Relevant Ramblings
I was in Bar Centrale when I first heard the news. A quiet outside table perfect
for catching up on my travel journal. My friends Bill and Grace (whose names
have been changed here) from New York passed by and stopped to talk. A few minutes
of small talk over ice cream before they headed off on their hike to the
other towns of the Cinque Terre. Somewhere during the conversation the TV inside
the bar suddenly got loud. Something that happened every once in a while
during a soccer match. We just ignored it and continued to talk. But deep
in the back of my head, something didn't quite work out. Something not right.
Eventually, small talk ran out, and my NY friends left for their hike
leaving me alone again to catch up in my travel journal. The TV was still
loud enough to be heard outside, and for some reason the sound was odd to
me. I worte a few pages, and then realized what it was. The TV was in English.
American English. Something not heard very often in a small village in Italy.
Then it got stranger. I recognized the voice tones of an American news reporter.
Something even more rare in Italy then a lack of Pesto. My ears perked
up. Something had happened. Just now. "Confirmed...two planes...World...Center...New
York City..."
Into the bar I went. The images I saw were like
something out of a B-rated disaster movie. But I knew right away it was
real. At first overcome by the visual images, it was some minuites before
I actually listened to what was being said.
Shock.
Confusion.
The
rest of the day, I was in front of one TV or another watching for news of
new developments. And new developments came.
Fear.
I should be home.
So far away. Safe here. Think again...safe to be an American alone in
Europe in time of conflict?
A steady stream of people flowed through
town at the end of their hikes. The ones with content smiles on their faces
either hadn't heard yet, or weren't Americans, or simply hadn't had time
to let the full impact of the events sink in. I sat in the coffee shop watching
people come in with smiles on their faces, look around at everyone else,
and then turn to the TV in question. Expressions change as they learn the
story. Sometimes recluctant to believe. Sometimes smiling with open mouths
as they try to grasp the unbelievability of it all.
Confusion.
LAX
is reported to have been evacuated. Los Angeles International. That's my
town. I live there. I should be there with my family. Even if I wanted
to go home now, I couldn't. Airports closed.
I took a break from the
Man on the Street interviews to watch a somber, still Sunset.
Guilt.
The sun sets in the West. The setting sun I watch brings noonday heat to
middle America. Home. Tonight the Western sky is redder then any I have
seen in my three weeks here. There is no wine at the sunset tonight. Two
friends from Southern California meet me on the rocks to join me in thought.
At dinner, the three of us tried to talk about other things, with limited
success.
After dinner, Bar Centrale was packed with people watching
CNN and the replays. A line for the internet station. Bill and Grace were
there, back from their hike. They seemed to be OK, emotionally.
"You
don't live in Manhattan, do you?"
"Yes!"
Concern.
"I
work in the World Trade Center" said Bill. I am looking at a man who
dodged a large bullet.
"My Mother works in the World Trade Center"
said Grace. I waited for her to tell me herself. Before I asked.
"She's
ok. She got out."
"My Uncle works in the World Trade Center"
said Bill, "on the 27th floor. We haven't heard from him." I was
speechless. All night, Bill waited by the internet station waiting for a
response from someone.
Somehow, making my reservations for my next
destination of Interlaken didn't seem so important.
Reports of bombing
in Afghanastan later that night. I couldn't hear the explanation of who
claimed responsibility. Rumors of it being the U.S.
War?
Wednesday
morning. I don't want to get out of bed. It can't get any worse if I don't
hear about it. Eventually I must...and do. The streets are the same,
but quieter. People look at "the American" who's been here for
so long. Watching me. My eyes on the ground in thought as I walk. Slowly.
The "ciao's" are softer now. More apprehensive. They try to read
my expressionless face.
Am I from NYC?
How closely am I affected?
Bill and Grace are at the internet point in the bar. I don't disturb
them.
Still people come and go. Backpackers move on after two or three
nights. I wonder, should I stay.
Safer here then anywhere else.
Thursday Morning, day three. The crowds in the bars watching TV are thinner
now. Yet still I pass people in the street crying. Ameicans. Eveyone is
holding a copy of the Herald.
Postings of a memorial service at the
Castello on the hill tonight. Americans given free phone calls home. No
sign of Bill and Grace.
Still I hear words and phrases like "WWIII."
"End of the World." "Beginning of the End." I hold onto
a hope that these words are still premature.
I watch. Waiting for something
else. The next wave, if it comes. The attack on the West coast that
I dread hearing about...or watching. Seeing the replays over and over of
something in my home town exploding, collapsing, or falling over. Man on
the street interviews. Faces I recognize being interviewed on streets I know.
I don't watch TV for new
information on New York now, but with a sick dread of seeing an equivilant
level of destruction in Southern California that would put me deeper in
the same shoes as Bill and Grace. Just wanting to be home with family,
but not able to get there. Not caring anymore about the trip that has consumed
the past four months of my life. Last week I wondered if I would have enough
time between now and Christmas to see and do all I wanted. Now the feeling
is day to day. I will keep going, staying true to my wandering course,
and if need be, go home at the drop of a hat.
At the memorial service the
mayors of three of the five villages spoke to a packed hall in the castle.
Each echoing the sentiments of the others. When you attack America, you
attack the world. The Priest of Riomaggiore spoke. Tears in his eyes. A
temporary memorial plaque was presented. Flowers everywhere. Taps was
played by a lone trumpeter. Then the National Anthem. The American National
Anthem. In Italy. I've never heard a rendition that touched me more deeply.
Homesick.
Prosession heads down the only main street in town. The plaque
is tacked to the wall on the side of the street. Underneath it, a wreath
of flowers is placed. The American National Anthem is played again.
Land of the Free. Home of the Brave.
I laid my flower at the base of
the wreath and went to call home.
I passed Bill and Grace on the way.
They had been in Pisa for the day. No news from their Uncle. I decide to stop
asking.
Call home. Line busy. I left a message. I love you guys.
Part of me wants to stay here, where the people know me. After three weeks
they treat me as something of a local. They ask me about gossip, they tell
me the latest soccer news. I reccommend their places to travellers I
meet on the trails, the trains, and walking through town. But I know I cannot
stay. Sitting here, waiting for the unknown is no way to travel.
The
old Tao saying "the Adventure is in the Journey" has always rung
true in my ears. And my own journey just got a whole lot more adventurous.
I think about the romanticism of it all. Traveling during a time of war,
and then quickly push that aside to save as a story to tell when the "where
were you when..." questions come from my own children years from now.
The sunset failed tonight. Hidden behind a grey,
colorless cloud bank. There was no wine.
I've made reservations in Interlaken, Switzerland.
I leave tomorrow. Moving on...day by day. - - - -
Sorry I don't have any exciting stories this week. Somehow it
just didn't seem appropriate. I'm sure you're all getting emails like this,
but just put up with one more. I'm in Europe, dammit. And who knows
when I'll get home now. Be safe, all of you. And yes, I'll be careful.
Love,
Chris the Stray Dwanimal