I thanked her and sat down close by. She wasted no time in beginning the litany of questions. First, she asked where I was from and I told her, hesitating slightly, “San Francisco, in California. I am American. Where are you from?”

“I am from Morocco,” she responded, “but I have lived with my family in Bologna for three years now. My name is Leila,” she added, “Did you know there is a splendid island called Leila off the coast of Morocco?”

“No, I didn’t know about the island,” I answered, “but the name is lovely and it suits you. My name is Maria. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, Maria,” she said, “I like that name very much. You seem Italian too. I know many ladies here named Maria.”

“Yes, I am also an Italian citizen,” I admitted. “My grandmother’s name was Maria Calogera. She was from Sicily.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, pleased, “so your family’s roots, like mine, come from the Mediterranean. We are cousins then!”

She went on to tell me about herself: 20 years old, the only daughter in a family of three children. She liked living in Bologna because life offered more possibilities. She was on the way home from her job at a nearby shoe factory. Her fiancé still lived in Morocco and she wasn’t sure she wanted to marry him because he was very old-fashioned and would never consider moving to Bologna. “But my father is a wise man, and I am not too worried that he will insist I marry him,” she said. As an afterthought she added, “My brothers are impossible though. They are like my fiancé.” When I asked about her mother she had little to say. “She stays home and would prefer that I follow her path, which I don’t want to do.”

“Well, then,” I responded, “tell me about the life you wish for.”

 “No, first you must tell me about yourself, signora. Perhaps I have been talking too much.”

“No, you are not talking too much, Leila,” I assured her. “I am a writer and I learn so much when I meet people like you.”

The train rumbled slowly into the station and we walked together, climbing on board and into an almost empty railway wagon. We sat down opposite each other, next to the window.

I explained my reason for being in Bologna since early autumn, with only a brief trip home for the Christmas holiday: the editor of my book on Bologna lived there in Marzabotto, and we were collaborating as I revised and updated the material.

She had plenty of questions and relished our chance encounter. I described my family and our lives in California and asked, “Would you like to study at Bologna’s famous university, Leila?”

“No,” she replied, “studying doesn’t interest me. I want to earn money so that I can be independent too, like your sons. I want a future in Bologna, so perhaps you can tell me about her history.”

“Where do you live?” I asked. “I could describe your neighborhood’s past.”

“We are just inside Porta Lame,” she said, “and it doesn’t seem very interesting to me!”

Then I described how she would have found it in the Middle Ages and Renaissance. “Just imagine the canal that once flowed where Via Riva di Reno is now, and the silk factories humming, turning out cloth, making the Bolognesi rich and famous. Bombs destroyed the neighborhood during World War II.” I grew pensive and said, “What you see has been rebuilt since then. We have lost so much...”

The perfect opening....

Without missing a beat, her large expressive eyes, fringed with thick, black lashes, locked with mine, and I understood where our conversation was headed. My heart leaped up to my throat.

“Signora Maria,” she said, her husky voice quiet, yet strong, “do you know what happened this morning?”

 I know we must have blinked, but when I think back to that moment, it seems like even the miniscule flick of an eyelid would have severed the connection. “Sì, Leila. Yes...I know what happened this morning. Yes...yes...and I’m so sorry.”

As I said it, my hands flew up and covered my eyes and the sobs, which had been caged deep inside me for weeks, exploded into the space between us. For the first time in my life I was ashamed to be an American. I had protested in the streets, signed petitions, voted, realizing finally that bombs were inevitable and the American people seemingly powerless against our government, which marched the world toward war.

She listened quietly. I could feel her eyes watching me as I sat there that afternoon, March 20, 2003. “I’m so sorry...so ashamed of my country...so sorry...vergogna...shame...”

In the silence, Leila looked up again, reached across the space between us and took my hands in hers. “Don’t worry, Signora Maria,” she whispered, “I understand. I understand that we must separate the actions of governments from the individuals that we meet. I can do that. Please don’t be so sad. We have to understand each other and talk to each other. I understand.” While she spoke, her eyes stayed focused on our joined hands and then she looked up at me watching her.

 “Grazie Leila,” I said. “Thank you for understanding...and...I hope together we can help to change....”

And she suddenly asked me, “Signora, do you know that the date of my birth is May 11? When is your birthday?”

Astonished, I answered, “My birthday is also May 11, Leila.”

So, we sat together on the little train chugging toward Bologna, our hands still clasped, and my lovely companion met my glaze boldly and announced, without the slightest hesitation, “Our souls were meant to meet today, Signora Maria, don’t you think?”