen again.

The kids never got the sticky rice, but I ate tons of wontons, neatly wrapped shrimp, a tasty eggplant concoction and a huge duck cooked to perfection. There certainly was a lot of fat on the bird but it went down easy and stayed down. I have no idea how much it cost (thanks to my nephew's generosity) but I ate to my heart’s content and was stuffed when we left. This was a great place to bring kids: No matter how noisy they were, they could not make a dent in the din of the patrons or the shouting of the waiters.

After we ate, we drove the car as close as possible to ground zero and miraculously found a space. Gatsby can maneuver his car into just about any space, and if somebody else has their eye on it at the same time, you better believe he'll be victorious in the end.

The line to the new viewing platform was two hours long and the weather was bitterly cold, so we decided to walk around the boarded perimeter and eventually found some good places to view the destruction. I climbed to the roof of a shed and saw what was left of the ruins of the World Trade Center. I saw shrines that were set up by people for their loved ones, I smelled the acrid air and marveled at the huge cranes that my great nephew Sammy compared to dinosaurs.

The streets around ground zero were like a ghost town. The surrounding businesses had been hit hard by the restrictions on both passenger and automobile traffic. Many had simply closed up shop. It all felt so painfully sad and numbing. So unnecessary. Such a waste. The thousands of people who surrounded the perimeter of the site clicked pictures, shot videos, but we were walking about grim and pensive. There was no joy to be seen anywhere.

What can you say that has not been said a thousand times. I remembered footage of Palestinians cheering at news reports of the attack, of the devastation: I don’t understand how anybody with a grain of decency could take joy in this. The magnitude of the destruction was immense.

After looking at the bombed-out crater, the vacant surrounding buildings, and the shrines set up by families who have lost their loved ones, it is clear that we Americans are hated. They still are clearing the smoldering wreckage and dousing the hot spots. Ash and debris can be seen where curb meets the street. Blackened and cracked windows abound. An enormous American flag looks down upon the desolate 16-acre site of destruction.

Nobody feels the pain and anger caused by this stupid destruction like the residents of New York City. They are glad to give directions. The police are helpful. They want us to see, to take pictures, to feel and to share their pain.

We walked away sad and depressed as distant shouts filled the air. Had they found the remains of another body? Those destroyed 15 acres were a crime scene, surrounded by a tall plywood walls and shrines filled with flowers, photographs, and inscriptions. There is so much they don’t want us to see.

Struggling neighborhood five and dime stores sell souvenir police and fire hats that bear the acronyms NYPD and NYFD. There are lots of postcards with pictures of the World Trade Center as it used to be, but I wish there were postcards that show the devastation as it is, since we are unable to actually witness it. Some say that would be considered the exploitation of holy ground.

Now that I have visited ground zero I feel a little weird and a bit guilty. I feel like a voyeur. I think my time would have been better spent visiting the Norman Rockwell exhibit at the Guggenheim Museum.

What a thrill to think that ol’ Norm, the darling of wholesome American magazine covers and calendars displaying skinny dipping boys and homeless puppies actually, made it to the big time! But it’s closed today....

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