On Oct. 9, I arrived in Bali and met up with a college friend who had flown in before me. We spent one night at Paddy’s Irish Club on the southern part of the island before heading for northern Bali–known for its calm waters and great diving–the next morning. Those first few days were idyllic; we explored rain forests, bargained with merchants and walked along the beach. Mostly, we spent our days taking in the beauty of the scenery.

Bali is a peaceful and welcoming place where the spirituality of the Hindu islanders is a part of daily life. Every morning we watched as they left offerings of flowers and food to the gods in front of shops, restaurants and hotels. Natives and tourists–who were mostly young backpackers like me–mixed easily. Whenever I revealed my American identity, I was asked, “Where were you for the WTC attacks?” Everyone spoke of September 11 with regret and sadness. I was amazed at how much compassion and respect Indonesians had for Americans and the United States–even more, it seemed, than the Europeans I met while I was traveling abroad months before.

My friend and I were sitting in a bar on Lovina Beach at 1:30 a.m. on Oct. 13 when a young Indonesian man walked in and delivered terrible news to the bartender: the Sari Club three hours south of us in Kuta had been bombed two hours before. Within minutes, the music stopped and everyone streamed out of the bar. We made our way through the now vacant streets to our hotel, where we spent a sleepless night.

By morning I had begun to panic. After two hours of failed attempts, I was able to reach my uncle in Illinois on one of the three phones in town that could be used for international calls. When I heard the relief in his voice, I realized we were in real danger, and that Americans at home were much better informed about the attacks than we were. My uncle had transformed his basement into a debriefing room where he had posted up-to-the-minute news reports. He told me that officials believed Al Qaeda was responsible, and the U.S. State Department had issued a warning that Americans should evacuate immediately.

The seaports were closed, so my friend and I joined the rush of travelers desperately trying to find transportation to the island’s only airport in Denpasar, which was just minutes from the site of the bombing. Rumors of impending terrorist attacks continued to circulate, adding to the atmosphere of terror and fear. Back home, my brother had managed to buy us two tickets to Guam. If we could make it to the airport, we’d be safe.

The owners of our hotel had their nephew take us to the airport. We were too shocked to speak during the three-hour drive. I stared out the window as we passed volcanoes and miles of terraced rice fields. I hated to think that an island so rich in culture and beauty would be remembered as a rubble-filled scene of devastation.

Once we arrived at the airport, our grief and anxiety worsened. Victims of the bombing were everywhere–some in wheelchairs, some with bandages around their heads, some weeping for friends who would not be returning home with them. The hours leading up to our flight passed slowly, filled with both hysteria and numbness. As we boarded the plane, I shook my head in disbelief; in four short days I had experienced more than I had in my previous 21 years. I thought of the Australian rugby team, most of whom had perished in the explosion. I had seen their faces only days ago at Paddy’s, which I learned had also been destroyed in the blast. I felt incredibly lucky to be alive.

I am so glad I experienced Bali before it was tainted by terrorism. It’s still difficult for me to understand that a place where natives welcome outsiders so freely was changed forever by a terrible act of violence against foreigners. But I know that that hateful act does not represent the feelings of most Indonesians. Despite how upset they were that their tourism-based businesses were now ruined, the shopkeepers I met on my final walk through Lovina took time to apologize for what had happened. I’ll never forget how hard the owners of our hotel worked to make sure we could get to the airport. In the end, it was just friends helping friends return home safely.