By Patricia Gallupoli Russo, Executive Editor, La Nostra Voce
On September 9, 2001, I boarded a United Airlines flight to Newark, NJ plus a connecting flight that would take me to Rome, Italy. Because of work obligations my husband wasn’t with me, but he would meet me in a few weeks, as our son and future daughter-in-law were to be married in Venice. I was very excited about the wedding, but also because I saw this trip as a personal challenge. Could I, traveling alone, be able to maneuver my way through Italy with just my pigeon-Italian?
We made many trips to New York City since we first honeymooned there in 1967. One of our sons had lived in New York while in graduate school and now our youngest daughter resided in Astoria, Queens, one block from the East River. New York City became, over the years, our favorite family getaway. I was sitting in a window seat on the right side of the plane going into Newark, and I was disappointed I wouldn’t see the Twin Towers as we approached the airport. The towers became a comforting confirmation to me, a nervous flyer, that we were soon to land. I absently realized, as I saw the towers right outside my window, we were traveling in the opposite direction. I sat back and smiled, we would soon land, and then I would board another plane and fly off to Italy!
This article first appeared in La Nostra Voce, ISDA’s monthly newspaper, that chronicles Italian American life, culture and traditions. Subscribe today.
My first few days in Rome I simply wandered the streets taking in the sights. The city was so crowded, so much so, the Via del Corso was closed to traffic and turned into a pedestrian walkway. Even so, I was happy to be a lone American in Rome. However, it didn’t take long for me to realize that everywhere I went everyone was American chattering away in English.
On Tuesday, September 11th, I set off toward Vatican City to see the museums and St. Peter’s Basilica. My plan was to light a candle for my youngest daughter, Angela, who was living in New York. Today was her birthday. I spent all morning at the museums and then went to St. Peter’s. As I was walking through the Basilica I noticed a sign in front of a confessional that said, “English Spoken.” I entered, knelt, and began to recite my confession through the patterned metal screen. The priest, who spoke English with an Italian accent, reminded me of my father. As I began to confess, he stopped me, and began to describe to me who I was and what was most important in my life: my husband and family, of course. His words were so close to the truth I became mesmerized. It was the most amazing experience. I was certain I had just encountered an angel.
I was on such a spiritual high I’m sure I floated back to my hotel. When I approached the hotel’s desk to ask for my key I noticed a small television behind the desk, blaring loudly. The two people behind the desk looked at me strangely, as if to say something, and abruptly became silent. I hurried up to my room to call my daughter to wish her a happy birthday.
It was a little before 3 P.M. in Rome, so it would be close to 9 A.M. in New York. As I approached the room I heard the phone ringing and I immediately grabbed it as I entered, and heard my daughter, Gabriella, say, “Hurry, turn on CNN, a plane just crashed into The World Trade Center.” I walked to the television thinking it must have been some small private plane with engine trouble. As I turned on the television she and I watched in horror as another jet plane struck the second tower. Now panicking, I told Gabriella I needed to call Angela, but she assured me she had already called to check on her sister and my daughter-in-law, who was visiting Angela at the time. Together we watched the horror of two more planes being used as devastating weapons by the unknown terrorists. I then tried getting through to my youngest daughter, but the circuits in New York were overloaded.
I called my husband to make plans to return home, but he told me all U.S. airports were closed. I then sat in my room for hours and watched the planes crashing into the Towers, over and over and over again. I needed to escape and I walked to Piazza del Popolo. It was now dark, and the streets were empty and eerily quiet. I attended mass at a church in the piazza and lit 4 candles. The parishioners silently watched as I prayed, knowingly shaking their heads, and I’m sure adding their own prayers.
The next day I found that all the American tourists had strangely disappeared, and wondered where they could have gone. There were no flights home. I was now a lone American in Rome, but in reality, I was a lonely American in Rome. I wanted to be with my husband and family, I wanted to be home sharing the grief of my country. Here I was in Rome, my favorite city in the world, and all I wanted to do was go home and be with my family.
When I accepted the fact I couldn’t go home, I continued my planned travels. I’m happy I did. It was through those travels that I was made aware, time after time, of how sincerely the Italian people were grieving for our people and our country. I should have realized that fact, since many Italians have close family who through immigration reside in the U.S., and because of that they too were personally experiencing those tragic events of 9/11.
In the city of Siena I met Americans for the first time,10 days after the attack. As I sat alone at a table in the Piazza del Campo, a group of about 12 tourists came and sat at the table next to me. We began to talk and they excitedly told me they were a group from New Jersey, and one of the first to fly out of the U.S. They related all the difficulties of having to pass through security before boarding their flight to Italy. Little did any of us know, at the time, that those difficulties would become our new way of traveling.
In San Gimignano I once again became a lone American amidst an influx of German tourists with very large dogs. I attended daily mass with townswomen who offered one another “la pace.” I was left out of their “pace,” until the fourth day when I was, at last, included in their peace offerings. I felt very thankful for those few meaningful moments of inclusion.
That evening I attended a concert of Italian folk music. The auditorium was packed with Italians, and once again I was a lone American. At the end of the concert the house lights came up and a gentleman announced that in honor of the people of the United States of America and the horrible tragedy they suffered, would everyone please rise to sing “God Bless America.” As the English words appeared above the stage, along with a large photo of a waving American flag, the orchestra began to play. In unison the entire audience burst into song. I too sang out as loudly as I could as tears rolled down my cheeks. I glanced at the people around me and to my surprise I saw tears also running down their faces, they looked at me sadly and tipped their heads in my direction, in recognition, I believe, that I was an American. In that moment I no longer felt like just a lone American.
The beautiful wedding took place in Venice, as planned. After the wedding my daughter, Angela, and I drove to the town of Spoltore, in the Abruzzo region, where my mother was born, and my father grew up.
We stayed at a hotel known for its cooking school and had dinner that evening at the school’s restaurant. We had no trouble selecting from the Abruzzese menu. We lost my mother the year before, and we missed her very much. She was a wonderful cook and always had Sunday supper waiting for whoever showed up. In her honor we ordered gnocchi with a tomato-meat sauce, and roasted pork with roasted potatoes. The meal arrived, and as we began to eat, we silently looked up at one another, and began to cry. The wonderful food looked and tasted as if my mother had just prepared it.
The waiter came over to ask if everything was alright, and we explained why we were crying. At the end of the meal he came back and asked where we were from, and when my daughter told him she lived in New York, he immediately teared up explaining he had spent two years working in a restaurant in New York. He offered his condolences for the attack on our country and began to cry. The restaurant was now empty and we invited him to sit down. We talked together about what we loved most about New York City, about the horror of the attack, about the tragedy of so many innocent lives lost, and then the three of us sat together and simply cried, well into the night.
When we landed back at Newark Airport we were greeted by numerous airport employees with shouts of, “Welcome Home,” loud applause, and one employee beautifully singing “God Bless America.” I’m sure every American who walked through the airport that day knew in that moment of reentry to the USA, they were no longer a lone American somewhere in the world, they were now home. I know I did.
To all of the survivors and people who lost beloved family members and friends on September 11, 2001, I would like to offer our ongoing thoughts and prayers to you, and our gratitude to you for your unbearable sacrifices to our nation during the past 20 years.
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