boston on marathon monday

The morning was bright and bubbly as champagne. We had tickets to the Red Sox game, one last treat before we would fly out of Logan International Airport in the afternoon. Fenway Park is within one mile of the marathon finish line - between the game and the race, thousands of people filled the streets. Not wanting to scramble for a parking space in an unfamiliar city with closed roads on the busiest day of the year, we left the car a few miles north in the parking lot of a subway station and arrived downtown by train, early and hungry and elated.

We had the best breakfast in a busy restaurant two blocks from the game park. It was 8 in the morning and people were having cocktails. People were everywhere, loquacious and animated. The sun was brilliant, the mood effervescent, and we were very happy.

We didn't stay for the whole game. We had a flight to catch. We had the car to retrieve and a gun in our luggage, which means get there early, get there early, to have time to deal with any complications, even if it's just an air gun. So we left before the game was over, but of course we first walked toward the finish line. This is what you do when you run marathons and you are in Boston on Marathon Monday - you don't even think about it. It is the Boston marathon and you are there. You watch them coming in, running like gazelles.

The bombing happened while we were on the way to the airport. The subway was closed after we got to our car. I heard flights were grounded too, but I am not sure - ours took off.

I have read somewhere that if you ever lose faith in the human race you should go to the finish line of a marathon and watch the people who are standing there for hours, come rain or come shine, without water, without shelter, without bathrooms, to cheer on strangers.

These are the people who got hurt that day.