It was about half past four on a really hot day in Rome. I was leading a group of tourists along the Via Sacra in the Roman forum. Now if you know it at all, you’ll know it’s kind of in a valley. It’s like a little bowl down there, so it was really hot and the group were beginning to suffer.
There were only eight tourists that day as far as I can remember, all of them were from the U.S.A.- none of them New Yorkers. Everyone had had a pretty good time on the tour; the usual stuff about the ceasars and all their shenanigans seemed to go down well. They were a laid-back bunch, a nice group of Southeners.
As I was winding up the tour I noticed there was a kind of a commotion in the Forum, it was a particularly busy day but there seemed to be an inordinate amount of chatter ripping through the dusty site.
As I was thanking people, I noticed a slightly dodgy looking character leaning against a railing, watching us intently. He was standing, wearing shades and an open necked shirt, in the shade of a triumphal arch-that was built to honour the victories of Septemius Severus over the Parthians (present day Iran). He let me finish my speil and then approached us in a very calm fashion-I thought he was a cop for some reason.
“Are you American?”, he asked in a strong French accent.
“I’m not,” I replied, in a slightly,what do you want sort of a way. “But they are,” I said, pointing at the group of slightly baffled tourists.
“Well, I think I should tell you that a plane has just crashed into the World Trade Centre.”
I believe the Forum hadn’t witnessed such news for centuries.
