GAZETTE STAFF / NEW  YORK CITY

had just begun my workday in Jackson Heights when the director at the language center I work for told me that one of the Twin Towers had been hit by a plane.

Looking outside the window, I saw a cloud of black smoke and hurried to call my wife in Staten Island to tell her about it, hoping that she had not yet made her way into Manhattan, where she had an appointment somewhere in midtown Manhattan.

At that time, I had not idea of the dimension of what had really happened. I thought it had been a Learjet or some other kind of plane that had struck the towers, and not a hijacked Boeing with a capacity for more than one hundred passengers.

As I hung up the phone, I learned of the second plane, and then there was no doubt that we were under a terrorrist attack. I immediately grabbed a small portable radio and tuned it into it after telling my students of what had been going on.

As we all listened, we could not believe our ears. I remembered that about an hour earlier I had been under the towers - more specifically at The Mall , which I crossed daily during my daily commute as I took the 1 a train into Cortland Street and transferred into the E train into Queens.

Never did I think that would be the last sight I had of the place where I crossed every day, often stopping for a cup of coffee at Borders' or for some last-minute emergency shopping at Duane Reade. Many times my wife and I spent leisurely moments at the restaurants there, specially Sbarro or Cosi, where we enjoyed several meals or simply a drink as we unwound after a hard day of work.

The World Trade Center was an integral part of our lives. It was there that we hung around as we waited for a late-night ferry into Staten Island, and where we did a lot of our shopping. My wife and I would often meet there as we went about our day in order to spend some time together (something hard to do in the on-the-go New York attitude) in between classes.

Shortly after the collapse of the towers, my wind went numb, and I simply could not go on teaching. I kept thinking of all the people that worked there, and of all the ESL and Portuguese students that I had known during the year ever since I began teaching in the Wall Street area.

A few hours later, the language center in Queens shut its doors, and everybody was sent home. At that time, there were no trains going anywhere - and I had to get to Staten Island - and the ferry was already suspended by then.

I got on a bus I can't even remember, which dropped me off at Queens Plaza. I finally was able to catch the G train to Brooklyn, where I transferred to the F and later to the R train, which took me to Bay Ridge. The whole process took me about four hours to accomplish.

I was starving, so I decided to walk into a small café close to 86th Street, where I nourished myself before taking the S53 into Staten Island, where I took the SIR back to St. George, where I reside.

During all this time, I communicated with my wife, tranquilizing her as I slowly made my way back home.

I immediately turned on the TV, and in horror I followed the reports of what was going on in downtown Manhattan. Later that evening, I walked down to Richmond Avenue, and I got the eerie view of the tragedy: a giant, smoldering cloud of smoke where the silver towers once proudly stood.

As I returned home, I turned on my computer and found dozens of e-mail messages from friends in Brazil wondering if I was OK.

I wrote a quick reply stating that both my wife and I were fine - although, in truth, my heart was sinking for those who lost their lives in the cowardly attack.

Almost a week after these events, I took the Staten Island Ferry back home. As the boat makes its way to the borough, one can get a clear view of Ground Zero - a shard of the exterior skeleton of the South Tower, and the remaining few burnt floors of the North Tower.

No matter what happens from now on, life in New York - and all over this country - will never be the same again.