Two hundred miles to the north, blocks of South Manhattan looked like Dresden in '45, as rescuers continued the grim task of searching through the rubble for the lucky and the dead.
But here in Baltimore, why, you could almost fool yourself into thinking, however briefly, that Sept. 11, 2001 had never happened.
The sun was shining, birds sang in the trees, the sky was so blue it made your eyes water.
Stores and businesses opened, men and women went off to work, kids went off to school, seniors unlimbered in yoga classes.
At 7 a.m., I went for a walk in my neighborhood and soon passed a gaggle of middle-schoolers waiting for their school bus.
There were about 10 of them, boys off to one side, girls on the other, in the standard gender segregation you see once puberty hits.
All of them were chattering excitedly. But one girl's voice seemed to rise above the others. Then she said something that seemed to hang, like laundry, in the crisp air:
"If they bomb Washington, we're toast."
So maybe it wasn't just another day after all, not if schoolkids were starting their morning chit-chatting about enemy strikes on the nation's capital.
As the day unfolded, it was clear that many of us, whether at work or at home, were still hunkered around the TV, hungry for more details on the horrific attacks the day before.
The coverage was wall-to-wall for a second day: footage of weary rescue workers looking for survivors, interviews with somber-faced politicians vowing vengeance, anti-terrorism experts pontificating on whether we could track down Osama bin Laden - the new Dr. No in our international pantheon of evil - and slip a missile into his tent.
Katie Couric and Matt Lauer talked with Rudy Giuliani and Sandy Berger, CNN paraded out one talking head after another with new details: of a rental car found in Boston possibly used by the terrorists, of arrests in Florida and Providence, R.I., of Russian reaction to the bombings, so many details it made your head spin.
In the car on the way down the JFX, I turned on the radio and listened to WBAL-AM and Chip Franklin's morning talk show.
Out of the ether came voices, voices filled with anger, with shock, with fear. Fly your American flags, more than one caller said, show your support for the country.
Rich on his cell phone said: "Life will never be the same in this country."
Don from Reisterstown said Rich was full of it. "We will emerge from this even stronger."
Two hours later, when I drove up Television Hill to the WBAL studios, a security guard stopped me before a closed gate. A police officer sat in a patrol car a few feet away. I waved; he didn't.