When I decided that I wanted to study abroad this summer in London, I thought I was going to a "safe" city. I would be living in a house in Notting Hill with a blue door (not unlike the house inhabited by Hugh Grant in the beloved film, Notting Hill) and nothing could be more perfect. Thus when I called home at 6 a.m. on July 7 with the news that there had been a series of terrorist attacks in London, no one wanted to believe me, not even myself.

Like most of the students living in my house, I was shocked and disturbed by the attacks. We sat together watching the news, faces drawn, listening to my friend crying next door beneath the drone of the British Broadcasting Company newscaster. As a Long Islander with the reality of a second day of terror unfolding before me, the memory of September 11th so fresh in my mind, I was quickly becoming overwhelmed. I stood up suddenly: "I protest this day," I thought to myself, and quickly left the room.

I marched into my room and collected every piece of clothing I could find - shirts, jeans, shorts, sweat shirts, sheets, towels - shoved them into my bag, and practically ran out the front door to go to the laundromat. Perhaps I could have chosen a nobler destination, but I needed to get out of the house, and it was the only local place I could think of. As I walked down the street my defiance slowly began curdling into a mixture of shame and fear for the appropriateness of my decision, but I decided it would be worse to go back, and so I boldly entered the laundromat and set my clothes spinning in three separate washers. I watched the news on the small monitor in the corner of the room (by this time the news of terrorism was being broadcasted all over the city), my stomach beginning to churn like the socks and underwear tumbling in the periphery of my vision. There were some lucky people who remained untouched - I watched a group of school children file past the door of the laundromat, laughing and swinging their lunch boxes - and others who were untouchable - an American family in the Laundromat had spent the entire time snapping shots of each other with their digital cameras - but from what I could tell, the city was in mourning. My plan to escape had failed, and seeing that my clothes were ready (thankfully, for the fervor of my protest had subsided) I returned to the safety of my snug London home.

Since I could postpone it no longer, I sunk down in front of the television, resigning myself to endure a second "September 11th." I was completely depressed, and expected that the news would lower my spirits even further. Thus, I was greatly surprised when the BBC broadcasted the happy news that London was dealing remarkably well with the attacks. All the hospitals were well-staffed and prepared to handle the influx of wounded commuters, rescue operations were already under way in many of the tube stations, and increased numbers of policemen, or "bobbies" as the Londoners call them, were out patrolling the streets. Even my English professor arrived punctually for class and announced that he would be teaching. I began to feel calm and even hopeful about the events of the day. As the morning progressed my confidence increased, and by the end of the day I no longer believed myself to be in any danger.

I think I even felt unusually safe, believing that with the London bombings past, it was highly unlikely that they would be repeated in the same city during my short stay. I did not fear the public transportation system, and I rode on a public bus the day after the attacks. By the end of the weekend I was back on the tube, and although I was made apprehensive by the armed policemen guarding the station entrance, I felt altogether confident.

The city systems continued to impress me, even after I finally agreed to stop using public transportation. I had been worried that it would be difficult to find cabs with the public transportation system under attack, but I was happy to find that there were plenty of friendly-looking black cabs roaming the streets of London, and that it took no more than a hand wave or two to obtain one for myself. If my senses were not deceiving me, the city appeared to be functioning even more efficiently than before! It seemed that the entire city was working together to buoy up its people; my spirits felt supported by the strong will of Londoners to go on, to not be broken.

A few weeks after the bombings I had another opportunity to admire the seamless fabric of the city. I was waiting on line with a friend to see a session of Parliament, when two policemen approached the two young Colombian men standing in front of us and pulled them aside. When they returned, I learned that the police had seen the Colombians empty a number of packages from their car into a nearby trash can, including a shoe box, and were concerned to see those same men walk toward the Parliament building. After questioning the men and searching the garbage, the police determined that the packages were harmless, but I was very impressed by the watchfulness of the British police and the respectful way in which they handled the situation. Even when a police raid was conducted a few blocks away from my house in Notting Hill during which two of the suspected perpetrators of the second failed bombings were captured, I was less upset that terrorists had been living in my neighborhood than I was reassured of my safety and confident in the knowledge that the police had matters under control.

What I did not realize was that the police had had matters under control for a long time. London's history with terrorism had prepared it for the attacks of July 7th. For example, the prolonged conflict between England and Ireland had subjected London to a series of militant attacks by the Irish Republican Army, and the blitzkrieg enacted by Hitler against London in World War II had long ago taught Londoners how to deal with bombings. It was the IRA, not bin Laden, that convinced city officials to remove all public trash cans from the city to prevent planted bombs. Indeed, I had noticed numerous signs throughout the city that read, "Take your litter home with you." It was obvious that London was well-prepared to deal with terrorism.

My colleagues and I discovered that Londoners' concern with terrorism had even found expression in the theater, which we eagerly took advantage of. The Tuesday after the attacks our entire program went to see a play called, Talking to Terrorists, hoping that it would provide us with the British perspective on the attacks. The play was a documentary-style drama which claimed that terrorists are normal people who, because of unfortunate circumstances, fall into terrorist groups largely by accident. Middle Eastern terrorism and IRA bombings were discussed, but Al Qaida and the events of the previous Thursday were not mentioned. During the question and answer session following the play an audience member demanded the reason for this glaring omission. The director responded by saying that despite their best efforts, he and the actors could not figure out how best to address the issue, and so had left the play as it was. It was then that I realized how admirable it was that a play was even trying to address terrorism so soon after the July 7 bombings. Even if the play fell short in its analysis of current terrorism, the fact that the play had not been canceled, and that it had been well-attended since the bombings, highlighted to me Londoners' familiarity with terrorism, and their willingness to address the issue in a constructive way.

Before I knew it, I too had been influenced by the London matter-of-fact attitude about terrorism, and I could not understand why everybody in New York still seemed so upset. I was proud to reflect that my continued use of the tube, my unwillingness to cancel travel plans, and even my journey to the laundromat that first morning of terror were all small acts of defiance that were helping to cut the thread between my life and the terrorists.' These small acts, practiced daily by all Londoners in different forms, had contributed to that unseen force in the air, in the food, that was fueling the city to bounce back.

Some of my colleagues criticized Londoners' practicality and apparent disdain for self-pity as bordering on apathy, but there were daily reminders of a scarier reality; the smell of burnt rubber and singed seat upholstery that wafted through the tube after the attacks, not unlike the smoke from the smoldering Twin Towers that blew across Long Island the day after September 11th, could not allow me to believe that Londoners had somehow overlooked the significance of July 7. People had died and people were hurt, and everyone was sad and angry about it, but Londoners chose not to let it show.

Looking back on my study abroad experience, I cannot regret that I was in London when the bombings occurred. I was lucky enough to have been unhurt by the violence, making it possible to appreciate whatever I could learn from the experience of being in a city while under attack. I now better appreciate how lucky I am to live in a world filled with tough people - New Yorkers and Londoners among the best - who inspire their cities to resist terror through their dedication to life. The terrorists have much to fear.