When I travel for business, I usually try to treat it as much like a pleasure trip as possible. You know – see the sights, take in a baseball game. So I had mixed feelings about getting up at 6:30 in the morning to visit the White House. It was a good, historical touristy thing to do, but 6:30?

I was working for a non-profit that analyzed state and local government revenue and spending at the time. I was in Washington, DC for the annual National Taxpayer Conference annual meeting. Our group was scheduled for an early tour of the People’s House prior to meeting with then-Office of Management and Budget Director Mitch Daniels. At the time, big federal tax reductions were big news, and we were all anxious to talk with Director Daniels about the impact of the changes on our states.

The White House tour was uneventful. We came out the front door, and posed together in the front driveway for a group picture. We didn’t know it, but it was about this time that the first plane hit the World Trade Center in New York. We finished up our picture-taking and began to walk slowly up Pennsylvania Avenue to the Old Executive Office Building, the baroque edifice next door that houses some of the White House’s office operations.

We loitered outside the White House fence, just killing time. A man nearby on a cell phone was having an animated conversation. It was not hard to hear him telling a friend or loved one that a private plane had apparently accidentally crashed into the World Trade Center in New York. No reports of damage or anything, but that sure didn’t seem serious, just tragic. Small planes seem to fall out of the sky with alarming regularity. As we neared the spot on the White House grounds from which the television media do their stand-up reports, one of the reporters was hurrying to his designated place to do a live shot. Understandable. I mean, planes don’t fly into buildings every day, right?

We walked around the corner and found there was a line to get into the OEOB. There was a magnetometer – a fancy name for the metal detectors many government buildings have that one has to walk through to get in – and the line was slow. As we’re standing there behind the other folks with routine business with the government, word gets passed down that it wasn’t a small private plane in New York, but a commercial jetliner. Whoa. That explains the reporter’s urgency.

Minutes later there’s word that a second plane has crashed in New York. That’s no accident. Just seconds later, a security guard runs out of the OEOB, and that’s when I realized this was serious. This guy was a caricature of a security guard – belly hanging over his belt. But he was yelling at us to evacuate this building, and leading the way – sprinting - across the street.

Pandemonium.

We ran two blocks, old and young, black and white, rich and poor. We didn’t know what we were running from, really, but panic’s like that. A plane’s hit the Pentagon, and oh my God! Planes are falling out of the sky all around us! Linda takes a picture of a plane that flies over our heads, a picture the FBI later wants to see. The plane has no markings of any kind on its fuselage, just a white underbelly, like a shark.

People are issuing into the streets like kernels of corn from the bottom of a grain elevator. Flooding the streets, jamming the subway. I am staying clear out in Georgetown and need to get back to my hotel so I can call my wife and let her know I’m ok. I walk up towards the nearest Metro station. The subway car is just packed and the buzzing conversation is incredible, deafening, everyone talking at once. “I heard….” “It’s an attack….” “Pentagon….” “White House….” This last gave me pause. Has the White House been hit? I was there 45 minutes ago! From the closest Metro stop, it’s about a 10 minute walk to my hotel. When I come out of the station, I look South and there’s a column of smoke rising. So the Pentagon story is true.

I get to the hotel and the carnage they’re showing on cable is incredible. I call home and the kids aren’t even at school yet. The buildings collapse and the sinking feeling of that hits me hard. It means more deaths and a sense of defeat that I don’t think would be there if they were still standing. As I’m watching, I find that another plane – four now! – has crashed in Pennsylvania. This one, they think, was headed for the White House. Later I find out that some of the passengers on that plane fought back, stormed the cockpit, maybe saved my life. I owe them.

An hour later, perhaps, my phone rings. It’s the front desk. “We’re going to have a prayer service for hotel guests and staff in a half hour. Can you come?” Of course I can. At the appointed time, I walk down two flights of stairs to the lobby. There are a dozen of us, maybe 15. The guests are from all over the country. I don’t know anyone but we’re sharing an experience that carries tremendous emotional weight. We seek out each other’s eyes, making a connection that’s unspoken but completely understood. We stand in a circle and hold hands. The woman on my right is weeping a little. Everyone else looks as though they’re about to start. The hotel manager says a prayer; brief, impromptu, praying for the souls of those innocents who died and for this nation. I say my own for those guys in Pennsylvania. This is only the first of many, many times I will thank them and pray for them and their families.

The phones have become unreliable because so many people are trying to call. They’re looking for people to donate blood. No more planes are flying, and may not for a while. People walk around Georgetown in a daze. You can almost read the questions in their eyes. What does it mean? All those people killed – what did they do? Will there be more?

The next morning, I take a cab down to the hotel our conference is meeting in. On the way, I see a man hit by a car as he steps out into the street. There are National Guard troops out. Camo Humvees at intersections. The change in them is amazing – this isn’t some benign crowd control job they’re doing. They’re serious. “Don’t give us a reason,” they seem to say. I don’t.

There’s no one at the conference, but the breakfast fruit tray is there. I wait a while, until one of my counterparts shows up. He’s bugging out, and surprise, surprise, the rest of the conference is cancelled. Five people rented a car last night and took off for the Midwest. Everyone else is trying to figure out how to leave. I start thinking about my own way home, scheduled out on a flight on Friday evening. Is that far enough in the future for the airports to open back up?

The rest of the week passes. Like everyone, I mostly sit and watch the news coverage. Businesses are closed, or open and deserted. I go to the Smithsonian and take in the U.S. President’s display. I’m alone there. It lends perspective. Too much, maybe.

Friday morning, I talk with my Toastmaster’s group via speakerphone. Coincidentally, we have one member in New York and one in Washington. We each tell about our experience on 9/11. “The guys who did this are in for it now,” I tell them, although I don’t refer to them as “guys.” I’m starting to pass beyond being stunned and beginning to get angry.

I fly home Friday evening. I’m surprised the security isn’t tighter. Except for one extra check of my ticket against my driver’s license, it’s no different than it was when I came to Washington. When I get home, I’m reminded of what’s important.

Unlike the vast majority of Americans, I was there on September 11. There are many experiences in my life that I don’t remember clearly, but the events of that day are burned into my memory with a clarity that is almost frightening. The fear and panic. The sadness. The nobility. All of us should find a way to remember that day, and to support taking strong actions to ensure it never happens again – here or elsewhere. To do otherwise is to sully the memory of those who died and the guys on that plane in Pennsylvania who gave their lives to save mine.