Four years ago yesterday, bombers temporarily crippled London's transport system and brought the city together. I wasn't here. I was waking up back in Iowa to the news from London, and being suddenly unsure what to do. I had a flight out that night, to London, where all seemed chaotic, from a distance, and where the transport system might not be functional the next day. In the end, there seemed no safer time to make the flight (although we had a loud and startling "Free Tibet" protester in the row in front of me on the plane). The flight was full.
I arrived the next day, and the Piccadilly Line was running, at least from Heathrow to South Kensington, and from there, the Circle or Distict line to Tower Hill, where we gave up and took a taxi. My luggage was heavy.
It's hard to belive that four years have already passed since both those days, since the day of the bombings, and since the day I moved to London. On one day, many lost their lives. On the next, I began a new phase of mine.