WE WERE RUNNING LATE. The law school classmate I had come to Spain with convinced me there was no way we would make our train. Around 8:45, we gave up and decided we would have to take a bus from Madrid to Toledo.
While we were getting ready, my friend turned on the television. There seemed to be something going on at the Atocha station. Using my modest Spanish, I figured out that there had been an explosion, with possible casualties.
That's when the sirens erupted. I opened the door to our balcony and heard them coming from every direction. I decided to go to the lobby and find out what was going on.
I found the hotel staff huddled around the check-in desk listening to the radio. I hesitated. The man behind the desk raised his head and stated flatly: Terrorism. My mind raced. I wanted to tell the people there that I understood their shock, disbelief, fear, and anger. The only thing I managed to say was, " Lo siento," I'm sorry.
Back in our room, we called the U.S. embassy and were told there was no reason to cancel our trip, so we headed out onto the streets of Old Madrid. Except for the occasional police car zipping past, it could have been an ordinary morning. The shops were open, people were walking their dogs, old ladies were strolling down the street arm in arm. But at the café where we stopped for breakfast, the television was reporting 23 deaths.
We started to make our way to the bus station. The police were closing all the metro entrances. As we passed through the Puerto del Sol, we saw people forming lines in the square. Apparently there had been a call for all madrileños to donate blood. For the next hour and a half we wended our way through cobblestone streets.
About halfway, we began to smell smoke. Though we tried to avoid the Atocha station, we found we had to pass directly in front of it. People were standing transfixed, behind barricades, straining to see what was going on across the street.
The scene was filled with tension. There was nothing anyone could do but watch the smoke rising from the back of the building. As we walked, I felt like an intruder. We tried to make our way through the crowd quickly and respectfully.
There was no mass exodus from Madrid, as there was from Washington and New York on September 11, and our journey to Toledo passed without incident. It took an hour on a public bus.
When we arrived at our hotel, the woman behind the registration desk asked where we had come from. At the mention of Madrid, her smile was replaced by a look of anguish. The television screen behind her was flashing pictures of the injured, destroyed trains, and desperate onlookers searching for loved ones.
Sra. Esther Calatrava told us the death toll was now over 100. She gave us an impromptu lecture on the politics, history, and tactics of the Basque terrorist group, the ETA. This was unlike their prior attacks, she said: Today's actions amounted to war.
As the day progressed, the death count rose. Concerned relatives called from home. In an attempt at normalcy, we hopped on a tram that provides panoramic views for picture-taking tourists. The group next to us was from the Netherlands. They were very interested in our being Americans. They told us the latest reports said al Qaeda was involved in the bombing.
Our attempt at passing for tourists petered out. At all of the museums, we saw flyers posted on the doors that read, "For peace, say no to terrorism." The pain in my stomach would not go away. We decided to cut the day short and return to our room. I stayed glued to the television until three in the morning.
The images were all too familiar. There were wives holding up pictures of their missing husbands, begging for any kind of information. There were reports of unidentified people in hospitals, and uplifting stories of lost family members found. Just as we in America had our heroes of 9/11, so did Spain. Many people who lived close to the station heard the explosions and instantly went to help remove bodies from the wreckage. Ordinary citizens brought blankets from their homes to cover the dead. It wasn't long before the attack was being referred to as "11-M," for March 11.
Amidst the sights and memories, Sra. Calatrava's words kept returning to my mind: This is war. Terrorism is something we face in common. The reality is that it can affect us at any time or place. No matter what group turns out to be responsible or how many Americans were killed, we were all attacked on 11-M.
--Tina Winston