As we reached her class at the top of the stairs, an awaiting student starting talking to her excitedly. Milena translated what was being said.
Her first words were, "A plane hit the tower in New York." My immediate thought was "ooo, bad airport accident."
The student explained more to Milena, who then turned and said, "Two planes hit the tower!" As she turned back to the student who was telling her more, I thought, "wow, a really bad airport accident!"
Then came the words that put me in shock: "And a plane hit the Pentagon!"
She had to stay and teach her class, so I walked alone down the hill to my hotel. After somehow contacting my kids in San Diego to be sure they were safe, I watched TV for hours. Milena should have pluralized the word tower, or said Twin Towers, but maybe her student's information, or Milena's English, didn't translate it that way for me.
The broadcasts seemed surreal, not only for what was being reported, but for the way in which I saw them. All the English language broadcasts were overdubbed in Italian, and I understand almost no spoken Italian. All the chyrons at the bottom were overwritten in Italian, so I couldn't read any updates in English. I had limited channels to choose from in this rural area, but the videos and photos told me more than I ever wanted to know.
I immediately went to the phone in the lobby and called my kids in San Diego, worrying that attacks might have happend there to the headquarters of the Pacific Fleet, to the research institutes, to the military bases. All was okay in San Diego, except for the shared horror of the morning.
The next morning, I went down to the lobby for breakfast. The dozens of guests already there were quiet, and I felt like all eyes were on me—the poor American. I imagined, maybe hoped, that they were quiet out of kindness and respect for the tragedy that had just happened.
That was eleven years ago, but it's still so real for me.
And still so surreal.
The next morning, I went down to the lobby for breakfast. The dozens of guests already there were quiet, and I felt like all eyes were on me—the poor American. I imagined, maybe hoped, that they were quiet out of kindness and respect for the tragedy that had just happened.
That was eleven years ago, but it's still so real for me.
And still so surreal.
