Five months ago, when I set out on my journey, September 12, my original return date, seemed very far away. Upon leaving for Europe in May, I looked to that date in the far future as one does gazing out a window of a tall building, looking as far as the eye can see, wondering what lies before you, your imagination making up for what your eyes cannot grasp. Of course, I had visions of what my trip would be like, and I must admit that everything I wanted to experience I did. My trip was amazing, more than I could hope for and hard to put into words. As September 12 approached, I also started to formulate my final email in my head. But nowhere did the events of September 11 ever factor into my thinking (as, of course, it is still incomprehensible to most of the world).
My final email was supposed to be about the freedom I felt, the wonderful people I met, the beauty I had seen over the last five months. Never was it supposed to be about the utter sadness, terror, shock, and world-turning-upsidedowness that I felt when I first caught a glimpse of the TV on that fateful day, September 11. While my mind slowly adjusts to the idea that my country is no longer the safe, isolated land it used to be, and that over 5000 people were killed within minutes in such a horrendous fashion, I still sometimes find it hard to comprehend.
When I first learned of the attack, I had just arrived in Varenna, a small town on Lake Como. I was coming from Cinqua Terra, where I had spent four great days hiking, swimming, and making new friends. I was happy with the world and life. Upon arriving in Varenna, it was a fluke that my Australian friend, Jeremy, and I walked into a bar with a TV; I had not seen a TV in weeks. I paid the television no attention until my friend tapped me on the shoulder, saying, “Melissa, you better turned around.” And then I could not believe my eyes. Like many people, I tried to understand what I was witnessing. My first thoughts were – it must be a bad Bruce Willis movie preview, or a joke. It was too unbelievable, too extraordinary, to be true. Not in America, I thought, this stuff just does not happen there. But it did. And it also happened in my city, Washington, DC. One of my best friends works in the Pentagon. I was scared.
I don’t remember much of what happened next. Jeremy told me to sit down, said I had gone pale. We finally found a place to stay, I blindly stumbling along behind him. I was incapable of making any decisions. Finally in our room, I had the overwhelming urge to curl up into a fetal position on the bed and go to sleep. My mind was short circuiting, the information coming at it was too much to handle, too painful. Were my friends OK? And for the very first time in my journey, I felt the distance of the Atlantic Ocean, felt the isolation of being in a small Italian town, felt the triviality of skipping care-free around Europe, felt the mockingness and the helplessness of the beautiful mountains and lakes that would stand there despite the horror that was going on on the other side of the world.
I called my mom in Seattle from a payphone. She told me they could not get hold of my step-sister, who works right near the World Trade Center. She told me to not even bother calling Washington, DC, I would not get through. There were no internet cafes in Varenna. I felt my world falling apart before me. I was desperate to find some other Americans. While Jeremy was supportive and comforting, I needed to be with some of my fellow citizens, as corny as that sounds. But at a time of national tragedy, I felt they were the only other ones who could fully understand the enormity of the situation and share my grief. I needed to try to understand, to make sense of why it had all happened and what this meant – for me, for America, and for the world.
We finally found some other Americans at dinner, an older couple from Michigan. I spotted them as soon as they walked in – they had that dazed look on their face that would come to characterize all Americans in Europe after September 11. It was cathartic to talk with them, and it also made the situation seem more real. Listening to the conversations going on around me in the restaurant, however, I was amazed to hear how many people (mostly Americans and Brits) were discussing such every day things as shopping, eating, and the bad service they had in their hotel. I was furious! How could they talk of such mundane things at a time like this?! Didn’t they know what had happened?! Didn’t they know the world had forever changed?! I wanted to shake them, to wake them up to reality.
I woke up the next morning thinking about the attack, as I would every day for the rest of my trip. We left Varenna and took a ferry across the lake to Menaggio, where the hostel was located. I felt the need to be around people my age, to be not only with Americans but also with my peers with whom I could speak about this tragedy on the same level. After dropping off our packs, Jeremy and I headed into town to buy a newspaper. Everyone sitting at the cafes was reading the paper. I soon met a young couple from New York, and we talked about the events for a while. We all felt the same: depressed, far away, and no longer able to enjoy the beauty that was around us.
Lake Como is a breathtakingly beautiful place. High mountains descend directly into clear lakes, with little towns inbetween the crevices. Yet it felt selfish and inappropriate to go sight-seeing or on a hike when such suffering and pain was happening back home. But at the same time, it felt like such a waste to not experience this incredibly scenic area. It was, in fact, a double tragedy – unable to be physically back home to support our country, yet unable to be emotionally in the present moment to enjoy our surroundings.
As the days passed, we tried to get back to our normal touring routine. We went on a great hike into the valley, passing waterfalls, trout farms, and old, abandoned stone houses. Yet the wind had been knocked out my sails, the joy of adventure lessened. Every few hours, I would remember the terrible event that had just occurred, and my stomach would get queasy and the smile on my face would fall. The worst was when I would check my emails. I was always depressed after those. A lot of people were worried about me, wondering where I was and if I was OK in Europe. My friends in Washington, DC were having a hard time. My friend in the Pentagon had made her way out of the smoke and exited the building unharmed, but emotionally scarred. The National Guard was patrolling the streets and F-16s were flying overhead. A constant reminder that this usually powerful city was now dominated by fear.
The people I met at the hostel became my saving grace, and in fact, the best part of my experience in Lake Como. We were able to reach out to each other, not so much in the obvious cry-on-the-shoulder way, but in a more subtle fashion. Just by being together – whether sitting around the table eating dinner, passing around the bottle of red wine, or singing made-up songs to the guitar – we connected as humans, made each other feel alive, reminded each other that there were still reasons to celebrate. Back in the US, millions of Americans across the country were doing the same thing, coming together to support each other, mourn together, and to honor life. I wasn’t that far from home after all.