Ignorance is bliss. Isn’t that how the old adage goes? Well, if that’s the case then I have been living in a state of blissful ignorance since the attacks on the United States nearly one month ago.

Devoid of the many forms of media we’ve become accustomed to in America, I have had the luxury of not being inundated day in and day out with the analysis and overanalysis of Sept. 11.

Sure, I’ve scrolled through my fair share of forwards, been offered a handful of sympathies, and grabbed a USA Today any chance I could.

But it wasn’t until this Tuesday that the reality of the situation came to my full attention.

And let me tell you, it could well have been bin Laden himself tapping me on the shoulder, because reality came barrelling at me like a freight train and hit me hard and fast.

The day began innocently enough. Three of my flatmates and I decided it was high time for a healthy dose of American culture. “A.I.” was playing at the theater near our school and we decided to go. After all, Jude Law is enough to get me into the theater.

Shortly after we began the 15-minute walk, however, we knew something was amiss. As we neared Piazza San Marco – the square near our flat – we saw that it was packed with polizia (police), guardia (militiamen), and carabinieri (military police) who were just beginning to dissemble.

Now to see any of these groups on their own is a daily occurrence here in Florence, but to see such a large number assembled was enough to start my mind wondering. Curious, we crossed the square and headed up Via Cavour, the main street leading to the city’s main cathedral, the Duomo. It wasn’t long before my questions were answered.

I heard them before I saw them. Hundreds of voices chanting in unison in Italian and blocking the entire street in front of us.

Now I have been witness to protests here in Italy; it seems every other week the repressed classes of the country come together to share their complaints with anyone who will listen. But something told me that this was different.

It wasn’t the mere size of the group though, although there were probably around 300 people taking part at that time. There was something in the tone of their voices and in the looks of determination that lit their eyes. They were angry.

At that point we decided to take an alternative route to the theater, but the entire way there I never lost the hum of the chants that filled the night air. Well, after some careful consideration and a higher-than-expected ticket price, the reporter in me won out against the Jude Law fan and I found myself drawn to the Piazza della Repubblica, where the wave of protesters surged full force. I took a seat atop a column and waited.

It was here that I met Mario, a 60-year-old Florentine native who would act as my interpreter for the rest of the night.

Mario and I watched in awe as scores of people began to flood the square.

First came the cavalry. About 20 carabinieri casually toting riot packs across their shoulders. Next followed two cars filled with polizia and then a van filled with guardia.

And suddenly the protesters were upon us. Young men and women from the repressed class, adorned with piercings and dreadlocks, dancing along to their own silent rhythm.

Conservative Italian families toting young children on their shoulders. Members of the Russian community in Florence brandishing Socialist flags.

Students from the University of Florence wearing signs and carrying banners. And weaved within this plethora of people was a small group of about 20 Palestinians.

And somewhere during their passing my eyes met the eyes of one of the men and, to be honest, for a moment time seemed to stand still.

And that moment, in which we held the gaze of one another, is one that I can find no words to describe.

But in no way was it hostile, and as quickly as the moment came, it was shattered by chants that followed.

“Pace Subito! Pace Subito!” (Peace right now! Peace immediately!)

And coloring the processional, as they streamed by in a wave of passion and vigor, were banners and signs reading “Basta Guerra!” (No more war!) and “Contra Guerro e Terrorismo! Revoluzione per la civilta” (Against war and terrorism! For revolution of the civilization!).

And even if I hadn’t had Mario there to translate for me, the message was all too clear. But still I asked Mario, “Do these people oppose simply war or are they angry with Americans for waging war?” His answer was neither satisfying, nor simple.

In the quiet, gentle voice of an Italian who has lived through one world war, he said, “They come together, people from all over – Pistoia, Prato, Florence, and Careggi, to promote peace. The enemy they fight tonight is not one people but an idea . the idea of war.”

But as I looked around, through the vast sea of diversity that surrounded me, I could find no other Americans.

And looking back, while I knew in my head that I should not take any of this protest personally, in my heart I couldn’t help but feel just a little bit alone.

And I realized then that there really is no place on this Earth that hasn’t been tainted with the bitter aftertaste of terrorism.

Christy Steffen is a senior in journalism and mass communication from Ruthven. She is studying abroad in Florence, Italy for the semester.