It’s past midnight, on the morning of November 11,2004, but Ollie’s Noodle Shop and Grille off 42ndStreet in New York is just filling with people. At achrome-edged table, I sit with my wife, eating a bowlof steaming noodles.

We had arrived in New York just a couple ofhours earlier. We had come to New York, in part, to enjoythe city. But I’ve returned, in part, to stand at thespot where I had stood in March of 2002, looking forsome meaning in Ground Zero — only to find none.

Twoand a half years later — after two wars, tens ofthousands of dead, and tens of thousands of wordswritten trying to make some sense of it — I came tolook again, to see if I had missed something then orif some kind of meaning had arrived since.

Early the next morning we take the subway south to thefinancial district, and emerge near Ground Zero. Thesky is cloudless and the air cool as I take a deepbreath and cross the street to the site.

I stand at the new ten-foot-tall, chain-link fence andlook at Ground Zero, now devoid of the blackeneddebris and the acrid smell of burnt paper and metal.The steel girders, in the shape of a cross, are theonly familiar point of reference to March 2002. Wewalk further along the chain-link barrier, stoppingevery 20 steps or so to look at large woodenbillboards affixed to the fence, each telling adifferent chapter in the history of the New Yorkskyline and the building of the Twin Towers.

We come across some people having their pictures takenwith the site as backdrop. One guy in a redwindbreaker and blue ball cap with the words “NorthCarolina” on it stands by the fence, smiling, his armsraised. His wife — holding out the digital camera infront of her — snaps the family photo.

We walk on. At the corner of the fence, attached atthe top, is a makeshift memorial — a large plaque ofsorts, dedicated to the “fallen heroes.” I wonderabout the choice of the word “heroes.” It wasn’t sucha leap from “victims” to “heroes,” I think. How muchlonger before “heroes” become “martyrs?”

Or has that already happened?

A young man in a suit disrupts my thoughts. He walksby us, talking business, rapidly and loudly, into asmall black cell phone. Though he walks along thelength of fence overlooking Ground Zero, he never oncelooks at it.

Two years earlier, American flags were everywhere andpatriotism burned white hot. But now New York seemsapolitical. In the course of the morning, we’ve seenonly a few American flags and no one talks ofpatriotism — or, for that matter, the election thatjust took place, or even about the Iraq war.

I look again at the Ground Zero site — busily beingprimed and prepared for new construction — and itoccurs to me that Ground Zero is no longer a physicalplace. It has become a pure idea, to be bought, orsold, or manipulated. Or put another way, Ground Zerono longer resides in New York City. It exists only inthe minds of those who give it meaning.

We leave the site and walk through the financialdistrict to Chinatown. From there we stroll throughthe lower east side and then cut back throughWashington Square. By now it’s sunny and comfortablycool, and people are everywhere — buying and selling,begging and walking, talking and laughing.

From the stone arch of Washington Square we startwalking uptown. At first we walk along Fourth Avenue,taking in the shops and sights. But after a few blockswe move over to Fifth Avenue — and discover a parade.It’s then that we remember the date: November 11,Remembrance Day in Canada — Veterans’ Day in America.

We find a spot on the curb and watch as groups of warveterans and ethnic organizations, city floats andjunior high school bands march up Fifth Avenue. Activeduty troops march too, smiling and waving. For aVeterans’ Day parade during wartime, few people arestanding along the sidewalk. They graciously applaudthe floats and war veterans — but for the active dutyreservists they applaud gently, politely.

Standing at my left, two middle-aged men comment onthe groups marching by. When the reservists pass, oneman says to the other, “Hey, you know why George Bushisn’t marching here?”

“No,” he says. “Why?”

“’Cause,” says the first guy, “he didn’t fuckin’ servehis country.” They both laugh.

A little more than a week since the presidentialelection, and their anger is palpable. As I listen, I watch the Army reservists. Aboutfifteen men in green fatigues, smiling and waving,walk alongside a green, armoured vehicle with an openhatch in the back. From the open hatch, three or fourof the soldiers are pulling out yellow water bottles,which — when they spot teenage boys among the paradecrowd — they toss football style.

A young boy in a blue jacket next to the twomiddle-aged men catches one. I step back to look atthe boy and the bottle. On one side of the bottle areprinted the words “Join the Army Reserve” in darkgreen letters. On the other side of the bottle is anAmerican flag.

Later that night, we eat at an Italian restaurant. Thecrowd is well-dressed, eating dinner before taking inthe shows along Broadway.

Sharing a bottle of red wine and a plate of pasta, mywife and I talk about the day — Ground Zero,Chinatown, the Lower East Side, the parade on FifthAvenue. Save for the parade, and a gaudy display of50 American flags outside Rockefeller Centre, wesaw nothing that spoke of patriotism. I keep thinkingabout the changes at Ground Zero, and about thepassage of time.

When we finish eating, I approach two waitersstanding at the cash register. They are talking about theVeterans’ Day holiday.

“I remember when this was a day to celebrate peace,”says the older waiter to the younger. “It was a day tocelebrate the end of World War One.”

“Really?” says the younger waiter.

“Yeah, I can’t remember the name of the day,” said theolder waiter as he rings a bill into the register.“But when I was kid — I think it was sometime in the’50s — the politicians didn’t want a peace day, sothey turned it into a celebration of soldiers.”

Perhaps because of the red wine, I feel talkative. SoI interject, “It was called Armistice Day.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” said the older waiter, turning inmy direction. “It was called Armistice Day, a day forcelebrating peace.”

“In Canada,” I tell them, “they call it RemembranceDay.”

“Remembrance Day?” he says. “I like that — RemembranceDay. It’s almost like a day for peace.” He hesitatesand then adds, “Right now, we could use a day likethat.”

smile and nod, then hand him my bill. He rings itin, and after I pay, he wishes me well. As we leavethe restaurant, and walk to Times Square, I thinkabout what the older waiter said, “almost like a dayfor peace.”

And I think: He’s right. We could use a day like that.