I had been living in Paris (again) since 1987 when the 9/11 terrorist attacks happened. I watched the events unfold live on CNN International from my office near the Gare Saint-Lazare. Once I knew that my oldest son, whose office was nearby, was safe, I thought I was at a comfortable distance from the horror. That’s why, during the ensuing days, I couldn’t understand why I felt so distressed, unable to sleep, breaking unexpectedly into tears. When I told a therapist that images of city sidewalks haunted my thoughts, he suggested they came from my childhood in the Bronx, where the sidewalks had been our playground. By attacking the place of my childhood, the terrorists were threatening a cornerstone of my identity.