I am in a meeting, engaged in a heated discussion. A flabbergasted Joerg Winkelmann slams open the door and mutters “You gotta see this”. We all walk into his room, the TV is on and we watch the second plane crash in a fireball.
Most people don’t understand, but someone mumbles a prayer.
Then we realise we are on the 33rd floor of the highest-rising building in Paris, and without a word we hit the stairs. By the time we reach the foot of Tour Descartes everyone is talking about a terrorist attack.
In the evening I am supposed to take a flight from CDG and rumors fly about airports being shut down in the US and soon in EU.
I attempt to call home but cells are overloaded, so I grab my bag and share a cab with people I don’t know to the airport.
As we reach cruising altitude the pilot reads updates about what’s going on and warns we may be ordered to land at any moment, but we make it home all right.
I only managed to speak to my wife in person once I reached home and to this date she and I remember the sense of despair not being able to contact each other for these 8 hours.