Unforgettable Day
I first set foot on Italian soil in Parma,
a small town on the train route between Milan and
Bologna. We arrived at six o'clock in the morning,
having taken a restless overnight train from Paris.
The city had barely awoken, and by the time we
walked the ten blocks to our hotel and dropped off
our bags, the nearby café had only just
opened. But after our long night, their limited
selection pleased our palates more than any
five-course meal could have. Michelle got the
freshest possible macedonia fruit salad, the
ingredients having been sliced and diced just
moments before. And I got my first taste of Italian
espresso, a sensation that ruined me for regular
coffee ever since.
The days that followed were magical. I had
dreamed of visiting Europe for 20 years, and there
I was, exploring the labyrinthine, cobblestone
streets of a 2,000-year-old city. A pedestrian
tunnel underneath the Po River revealed the ruins
of an ancient Roman bridge. The 11th century Duomo
gave me the first of many breathtaking looks at
Italian cathedrals. And the food! Home of Italian
prosciutto and the famous Parmigiano-Reggiano
cheese (of which our Parmesan cheese is a sad
imitation), Parma is perhaps best known for its
cuisine.
After several days of interacting with the
locals, I gained a rudimentary facility with the
language, thanks to my fluency in Spanish. After
dropping Michelle off at the historical archives
one morning, I resolved to put together the makings
of a picnic to enjoy in the central piazza. After
my daily exploration of the city, I visited in turn
a cheese shop, a meat market, an enoteca
(wine bar), a bakery and a general store. In each
place, I spoke entirely in Italian, asking the
proprietor for recommendations and making my
purchases. I walked back to the hotel, laden with
groceries and full of pride at my newfound language
skills. I couldn't wait to brag to Michelle.
When I entered the hotel lobby, I instantly knew
something was amiss. The normally jovial hotel
owner huddled around the television set with
several family members. He looked up when I
entered, giving me a grim look and telling me
Michelle had already arrived. I turned to walk up
the stairs, but not before catching a glimpse of
burning buildings on TV.
Concerned, I rushed upstairs. When I opened our
hotel room door, all thoughts of a picnic left my
mind. Michelle sat on the bed in tears, fixated on
the terrible events playing out on CNN. Airplanes
had slammed into the twin towers of the World Trade
Center. As we watched in horror, the buildings came
crumbling down. We knew thousands had lost their
lives.
We stayed up late into the night, unable to turn
off the television. Like all Americans, we
wanted—we needed—to know why this
had happened. We ate the bread and cheese I had
brought, sitting there on the bed, unwilling to
leave the room to go have dinner. In the days that
followed, I continued my sightseeing while Michelle
finished her research. But we both moved around in
a haze of melancholy. We had a month of exciting
travels throughout Italy before us, but deep down
our hearts were turned toward home. Our country had
been sorely wounded, and we yearned to partake in
the healing patriotism that blossomed in the wake
of the terrorist attacks.
From Parma, we moved on to Florence and beyond,
experiencing the trip of a lifetime. We explored
the Tuscan
countryside, walked in the footsteps of
long-dead Romans in Pompeii
and drank limoncello
in Capri. But always, our thoughts returned back
home, to the countless Americans directly impacted
by the tragedy of 9/11. And now, two years later,
my thoughts return again to those who lost more
than a picnic, so much more, that terrible
September day.
©2003 Michael
Strickland ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
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