9/11 in Sweden

Fresh from a cruise up the Norwegian coast ten years ago, four of us were driving south, visiting my kin in Finland, then into Sweden that early September to meet relatives of my surrogate mom, Milly Sorenson of Hibbing.

We arrived at the home of Goran and Solveig Sall in Sundsvall, where Goran had a family tree revealing Milly's forefather from the 1500s was actually a resettled Finn.

"I always thought I was a Swede, and now I find out I am a Finlander," she said with some dismay. We thought that would be the biggest excitement of our visit.

The next morning, September 11, I went to the local library to catch on up e-mails -- nothing too mementous. But that afternoon, after lunching with Goran and Solveig, I asked if I could use his computer.

On a whim, I went onto the St. Paul Pioneer Press website just as first word of a plane hitting the World Trade Center was flashed. "Something has happened," I told my traveling companions.

At that moment, the phone rang. A neighbor, knowing the Salls had American visitors, called to tell us to turn on the TV, and the horror of that day began to unfold.

That night, we stayed near the home of another set of Milly's relatives, Gudrun and Alvin Wedin in Iggesund, and we appropriated their TV set. Alvin had been watching the Swedish language news, but we needed to see CNN and its continuing coverage.

We stayed for hours, our eyes glued to the screen.

The next day, I got an e-mail from my husband who was so distressed by what happened on the East Coast that he went to the Army recruiting office in St. Paul, offering to enlist. He was 66 years old, with iffy health, so he didn't qualify, but his effort made me understand how Americans were reeling from the attacks.

We stopped in any town big enough to have a library to keep up with the news. I remember staying in a hotel one night where I saw newspaper photos of people leaping to their deaths from the WTC, and I couldn't stop crying.

But I also remember the constant kindness of strangers who, when they realized we were Americans, offered condolences and everything from free computer time to coffee shop treats. The Swedes and Norwegians were grieving, too.

And then there was the uncertainty about getting home.

Our air route was from Oslo to Amsterdam, then non-stop to Minneapolis-St. Paul. But we heard planes were grounded, and we couldn't get through on the Northwest Airlines website -- just too jammed, no matter how many times we tried.

We finally stopped at a small regional airport that had no passengers at that moment, but there was a woman at the counter who could check flights. We were fine on the Olso-Amsterdam flight, and she was hopeful that our Twin Cities plane might be departing.

Turns out that it left on time, apparently the first to make it to Minnesota after the attacks. On that plane were people who had been stranded in Amsterdam for the five days since 9/11 and were grateful to get any seat on any carrier heading to the US.

Being away during such a horrible time made me feel somewhat detached. But maybe that was preferable to being at home watching televised planes hit buildings over and over and over again.

Post 9/11, I still travel extensively, and have become accustomed to increased security. I've learned to wear slip-on shoes when going through airports so I don't have to tie laces.

Last October, I visited Ground Zero briefly, and it surprised me that nine years later, rebuilding was going so slowly.

I just saw a TV report that new towers rising from the site will be able to withstand the impact of a fully-loaded, fully fueled 747. I just hope those new buildings -- and all of us -- aren't so tested again.