Reality Intrudes

Early this morning, my roommate's phone bleeped out an SMS ( short message system) "we are at war", the message read shortly, And it was then that the world shifted a bit in my eyes, made all the more frightening by this chess game of men. And so hours later, as the last winter's night closed on this beautiful city, I am struck by both man's greatest steps towards Godhood and also his continued decline into devilry.

The message was sent by Jon, another US expat working down in Catania who, like the rest of us insomniacs, had been keeping his eye on the news and had promised to give a ring should things go burnt umber. My apartment hasn't any television reception, probably due to the ancient wiring and as a result, what news we get, comes via print publications or surfing Le Figaro, Al Hayat, La Repubblica, or The Washington Post.

Feeling defeated, even if I knew in advance, that my president hadn't gathered 250,000 American boys and girls into the desert for a day of sunbathing, I had, up until that point, still held on to one remaining shred of naiveté, hoping somehow, that Europe's lack of consensus for this war, could help keep the snarling dogs at bay until some sort of reasonable toy bone could be thrown to one or the other.

Not crying, (what good are tears at this point?) but stunned none-the-less, I began my day. I logged on, reading message after message from friends around the globe. And as I looked at the harsh red ball, repeated in image after image of Baghdad, I couldn't help but be reminded of a similar morning on September 11th that even in its utter difference, gave me that same "this can not be happening" feeling only to be followed by the cold shiver of "oh but it is".

And just like the day the twin towers fell, and the pentagon exploded into smoke and another plane ploughed its nose into the Pennsylvania pastureland, I searched the news like some morbid census taker, weighing out the damage done, like some triage medic trying to see if he can saw off a leg to salvage a soul.

I wanted to see words of our righteousness, how my country was a champion for the downtrodden and if not that then at least the afflicted. And instead, as I scanned line after line of the news bureaus, I could find only man's arrogance, long since bolstered by political rhetoric. The stories I read appeared sanitized and anticipatory. As if mankind isn't capable of understanding right from wrong, unless it is cleaned up a bit and made to smell of roses.

I found more reality speaking by phone to friends and family or reading hastily written e-mails as throughout the day and on into the night, people checked in with me just to say hi or to reach out because at least in speaking we didn't seem to be going it alone.

There were words of concern and sadness from Tina in the backwaters of my Tennessee, and angry apathy from Mohamed in Cairo. My former colleagues in DC spoke with frustrated irony (having long since soured on Washington's spin doctors) and my roommate gnashed her teeth and said a curse or two as each of us voiced the pain we felt. Lastly there was fear and concern from my family, wanting gentle assurances that being an expat in Italy, I wouldn't somehow be targeted simply for being an American.

But here in Florence I find that the tourists still flock and take pictures of our churches. And the bus drivers strike, although now in war protest. My ex and I continue to have bitter disagreements that even an ocean apart cannot quiet and I still hear "Ciao, come stai ?????" every morning at my favorite cafe where they give no importance to my being an American or the fact that my Italian sucks.

Yes, things remain the same here in my little piece of Tuscany, like the constant of waves. But like I said earlier, my naiveté is gone. As much as this place is my sanctuary, I can't outrun my past in Italy. And as beautiful and constant as she is, reality intrudes.