On the other side of the glass door, the woman in the entranceway was looking up, at something behind me. I was on Lispenard, one block below Canal, headed to the Canal Street post office. I wasn't walking on Canal because of yesterday's FBI warning. I know this city has more attractive targets than junk shops and stereo component retailers, but it's a major cross-street and I don't take any chances.

I followed the woman's gaze and saw a low-flying plane. Automatically, I evaluated its threat potential. Although it's unusual to see a plane at that altitude banking northeast this far downtown, I knew that LaGuardia-bound flights periodically approach from the west, which led me to conclude that this plane was on course and dismiss it as cause for alarm.

Since you-know-when, I have become an expert on flight patterns above New York City. In Brooklyn, planes come low from the south, pass over my apartment, and continue north to LaGuardia. In downtown Manhattan, where I work a half-mile north of you-know-where, planes also approach low from south to north, but bank east above the Upper West Side to make a 270-degree arc into JFK. In Harlem, one sees the planes gaining altitude, beginning their journey away from the city, parallel to the George Washington Bridge. And over Jersey, they appear in the north, shadowing the Hudson, drifting impossibly slow into Newark.

I returned my eyes to street level, glancing at the woman as she glanced at me. She looked worried about the plane. I considered a sympathetic smile as a sign of commiseration, but felt it might come across as mocking. So I did nothing and we both looked away.

Our exchange made me remember September 14th, walking on 42nd Street, heading towards my girlfriend's office. Jenny works at a non-profit that places British students for a year-long internship in New York. 30 new interns had arrived Monday, and she was crazy dealing with her own emotions on top of the students', who were scared, confused, and asking where to find the trendy bars.

Since my work was in the frozen zone below Canal -- we weren't allowed back in the area until the 17th, and then we had to show IDs and business cards at a police checkpoint for two more weeks -- I had been coming in to help them out. And to be near her. Jenny works on the corner of Madison, and as I walked down the street from the subway, an airplane roared overhead.

Like hatchlings, every face on the street looked up. Today was the first day planes had been allowed back in the air after being grounded on Tuesday, so their roar was strange to us, and this one was especially loud, and the Chrysler Building was only two blocks away. We looked, and waited, and a jet fighter passed overhead, and we collectively remembered that the President was downtown right now touring the wreckage, and this jet was part of his entourage. We lowered our heads and exchanged glances and moved on.

Five months later, as I shared that glance with that woman, I hope my face said to her, "everything's OK, I've analyzed that plane's flight plan and it poses no immediate threat. Further, I empathize with you, and I too stare at every plane that passes overhead, even if I'm far away from any potential target, like on the beach in Mexico, or picking apples in an orchard 120 miles north of the nearest major city."

Her face said to me, "I think that plane is too low."

I continued east towards the post office, following the plane as it banked north over Brooklyn, confirming my assessment that it was bound for LaGuardia.

Dave Prager . 2/02

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