Caroline Dries Guest ColumnistOn Sept. 11, 2001, my roommate and I had just started our senior year at NYU; we were about five days into classes. [When American Airlines Flight 11 hit the North Tower] it sounded like a giant truck running over a construction site — we called them the metal Band-Aids they put on the street — and it woke me up.
We lived on the 33rd floor of a high-rise in downtown Manhattan, on the east side of the island. I looked down, and there was nothing, and then I looked up and saw the smoke billowing out of the World Trade Center.I had gotten a video camera as a gift, and I had it already plugged in because I was learning how to use it the night before.
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