Windows on the World Watch Full Length Solar Movies Full Movie Streaming Online
- Directors - Michael D. Olmos
- year - 2019
- Genres - Drama
- audience score - 51 vote
- Duration - 107 Minutes
- Writed by - Robert Mailer Anderson
Men of the Zodiac Boxed Set - Amy Andrews, Amanda Usen, Wendy Byrne, Sonya Weiss, Annie Seaton, Roxanne Snopek, Jackie Braun, Robin Covington, Sarah Ballance, Rachel Lyndhurst, Marisa Cleveland, Theresa Meyers - Google Books.
Leaves me speechless. How beautiful is the voice of the lovely Dionne Warwick. Windows on the World Restaurant information Established April 19, 1976 Closed September 11, 2001 (destroyed in September 11 attacks) Previous owner(s) David Emil Head chef Michael Lomonaco Street address 1 World Trade Center, 107th Floor, Manhattan, New York City, NY, U. S. City New York City, New York Postal/ZIP Code 10048 Country United States of America Seating capacity 240 Website Windows on the World was a complex of venues on the top floors (106th and 107th) of the North Tower (Building One) of the original World Trade Center complex in Lower Manhattan. It included a restaurant called Windows on the World, a smaller restaurant called Wild Blue, a bar called The Greatest Bar on Earth, and rooms for private functions. Developed by restaurateur Joe Baum and designed initially by Warren Platner, Windows on the World occupied 50, 000 square feet (4, 600 m²) of space in the North Tower. The restaurants opened on April 19, 1976, and were destroyed in the September 11, 2001, attacks.  Operations [ edit] Interior of Windows on the World on November 4, 1999 The main dining room faced north and east, allowing guests to look out onto the skyline of Manhattan. The dress code required jackets for men and was strictly enforced; a man who arrived with a reservation but without a jacket was seated at the bar. The restaurant offered jackets that were loaned to the patrons so they could eat in the main dining room.  A more intimate dining room, Wild Blue, was located on the south side of the restaurant. The bar extended along the south side of 1 World Trade Center as well as the corner over part of the east side. Looking out from the bar through the full length windows, one could see views of the southern tip of Manhattan, where the Hudson and East Rivers meet. In addition, one could see the Liberty State Park with Ellis Island and Staten Island with the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. The kitchens, utility and conference spaces for the restaurant were located on the 106th floor. Windows on the World closed after the 1993 bombing, in which employee Wilfredo Mercado was killed while checking in deliveries in the building's underground garage. It underwent a US25 million renovation and reopened in 1996.  4] In 2000, its final full year of operation, it reported revenues of US37 million, making it the highest-grossing restaurant in the United States.  The executive chefs of Windows on the World included Philippe Feret of Brasserie Julien; the last chef was Michael Lomonaco. September 11 attacks [ edit] Windows on the World was destroyed when the North Tower collapsed during the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. That morning, the restaurant was hosting regular breakfast patrons and the Risk Waters Financial Technology Congress.  World Trade Center lessor Larry Silverstein was regularly holding breakfast meetings in Windows on the World with tenants as part of his recent acquisition of the Twin Towers from the Port Authority, and was scheduled to be in the restaurant on the morning of the attacks. However, his wife insisted he go to a dermatologist's appointment that morning, 7] whereby he avoided death. Everyone present in the restaurant when American Airlines Flight 11 penetrated the North Tower perished that day, as all means of escape and evacuation (including the stairwells and elevators leading to below the impact zone) were instantly cut off. Victims trapped in Windows on the World died either from smoke inhalation from the fire, jumping or falling from the building to their deaths, or the eventual collapse of the North Tower 102 minutes later. There were 72 restaurant staff present in the restaurant, including acting manager Christine Anne Olender, whose desperate calls to Port Authority police represented the restaurant's final communications.  16 Incisive Media -Risk Waters Group employees, and 76 other guests/contractors were also present.  After about 9:40 AM, no further distress calls from the restaurant were made. The last people to leave the restaurant before Flight 11 collided with the North Tower at 8:46 AM were Michael Nestor, Liz Thompson, Geoffrey Wharton, and Richard Tierney. They departed at 8:44 AM and survived the attack.  Critical review [ edit] In its last iteration, Windows on the World received mixed reviews. Ruth Reichl, a New York Times food critic, said in December 1996 that "nobody will ever go to Windows on the World just to eat, but even the fussiest food person can now be content dining at one of New York's favorite tourist destinations. She gave the restaurant two out of four stars, signifying a "very good" quality rather than "excellent" three stars) or "extraordinary" four stars. 11] In his 2009 book Appetite, William Grimes wrote that "At Windows, New York was the main course. 12] In 2014, Ryan Sutton of compared the now-destroyed restaurant's cuisine to that of its replacement, One World Observatory. He stated, Windows helped usher in a new era of captive audience dining in that the restaurant was a destination in itself, rather than a lazy byproduct of the vital institution it resided in. 13] Cultural impact and legacy [ edit] Windows of Hope Family Relief Fund was organized soon after the attacks to provide support and services to the families of those in the food, beverage, and hospitality industries who had been killed on September 11 in the World Trade Center. Windows on the World executive chef Michael Lomonaco and owner-operator David Emil were among the founders of that fund. It has been speculated that The Falling Man, a famous photograph of a man dressed in white falling headfirst on September 11, was an employee at Windows on the World. Although his identity has never been conclusively established, he was believed to be Jonathan Briley, an audio technician at the restaurant.  On March 30, 2005, the novel Windows on the World, by Frédéric Beigbeder, was released. The novel focuses on two brothers, aged 7 and 9 years, who are in the restaurant with their dad Carthew Yorsten. The novel starts at 8:29 AM (just before the plane hits the tower) and tells about every event on every following minute, ending at 10:30 AM, just after the collapse. Published in 2012, Kenneth Womack 's novel The Restaurant at the End of the World offers a fictive recreation of the lives of the staff and visitors at the Windows on the World complex on the morning of September 11. On January 4, 2006, a number of former Windows on the World staff opened Colors, a co-operative restaurant in Manhattan that serves as a tribute to their colleagues and whose menu reflects the diversity of the former Windows' staff. That original restaurant closed, but its founders' umbrella organization, Restaurant Opportunities Centers United, continues its mission, including at Colors restaurants in New York and other cities. Windows on the World was planned to reopen on the top floors of the new One World Trade Center, when the tower completed; however, on March 7, 2011, it was cancelled because of cost concerns and other troubles finding support for the project.  But successors of Windows on the World, One Dine, One Mix and One Cafe, are located at One World Observatory.  See also [ edit] List of tenants in One World Trade Center Top of the World Trade Center Observatories References [ edit] "Trade Center to Let Public In for Lunch At Roof Restaurant. New York Times. April 16, 1976. Retrieved October 15, 2009. ^ Chong, Ping. The East/West Quartet. p. 143. ^ New Windows on a New World;Can the Food Ever Match the View. The New York Times. June 19, 1996. Retrieved May 18, 2018. ^ Windows That Rose So Close To the Sun. September 19, 2001. Retrieved May 18, 2018. ^ The Wine News Magazine Archived 2012-02-20 at the Wayback Machine ^ Risk Waters Group World Trade Center Appeal. ^ Larry Silverstein: Silverstein Properties. New York Observer. Archived from the original on October 2, 2013. Retrieved April 2, 2013... We need to find a safe haven. WTC restaurant manager pleads. USA Today. August 28, 2003. Archived from the original on October 23, 2012. Retrieved June 26, 2014. ^ Risk Waters Group archived home page. Archived from the original on August 2, 2002. ^ 9/11: Distant voices, still lives (part one. The Guardian. London. August 18, 2002. Retrieved September 17, 2015. ^ Reichl, Ruth (December 31, 1997. Restaurants; Food That's Nearly Worthy of the View. ISSN 0362-4331. Retrieved February 22, 2018. ^ Grimes, William (October 13, 2009. Appetite City: A Culinary History of New York. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. p. 281. ISBN 978-1-42999-027-1. ^ Sutton, Ryan (June 30, 2015. Everything You Need to Know About Dining at One World Trade. Eater NY. Retrieved February 22, 2018. ^ Henry Singer (director) 2006. 9/11: The Falling Man (Documentary. Channel 4. ^ Feiden, Douglas (March 7, 2011. Plans to build new version of Windows on the World at top of Freedom Tower are scrapped. Daily News. New York. ^ One Dine. One World Observatory. External links [ edit] Windows on the World (Archive) Archived snapshot of the former WotW website, August 2, 2002 Last pre-9/11 archived snapshot of the former WotW website, February 1, 2001 v t e World Trade Center First WTC (1973–2001) Construction Towers 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Windows on the World Mall The Bathtub Tenants Art Bent Propeller The Sphere The World Trade Center Tapestry World Trade Center Plaza Sculpture Ideogram Sky Gate, New York Major events February 13, 1975, fire February 26, 1993, bombing January 14, 1998, robbery September 11, 2001, attacks Collapse Timeline Victims Aftermath Rescue and recovery effort NIST report on collapse Deutsche Bank Building St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church Second WTC (2001–present) Site, towers, and structures One Performing Arts Center Vehicular Security Center Liberty Park Westfield Mall Artwork ( ONE: Union of the Senses) Rapid transit PATH stations Transportation Hub New York City Subway stations Chambers Street–WTC/Park Place/Cortlandt Street ( 2, 3, A, C, E. N, R, and W trains) WTC Cortlandt ( 1 train) Fulton Street ( 2, 3, 4, 5, A, C, J, and Z trains) Fulton Center Corbin Building Dey Street Passageway 9/11 memorials 9/11 Tribute Museum National September 11 Memorial & Museum Competition Memory Foundations Tribute in Light America's Response Monument Empty Sky To the Struggle Against World Terrorism Postcards memorial The Rising memorial Relics from original WTC Cross Survivors' Staircase People Minoru Yamasaki Emery Roth & Sons Larry Silverstein Austin J. Tobin David Childs Michael Arad THINK Team Daniel Libeskind Leslie E. Robertson Other Port Authority of New York and New Jersey Silverstein Properties Park51 Project Rebirth Take Back The Memorial West Street pedestrian bridges In popular culture Film Music 9/11-related media Featuring One WTC Silver dollar 10048 ZIP code Former: IFC Former: Twin Towers 2 Brookfield Place 200 Liberty Street 225 Liberty Street 200 Vesey Street 250 Vesey Street Winter Garden Atrium New York Mercantile Exchange.
Windows on the world watch full length full. Wasnt his name Akhenaton, same as his son Tut ankh aton. Aton, Who worshipped the Sungod. They chanded his name for political-religieus reasons in Thut ankh Amon... And wasnt the first 'priest' who ever excavated the site of the Pyramids and the Sphinx, when it was almost burried in the sand, Thutmose IV in 1400BC where they dug out the front paws of the Sphinx. I believe it was then when they decided to move the burrials to the Valley of the Kings. Tourists on the ground floor are looking up in horror ~ people standing there recording. Why is Jeremy Corbyn posing with the young climate girl? Do the Corbyn's communicate with each other ? Does Jeremy agree with his brother about climate change? Very interested in Jeremy's true thoughts on climate change. Getting mixed signals from the old and new Jeremy again.
9/11 was one day when a stormy, rainy one would have been such a godsend! At the very least the terrorists would have had a much more difficult time doing their horrible thing, while the rain could have helped prevented the fire and stuff from destroying the towers in the end too. The longest movie in the world has a feature-length trailer. Clocking in at one hour and 12 minutes, the 'teaser trailer' has been released for Ambiancé, a movie that will run a total of 720 hours (30 days) upon its completion by Swedish artist Anders Weberg. While that running time may seem daunting and insane (and it is) Weberg plans on releasing the full film in the year 2020 on all continents simultaneously, after which. it will be destroyed. It will be his last film, and when it is released, it will be the longest movie ever made, and join ultra-long works like The Clock, 24 Hour Psycho, and Pharrell's recent 24-hour long music video. Is this really a trailer? While many of you have likely dismissed this idea entirely, the "trailer" is worth a watch, even if you put it on in the background. You can call it artsy fartsy garbage if you'd like (and lots of people will) but there isn't necessarily some big deeper meaning behind what we're seeing, even if it means something to the artist (though it does as you can read below. A lot of the imagery is really beautiful, and the mood is somewhere between a dream and what it might feel like if you were inside a melting oil painting. So with that out of the way, here is more on the film ( from his blog) followed by the 72-minute trailer (it's also NSFW in parts) At this moment 280 hours is finished of the full 720 hours. Please help me spread the link and I would love to hear your thoughts as well. 6 months ago today my son André took an overdose and died 21 years old. Much of my works over the years has centered around him. This is for him. Here's more on the filmmaker and his plan for the full movie: On December 31, 2020 the Swedish artist Anders Weberg end his 20 plus years relation with the moving image as a means of creative expression. After more than 300 films he puts an end with the premiere of what will be the longest film ever made. Ambiancé is 720 hours long (30 days) and will be shown in its full length on a single occasion syncronised in all the continents of the world and then destroyed. In the piece, Ambiancé space and time is intertwined into a surreal dream-like journey beyond places and is an abstract nonlinear narrative summary of the artists time spent with the moving image. A sort of memoir movie. (Film memoir. This in the visual expression that is constantly characterized the work throughout the artists career. As a small tease until the premiere in 2020 shorter teaser/trailers will be presented at different occasions. 2014 – Short teaser which is 72 minutes long and that has the intent to convey the mood and tempo from the full piece. 2016 – The first short trailer with duration 7 hours 20 minutes. 2018 – Longer trailer with duration 72 hours. 2020 - Release. The final film will obviously be something that no one can sit through in one sitting, and it's not really meant to be. It's meant to be the longest movie of all time. I think the best way to watch work like this is not to be concerned with whether you "get it" or whether you're missing something. The work is what it is, and if it moves you in some way, great, but if it doesn't, that does not mean you or the filmmaker are any less worthy of calling yourselves artists. While he could be doing it only for the sake of doing it, the fact that the final piece is a tribute to his son adds another layer completely. For more context, I think it also helps to see some of his work in shorter form (parts of these pieces ended up in the trailer above) More on the man behind the longest movie ever It's also worth noting some of Weberg's interesting ideas about creating art (from his bio) He coined the term Peer-to-peer art or (p2p art) in 2006. Art made for – and only available on – the peer to peer networks. The original artwork is first shared by the artist until one other user has downloaded it. After that the artwork will be available for as long as other users share it. The original file and all the material used to create it are deleted by the artist. ”Theres no original”. 8ix films with a duration between 45 minutes and 12 hours was uploaded on the file sharing networks in one copy and their original was deleted. P2P Art – The aesthetics of ephemerality. What is TRULY the longest movie of all time? Well, there are the ones we've already mentioned plus a few other notable entries. Modern Times Forever (2011) runs 240 minutes. But the question starts to get into things like what is the longest experimental movie, or what is the longest theatrical movie in theaters ever... Here are a few notable titles with their run times. Logistics, an experimental installation is, in fact, the longest film ever made. It has a runtime of 857 hours, it tops the projected run time of Ambiancé (720 hours. It's more of an installation than a film. Let's take a look at another one of the longest films ever. Made in 1968 The Longest Movie Meaningless Movie in the World, clocked in at 48 hours in length. There was nothing shot for this one, instead, it was cobbled together using outtakes, ads, random strips of film... Surely it's a lot of fun to watch. For a long time, this one was the longest movie of all time. That has since changed, and the rankings look to be shaken up once more in 2020. Additional Links: Ambiancé. The Longest Film Anders Weberg. Vimeo Anders Weberg. Blog [via The Verge.
Windows on the world watch full length 2016. Communication Technology Update, 10/e - August E. Grant, Jennifer H. Meadows - Google Books. Windows on the world watch full length tv.
Windows on the world watch full length hd. Where is Spiderman when you need him. Smh. Originally published in the September 2011 issue. This story needed an ending before it could find its first sentence. So please forgive me for delivering it ten years overdue. Maybe it shouldn't have been so hard to write. Looking back, it had everything: merriment, adventure, and a journey to the top of the world. It contained a crash into ground zero on one of the darkest days in America's history and a search for fulfillment afterward. Yet for ten years, the words were trapped inside me and I couldn't get them out. We all know the feeling of wanting to do something so well and so badly that we try too hard and can't do it at all. In the end, though, there's no trick to being yourself. So I'm simply going to tell this story the way it happened. It started fourteen years ago, when a new editor was hired to guide Esquire. The magazine was in distress. You might find only a dozen pages of advertising in an issue, and most of them were pitching hair-replacement schemes and promises to resurrect lost sex drive. The new editor called upon a group of writers whom he'd assembled over the years to join him. He was on a mission to resurrect a great American magazine, and he wanted good ideas. One of mine was to become the Perfect Man. The concept was to identify the subjects every man should know, and then have experts in each field show me how to master them. I was certainly up for the task. The only reason I call myself the Perfect Man, I used to joke, is that I have so many flaws to correct. We all know the feeling of wanting to do something so well and so badly that we try too hard and can't do it at all. The idea turned into a monthly column, and what a blast it was. The legendary Jack LaLanne showed me how to get in shape and eat right. I learned how to project my voice from boxing announcer Michael Buffer; how to smoke ribs at the Jack Daniel's World Championship Invitational Barbecue; how to walk with grace from a Victoria's Secret model; how to prolong my orgasms from specialists in tantric sex. (My wife is eternally grateful. The last area I poked my nose into was wine. Wine makes a lot of men uncomfortable. It's not as if sweat would bubble above my upper lip every time a waiter handed me a wine list. But I always felt uncertain and small in those moments, especially if I was taking out a woman or hosting a group. It was much easier to crack open a beer and mock snooty wine drinkers for their full-bodied aromatic claptrap than it was to admit I didn't have a clue. But in wine, you pay for your ignorance. A haughty waiter can roll his eyes and make you feel smaller than a raisin. A fast-talking one can chump you into ordering a bottle that will launch the check into the stratosphere. Anyway, the editor generously sent me off to wine school to finalize my education in self-improvement. In return, I agreed to showcase what I learned by becoming the guy who recommends wine to diners at an upscale restaurant. The sommelier. Then I'd write a story that would show how, with a little effort, any man could feel comfortable around wine. The Windows on the World Wine School, the best in the city, was down the corridor from the famous restaurant by that name, at the top of the World Trade Center. The elevator took fifty-eight seconds to reach the 107th floor, and you could always tell who was taking the ride for the first time. Halfway up, everybody's stomach did the same sudden somersault, and the rookies would grasp in panic for support. and then return the smiles of the vets remembering their own first trip. The classroom was a ballroom filled with tables topped with columns of empty wineglasses. Everyone who entered wandered first to the long stretch of floor-to-ceiling windows. On a sunny day or moonlit night, the view of lower Manhattan from Windows on the World was like the first time you heard Frank Sinatra singing "New York, New York. It was amusing to look down at helicopters. Just thinking about the acrobat who once walked a three-quarter-inch steel cable between the tops of the Twin Towers made you wonder what wasn't possible. You had to hand it to the architect who envisioned that millions of people would travel millions of miles to dine some 1, 300 feet above sea level. For a time, no restaurant in the United States took in more money, and no restaurant on the planet sold more wine. Courtesy Kevin Zraly The guy who ran the wine school was, and still is, sort of a cross between a stand-up comic and Monty Hall from Let's Make a Deal. His name is Kevin Zraly. I could never describe all that Zraly passed on during this eight-week course in 1999. Time and a storm has eroded most of the memories. But a writer who prided himself on never keeping a diary once told me that "the good shit sticks. Nine years later, I'm left with what stuck. So here's a story that gets to Zraly's core: As a young man, Kevin was interviewed by the legendary restaurateur Joe Baum for the position of cellar master at Windows. Baum's first question was "So, Kevin, what can you tell me about wine? Now, that may appear to be a casual way to start an interview, but it's a terrifying question for an applicant who's depending on the answer to get a job. The question's too big. What possible answer is there? I like to drink it. Zraly replied. He knew how to shrink the complex to the simple—a good quality to have if you're going to introduce people to wine. For example, he'd point to the three major varieties of white wine—Riesling, sauvignon blanc, and chardonnay—and ask you to visualize them as skim milk, whole milk, and cream. Before you'd even tasted the wines, you had an idea of where they stood from light to heavy. Then he did the same for reds. Pinot noir: skim milk. Merlot: whole milk. Cabernet sauvignon: cream. With that information alone, you could go into a restaurant, order a thick sirloin, and know that it was wiser to muscle up to the steak with a hearty cabernet than a willowy Riesling. Classes passed quickly, and the wines that Zraly exposed us to began to work their magic. They encouraged us to go out and seek, to lose ourselves in a world that no one person could ever fully explore. In wine, you pay for your ignorance. The first day I got lost was a memorable one. April 20, 1999. When people who loved wine heard that I was attempting to become a sommelier, they immediately took me in as a long-lost brother. I had been invited to a wine-tasting lunch at the great restaurant Daniel, where eleven wines from Chateau Lagrange, in the French region of Bordeaux, were to be poured. One of the first things you need to know in order to function at a tasting is how to roll the wine around your mouth, spit it into a bucket, and define the flavors left behind. This allows you to discern the different styles and tastes without getting drunk. Unfortunately, novice that I was, I hadn't quite figured out how to spit and taste by the time of that lunch. So I drank all eleven glasses. Then, in a warm fog, I walked downtown to class at Windows on the World, where another dozen wines were poured, then drifted off to dinner with a winemaker, during which several more bottles were opened. It was like the best day of school you could imagine, when you also discover you have an enormous family that you never knew about. The Brotherhood of the Grape, someone called it. I learned, I laughed, I embraced. It was one of those days that end with you peeling off your clothes, lying down, and drifting off to sleep happy to be alive. And I did just that, completely oblivious to the fact that early that same day, twelve students and a teacher were gunned down at Columbine High School. Getty Images There's only one way to know which bottle of wine to order at a restaurant or buy for a friend: taste it. Problem is, how do you taste them all? Something like sixty-five hundred French wines alone can be purchased in the United States. Tens of thousands of labels are imported from Italy, Portugal, Spain, Germany, Hungary, Austria, New Zealand, South Africa, Greece, Argentina, and New Zealand. Wine is produced in all fifty states. Where would you start? There are good answers to this question. I was most impressed with the shortest: Vinexpo. Every other year in Bordeaux, winemakers from around the world pour their juice for more than fifty thousand buyers to sample. By brazenly promising to taste nearly every wine on the planet over a few short days, I wrangled some expense money from the editor and jetted off. My bravado evaporated the moment I stepped into the convention center and felt the bottom of my jaw dangling beneath my balls. I faced a hall that was—no exaggeration—a mile long and two football fields wide. I'm usually the type of guy who never says no unless you ask me if I've had enough. But this. was almost too much. I tasted, spit, and scribbled in a notepad as if I were one of the chosen few, the Jedi who could taste a wine blindfolded and tell you everything about it. But it wasn't long before I was lost in the maze. My first day would've ended without a memory of a single wine if I hadn't stumbled upon a man named Anthony Dias Blue. The pourers treated him as if he were a celebrity, because when Blue highlights a wine in the press, that label is elevated above tens of thousands of competitors. As I followed him around, I noticed that when certain pourers saw Blue, they reached under the table and pulled out bottles the rest of us weren't getting. I glued myself to his side and the pourers had no choice but to show good etiquette and fill my glass beside his. That was how I found out about La Turque, a wine made by Guigal in the Rhône region in France. Tasting a 400 wine when you've been cutting your teeth on 20 bottles will widen your eyes. But for me, this wine was bigger than that. La Turque opened my ears. It made me hear music. As I drank, Edith Piaf was singing "No Regrets" right out of that glass, and believe me, she was in her prime. That might sound a little loopy. But people have found crazier ways to describe the taste of wine. I've heard praise for the "barnyard odors" in a glass of burgundy. A sommelier once asked me if I had picked up "brussels sprouts" in the bouquet of a red wine from Chile. And a wine magazine editor once assured me that there was "a hint of Tasmanian black pepper" my italics) in a glass of Shiraz. I could never get excited talking up brussels sprouts, and describing wine with adjectives like metallic, nutty, tart, floral, and woody just wasn't me. So I began to correlate wine with music, and to this day the melodies have stayed with me. As the months passed, I scribbled comparisons between wines and songs on scraps of paper constantly. I tossed these notes in a box along with pictures of some of the many wineries I visited when the opportunities arose and I could coax more expense money out of the editor. Ella Fitzgerald singing scat is wonderful champagne. Luciano Pavarotti is a great Barolo. Pick up a Robert Weil Riesling Auslese and you might hear Sade singing "The Sweetest Taboo. " I once observed a woman in a supermarket checkout line buying a couple of bottles of mass-market California merlot and asked her if, by chance, she happened to like the music of Barry Manilow. "I do. she replied. "How did you know? I once brought my wine-to-music theory to the home of Monte Lipman, chairman of Universal Republic Records, and it wasn't long before everyone was discovering Joe Jackson's voice in a glass of fine California chardonnay. Edith Piaf was singing "No Regrets" right out of that glass, and believe me, she was in her prime. The beauty of learning wine by music is that you're never ignorant. You have an opinion that's as good as anyone else's. If a sommelier brings you a wine list and you have no idea what to order, you can always say, We'd like a bottle of Louie Armstrong singing 'What a Wonderful World. Suddenly, the pressure has been reversed. (He's right on track if he brings you a bottle of Lalou Bize-Leroy burgundy. Stick to the music and you'll never get bogged down in a conversation with some wine geek that includes the phrase malolactic fermentation. But there is some technique involved in tasting. You can help your ears tune in to the music by getting the most out of your nose and tongue. What you want to do is pick up your wineglass by the stem (not the bowl) and swirl. The air will turn up the volume on the aroma. There are chemical reasons for this, but maybe it's easier to understand by imagining yourself on a hot, listless day. In the distance there's a guy barbecuing, but he's too far away for you to see or smell a thing. If, however, a strong wind were to blow in your direction, your nostrils might twitch at the airborne molecules of 'cue. So stick your nose in that glass and inhale. But equally crucial are the taste buds aligning the insides of your mouth. Don't gulp the juice straight down—the flavors will zoom by. Let the wine coat the inside of your mouth before you swallow, and you'll soon be tuned in to the music. Whether you like a certain song is up to you. But if the bass in a song were so overpowering that it ran roughshod over the melody or the lyrics, everybody would know something was wrong. It's no different with wine. The winemaker is like a record producer looking for harmony and balance in flavor. The acidity in a glass of New Zealand sauvignon blanc should not squash the fruit. Nor should the tannins that come off red grape skins, the ones that bring a dry sensation to your palate, block out the fruit in a cabernet sauvignon. There are critics who score wines numerically, as if each bottle were a math test. But just as a song becomes magical when it coincides with a moment that has meaning in your life, a wine doesn't need ninety-seven points to be fantastic. Meet the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with and the 12 pinot noir you raised when you first looked into her eyes becomes priceless. The first night I was allowed to walk the floor as an apprentice sommelier at Windows on the World, I saw a three-hundred-pound man in his best suit get down on his knee in the middle of the dining room and propose to his fiancée. When she accepted and they embraced, there was applause all around. That's what made the place special. This was a restaurant that got a thousand calls for reservations each day, had twenty-five hundred chairs and seventy cooks. Seven hundred pounds of shrimp were served each week, and three thousand forks were washed each day. And yet, despite the restaurant's size and the enormous volume of food that left the kitchen, the staff made every diner feel like the experience was not only intimate but uniquely his or her own. The woman who accepted the proposal that night glowed like a queen. It would be my job to help maintain that glow. I had the good fortune to be assigned to one of the Jedi. Windows on the World's Andrea Immer had won a highly competitive contest in 1997 to be crowned the best sommelier in America. She was five feet two inches of pixie and pure grace, and the confidence she had on the floor reminded you of the way a great athlete owns a field. You got the sense that diners returned just to see her. Meet the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with and the 12 pinot noir you raised when you first looked into her eyes becomes priceless. When she asked if I'd brought along a waiter's corkscrew, I produced a sleek one that had been given to me as a gift and had the look of a new Jaguar driving out of the showroom. "I'll bet the blade is really sharp. she said. "You might want to start out with one that's been used. " There are many skills that a great sommelier must master. But to me, the most important is the ability to remove the fear from diners who know little or nothing about wine. People have good reason to be nervous. Maybe it's the link to royalty in the past, but wine has a way of bringing out that I'm better than you quality in people you wouldn't want to have a drink with. But mostly it's the prices that keep people on edge. It may be strange to say this now, but when it came to wine, Windows was the safest place in the world to be. You'd never be made to feel uncomfortable if you didn't pronounce a wine correctly. You'd never be recommended a wine just because it wasn't selling and the manager wanted it out the door. You'd never be chumped into buying a pricey one to jack up the bill. Andrea had the ability to magically intuit how much you'd feel comfortable spending and then find a way to match your food with the best wine your money could buy. Her goal, it seemed, was to prove you could love wine as much as she did. As I followed Andrea around the floor, I was amazed at how her passion merged with precision. There was a certain way the wine bottle was to be carried from the cellar, the bottom grasped in the hand, the body cradled like a football inside the forearm. There was a correct way to introduce a wine by holding the label in front of the taster and reciting its name, region, country, and vintage. A correct way to open a bottle with the waiter's corkscrew, circumnavigating the knife blade around the lower lip and then using the blade to peel the foil off over the top of the cork. Chardonnay had to be poured to exactly the fattest part of the glass, allowing room for the drinker to swirl without spilling. It would take me pages to describe all the rules and procedures, but they contributed to something special, because diners were at the same time made to relax and feel like royalty. Redux Andrea made it all look so easy that when she asked me if I'd like to try serving a table myself, I accepted—without bothering to tell her that I had never removed a cork with a waiter's corkscrew. My first table was a group of guys who were ordering steaks and laughing so loudly that it didn't seem possible to screw up. The table reminded me of an Australian party, so I recommended a Shiraz from Down Under that wailed like Tina Turner. I circled the corkscrew's blade around the foil covering the lip, but when I went to strip the foil over the top of the cork, I fumbled and the sharp new blade sliced into my thumb and sent blood spurting. "You okay. Andrea called from outside the door of the men's room as I rinsed off my bloody palm. It was beyond embarrassing. I stared in the mirror, shook my head, and tried to smile. An acrobat had once lain down on his back on a steel cable between the Twin Towers a quarter of a mile above the sidewalk. The Perfect Man couldn't even open a bottle of wine at the same height without bloodying himself. AP There was never a day that I entered the World Trade Center when I didn't think about Philippe Petit's tightrope walk between the towers. Even now, after watching snippets of it hundreds of times on YouTube, it still gives me thrills. The walk was not sanctioned, and there was no safety net. Petit spent six years in secretive planning, observing the towers as they came up and posing as a construction worker and a journalist to take measurements and check out the wind currents. Early on the morning of August 7, 1974, he and his posse hid in the World Trade Center and used a crossbow to first shoot fishing line across the gap between the towers, then pull successively thicker lengths of rope across that could support the cable. At 7:15 a. m., after the 450-pound cable had been stretched taut between the towers, he stepped out. The sonavabitch didn't just walk. He danced. At times, both of his feet bounded off the cable. He bowed on a knee. He lay on his back with his balancing pole balanced on his chest, and relaxed as if he were in the grass of Central Park. When he was asked later why he did it, he replied, If I see three oranges, I have to juggle. And if I see two towers, I have to walk. " I took inspiration from his preparation, showing up early for business conferences so I could practice opening dozens of bottles consecutively with my waiter's corkscrew until I could do it in my sleep. I learned to discreetly point to prices on the menu as I spoke about wines so the host could let me know if my recommendations were within his or her budget without ever having to mention the cost. I wanted to connect every diner with the grandeur of the journey from wine dunce to sommelier. I wanted you to understand what it was like to try to drink every wine at Vinexpo and bump into Edith Piaf. Sometimes I got carried away with diners who knew more than a little about wine, entering prolonged discussions over exactly which hard-driving California cab could release "Freebird" in their souls. In times like those, the general manager, Glenn Vogt, would call me over, put his arm around me, and let me know that it was great to see an entire table looking at the wine list as if it were a jukebox, but in the meantime four tables had been seated and the diners appeared to be very thirsty. It was time to step out on my own. Glenn and the chef, Michael Lomonaco, knew just the right place to hang the high wire. Wild Blue was a romantic restaurant set alongside Windows on the World. It had the same floor-to-ceiling windows, but it was not a tourist attraction. It was an intimate dining room that New Yorkers knew about and returned to because it was the place where Lomonaco had thrown his heart and soul. It was his home within Windows, which made me proud when he made it mine. My first evening as the sommelier was a Thursday night in May, 2001. The first seating was a couple celebrating their twentieth anniversary. The husband was a friend of mine, but his wife had never seen my face and therefore had no idea that I knew who she was. I had them seated at a table overlooking the necklace of lights on a bridge straddling the East River. Then I approached them in a suit tailored especially for the evening with a bottle cradled against my chest. The Perfect Man couldn't even open a bottle of wine at the same height without bloodying himself. "Good evening. I said. "On the occasion of your anniversary, all of us at Windows on the World would like to present you with a taste of Lordeaux champagne. It is served at the Assemblée Nationale in France and is ordinarily unavailable in the United States. Never before has it been poured at these heights, and never shall it be poured here again. The wife knew little about champagne, but she understood something much deeper, and as she looked at her husband, her eyes welled up. If on that night I possessed one-trillionth the audacity of Philippe Petit on the high wire, it still was big juice. I simply had no fear of wine. If you asked me about the fifteen hundred wines on the Windows list, I could talk to you from amarone to zinfandel. Pick your music and I'd pour. I even found humor in my missteps. When I spilled a few drops on a table, I apologized with gusto. "That is unforgivable! Let me bring you another bottle on the house! "Hey. called a guy at the next table. "Why don't you spill some here! I spread such joy on that evening that people actually took money from their wallets and slid it into the palm of my hand as they shook to say goodbye. Even as I protested—"No, you don't understand, that's not why I'm doing this"—they insisted, squeezing my palm shut, imploring, Take it, please. " A week later, a woman whom I served that night came back with some friends and asked in all seriousness, Is Cal working tonight? Perhaps I should have started writing the story the following day. But there was no deadline, I was occupied with other work, and I went on vacation over the summer. I figured I'd clear out time in September. I didn't know any of the seventy-three staff workers at Windows on the World who died on September 11 after the hijacked plane smashed into the North Tower. I didn't know any of the waiters who were serving seventy-one guests at a technology conference breakfast. I didn't know any of the people who chose to jump rather than choke and burn, nor any of the firemen who went up when everybody else was coming down, nor any of the more than three thousand who perished. I do know a man who was in the bathroom on the eighty-first floor when the airliner struck, who got down the stairwell in time to see Tower 2 imploding in the reflection off the windows of the Millennium Hotel across the street, and who dove for cover screaming the names of his wife and son as the weight of the World Trade Center fell on his head. When my friend Michael described the experience, we both knew that there was no way he could even begin to convey the depth of emotions he'd passed through on that day. So there's very little reason to bring up my feelings—especially since I was five hundred miles away. I can tell you I felt the need to be there. A few days later, at dusk, a friend of a friend managed to get me on a National Guard Humvee that toured the site. Even after all the images I'd seen on television, it was unrecognizable. I understood why people in New York who were watching the towers fall on television had left their living rooms to watch it from their balconies or windows or rooftops, just to confirm that it was truly happening. We drove through military checkpoints, police checkpoints, fire-department checkpoints. I stared at the monumental tangle of steel and concrete and realized the hijackers had planned to kill with the same intense detail that Philippe Petit had employed to make our spirits soar. For hours, we toured the sight in virtual silence. At one point, we passed some graffiti that read: O BIN, YOU DONE FUCKED UP. As my friend Michael had run down city streets covered in dust consisting of the remains of people who'd been disintegrated, he tried to grasp some meaning from what was happening. This was all part of a pattern of human cruelty and killing that has gone on since the beginning of time, he told himself. He just happened to be very close to this one. Some part of me was not the same as it was on 9/10. It would have been very easy for me to kill anyone attached to this in the slightest way. The evening turned into morning and I never did get my balance. When I saw a parking garage filled with cars covered with that same gray dust, I turned to the National Guard captain and foolishly asked, Why don't people come and get their cars? "Cal. the captain said, putting a hand on my shoulder to balance me and leaving it there for a while. "A lot of those cars don't have owners anymore. " I can't be sure that wine has ever tasted the same to me. Not long after, a benefit was organized for the families of those who'd worked and lost their lives at Windows on the World. Elite wineries in California donated cases of their best stuff to be auctioned off. The city's great chefs volunteered to cook for the occasion at Robert DeNiro's restaurant, Tribeca Grill. New York's finest sommeliers signed on to pour. Glenn Vogt called and asked me if I'd stand in as the sommelier of Wild Blue. Glenn had arrived at the World Trade Center the morning of 9/11 to see bodies and debris hurtling down from the sky. Michael Lomonaco would be at the benefit only because he stopped to get a pair of eyeglasses on 9/11, delaying his regular arrival for the fifty-eight-second elevator ride up to 107. At the benefit I poured fabulous wines from Screaming Eagle, Harlan Estate, Colgin Cellars, Bryant Family Vineyard, and Sine Qua Non, all the while thinking about the Muslim waiter at Windows who'd died in the carnage and whose wife gave birth to his son the following day. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were raised. Toward the end of the evening, the chefs were announced to great applause. Then the sommeliers. As my name was called out with a few others from Windows on the World, a few diners stepped out of their chairs to make it a standing ovation. Waves of emotion ran through me, incredible pride to have been touched by Windows, but also the feeling you get when you bite into a rotten pear. Yes, the evening was all about lifting spirits. But there was no escaping in that instant what an imposter I was. I was no sommelier. I had not lost my colleagues and my livelihood. I was a writer—and even worse, a writer who, at the moment, couldn't write. I'd spent many 3:00 a. m. 's staring at a blank computer screen searching for a first sentence. There was none. Nor was there a last. Everything in the middle was wine bottles falling end over end through space as bodies hurled by into the twisted jumble of wreckage. Months later, I went to interview the chef Mario Batali for another story, and I told him about my experience. If anyone would have a response to the one question I wanted answered, it would be Mario, for at heart he was a creator who knew how to bring very different ingredients together to make his food sing. "Is it possible. I asked, to write a story that balances the fun I had discovering wine with the horror of 9/11? He was silent for a moment, then he slowly shook his head back and forth. "No. You'll never be able to do it. he said. And then he paused and added, but you've got to. " The editor who'd backed my journey didn't say a word—which only made it worse. After handing me one of the best years of my life and seeing the conflict it had smashed into, we both knew he was hoping for something extraordinary. I tried to jump-start the story like a dead battery by going off on my own to Portugal to do something I'd dreamed of: turning grapes into wine with my bare feet. Technology has made winemaking more efficient throughout the world, but the best ports are still made the old-fashioned way. After the grapes are picked, they're dropped into granite troughs called lagars that hold about two thousand gallons of juice. In the evenings, the pickers methodically march for a couple of hours. Then a free-for-all called liberdade erupts and a carnival in grape juice begins. I stepped into the lagar at Fonseca, marched for hours, and then threw myself into the party. We stamped our grape-stained handprints on each other's shirts and spun dizzily all night. When liberdade came to a close, one of the Portuguese grape pickers asked me where I was from. "New York. I said. He blinked, said, World Trade Center. and came forward to embrace me. The woman next to him joined him in the embrace, as did the man behind her. The embrace grew larger and larger, men and women forming a collective hug around me up to our thighs in grape juice. And still, the world's understanding did not give me enough understanding to write. Nothing came, and in my guilt I'd find myself stammering to the editor that something soon would. But I knew the reality. I took the box of wine notes in my office down to the basement and buried it. My lies made my guilt feel like betrayal. More time passed. In 2004, the hilarious movie Sideways, about two guys on a road trip through California wine country, came out to great fanfare. Wine bars started sprouting all over America. More and more people were becoming aware of wine and less afraid of it. The editor called me in to tell me that the story might no longer be relevant, perhaps a last-ditch attempt to wrench it out of me. I went to my basement to dredge up my wine notes and found that they had been soaked by a rainstorm and were now black with mold. The fifth anniversary of 9/11 arrived and an extraordinary magazine cover appeared in my mailbox: an illustration of Philippe Petit with his long balancing pole on an empty white background. There was no tightrope. There were no Twin Towers. He was trying to balance himself on nothingness. Which is exactly what writing this story would be like—trying to walk a tightrope that didn't have any rope. There was no tightrope. He was trying to balance himself on nothingness. Time had only made the world more bewildering. There was a war declared on a country that didn't attack us. The world that had hugged me in a Portuguese wine trough had now seen a photo of a smiling American soldier holding a leash that circled around the neck of a naked Iraqi in a prison. Once, in North Carolina, an all-American eight-year-old kid I was interviewing told me about arguments he'd had with classmates who adamantly insisted that President Bush had secretly masterminded the attacks on 9/11. There was an economic meltdown. An opening appeared for a man with black skin to demand change and be elected president. Navy Seals finished off bin Laden. Dictators were overthrown in Tunisia, Egypt, and Libya, while the tallest building in the world was being constructed in the Middle East and the U. S. shuddered as it reached its debt limit. The world was evolving into a different place because of 9/11. Everything that happens for the rest of this century will stem from that day, just as September 11 came out of everything that preceded it. I had walked in the carnage of the most important moment of my lifetime. A writer with nothing to say. And how important was that, anyway, when I thought of the thousands of kids without parents? When the ball descended and the clock struck midnight to announce the beginning of 2008, I stood and cheered with my family in the middle of Times Square. Millions of people had been neatly arranged in blocks by the police department throughout the day, and my three children ran with their friends amongst the jubilant crowd with happy abandon. There had not been an attack on our soil since 9/11. I looked around at the police presence and the sense of organization, and I swear in that moment it felt like Times Square was the safest place on earth. Could I have imagined that on 9/12? No, I'd never be able to make sense of it all. Something inside me stopped trying. If it was death that took the story away from me, then it was death that brought it back to life. I was eating dinner with a group that included a woman whose husband had passed away. She'd spent a good amount of time on her own and concluded that she was ready for another partner. She explained how difficult the transition was. Having been married for years, she felt uncertain, didn't even know how or where to begin looking. As she spoke, an image came to my mind of Kevin Zraly proudly announcing how his Windows on the World wine class had been the meeting ground for more than a dozen marriages and created quite a few children. "Enroll in a wine class. I said. It was a sensible suggestion. You can get a good glimpse of somebody's character simply by talking about wine, and if it flies from there, it's destiny. But the instant I made the suggestion, I realized that something huge had happened. For the first time in years, I once again saw wine in terms of possibility and growth. I had come to a new beginning—which meant that this story had an end. Not long thereafter, I sat at a hotel bar with a blank notebook and began to trace all the grape stains backward to the day in 1999 when I first stepped into the elevator in the lobby of the World Trade Center. The more I thought, the more I realized how absurd it was to think that this ever could have been a simple, merry story. Life is just not that way, and nobody's ever going to be perfect. The world is balanced just like the finest wines. Since 9/11, my life had been touched by births, graduations, weddings, anniversaries, and amazing little moments that make you grateful to be alive, as surely as it had brushed up against illness, cruelty, murder, profound sadness, and death. Wine is simply here to help us celebrate the joy as well as push us past the tragedy. "Give me wine to wash me clean from the weather-stains of care. Ralph Waldo Emerson got that right. As I sat at that bar drifting back in time, a waiter approached the bartender carrying a glass of a sweet white wine from Italy called vin santo. "We have a complaint that it's not good. the waiter said, pushing the glass toward the bartender. The bartender was young, just out of college. He poured a fresh glass from the bottle, took a taste, and looked uncertain. "Let me try. I said. There was an authority in my voice that surprised even me, and the bartender poured me a taste and pushed it forward. I swirled the glass the way Zraly taught me and guessed from the aroma that the bottle had been open for a while and the exposure to air had distorted the wine. "That's correct, it's not right. I said upon tasting. "Open a new bottle and pour a fresh glass. " The bartender opened a new bottle, poured the glass, sent it off with the waiter, and turned back to me. He told me he wasn't really a bartender but an aspiring singer, that as a high school student he had once sung "Ave Maria" for Pope John Paul II in the Vatican. "That wine wasn't that bad. he said. "How were you so certain it was no good? "If you sang for the Pope, you know all you need to know. I said. "Taste it again. This time, listen to the music in it. You'll see how the music's right, right, right—then, at the very end, there's a note that's off-key. " He put the glass to his lips, ran the wine around his palate the way I told him, swallowed, and a smile slowly lit up his face. "Yeah. he said, nodding. "Yeah. I get it...
Windows Media 9 Series by Example - Nels Johnson - Google Books. Always loved the song/ and the video adds to the drama. Windows on the world watch full length 2017. Go Mark. My hero lol. Windows on the World Watch Full length.
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Windows on the world watch full length episodes. 9 wins & 1 nomination. See more awards » Edit Storyline On the morning of September 11, 2001, Fernando and his family in Mexico watch the news in horror as the Twin Towers collapse. His father, Balthazar, is an undocumented busboy on the top floor in the Windows on the World restaurant. Three weeks pass, and there is no word from Balthazar. No telephone calls, money orders, or hope that he is alive. As the family grieves, feeling the emotional and financial toll of their absent patriarch, Fernando's distraught mother swears she sees her husband on news footage - escaping from the building ALIVE. Heroic Fernando decides to take the epic journey from Mexico to New York City to find his father and save his family. Along the way, he finds love and befriends an eclectic group of international characters that help him restore his faith in humanity, as Fernando discovers the hard truths about his father, the melting pot of America, and the immigrant experience. Plot Summary, Add Synopsis Taglines: Faith. Love. Family. Hope. It's inside of us all... Details Release Date: 3 March 2019 (USA) See more » Also Known As: Windows on the World Company Credits Technical Specs See full technical specs ».
Windows on the World Watch Full lengthy. I remember 9/11, its still sad. Although I was 5 when it happened. Window On The World Jimmy Buffett Album: License To Chill A broken promise I kept too long A greasy shade and a curtain drawn A broken glass and a heart gone wrong That's my window on the world A cup of coffee and a shaky hand Waking up in a foreign land Trying to act like I got something planned That's my window on the world That's my window on the world Could you stand a little closer girl Don't let mamma cut those curls That's my window on the world (Bridge) In broad day light that circus went Pulled up stakes I don't know where it went Closed dark room with a busted vent That's my window on the world I think about you when I'm counting sheep I think about you then I can't sleep I think the ocean is just so deep That's my window on the world That's my window on the world Could you stand a little closer girl The Queen of Sheba meets the Duke of Earl That's my window on the world (Bridge) Down on Indiana Avenue Wes and Jimmy man they played the blues I guess they were only passin' through That's my window on the world That's my window on the world Could you stand a little closer girl Don't let mamma cut those curls That's my window on the world That's my window on the world Could you stand a little closer girl The Queen of Sheba meets the Duke of Earl That's my window on the world Written by: John Hiatt First Appeared on John Hiatt – Beneath This Gruff Exterior. 2003 New West Records, LLC Release Date: 2003 2004 Mailboat Records Inc.
Windows on the world watch full length song. See the article in its original context from May 26, 2002, Section 1, Page 1 Buy Reprints TimesMachine is an exclusive benefit for home delivery and digital subscribers. They began as calls for help, information, guidance. They quickly turned into soundings of desperation, and anger, and love. Now they are the remembered voices of the men and women who were trapped on the high floors of the twin towers. From their last words, a haunting chronicle of the final 102 minutes at the World Trade Center has emerged, built on scores of phone conversations and e-mail and voice messages. These accounts, along with the testimony of the handful of people who escaped, provide the first sweeping views from the floors directly hit by the airplanes and above. Collected by reporters for The New York Times, these last words give human form to an all but invisible strand of this stark, public catastrophe: the advancing destruction across the top 19 floors of the north tower and the top 33 of the south, where loss of life was most severe on Sept. 11. Of the 2, 823 believed dead in the attack on New York, at least 1, 946, or 69 percent, were killed on those upper floors, an analysis by The Times has found. Rescue workers did not get near them. Photographers could not record their faces. If they were seen at all, it was in glimpses at windows, nearly a quarter-mile up. Yet like messages in an electronic bottle from people marooned in some distant sky, their last words narrate a world that was coming undone. A man sends an e-mail message asking. Any news from the outside. before perching on a ledge at Windows on the World. A woman reports a colleague is smacking useless sprinkler heads with his shoe. A husband calmly reminds his wife about their insurance policies, then says that the floor is groaning beneath him, and tells her that she and their children meant the world to him. No single call can describe scenes that were unfolding at terrible velocities in many places. Taken together though, the words from the upper floors offer not only a broad and chilling view of the devastated zones, but the only window onto acts of bravery, decency and grace at a brutal time. Eight months after the attacks, many survivors and friends and relatives of those lost are pooling their recollections, tapes and phone records, and 157 have shared accounts of their contacts for this article. At least 353 of those lost were able to reach people outside the towers. Spoken or written at the hour of death, these are intimate, lasting words. The steep emotional cost of making them public is worth paying, their families say, for a clearer picture of those final minutes. Many also hope the history of the day is enlarged beyond memorials to the unquestioned valor of 343 firefighters and 78 other uniformed rescuers. It is time, they say, to account for the experiences of the 2, 400 civilians who also died that day. Iliana McGinnis, whose husband, Tom, called her from the 92nd floor of the north tower, said. If they can uncover even one more piece of information about what happened during those last minutes, I want it. Some details remain unknowable. Working phones were scarce. The physical evidence was destroyed. Conversations were held under grave stress, and are recalled through grief, time and longing. Even so, as one fragile bit of information elaborates on the next, they illuminate conditions on the top floors. The evidence strongly suggests that 1, 100 or more people in or above the impact zones survived the initial crashes, roughly 300 in the south tower and 800 in the north. Many of those lived until their building collapsed. Even after the second airplane struck, an open staircase connected the upper reaches of the south tower to the street. The Times has identified 18 men and women who used it to escape from the impact zone or above. At the same time they were evacuating, at least 200 other people were climbing toward the roof in that tower, unaware that a passable stairway down was available, and assuming. incorrectly. that they could open the roof door. The belief that they had a rooftop option cost them their lives. said Beverly Eckert, whose husband, Sean Rooney, called after his futile trek up. Hundreds were trapped on floors untouched by the airplanes. Even though the buildings survived the initial impacts, the twisting and bending of the towers caused fatal havoc. Stairwells were plugged by broken wallboard. Doors were jammed in twisted frames. With more time and simple tools like crowbars, rescue workers might have freed people who simply could not get to stairways. In the north tower, at least 28 people were freed on the 86th and 89th floors by a small group of Port Authority office workers who pried open jammed doors. Those self-assigned rescuers died. In both towers, scores of people lost chances to escape. Some paused to make one more phone call; others, to pick up a forgotten purse; still others, to perform tasks like freeing people from elevators, tending the injured or comforting the distraught. The crises had identical beginnings and endings in each tower, but ran different courses. At least 37 people, and probably well over 50, can be seen jumping or falling from the north tower, while no one is visible falling from the south tower, in a collection of 20 videotapes shot by amateurs and professionals from nearby streets and buildings. Both towers had similar volumes of smoke and heat, but in the north tower, about three times as many people were trapped in roughly half the space. Scores were driven to the windows of the north tower in search of relief. In the south tower, people had more opportunities to move between floors. The impact zones formed pitiless boundaries between those who were spared and those who were doomed. Even at the margins, the collisions were devastating: the wingtip of the second plane grazed the 78th floor sky lobby in the south tower, instantly killing dozens of people waiting for elevators. In all, about 600 civilians died in the south tower at or above the plane's impact. In the north tower, every person believed to be above the 91st floor died: 1, 344. The farther from the impact, the more calls people made. In the north tower, pockets of near-silence extended four floors above and one floor below the impact zone. Yet remarkably, in both towers, even on floors squarely hit by the jets, a few people lived long enough to make calls. To place these fragmentary messages in context, The Times interviewed family members, friends and colleagues of those who died, obtained times of calls from cellphone bills and 911 records, analyzed 20 videotapes and listened to 15 hours of police and fire radio tapes. The Times also interviewed 25 people who saw firsthand the destruction wreaked by the planes, because they escaped from the impact zone or above it in the south tower, or from just below it in the north. 8:00 North Tower, 107th Floor, Windows on the World, 2 hours 28 minutes to collapse ' Good morning, Ms. Thompson. Doris Eng's greeting was particularly sunny, like the day, as Liz Thompson arrived for breakfast atop the tallest building in the city, Ms. Thompson remembers thinking. Perhaps Ms. Eng had matched her mood to the glorious weather, the rich blue September sky that filled every window. Or perhaps it was the company. Familiar faces occupied many of the tables in Wild Blue, the intimate aerie to Windows that Ms. Eng helped manage, according to two people who ate there that morning. As much as any one place, that single room captured the sweep of humanity who worked and played at the trade center. Ms. Thompson, executive director of the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council, was eating with Geoffrey Wharton, an executive with Silverstein Properties, which had just leased the towers. At the next table sat Michael Nestor, the deputy inspector general of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, and one of his investigators, Richard Tierney. At a third table were six stockbrokers, several of whom came every Tuesday. Eng had a treat for one of them, Emeric Harvey. The night before, one of the restaurant's managers, Jules Roinnel, gave Ms. Eng two impossibly-hard-to-get tickets to ' The Producers. Mr. Roinnel says he asked Ms. Eng to give them to Mr. Harvey. Sitting by himself at a window table overlooking the Statue of Liberty was a relative newcomer, Neil D. Levin, the executive director of the Port Authority. He had never joined them for breakfast before. But his secretary requested a table days earlier and now he sat waiting for a banker friend, said Mr. Levin's wife, Christy Ferer. Every other minute or so, a waiter, Jan Maciejewski, swept through the room, refilling coffee cups and taking orders, Mr. Nestor recalls. Mr. Maciejewski was one of several restaurant workers on the 107th floor. Most of the 72 Windows employees were on the 106th floor, where Risk Waters Group was holding a conference on information technology. Already 87 people had arrived, including top executives from Merrill Lynch and UBS Warburg, according to the conference sponsors. Many were enjoying coffee and sliced smoked salmon in the restaurant's ballroom. Some exhibitors were already tending to their booths, set up in the Horizon Suite just across the hallway. A picture taken that morning showed two exhibitors, Peter Alderman and William Kelly, salesmen for Bloomberg L. P., chatting with a colleague beside a table filled with a multi-screened computer display. Stuart Lee and Garth Feeney, two vice presidents of Data Synapse, ran displays of their company's software. Down in the lobby, 107 floors below, an assistant to Mr. Levin waited for his breakfast guest. But when the guest arrived, he and Mr. Levin's aide luckily boarded the wrong elevator, Ms. Ferer would learn, and so they had to return to the lobby to wait for another one. Upstairs, Mr. Levin read his newspaper, Mr. Nestor recalled. He and Mr. Tierney were a little curious to see whom Mr. Levin, their boss, was meeting for breakfast. But Mr. Nestor had a meeting downstairs, so they headed for the elevators, stopping at Mr. Levin's table to say goodbye. Behind them came Ms. Thompson and Mr. Wharton. Nestor held the elevator, so they hopped in quickly, Ms. Thompson recalled. Then the doors closed and the last people ever to leave Windows on the World began their descent. It was 8:44 a. m. 8:46 North Tower, 91st Floor, American Bureau of Shipping, 1 hour 42 minutes to collapse The impact came at 8:46:26 a. American Airlines Flight 11, a Boeing 767 measuring 156 feet from wingtip to wingtip and carrying 10, 000 gallons of fuel, was moving at 470 miles an hour, federal investigators estimated. At that speed, it covered the final two blocks to the north tower in 1. 2 seconds. The plane ripped a path across floors 94 to 98, directly into the office of Marsh & McLennan Companies, shredding steel columns, wallboard, filing cabinets and computer-laden desks. Its fuel ignited and incinerated everything in its way. The plane's landing gear hurtled through the south side of the building, winding up on Rector Street, five blocks away. Just three floors below the impact zone, not a thing budged in Steve McIntyre's office. Not the slate paperweight shaped like a sailing ship. Not the family snapshots propped up on a bookcase. McIntyre found himself in front of a computer that was still on. Then came the whiplash. A powerful shock wave quickly radiated up and down from the impact zone. The wave bounced from the top to the bottom of the tower, three or four seconds one way and then back, rocking the building like a huge boat in a storm. We got to get the hell out of here. yelled Greg Shark, an American Bureau of Shipping engineer and architect, who was bracing himself in the swaying while he stood outside Mr. McIntyre's office. Somehow, they were alive. Only later would the two men realize the slender margin of their escape. In their accounts of hunting for a way out, they provide a survey of a border territory, an impregnable zone through which the people imprisoned above would never pass. McIntyre, Mr. Shark and nine other employees, all uninjured, hustled out of the A. B. S. reception area in the northwest corner and turned left toward the elevators and stairways in the tower's core. McIntyre recalls peering into a dim, shattered stairwell, billowing with smoke. He heard nothing but water cascading down the stairs, as if he had encountered a babbling brook on a mountain hike. The water almost certainly came from severed sprinkler pipes. Seeing and hearing no one else in the stinking gloom, he looked up. The stairwell was blocked from above. not by fire or structural steel, but by huge pieces of the light gypsum drywall, often called Sheetrock, that had enclosed the stairwell to protect it. In huge hunks, the Sheetrock formed a great plug in the stairwell, sealing the passage from 92, the floor above. Going down the stairs, it made a slightly less formidable obstruction. This is no good. Mr. McIntyre would remember saying. McIntyre could hardly have known it, but he stood at a critical boundary. Above him, across 19 floors, were 1, 344 people, many of them alive, stunned, unhurt, calling for help. Not one would survive. Below, across 90 floors, thousands of others were also alive, stunned, unhurt, calling for help. Nearly all of them lived. Bad as this staircase was, the two other emergency exits were worse, Mr. McIntyre later said. So he went back to that first staircase, northwest of the building's center. He stepped inside and immediately slipped down two flights of grimy gypsum. Unhurt, he stood and noticed lights below. He remembers calling. This way. His A. colleagues joined the exodus from 91. One floor above them, on the 92nd floor, employees of Carr Futures were doing exactly what the A. people had done: hunting for a way out. They did not realize they were on the wrong side of the rubble. On the 92nd floor, Damian Meehan scrambled to a phone at Carr Futures and dialed his brother Eugene, a firefighter in the Bronx. It's really bad here. the elevators are gone. Mr. Meehan told him. Get to the front door, see if there's smoke there. Eugene Meehan recalled urging him. He heard his brother put the phone down, then followed the sounds drifting into his ear. Yelling. Commotion, but not panic. A few minutes later, Damian Meehan returned and reported that the front entrance was filled with smoke. Get to the stairs. Eugene remembered advising him. See where the smoke is coming from. Go the other way. Then he heard Damian for the last time. He said, We've got to go. Or he said, We're going. Eugene Meehan said. I've been racking my brains to remember. I know he said, We. 9:00 North Tower, 106th Floor, Windows on the World, 1 hour 28 minutes to collapse ' What do we do? What do we do. Doris Eng, the restaurant manager, called the Fire Command Center in the lobby repeatedly with that question, according to officials and co-workers. Just minutes after the plane hit, the restaurant was filling with smoke and she was struggling to direct the 170 people in her charge. Many in the crowd made their living providing information or the equipment that carried it, communications experts taking part in the morning's conference in the ballroom. But with thickening smoke, no power and little sense of what was going on, the restaurant was fast becoming an isolation zone, where people scrambled for bits of news. Watch CNN. Stephen Tompsett, a computer scientist at the conference, e-mailed his wife, Dorry, using his BlackBerry communicator. Need updates. Videos from two amateur photographers show that the smoke built with terrifying speed at the top of the building, cascading thicker from seams in windows there than from floors closer to the plane. Early on, Rajesh Mirpuri called his company, Data Synapse, coughing, and said he could not see more than 10 feet, his boss, Peter Lee, would remember. Peter Alderman, the Bloomberg salesman, also told his sister about the smoke, using his BlackBerry to send an e-mail message. I'm scared. Ms. Eng and the Windows staff, following their emergency training, herded people from the 107th floor down to a corridor on the 106th near the stairs, where they used a special phone to call the Fire Command Center. The building's policy was to immediately evacuate the floor on fire and the one above it. People farther away, like those in Windows on the World, were to leave only when directed by the command center ' or when conditions dictate such actions. Conditions were quickly deteriorating, though. Glenn Vogt, the restaurant's general manager, said that 20 minutes after the plane hit, his assistant, Christine Olender, called him at home. She got his wife instead, Mr. Vogt said, because he was on the street outside the trade center. Olender told Mrs. Vogt that they had heard nothing on how to leave. The ceilings are falling. she said. The floors are buckling. Within 20 minutes of the crash, a police helicopter reported to its base that it could not land on the roof. Still, many put their hopes on a rescue by someone, some way. I can't go anywhere because they told us not to move. Ivhan Carpio, a Windows worker, said in a message he left on his cousin's answering machine. I have to wait for the firefighters. The firefighters, however, were struggling to respond. No one in New York had ever seen a fire of this size. four and five floors blazing within seconds. Commanders in the lobby had no way of knowing if any stairwells were passable. With most elevators ruined, firefighters were toting heavy gear up stairwells against a tide of evacuees. An hour after the plane crash, they would still be 50 floors below Windows. Downstairs, the authorities fielded calls from the upper floors. There's not much you could do other than tell them to go wet a towel and keep it over your face. said Alan Reiss, the former director of the world trade department of the Port Authority. But the plane had severed the water line to the upper floors. Maciejewski, the waiter, told his wife in a cellphone call that he could not find enough to wet a rag, she recalled. He said he would check the flower vases. The room had almost no water and not much air, but there was no shortage of cellphones or BlackBerries. Using them and a few intact phone lines, at least 41 people in the restaurant reached someone outside the building. Peter Mardikian of Imagine Software told his wife, Corine, that he was headed for the roof and that he could not talk long, she recalled. Others were waiting for one of the few working phones. Garth Feeney called his mother, Judy, in Florida. She began with a breezy hello, she later recalled. Mom. Mr. Feeney responded. I'm not calling to chat. I'm in the World Trade Center and it's been hit by a plane. The calm manner of the staff could not contain the strain. Laurie Kane, whose husband, Howard, was the restaurant's comptroller, said she could hear someone screaming. We're trapped. as they finished their final conversation. Gabriela Waisman, a conference attendee, phoned her sister 10 times in 11 minutes, frantic to keep the connection. Veronique Bowers, the restaurant's credit collections manager, kept telling her grandmother, Carrie Tillman, that the building had been hit by an ambulance. She was so confused. Mrs. Tillman said. 9:01 North Tower, 104th Floor, Cantor Fitzgerald, 1 hour 27 minutes to collapse Just two floors below Windows, the disaster marched at an eerily deliberate pace, the sense of emergency muted. The northwest conference room on the 104th floor held just one of many large knots of people in the five floors occupied by Cantor Fitzgerald. There, the smoke did not become overwhelming as quickly as at Windows. And the crash and fires were not as immediately devastating as they had been a few floors below, at Marsh & McLennan. In fact, Andrew Rosenblum, a Cantor stock trader, thought it would be a good idea to reassure the families. With his wife, Jill, listening on the phone from their home in Rockville Centre, N. Y., he announced to the room. Give me your home numbers. his wife recounted. Tim Betterly. Mr. Rosenblum said into his cellphone, reeling off a phone number. James Ladley. Another number. As the list grew, Mr. Rosenblum realized that 40 or 50 colleagues were in the room, having fled the smoke. Please call their spouses, tell them we're in this conference room and we're fine. he said to his wife. She remembers scribbling the names and numbers on a yellow legal pad in her kitchen, as the burning towers played on a 13-inch television in a cubbyhole near the backdoor. Mrs. Rosenblum handed pieces of paper with the numbers to friends who had shown up. They went either to the leafy, fenced-in backyard, where the dog wandered among them, or to the front lawn, calling the families on cellphones. Rosenblum's group, including Jimmy Smith, John Salamone and John Schwartz, sat on the eastern side of the bond trading area, in one of the open areas, according to John Sanacore, one of the group who was not at work that day. The spot offered expansive views of the Empire State Building. On the opposite end of the bond area, overlooking the Hudson River, other traders were gathered. John Gaudioso, who normally worked in that section but was on a golf outing that morning, recalled that Ian Schneider sat at the head of a string of desks where he led a global finance group. Michael Wittenstein, John Casazza and Michael DeRienzo were all in that area, and, like Mr. Schneider, were using land lines at their desks to take calls from concerned customers and loved ones, according to six people who spoke with them. The building rocked like it never has before. said Mr. Schneider, who was there for the 1993 bombing, in a phone call with his wife, Cheryl. In the equities trading area in the southern part of the 104th floor, looking toward the Statue of Liberty, there was a third group. Here, Stephen Cherry and Marc Zeplin pushed a button at their desk to activate the squawk box, a nationwide intercom to other Cantor offices around the country. Can anybody hear us. Mr. Cherry asked. A trader in Chicago who was listening in later said that she managed to reach a firehouse near the trade center. They know you're there. the trader told them. Mike Pelletier, a commodities broker in a Cantor office on the 105th floor, reached his wife, Sophie Pelletier, and was then in touch with a friend who told him that the airplane crash had been a terrorist attack. Pelletier swore and shouted the information to the people around him, Mrs. Pelletier said. In Rockville Centre, on the front lawn of the Rosenblums' house, Debbie Cohen dialed the numbers on the yellow pieces of paper she had been handed by Jill Rosenblum. Hello? You don't know me, but I was given your number by someone who is in the World Trade Center. she said. About 50 of them are in a corner conference room, and they say they're O. K. right now. 9:02 South Tower, 98th Floor, Aon Corp., 57 minutes to collapse Those in the south tower were still spectators, if wary ones. Hey Beverly, this is Sean, in case you get this message. Sean Rooney said on a voice mail message left for his wife, Beverly Eckert. There has been an explosion in World Trade One. that's the other building. It looks like a plane struck it. It's on fire at about the 90th floor. And it's, it's. it's horrible. Bye. Even in Mr. Rooney's tower, people could feel the heat from the fires raging in the other building, and they could see bodies falling from the high floors. Many soon began to leave. The building's staff, however, announced that they should stay. judging that it was safer for the tenants to stay inside an undamaged building than to walk onto a street where fiery debris was falling. That instruction would change at the very moment that Mr. Rooney, who worked for the insurance company Aon, was leaving a second message for his wife, at 9:02 a. Honey, this is Sean again. he said. Looks like we'll be in this tower for a while. He paused, as a public announcement in the background could be heard. It's secure here. Mr. Rooney continued. But. He stopped again to listen. if the conditions warrant on your floor you may wish to start an orderly evacuation. I'll talk to you later. Mr. Rooney said. Bye. As Mr. Rooney spoke, United Flight 175 was screaming across New York Harbor. 9:02 South Tower, 81st Floor, Fuji Bank, 57 minutes to collapse Yes, Stanley Praimnath told the caller from Chicago, he was fine. He had actually evacuated to the lobby of the south tower, but a security guard told him to go back. Now, he was again at his desk at Fuji Bank. I'm fine. he repeated. As he would later tell his story, those were his final words before he spotted it. A gray shape on the horizon. An airplane, flying past the Statue of Liberty. The body of the United Airlines jet grew larger until he could see a red stripe on the fuselage. Then it banked and headed directly toward him. Another one. Lord, you take over. he remembers yelling, dropping under his metal desk. At 9:02:54, the nose of the jetliner smashed directly into Mr. Praimnath's floor, about 130 feet from his desk. A fireball ignited. Steel furnishings and aluminum plane parts were torn into white-hot shrapnel. A blast wave hurled computers and desks through windows, and ripped out bundles of arcing electrical cables. Then the south tower seemed to stoop, swinging gradually toward the Hudson River, ferociously testing the steel skeleton before snapping back. Through most of both towers, the staircases were tightly clustered, and in the north tower, they were all immediately severed or blocked by the blast. Along the impact zone of the south tower, floors 78 to 84, however, the stairs had to divert around heavy elevator machinery. So instead of running close to the building core, two of the stairways serving those floors were built closer to the perimeter. One of them, on the northwest side, survived. A report in USA Today this month also suggested that the surviving stairway might have been shielded by the machinery. However the stairway survived, it made all the difference to Stanley Praimnath, who, huddled under his desk, could see a shiny aluminum piece of the plane, lodged in the remains of his door. The plane, entering at a tilt, raked across six floors. Three flights up was the office of Euro Brokers, on the 84th floor. Most of the company's trading floor there was annihilated. Yet even there. at the bull's-eye of the airplane's impact. other people were alive: Robert Coll, Dave Vera, Ronald DiFrancesco and Kevin York, among others. Within minutes, they headed to the closest stairwell, led by Brian Clark, a fire warden on the 84th floor, who had his flashlight and whistle. A fine powder mixed with light smoke floated through the stairwell. As they approached the 81st floor, Mr. Clark would recall, they met a slim man and a heavyset woman. You can't go down. the woman screamed. You got to go up. There is too much smoke and flame below. This assessment changed everything. Hundreds of people came to a similar conclusion, but the smoke and the debris in the stairwell proved less of an obstacle than the fear of it. This very stairwell was the sole route out of the building, running from the top to the bottom of the south tower. Anyone who found this stairwell early enough could have walked to freedom. This plain opportunity hardly read that way to the band of survivors who stood on the 81st floor landing, moments after the plane crash. They argued the alternatives, with Mr. Clark shining his flashlight into his colleagues' faces, asking each. Up or down. The debate was interrupted by shouts on the 81st floor. Help me! Help me. Mr. Praimnath yelled. I'm trapped. Don't leave me here. With no further discussion, the group in the stairs turned in different directions. As Mr. Clark recalls it, Mr. Coll, Mr. York and Mr. Vera headed up the stairs, along with the heavyset woman, the slim man and two others he knew from Euro Brokers but could not identify. Coll hooked arms to support the woman, Mr. Clark recalled. One of them said. Come on, you can do it. We're in this together. Clark and Mr. DiFrancesco headed toward the man yelling for help. Praimnath saw the flashlight beam and crawled toward it, over toppled desks and across fallen ceiling tiles. Minutes earlier, this had been Fuji Bank's loan department, employee lounge and computer room. Finally, he reached a damaged wall that separated him from the man with the flashlight. From both sides, they ripped at the wall. A nail penetrated Mr. Praimnath's hand. He knocked it out against a hard surface in the darkness. Finally, the two men could see each other, but were still separated. You must jump. Mr. Clark told Mr. Praimnath, whose hand and left leg were now bleeding. There is no other choice. Praimnath hopped up, Mr. Clark helped boost him over the obstacle. They ran to the stairwell and headed down. The steps were strewn with shattered wallboard. Flames licked in through cracks in the stairwell walls. Water from severed pipes poured down, forming a treacherous slurry. They moved past the spot with the heavy smoke that the woman had warned Mr. Clark against. Perhaps the draft had shifted; maybe the smoke had not been all that bad to begin with. In any case, the stairs were clear and would be clear as late as 30 minutes after the south tower was hit. Meanwhile, Mr. DiFrancesco took a detour in search of air, climbing about 10 floors, where he found the first group to go upstairs. They could not leave the stairwell; the doors would not open. Exhausted, in heavy smoke, people were lying down, Mr. DiFrancesco included. Everyone else was starting to go to sleep. he said. Then, he recalled, he sat up, thinking. I've got to see my wife and kids again. He ran down. 9:05 South Tower, 78th Floor, Elevator Sky Lobby, 54 minutes to collapse Mary Jos cannot say for sure how long she was lying there, unconscious, on the floor of the sky lobby, outside the express elevator. Her first recollection of stirring is when she felt searing heat on her back and face. Maybe, she remembers thinking, she was on fire. Instinctively, she rolled over to smother the flames. She saw a blaze in the center of the room, and in the elevator shafts. That was terrifying enough. Then, below the thick black smoke and through clouds of pulverized plaster, she gradually noticed something worse. The 78th floor sky lobby, which minutes before had been bustling with office workers unsure whether to leave the building or go back to work, was now filled with motionless bodies. The ceilings, the walls, the windows, the sky lobby information kiosk, even the marble that graced the elevator banks. everything was smashed as the second hijacked plane dipped its left wingtip into the 78th floor. In an instant, the witnesses say, they encountered a brilliant light, a blast of hot air and a shock wave that knocked over everything. Lying amid the deathly silence, burned and bleeding, Mary Jos had a single thought: her husband. I am not going to die. she said, remembering her words. In the 16 minutes between attacks, those in the south tower scarcely had time to absorb the horrors they could see across the plaza and decide what to do. To map their choices about movements is to see the geography of life and death. Before the second plane hit, survivors said, the mood in the sky lobby was awkward: relief at the announcements that their building was safer than walking on the street, and fear that it really wasn't. In these critical moments, people milled about, trying to decide. Be at trading desks for the opening of the market, or grab a cup of coffee downstairs? At Keefe, Bruyette & Woods, nearly the entire investment banking department left and survived. Nearly all the equities traders stayed and died. One of them, Stephen Mulderry, spoke to his brother Peter, and described the blaze in the north tower he could see from a window. Still, the word had come from the building management that his tower was ' secure. and his soundless phone was blinking for his attention. He said, I got to go. the lights are ringing and the market is going to open. Peter Mulderry recalled. In the moments before the second impact, everyone in the 78th floor sky lobby was poised between going up or down. Kelly Reyher, who worked on the 100th floor at Aon Corporation, stepped into a local elevator headed up. He wanted to get his Palm Pilot, figuring it might be a while before he could return to his office. Judy Wein and Gigi Singer, also both of Aon, debated whether to go back and get their pocketbooks from their 103rd floor office. But Howard L. Kestenbaum, their colleague, told them to forget about it. He would give them carfare home. As some office workers spoke nervously of the loved ones they were rushing to rejoin, there was even a bit of humor. I have a horse and two cats. Karen E. Hagerty, 34, joked, as she was squeezed out of an elevator spot. At the instant of impact, a busy lobby of people. witness estimates range from 50 to 200. was struck silent, dark, all but lifeless. For a few, survival came from having leaned into an alcove. Death could come from having stepped back from a crowded elevator door. As Ms. Wein came to, she had her own battered body to deal with: her right arm was broken, three ribs were cracked and her right lung had been punctured. In other words, she was lucky. All around her were people with horrific injuries, dead or close to it. Wein yelled out for her boss, Mr. Kestenbaum. When she found him, she said, he was expressionless, motionless, silent. Hagerty, who had joked about the cats at home, showed no signs of life when a colleague, Ed Nicholls, saw her. And Richard Gabrielle, another Aon colleague, was pinned to the ground, his legs apparently broken by marble that had fallen on them. Wein tried to move the stone. Gabrielle cried out from pain, she said, and told her to stop. Gradually, those who could move, did. Wein found Vijayashanker Paramsothy and Ms. Singer, neither of whom had life-threatening injuries. Kelly Reyher, who had been on his way to get his Palm Pilot, managed to pry open the elevator doors with his arms and his briefcase. He crawled out of the burning car and found Donna Spira 50 feet away. Her arm fractured, her hair burned, Mrs. Spira could still walk. A mysterious man appeared at one point, his mouth and nose covered with a red handkerchief. He was looking for a fire extinguisher. As Judy Wein recalls, he pointed to the stairs and made an announcement that saved lives: Anyone who can walk, get up and walk now. Anyone who can perhaps help others, find someone who needs help and then head down. In groups of two and three, the survivors struggled to the stairs. A few flights down, they propped up debris blocking their way, leaving a small passageway to slip through. A few minutes behind this group was Ling Young, who also survived the impact in the sky lobby. She, too, said she had been steered by the man in the red bandanna, hearing him call out. This way to the stairs. He trailed her down the stairs. Young said she soon noticed that he was carrying a woman on his back. Once they reached clearer air, he put her down and went back up. Others never left. The people who escaped said Mr. Paramsothy, who had only been scraped, remained behind. Young said that Sankara Velamuri and Diane Urban, colleagues of Mrs. Jos from the State Department of Taxation and Finance, tried to help two more seriously injured friends, Dianne Gladstone and Yeshavant Tembe, both also state employees. All five of these people would die. Of the dozens of people waiting in the sky lobby when the second plane struck, 12 are known to have made it out alive. 9:35 North Tower, 104th Floor, Cantor Fitzgerald; 106th Floor, Windows on the World; 53 minutes to collapse So urgent was the need for air that people piled four and five high in window after window, their upper bodies hanging out, 1, 300 feet above the ground. They were in an unforgiving place. Elsewhere, two men, one of them shirtless, stood on the windowsills, leaning their bodies so far outside that they could peer around a big intervening column and see each other, an analysis of photographs and videos reveals. On the 103rd floor, a man stared straight out a broken window toward the northwest, bracing himself against a window frame with one hand. He wrapped his other arm around a woman, seemingly to keep her from tumbling to the ground. Behind the unbroken windows, the desperate had assembled. About five floors from the top you have about 50 people with their faces pressed against the window trying to breathe. a police officer in a helicopter reported. Now it was unmistakable. The office of Cantor Fitzgerald, and just above it, Windows on the World, would become the landmark for this doomed moment. Nearly 900 would die on floors 101 through 107. In the restaurant, at least 70 people crowded near office windows at the northwest corner of the 106th floor, according to accounts they gave relatives and co-workers. Everywhere else is smoked out. Stuart Lee, a Data Synapse vice president, e-mailed his office in Greenwich Village. Currently an argument going on as whether we should break a window. Mr. Lee continued a few moments later. Consensus is no for the time being. Soon, though, a dozen people appeared through broken windows along the west face of the restaurant. Vogt, the general manager of Windows, said he could see them from the ground, silhouetted against the gray smoke that billowed out from his own office and others. By now, the videotapes show, fires were rampaging through the impact floors, darting across the north face of the tower. Coils of smoke lashed the people braced around the broken windows. In the northwest conference room on the 104th floor, Andrew Rosenblum and 50 other people temporarily managed to ward off the smoke and heat by plugging vents with jackets. We smashed the computers into the windows to get some air. Mr. Rosenblum reported by cellphone to his golf partner, Barry Kornblum. But there was no hiding. As people began falling from above the conference room, Mr. Rosenblum broke his preternatural calm, his wife, Jill, recalled. In the midst of speaking to her, he suddenly interjected, without elaboration. Oh my God. 9:38 South Tower, 97th Floor, Fiduciary Trust; 93rd Floor, Aon Corp. 21 minutes to collapse ' Ed, be careful. shouted Alayne Gentul, the director of human resources at Fiduciary Trust, as Edgar Emery slipped off the desk he had been standing on within the increasingly hot and smoky 97th floor of the south tower. Emery, one of her office colleagues, had been trying to use his blazer to seal a ventilation duct that was belching smoke. To evacuate Fiduciary employees who worked on this floor, Mr. Emery and Mrs. Gentul had climbed seven floors from their own offices. Now the two of them, and the six or so they were trying to save, were all in serious trouble. As Mrs. Gentul spoke to her husband on the phone. he could overhear what was happening. Mr. Emery got up and spread the coat over the vent. Next, he swung a shoe at a sprinkler head, hoping to start the flow of water. The sprinklers aren't going on. Mrs. Gentul said to her husband, Jack Gentul, who listened in his office at the New Jersey Institute of Technology in Newark, where he is a dean. No one knew the plane had cut the water pipes. We don't know whether to stay or go. Mrs. Gentul told her husband. I don't want to go down into a fire. she said. Among the doomed, the phone calls, messages and witnesses make clear, were many people who had put themselves in harm's way by stopping to offer a hand to colleagues or strangers. Others acted with great tenderness when all else was lost. Gentul and Mr. Emery of Fiduciary, whose offices stretched from the 90th to the 97th floors, had made their own fateful decisions to help others. When the first plane hit across the plaza, the fireball billowed across the western facade of the 90th floor, where Mr. Emery was in his office. I felt the heat on my face. said Anne Foodim, a member of human resources who worked nearby. Emery, known for steadiness, emerged, the lapels on his blue blazer flapping as he waved people out. Come on, let's go. he said, escorting five employees into a stairwell, including Ms. Foodim, who recounted the events. They walked down 12 floors, reaching the 78th floor and the express elevator, with Mr. Emery giving encouragement. If you can finish chemo, then you can get down those steps. Mr. Emery told an exhausted Ms. Foodim, who had just completed a round of chemotherapy. When they finally reached a packed elevator on the 78th floor, Mr. Emery made sure everyone got aboard. He squeezed Ms. Foodim's shoulder and let the door close in front of him. Then he headed back up, joining Alayne Gentul. Like Mr. Emery, Mrs. Gentul herded a group out before the second plane hit. A receptionist, Mona Dunn, saw her on the 90th floor where workers were debating when or if to leave. Gentul instantly settled the question. Go down and go down orderly. she said, indicating a stairway. It was like the teacher saying, It's O. K., go. Mrs. Dunn recalled. Together, Mrs. Emery went to evacuate six people on the 97th floor who had been working on a computer backup operation, Mrs. Emery was hunting for a stairwell on the 97th floor when he reached his wife, Elizabeth, by cellphone. The last thing Mrs. Emery heard before she lost the connection was Alayne Gentul screaming from somewhere very near Ed Emery. Where's the stairs? Where's the stairs. Another phone call was under way nearby. Edmund McNally, director of technology for Fiduciary, called his wife, Liz, as the floor began buckling. McNally hastily recited his life insurance policies and employee bonus programs. He said that I meant the world to him and he loved me. Mrs. McNally said, and they exchanged what they thought were their last goodbyes. Then Mrs. McNally's phone rang again. Her husband sheepishly reported that he had booked them on a trip to Rome for her 40th birthday. He said, Liz, you have to cancel that. Mrs. McNally said. On the 93rd floor, Gregory Milanowycz, 25, an insurance broker for Aon, urged others to leave. some of them survived. but went back himself, after hearing the announcement. Why did I listen to them. I shouldn't have. he moaned after his father, Joseph Milanowycz, called him. Now he was trapped. He asked his father to ask the Fire Department what he and 30 other people should do. His father said he passed word from a dispatcher to his son that they should stay low, and that firefighters were working their way up. Then, he says, he heard his son calling out to the others. They are coming! My Dad's on the phone with them. They are coming. Everyone's got to get to the ground. Even when the situation was most hopeless, the trapped people were still watching out for one another. On the 87th floor, a group of about 20 people from Keefe, Bruyette & Woods took refuge in a conference room belonging to the New York State Department of Taxation and Finance. During the final minutes, Eric Thorpe managed to get a call to his wife, Linda Perry Thorpe, who was waiting to hear from him at a neighbor's apartment. No one spoke from the tower. Instead, Ms. Thorpe and the neighbor listened to the ambient noise. I hear everything in the background. Mrs. Thorpe recalled, including, she said, gasping. Someone asks, Where is the fire extinguisher. Someone else says, It already got thrown out the window. I heard a voice asking, Is anybody unconscious. Some of them sounded calm. One man went berserk, screaming. I couldn't understand that he was saying anything. He just lost it. I heard another person soothing him, saying, It's O. K., it'll be O. 9:45 South Tower, 105th Floor, 14 minutes to collapse Minutes after the second plane struck the south tower, Roko Camaj called home to report that a throng had gathered near the roof, according to his son, Vinny Camaj. I'm on the 105th floor. Roko Camaj told his wife. There's at least 200 people here. The promise of sanctuary on the roof had seemed so logical, so irresistible, that scores of people chased their fates up the stairs. They were blind alleys. Camaj, a window washer who had been featured in a children's book, carried the key to the roof, his son said. That key alone would not open its door: a buzzer also had to be pressed by the security staff in a command post on the 22nd floor. And the post had been damaged and evacuated. The roof seemed like an obvious choice. and the only one. to people on the upper floors. A police helicopter had evacuated people from the roof of the north tower in February 1993, after a terrorist bomb exploded in the basement. For a variety of reasons, though, the Port Authority, with the agreement of the Fire Department, discouraged helicopters as part of its evacuation plan. Police commanders ruled out a rooftop rescue that morning. Whatever the wisdom of the policy, it came as a shock to many people trapped in the towers, according to their families and summaries of 911 calls. Only a few realized that Stairway A could take them down to safety, and that information never circled back upstairs from those escaping or from the authorities. Frank Doyle, a trader at Keefe, Bruyette & Woods, called his wife, Kimmy Chedell, to remind her of his love for her and the children. She recalls he also said. I've gone up to the roof and the rooftop doors are locked. You need to call 911 and tell them we're trapped. The 105th floor was the last stop for many of those who had climbed toward the roof, a crowd dominated by Aon employees. At 9:27, a man called 911 and said a group was in the north conference room on the 105th floor. At 9:32, a man on the 105th floor called 911 and asked that the roof be opened. At 9:38, Kevin Cosgrove, a fire warden for Aon, called 911, then rang his brother. Sean Rooney called Beverly Eckert. They had met at a high school dance in Buffalo, when they were both 16. They had just turned 50 together. He had tried to go down but was stymied, then had climbed 30 floors or so to the locked roof. Now he wanted to plot a way out, so he had his wife describe the fire's location from the TV pictures. He could not fathom why the roof was locked, she said. She urged him to try again while she dialed 911 on another line. He put the phone down, then returned minutes later, saying the roof door would not budge. He had pounded on it. He was worried about the flames. Ms. Eckert recalled. I kept telling him they weren't anywhere near him. He said, but the windows were hot. His breathing was becoming more labored. Ceilings were caving in. Floors were buckling. Phone calls were being cut off. He was alone in a room filling with smoke. They said goodbye. He was telling me he loved me. Then you could hear the loud explosion. 10:00 North Tower, 92nd Floor, Carr Futures, 28 minutes to collapse ' Mom. asked Jeffrey Nussbaum. What was that explosion. Twenty miles away in Oceanside, N. Y., Arline Nussbaum could see on television what her son could not from 50 yards away. She recalls their last words. The other tower just went down. Mrs. Nussbaum said. Oh my God. her son said. I love you. Then the phone went dead. The north tower, which had been hit 16 minutes before the south, was still standing. It was dying, more slowly, but just as surely. The calls were dwindling. The number of people falling from windows accelerated. That morning, the office of Carr Futures on the 92nd floor was unusually busy. A total of 68 men and women were on the floor that morning, 67 of them associated with Carr. About two dozen brokers for Carr's parent company had been called to a special 8 a. meeting. When the building sprang back and forth like a car antenna, door frames twisted and jammed shut, trapping a number of them in a conference room. The remaining Carr employees, about 40, migrated to a large, unfinished space along the west side. Jeffrey Nussbaum called his mother, and shared his cellphone with Andy Friedman. In all, the Carr families have counted 31 calls from the people they lost, according to Joan Dincuff, whose son, Christopher, died that morning. Carr was two floors below the impact, and everyone there had survived it; yet they could not get out. Between 10:05 and 10:25, videos show, fire spread westward across the 92nd floor's north face, bearing down on their western refuge. At 10:18, Tom McGinnis, one of the traders summoned to the special meeting, reached his wife, Iliana McGinnis. The words are stitched into her memory. This looks really, really bad. he said. I know. said Mrs. McGinnis, who had been hoping that his meeting had broken up before the airplane hit. This is bad for the country; it looks like World War III. Something in the tone of her husband's answer alarmed Mrs. McGinnis. Are you O. K., yes or no. she demanded. We're on the 92nd floor in a room we can't get out of. Mr. McGinnis said. Who's with you. she asked. McGinnis mentioned three old friends. Joey Holland, Brendan Dolan and Elkin Yuen. I love you. Mr. Take care of Caitlin. Mrs. McGinnis was not ready to hear a farewell. Don't lose your cool. she urged. You guys are so tough, you're resourceful. You guys are going to get out of there. You don't understand. Mr. There are people jumping from the floors above us. It was 10:25. The fire raged along the west side of the 92nd floor. People fell from windows. McGinnis again told her he loved her and their daughter, Caitlin. Don't hang up. Mrs. McGinnis pleaded. I got to get down on the floor. Mr. With that, the phone connection faded out. It was 10:26, two minutes before the tower crumbled. The World Trade Center had fallen silent. History Recorded From the Messages of Victims The primary sources for today's article are interviews with more than 140 people who communicated with individuals on the upper floors of the twin towers, and conversations with 17 others who were at or above the impact zone in the south tower but escaped. Additionally, eight people described conditions just below the impact zone in the north tower. The interviews were supplemented by documentary materials. Among these are voice mail and e-mail messages from people inside the trade center; 20 videotapes of the towers, most of them shot by people who happened to be in their apartments or hotel rooms in Lower Manhattan; 15 hours of audio tapes made by the New York Police and Fire Departments; and summary transcripts of 911 calls. Certain public records, including emergency dispatch logs, were obtained under the Freedom of Information Act. The Times also obtained floor plans and other detailed information about the two structures. Five reporters spent weeks interviewing friends, families and colleagues of those lost to piece together their accounts. a version of conditions and events based on calls and messages, and in some instances from a group of victims trapped in a single room. Phone bills pinpointed times of some calls, and others were recalled by those who made or received them. A frame-by-frame review of videotape provided another clock. A database was developed that tracked where the victims worked. For many of the friends and relatives, talking about the final conversations was an emotionally demanding task, and a few families said they were not ready for it. Others preferred that their children not read about the last moments of a lost parent. Their wishes were respected. A vast majority were eager both to share information and to learn any new details. That the lost were largely unseen on Sept. 11, their families say, does not mean they were unheard; those able to get word out left posterity an eloquent record. Researchers and reporters for The Times were ultimately able to document 406 instances in which people inside the top floors of the towers communicated with the world outside after the first plane struck. Seventy percent of those contacts were made by people inside the north tower. Aspects of what happened at the top floors of the towers have appeared in Talk magazine, USA Today, The Daily News and a book by reporters for Der Spiegel in Germany. While the Police and Fire Departments are conducting reviews of their operations that day, no government agency is studying the experiences of the people on the upper floors, where nearly 70 percent of those who died in the New York attack were killed. As a lesson for history and a study in the human spirit, say a number of the families, such scrutiny is invaluable. There are so many issues that need to be looked at to understand what went wrong, what happened and what could be done differently. said Monica Gabrielle, whose husband, Richard, was lost.
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