9/11 – An Italian Perspective

Today I am sharing Chapter 9 from Times New Roman. It is my story of 9/11. We had only lived in  Rome for two weeks. 

It was obvious that moving abroad would be life changing for us, but we didn’t know how much life back in the States would be changing, too. I attended my second day of intensive Italian classes on the morning of September 11, 2001. As I walked home afterwards, I overhear two American study-abroad students talking. 

“It would be so easy to hijack a plane,” one of them says. That registers as an odd thing to be discussing, but I dismiss it almost immediately. 

John is studying at the living room table as I open our apartment door. Simultaneously, the only other American who lives in our building shows up at our door. Visibly upset, Terri asks us, “Have you guys heard? The U.S. is under attack.” Terri’s mother, who lives in Los Angeles has just called to tell her that some airplanes have been hijacked and two have crashed into the World Trade Center. 

My first thought is disbelief. No way could this be true. We don’t own a television and have only purchased a radio a few days before. We turn the radio on and begin hearing confirmation of what Terri has just relayed. 

After a little while, John leaves to go to his afternoon class, but returns almost immediately—all classes had been cancelled for the rest of the day and the next. John and I spend the next several hours listening intently to the BBC on our shortwave radio. When we venture out into the neighborhood hours later, it is eerily quiet. Almost no one is out for passeggiata, and those we do see are somber. 

We are stunned by the news, but it is surreal. We lack the constant barrage of video and news reports everyone else is monitoring. Our limited language skills prevent us from talking to other people to get their perspective on the event. 

The next day, I attend Italian class more for an opportunity to be with other people than for the lesson itself. While the class consists of an international mix of students (Japanese, Swedish, Danes and Germans), most are from the United States. Our teacher, Stefania, makes an exception to her personal policy of never speaking English to us. She asks us to talk about the previous day’s events as a way of dealing with the grief. 

One classmate, Diana, is a fifty-something New Yorker who is learning Italian so she can communicate with the workers who are renovating a house she has purchased south of Naples, a la “Under the Tuscan Sun.” She sadly tells us she has many friends and business associates who work in the World Trade Center. Steven, who has also lived in Germany, a gifted twenty-seven-year old linguist who is learning Italian as his eighth language, recalls that he gave tours of the World Trade Center as a teenager. Another student, a thirty-year-old, former equestrian champion from D. C. expresses concern about his mother because of the hijacking of the plane meant to strike the Pentagon.  

I listen as the Americans continue to relate stories of their friends, family members and colleagues who live or work in the areas that have been attacked. I am impressed by our instructor and by the other foreign students in the class. They are as upset as any of the Americans, and they share with us their lifelong plans to visit the U.S. someday. They speak with reverence and respect for our country. And they all speak English fluently. I begin to understand how the United States looks to those living outside of it. Even though this is only the third day of classes, my classmates and I bond quickly. Even though the fast-paced lessons are too difficult for me, I refuse to drop back and leave these new friends. 

We share a long moment of silence for the tragedy before class begins. I head home after class, but decide to stop at my neighborhood outdoor market to pick up some fresh produce. As I admire the gorgeous bounty at one stand, the vendor asks if I am American. When I respond with a nod, he lowers his voice and his words are sympathetic. I feel enveloped in a cross-cultural hug and finally begin to cry. Though I don’t understand exactly what he is saying, I know what he means, sensing the deep feeling behind his words. From that day on, I always shop with Alberto and his lovely wife, Bruna.

That evening, John and I have dinner with Natalie, a new friend from San Francisco. She has just arrived in Rome to work at the university for a year. As we dine al fresco at a charming trattoria with a red-checkered tablecloth, the horrors of 9/11 seem unimaginable. I feel guilty for being here while everyone back home is dealing with such incredible stress. 

The U.S. Embassy begins sending e-mail messages every few days. The messages warn Americans to “limit movement,” and to stay away from “symbols of American capitalism.” We take that to mean eating at McDonald’s and not that we went there very often, sometimes it did feel good to stop by for something familiar, “Quarter Pounder with cheese, please.” As much as possible, we avoid the main tourist destinations and American fast food restaurants. We feel safe tucked away in this little Roman neighborhood. 

On my return home from errands a couple of days later, I find our next-door-neighbor, a slim, white-haired man with a kind face leaning against the building. Wearing what I would eventually come to recognize as his signature outfit, an argyle cardigan layered over a checked shirt and corduroy trousers, he is smoking a cigarette. He speaks no English, but expresses his sadness in true Italian style, using his hands, which are suntanned and wrinkled, to describe the impact.

On the Sunday following the attacks, Santa Susanna, the American Church of Rome, holds a special memorial service. We meet up with Natalie and take a taxi there arriving just as Mass begins. It is standing room only, despite the embassy’s warning to stay away from areas where Americans congregate. Two twenty-something men have literally wrapped themselves in American flags, the pain of the last few days evident on their faces. 

The ambassador to the Holy See is scheduled to speak. His carefully worded speech doesn’t touch on any real emotion regarding what has happened and does little to make us feel better. 

16 September 2001

I went for a run in Villa Pamphili, this afternoon, the beautiful park atop the hill from Trastevere. It was a wholly different place than last Sunday. Every person, whether sitting on a park bench or on the grass with family members or reclining against a tree, was reading a newspaper. There were no soccer games like last weekend and only solemn faces on those I met on the trail. It was a beautiful day, but the crisp air was silent. The only sound I heard was of my shoes crunching the gravel, and it seemed obnoxious. I decided to walk instead of run and considered tiptoeing so as not to disturb anyone. 

Rome had been bustling again after Ferragosto. Tourists had arrived and businesses were open once more, bringing the city back to life. But after 9/11, it all quieted down again. The impact on the U. S., of course, affected the Italian economy as well. Some people changed their plans to study abroad after 9/11. 

16 September 2001

I ran into Kathryn, one of the young women in my language class, near Torre Argentina today. We went to a caffé for gelato, where she confides she’s cutting her Italian stay short. Having recently graduated from college, she originally planned to live in Rome for at least six months. Besides attending language classes, she’s working as an au pair and is making around $15 an hour, but understandably she wants to be close to her family right now. 

I do my best to convince her to stay; she is by far one of the best students in the class, having studied Spanish for several years. I don’t want to see her lose this opportunity. 

Note: Kathryn returned to Oregon at the end of the first four-week session. 

*****

When John and I made our budget for living in Rome, we didn’t include trips back to the States, planning instead to spend any extra money we might have traveling around the Continent. We weren’t worried about getting homesick; our friends and family were going to be visiting us. But after 9/11, all their plans changed. 

Later that week, John and I took the bus from Trastevere across the Tiber at Ponte Garibaldi to Piazza Popolo and walked to the Spanish Steps. 

 17  September 2001

Our route took us past enormous royal blue billboards with yellow block letters stating support for the United States and no tolerance for “terrorismo.” My heart swelled, and I fought back tears seeing this bold outpouring of compassion. 

Being warned to stay away from tourist spots by the U. S. Embassy, my interest in what people are wearing goes beyond my curiosity in fashion as I do double takes at anyone toting a backpack. As we wend our way through the streets, I cannot help but imagine being blown to bits while walking through Piazza di Spagna near the Spanish Steps, but John needs to purchase textbooks at a bookstore a few streets over so we press on.  My thoughts are quite a contrast to two weeks ago when my biggest concern was paying inflated prices for gelato and bottled water in a tourist must-see area. 

A few weeks later we have settled back into a routine. School is going well for John and I am trying to be the best Italian student I can be. We shop for food at the grocery store and the local mercato. One day, as I look over the enormous lemons available at the produce stand of Alberto and Bruna, another American woman walks up. Alberto feels compelled to introduce us. He points to me and says, “Lei, Americana,” Then points to the other woman and says, “Lei, Americana.”  He moves his hands back and forth, gesturing for us to get together and meet each other. 

Sherry and I hit it off immediately. Her husband is a contractor working on projects at the American Embassy in Rome. We live within blocks of each other, and Sherry and I began to meet regularly at a caffé becoming fast friends.

A few weeks later, we bring our husbands along and meet for dinner at John’s favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant. The menu is posted only outside and Sherry and I order ravioli. When John and Marty don’t decide quickly enough, the diminutive waiter with coke-bottle glasses points to each of them, saying, “bucatini,” “bucatini,” and scribbles it down on his tablet. Whether they like it or not (and they did, of course) John and Marty are to dine on thick spaghetti with tomato and meat sauce. And that was that. 

Author’s note: I cried while writing this chapter, and I cry every time I read it or talk about it at a book presentation. I will forever be grateful to the Italians for their outpouring of sympathy.