Freezing point: A
police line in TriBeCa.
The hazmat trucks and flashing cruisers come and go through the
chain-link fence that now bisects TriBeCa. It's a six-foot fence
that arrived last weekend, 12,000 feet of it, ten truckloads, proudly
shipped from New Jersey by National Rent-A-Fence, whose employees
unwound it along Chambers Street, from Broadway to the West Side
The mayor urged people to go back to work, to normalcy. That was
easier for those uptown, where, to look around, nothing much had
changed. "I don't know if TriBeCa will ever be the same," said one
TriBeCa has long been home to well-off families who wanted space
and good schools -- "Triburbia," they called it -- and weekend places
as well. Now, from almost any spot, you could look past the fence
and see a rise of smoke hundreds of feet high where the Trade Center
used to be. The digging hardly ever stopped, and residents talked
about the progress made in tagging body parts. At night, stadium
lights went on and the site was, if anything, even more surreal.
And almost always there was the fiery electrical odor in the air.
South of the fence was the "frozen zone," as officials called it.
It was manned by the National Guard in battle fatigues and helmets,
and inside it residents were still evacuated. "I don't know when
I'll get back," said one woman who'd moved in with her mother on
14th Street. Businesses were closed -- you could stand on the north
side of Chambers and gaze at the shuttered stores on the south:
Burritoville, Mudville 9, North Fork Bank. Mark Dimor's BioContinuum
Group, a medical-communications firm at 116 Chambers Street, was
in the frozen zone. "I was heartbroken when I saw the fence," said
Dimor, who loaded what he could onto a child's red wagon -- one
backpack and a messenger bag -- and moved to a borrowed "storage
space" farther uptown, in Inch.com's offices.
TriBeCa's elementary school, P.S. 234, one of the best in the
city, was also in the frozen zone; temporarily, it was being used
as a staging area. "It was an anchor in the community, it was why
we moved there," said Howard Berman, who has two kids at P.S. 234.
"The neighborhood met there every morning. All those things which
made TriBeCa a family place are gone . . . for the moment."
Washington Market Park was off-limits. So were the soccer and
baseball fields -- perhaps the most expensive in the city, considering
the real estate they occupy near the Hudson. "It's very disheartening,"
said Berman, an advertising photographer who moved to Murray Street
six years ago. "TriBeCa was the one place in the city where you
could live a decent life with children and not surrender to the
suburbs." Berman had run from the gym to school to rescue his kids,
who were screaming hysterically.
Some kids have nightmares now; a mother who'd hightailed it off
to New Hampshire said she was keeping her children away -- "They
couldn't sleep at night," she told a friend. Some -- those with
other homes -- had already enrolled their kids in other districts.
"Our greatest fear is that people will flee the area," said one
local school-board member.
For the moment, the 650 children of P.S. 234 have moved in with
P.S. 41 on West 11th Street. "It's very overcrowded," said Anna
Switzer, the principal, who got a standing ovation Friday when she
told hundreds of parents they'd return to the school and rebuild
their lives. "It was like a movement in the sixties," said one parent.
Even north of the fence, TriBeCa was different. Phone service
was chaotic, communication difficult; most traffic was blocked south
of Canal. The familiar double-parked Town Cars in front of Nobu
and Bouley were nowhere to be seen. "We're out of business for nine
days," said Drew Nieporent, owner of Tribeca Grill, Montrachet,
Nobu, and others. "I'm going broke day by day." (Chanterelle had
at one point wondered about bringing its reservation list to the
"Our greatest fear is that people will
flee the area," said one local school-board member.
But something else seemed to be going on. A strange communal feeling
had settled in. "There's love in the air," said Wendy Tabb, a jewelry
designer. People stepped across flatbed trucks piled with twisted
steel girders to say, "Oh, hello, I'm so glad you're all right."
Strangers had taken each other in on the day of the disaster --
architect Alexander Gorlin and his wife had been offered a room
by strangers near Franklin Street and took it -- and now neighbors
fell into each other's arms. The taciturn Korean cashier at Morgan's
deli on Hudson cried in Lisa Schiller's embrace. "Maybe facing death
together is a bonding experience," she said. George Tabb hugged
For several evenings, people -- those who'd made their way home
-- wandered into the mostly car-less streets. On the corner of Greenwich
Street, Roc restaurant taped signs to the door welcoming the neighborhood
to a free dinner. "Rather than sit home and do nothing," said owner
Rocco Cadolini, he decided to cook. He cooked what he had and got
donations from fellow restaurateurs. He served bow-tie pasta and
calamari from a table in Greenwich Street. Gigino, next door, did
the pizza. "I think the neighborhood is more alive," said Cadolini.
On Greenwich, dozens of white TV trucks were lined up like big ships
waiting for news. Nearer the restaurant, neighbors and workers took
a plate, got a meal, and sat on Roc's terrace, where he'd set out
"TriBeCa is like a cross between a war zone and Woodstock," said
Around the corner, Juniper gave out free drinks. "Just to hear
each other's heartbeats," said manager Deflon Sallahr. People told
each other awful stories. "I think I can smell the bodies," said
Rescue workers ate at any of the few open restaurants for free.
(Fliers blocks away urged firemen to stop by for free food or coffee.)
Bouley and Danube, David Bouley's restaurants, were closed. The
week before, pedestrians had raced past to save their lives. This
week, the restaurants were closed, and Bouley used the kitchens
to cook for workers still searching for bodies. ("White beans with
a nice little red sauce," said a chef.)
had at one point wondered about bringing its reservation list to