This past winter I found a tin of old photographs hidden in the back of my clothes closet. This tin has traveled with me with each move in Toronto for years but somehow I had forgotten about its existence. Inside I found all the photos I had taken with my old Fuji film camera in the late 1990’s to early 2000’s. Yes, a film camera! I found shots of Oxford England, old farms in Wellington County, autumn Muskoka vistas and these 6 photos of St. John’s Newfoundland. My reaction to these photos was, and still is, visceral. You see, I took these gloriously sunny snaps on September 10, 2001. The day before.

On this anniversary of 9/11 I wanted to share with you what a stunning place St. John’s is, but more importantly, I wanted to send a Thank You to the wonderful people of Newfoundland who opened their doors and hearts to many stranded travellers on that frightening day. I have written about my experience in St. John’s the week of 9/11 here and here. But somehow finding these photos taken on the day before all hell broke loose brought back different memories and a flood of gratitude. Here’s what happened.

I flew in to St. John’s Newfoundland on September 10 for a province-wide in-service for teachers. At the time I was the publisher for Oxford University Press and we had developed a World Geography resource for the province. On September 11 and 12 I would provide an overview of this resource and support the provincial consultants as they rolled out the new course to teachers from around the province. I flew in a day early to try to relax, get my bearings and prepare. I had been to St. John’s many times before for similar reasons but on that remarkably sunny September 10, it was my first time seeing the colourfully painted city in brilliant sunshine. I was used to fog and snow. But this day was special and rather than stay cooped up in my hotel room preparing for something I already knew like the back of my hand I decided to set out and hike to the top of Signal Hill. You will see my progress from the snaps above. It is a LONG hike! All up hill. Once I reached the top I found a quiet, grassy knoll on the edge of a cliff looking out over the Atlantic. The sun was hot on my face. The tall grasses gave off that pungent, almost burnt smell of summer and the ocean breeze filled my lungs. I can remember this feeling, this spot, this day as if it was yesterday! In the span of just one day, the jet trails you see in each shot above would disappear from the sky for a very long week.

The in-service day, Tuesday September 11, dawned equally bright, sunny and warm. We all gathered at The Airport Hotel just outside the city and started our day. My part went without a hitch (thankfully). I still remember retiring to the back of the room to sit and soon heard rumours of a small plane crashing into the World Trade Centre. Not long after, all of us in the room were surprised to hear a series of planes land on the runway behind our hotel. Unusual activity for that time of the morning! At break we went outside and to our shock, the runway was littered with large commercial airplanes all at odd angles. The hotel sat aside a large room with a TV for us and we soon gathered to watch the horror in New York unfold in real-time. You have never seen a roomful of teachers so silent. We would later gather back inside our conference room to continue our day, just to be evacuated a short time later by firemen. One of the planes directly behind our hotel was surrounded by the RCMP and it was feared to hold either a bomb or hijackers. We had to leave, and quickly.

I spent the rest of September 11 wandering the streets along the harbour, worried about our future and missing my family. It was a difficult day. But it was in the days that followed when I learned first hand about the hospitality on “this solid rock of humanity” as one of my fellow stranded travellers called Newfoundland.

Our in-service continued on September 12. It was a quiet group. When I arrived I was welcomed with warm hugs and with a home-made fruit loaf from Evelyn, a local geography teacher who sat beside me the day before. She simply smiled and said “You must be missing your family today. Let us be yours for a little while.” You can imagine my tears.

Throughout the week I tried each day to fly home. Each day I returned to my hotel with a revised ticket for the next day. Each evening I had supper at a different restaurant in St. John’s. It was like eating at the UN. Tables were filled with travellers from all over Europe, each sharing their stories of how well they were being cared for and how much they too longed for home. Finally, on the Saturday, one domestic flight was to leave St. John’s. I had to be on it! When I checked out of my hotel for the fourth time that week, I took my treasured Oxford University Press small Victorianox Swiss Army Knife off my key chain (it was great for opening letters and boxes of books!). I left it with the front desk and hopped on a shuttle to the airport. I remember waiting most of the morning on stand-by, sitting on my luggage in a quiet corner of the airport. Finally my name was called and I was one of the last picked to get on the first domestic flight out to Toronto. Despite being overwhelmed and relieved to be one step closer to home, the realities of a week where planes were used as weapons could not be avoided. The line for security was tense and VERY long. And of course all of my gadgets had long since lost their battery life. My brick of a laptop, my Discman (!) and film camera all had to be inspected carefully with new batteries put in to ensure they were safe. 3 Gravols later, I was standing on the tarmac waiting to board our plane. When I reached the top of the stairs, the flight attendant asked me for my ticket and seat number. Do you think I could find my ticket? My hands were shaking like a tambourine. What came out of my mouth next even worried me. I said “I will sit next to the black box. It always makes it.” Luckily the flight attendant took pity on me and laughed nervously. I did find my ticket and did, eventually, make it back to Toronto. I remember making a b-line for my roof top patio overlooking Kew Gardens, finding my favourite Muskoka chair and giving in to a long, hard cry. I was home!

One week later I received a rectangular package covered in tape with the return address “2 Hill O’Chips, St. John’s.” My hotel. I opened the package and lo and behold it was a Kleenex box. Yes, a Kleenex box. My first thought was that they had somehow learned of my rooftop meltdown and sent supplies. Typical Newfoundland hospitality!! Buried deep in the box of Kleenex was my tiny Oxford key chain knife. It made it home safe and sound too, even though I had forgotten all about it.

There’s my story. It is one of thousands of stories about a special place that did Canadians proud just by being themselves on a dark week in September. Thank you. Thank you!

I would urge you to read other accounts from travellers. There are many, but I’ve curated a few that will make you laugh, cry, remember. And never forget.

* 9/11 Flight Attendant’s Journal, Gander Newfoundland

*  Newfoundland Offered An Antidote to Evil on 9/11

* St. John’s Airport Heads Recall 9/11 Response

* Gander Newfoundland, September 11, 2001

* Ambassador’s Blog: September 12, 2011