After two weeks of traveling across the magical green hills of the Republic of Ireland, my husband and I flew from Dublin to London for what was supposed to be a fun cap to a long vacation. London was what it always had been - stodgy, staid, busy, historic. It's a place where people speak your language - sort of - and you feel an easy kinship.

My husband, Norman is a physician. He works what seems to me 24 hours a day, seven days a week, so he deserved a long break, but not as long as what we were to discover.

Our hotel was only a quick walk from Buckingham Palace. And for two days, we toured London.

Around 3:30 p.m. on September 11, we stepped back into the quiet hotel lobby to be met by the hotel's owner and manager, who personally informed their American guests of the horrendous acts that had taken place in New York. Disbelief was my initial reaction. Surely this was a sick joke. Immediately, my husband and I raced up the stairs to our room, flipped on CNN and watched - as the rest of the world did. We watched as helpless humans leapt to their deaths from the heights of the burning infernos in New York. The building collapsed, forming tons of debris. Suffocating clouds of dust billowed down the cavernous streets of the lower end of Manhattan. Thousands perished. We were spellbound.

Photo Credit: Dana Simon/Tulsa World

At the base of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt memorial in Grosvenor Square park beside the U.S. Embassy in London, a proliferation of flowers surrounds a poignant postcard of New York's destroyed twin World Trade Center towers. People from around the world have visited the site to leave messages of sorrow and support for the families affected by the Sept. 11 terrorists attacks in New York, Pennsylvania and Washington, D.C.

My thoughts raced to my sister, Janice, who would have been at work at her office only 11 blocks north of the destruction. All the phone lines were jammed. All domestic and international air traffic was halted. The U.S. borders were closed. [Editor's Note: Customs was placed on Level 1 alert, the highest alert status. Although commercial flights resumed on Thursday, two days after the September 11 attacks, the U.S. land borders were never closed.] We were supposed to leave London on September 13. As a U.S. citizen, to be denied entry to one's own country is a strange feeling, one of desperation, loss and helplessness. It's a sense of abandonment by my own nation. How could I not return to where I was born, where I live and love? In such disorder, one just wants to be home.

I would regain entry to my land - but when? Eventually, my sister called and left word at the hotel that she was safe.

The streets of London were strangely eerie. Few Americans ventured out. There were reports of a form of usury - hotels were doubling, even tripling their rates. There was a run on ATM machines to obtain British pounds. Would the banks back home close? My husband and I resolved to proceed with our plans. We went to a weird production of Shakespeare's MacBeth at the new Globe Theater. It was irrelevant.

September 12, there was no changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Tradition was eclipsed. The next day, we wandered over to the palace around 11 a.m. to discover an expanded version of the changing of the guard, with a band playing the U.S. National Anthem. Americans were stacked deep around the palace ground's high black wrought-iron fences. Bobbies stood vigil, as did soldiers in camouflage uniforms, ambulances and hordes of media. Andrew, the duke of York, representing the queen, stood beside our own U.S. Ambassador William Farish. With tears in their eyes, Americans sang their patriotic song and waved American flags.

September 14, Queen Elizabeth attended a memorial service at majestic St. Paul's Cathedral. Wearing a black hat and dress, she broke down and cried.

September 15, my husband and I visited the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, where a long queue was wrapped around the block. People were armed with bouquets of red roses, yellow carnations and lilies. Two white tents were in the park - one for security and another to house books of condolence. At the base of Roosevelt's statue was a floral profusion, cards, candles and compassionate, handwritten messages. People of all nationalities had come to express their sorrow and support.

London airline traffic resumed. Travelers compared their detailed stories of being stranded. After 10 days in London, my husband and I had done every "touristy" thing we could imagine. I even rode the London Eye ferris wheel. While encapsulated aloft over London, I thought how basically that skyline had been unchanged for hundreds of years. I thought of how dramatically New York's skyline had been altered. Stressed and exhausted, we were embarrassed that we put such importance on our own inconvenience and extra expense, in light of the despair loved ones and co-workers of the victims of the U.S. terrorist attacks.

September 17, minus nail files and clippers, and after hours at London's Heathrow Airport standing in line and going through security checks and rechecks, we climbed aboard American Airlines Flight No. 87 bound for the United States. I felt as if the plane ride might be our plank-walk to death, but the trip across the "pond" was uneventful. At last, we set foot on U.S. soil. We presented our passports to a Mr. Santana at Chicago's U.S. Customs desk. He said the two prettiest words in the English language: "Welcome back."