Month: March 2020

Number 22 in a month of Sundays. May we look back on this day as a turning point, a bridge back.

Yesterday’s new cases in Italy were lower by more than a thousand from the day before, and to a level not seen since March 17. Today, the number was basically unchanged, but neither did it go up. It may be that our efforts are paying off.

There are still terrible numbers of fatalities. Nothing more to say.

This morning during my walk (yes, I managed to advance the hour to a 09:30 start) the window in the little bridge had its shutters open. The glass was shut – it was chilly – and one pane was covered by a tatted curtain. Someone moves in there! Would it not be intriguing to have a house that bridged a street? Or are they sisters who live one to either side of the alley? Is the arch flanked by doors, making it a piece of neutral territory between related households? Were there arguments about the need of a curtain, settled by leaving one half of the window bare?

No sign of the little girl, that I could see. I have a feeling that she was crouched with her eyes at the level of the sill at the curtained half, using two of the tatted holes as the eyes of a mask. Now that she knows that I know that she is there, she’s playing a game of hiding.

So much drama in such a small space.

I fixed an acquacotta again today. Yesterday, I asked Renzo to provide another container like the one bearing yesterday’s soup so I could share today’s soup with him and Patrizia. I texted a reminder about an hour ago, hinting that the soup was pretty damn good for having been prepared by an American, but he hasn’t seen the message yet. We are at the mercy of our electronics. The good thing is, the longer the soup sits, the better the soup becomes. And neither it, nor I, are going anywhere.

The blackbirds are back. There is a pair that lives in my yard spring, summer, and early fall. They are probably of a type better described than “blackbirds”, but I haven’t an idea what that might be. The male is shiny black, the female a dull brown. They like to grub for worms by raking the leaves and twigs collected in the flowerbeds, where I have swept them, back onto the tile. It’s an ongoing conversation. The female, for reasons unclear, will fly at my second-story sitting room window several times in a row, at several points during their residency. The male worries in the apricot, seeming to apologize.

“The little lady’s a tad daft. She’s had a tough life. This thing she does only makes it worse, but I’ve learned to accept it. Her virtues are many, once you know her.”

I’m happy to have them back. Quirks and all, they represent dependability. In times like these even a crazy bird, if consistently so, can seem a bridge to the normal.

Renzo just rang to claim their soup for supper. I met him at the gate, he gingerly held out a little two-handled pot from a safe distance, I gingerly accepted it.

“Give me a minute,” and I took the pot inside and ladled it full of what by now is a nice thick mix of onion, pasta, and sage. I returned to the gate and gingerly handed it back. I have to admit, it looked pretty legitimate sitting in its pot, uncovered. Renzo’s face lit up as if the soup were a surprise. That made my day. A little while later I received a message of praise, noting specifically that they had finished it all. That made my day for tomorrow.

The universally acknowledged problem with soup when prepared for fewer than three is that it means soup, and the same soup, for days. When boredom is a threat even more present than The Menace Among Us, soup for days can have a grave impact on our novelty-wired brains. I try to resolve this by adding cheese, toast, arugula… whatever can mix things up a bit. But now there’s a better way; I’ll take turns sharing it with my wonderful neighbors. The advantages are many, and if you have sanitizer handy for after you touch the container, the risks are few. Soup has always been a kind of bridge in my world.

Should you care to adopt this scheme as your own, here’s one to try.

 Acquacotta con cipolle.

• Six or seven medium golden onions
• Four shallots
• Two tablespoons olive oil
• One liter vegetable or chicken stock
• Two cubes vegetable bullion
• 500 ml water
• 250 ml puréed tomato
• A dozen small leaves of fresh sage, or equivalent
• Half cup of ditalini rigati pasta
• 1 teaspoon white granulated sugar
• Fresh ground nutmeg
• Fresh ground coriander seed
• Fresh ground black pepper
• One tablespoon lemon juice
• Medium slices of toast or stale bread, one per serving, brushed with olive oil
• Grated parmesano reggiano cheese

1. Quarter the onions, then thinly slice
2. Thinly slice the shallots
3. Place both in a large soup pot, add oil, cover, and cook over a medium heat until soft, stirring often
4. In a small pan boil the water, add the bullion cubes, nutmeg, and coriander
5. Add the bullion mix, tomato, and the stock to the onions, bring to a boil, then simmer for 20 minutes
6. Stir in the sugar, sage, and lemon juice, simmer for another 10 minutes, stirring occasionally
7. Add pepper to taste
8. Add the pasta, simmer for 7 minutes
9. Serve over toast or bread, and top with the grated cheese

Big day, today.

First a walk, then shopping at the Metà on Corso Cavour, home to unload, then more shopping at the other store on Via Signorelli. Each time, my shoulder bag was so weighed down that I could barely get it place. I should be stocked for the better part of a week. I also ordered a six liter pack of water for delivery.

“Thursday okay?”

“What’s today?”

“Monday.”

“Really? Sure, Thursday. About what time?”

“Why, you going somewhere?”

“Good point.”

“Usually before lunch.”

“I’ll make an extra effort to dress.”

“Appreciated.”

With no outside obligations, my daily schedule has been slipping further and further from what I’m used to. My winter hours are already on the late side, mostly as to when I take a morning walk (waiting for sunshine), but from this vantage they look like a page out of Poor Richard’s Almanac. “Early to rise” has been replaced with, “rise after looking at the clock and deciding that 10:30 isn’t terribly late, so why not take a nap because after all, I didn’t really fall asleep until almost four.” But the weather is milder, and with these short, repetitive walks, why not hit the trail by seven or eight, even if it means doing it unshaved, un-meditated, and without contacts (but with hands well-washed)? I feel better all day when I walk early, and frankly like I’m cranking up a leaky bucket from a very deep well, when I don’t.

On my way to Via Signorelli, I passed Anna (my ceramicist friend and Renzo’s sister). She waved and blew a kiss. Seconds later, the first car I’ve actually encountered (as opposed to watching one pass on a cross street) in maybe two weeks, barreled around the twist in the road. The driver waved cheerily. It was Riccardo, owner of the restaurant, Il Malendrino, and one of the warmest and most enthusiastic spirits I’ve ever known. At the market, Corrado rang up my purchases, bagged them, and helped me heft the bag onto my shoulder. All that together made for a thrilling afternoon.

On the way home down Corso, past the theatre, I began to reminisce about Umbria Jazz – my jazz buddy, Gianna, the packed streets, the wandering band who call themselves Funk Off and who are alone worth a trip to Orvieto between Christmas and New Years. I imagined having an extra bedroom; who would I invite for Jazz Fest? 

Before all that, just as I decided that a walk was long overdue, it started to rain. Serious rain. Drenching rain. Raindrops bouncing off the garden pavement, rain. I hung inside and read emails. One asked if I’d walked yet, and offered by way of inspiration Papa Francesco and his Easter stroll, which he will take regardless of the weather. I put on my shoes, reached for the umbrella. The rain stopped, and sun broke through. I like Papa Francesco. I guess he likes me, too.

Emboldened, I organized myself for going to market, figuring that if the weather held, the walk would ease seamlessly into shopping. I hit the streets like a puppy that had to pee. The weather held. Two laps on, it hit me that the streets were almost completely dry, already. Here and there an indentation on an individual stone held a pocket of water, but the deluge had been absorbed by…? By what? The air? The spaces between pavers filled with spring grass of an exaggerated green? I may never know.

I also took time to notice the little bridge between houses the lane passes under just before it joins Via Montemarte. I remembered correctly about its height; five useable feet inside, at best, with the window set snugly under the eaves. The planter boxes are showing a bare hint of geranium, but sport an untamed beard of English ivy. The shutters are closed. 

I pictured myself a little girl (I can do that, it’s all imagination) who loves to sit at that window on a low stool and peer over the flowers at those passing beneath her; friendly children, grandparents and cousins, favorite dogs, stealthy cats, Stefano on his bicycle off to make soup. No one looks up save the occasional foreigner (with or without a camera) and some of those stop, stand, wave, wink, or look away suddenly because they are startled by the girl’s smile and sparkling eyes. When she wants to give them their privacy, she closes the shutters and peers through the slats. But it is not privacy for her own sake, only for their’s – to allow them stare as long as they like while they wonder what sort of creature walks across that bridge, trims and waters the flowers, closes the shutters against the sun, and opens them again to let in the evening breeze.

Postscript – after I finished this, Renzo provided a container of puréed vegetable soup and two pieces of pasta sfoglia stuffed with squacquerone (a soft cheese), cherry tomatoes, and roasted eggplant, with compliments from Patrizia. I could have sworn there were caramelized onions in the pasta sfoglia. I didn’t take a photo, I was too delighted to wait. It was all delicious.

I last went shopping on Wednesday, I believe. I should check my notes. 

I planned to shop again yesterday, but it wasn’t absolutely necessary, so I put it off until today. This morning I surveyed my stores and determined that I could wait until tomorrow. That can’t be delayed. I’m out of honey. My mother swore that the best immune builder was apple vinegar and honey (local and seasonal, if available), a tablespoon of each in hot water once a day. She lived to be ninety-six, so even as I made fun of it during my luxury of youth, I am now a devotee. She’s pleased, I know, that at least one scrap of her wisdom finally made it through to me.

Late this morning, I took a nap, and had a most sprawling, complex dream. (So you will keep reading, I promise not to bore you with weird dream details, only the essence.) I was teaching a class to a group of young Italians as a favor to my friend Riccardo Cambri. “Here’s an American,” he said, pulling me out of the crowd, “Ask him questions about America!” I felt totally unqualified, so gradually redirected that to having students give presentations on theirimpressions of America. The last of these was by local shoemaker, Federico Badia. His wife is from Ohio, and his English is excellent, so he presented in English. Federico is one of the most gracious and admirable people I know. It was so great to see him that I woke up smiling.

Sometimes, a dream is all it takes.

I walked the Circus Minimus of my courtyard again, this afternoon, while podcasting On the Media. Listening to Stateside news, or even to general references to it, makes my toenails curl. Enough said.

That was followed at some point by emails and messages. 

Everyone is now in Italy, or so it seems from this perspective. Where Italy was a few weeks ago, all are there now, or are rapidly approaching. I’d sooner you had come in healthier circumstances as cherished guests, but no one consulted me for my preferences. But at least fear rarely reaches me anymore. The best we can do is apply caution as public health requires, and live well. Orvieto is still relatively unaffected, probably in large part due to isolation and lockdown. I’m more than happy to do what we must, and as long as we must, to keep it that way. 

Life in this town is still richer, more comfortable, and less dangerous in lockdown than in most periods of its several thousand years of history. We can do this. The Etruscans are cheering us on. The birds we see at eye-level – whose ancestors’ flight patterns were observed by those Etruscans to augur weather, crops, and auspicious times to begin projects – still swoop and fly even if I can’t personally watch them from cliffs’ edge. Friends who do live close to the cliff (or have a dog) can watch, and if they have an Etruscan moment of revelation regarding our collective efforts to withstand the viral siege, perhaps they’ll write me about it. If there is a way through this, the Etruscans should be our happy guides. According to the murals we’ve found, they loved song, dance, and good food. Though most of our song and dance may be streamed these days, I have a good feeling that households alla rupe know well how to enjoy their meals.

I just returned from a walk. I had counted on something happening that would finish this post. Someone exited a house on our lane and rushed off carrying a bag, walking away from me. That’s it. It has been a very quiet day in my little world. When it is this quiet, it’s an even greater challenge to pay attention, to notice detail.

The major part of my walk, a length of narrow lane called Via delle Pertiche No. 2 was, before I lived on Via della Pertiche No. 1, a spot I’d come to this part of town especially for. Just as the lane ends at Via Montemarte, there is a little arch between the houses on either side. In the arch is a window. During good weather, beneath the window is a box planter overflowing with geranium. The arch doesn’t seem tall enough to function as a passage for anyone over the age of ten. I love that marvelous thread of incongruity, yet tonight, I don’t remember looking up as I approached that little arch, even once, nor during many nights prior.  (But what a magical place to have access to as a child!)

Renzo sent out a sort of carpe diem message earlier that he’d received from somewhere. It read lovely in Italian with musical repetitions and looping phrases. I wonder if there is a carpe noctem version. I’d find both quite handy about now.

The photo was taken at about this time of year, three years ago. Somebody tell me what it looks like now!

I took my midday walk in the Circus Minimus, but instead of counting laps, I listened to a fifty minute podcast from WNYC; Krista Tippet’s conversation with Ross Gay, an essayist and community organizer. I trust I did the reps as scheduled. I was appropriately tired at the conclusion. But never getting to free movement may suggest returning to the street tomorrow for my midday jaunt. Or, to take advantage of the privacy of the courtyard, adding an early morning walk in my sweats and slippers.

As I climbed the exterior stairs to my studio, Patrizia came onto her balcony. We chatted.

“Any big plans for today? Exciting trips? Maybe a movie? Dinner at Sette Consoli?”

“Maybe I’ll sit in the living room, just for a change. I didn’t work today.”

“No?” Patrizia is secretary for the entire district of five (maybe six) high schools. “Because it’s Saturday?”

“No, because I didn’t feel like it. Working at home is fun for awhile, then it feels like you never leave work. So, today I’m staying at home.”

Renzo joined her. I explained I was walking the circuit and listening to a podcast, “Not the news, the news from the States is too brutal.”

“Brutal all over. Difficult to listen to. I’ve got something in the oven.”

“Oh boy!”

He chuckled and went in. Patrizia remained, taking the air and staying at home.

The circular walk merited a short nap, so I took one. I replied to a bunch of emails, trying to direct friends to this blog in answer to questions about life in Orvieto, or at least about my life in Orvieto. Then after a phone conversation with a friend who lives five minutes away by foot (ten by car), I fixed a sandwich and sat down to write an early post.

When I use too many adjectives, it’s a sure sign I have no real idea of what I’m trying to say. These pages are a journal. I may admire the work of essayists, may slip toward that format myself from time to time, but these should be based on what happened today, or at a minimum what memories were provoked by the day’s events. So, I pronounced the post aborted, saved it generically, and took a walk.

Probably because it was earlier than usual, I passed several people tonight. The beautiful brown boxer was out with her owner. She slyly managed to perform a double feint and snuck in a lick on my hand. That alone might sustain me for a week. It was as if she understood the situation and wanted to express her affection in spite of it.

I passed my neighbor, Enrica, who is also an assistant to my beloved dentists.

A man I don’t know in stocking cap and mask, collar on his coat turned up, appeared suddenly out of an alley as I passed. My body responded with a thrill of unnecessary, but rather pleasurable fear. At the end of the street I turned to change direction and inadvertently paid the poor fellow back in kind.

At the same spot on the next lap, I caught Stefano, who makes my favorite soups, just as he went into his house. He recognized me late, reopened his door, and sent a smile, a wave, and a buona sera my way, all three gratefully returned.

Mumbling back to my gate I could feel my body loosen, slide into synchronicity with my gait. A healing body is not only an expression of mechanical functioning. It wants to be well-tuned. I’ve had several wonderful conversations with absent friends yesterday and today, courtesy of WhatsApp, but this evening’s brief encounters were as rich and beneficial with no conversation at all, and really helped with the tuning.

I love the rapt attention dogs will give each other from across a piazza, an unabashed admission that to see one of its own species is significant, even if one of them is a wolfhound and the other a terrier. What happens next is not always so admirable, but each time I see that spellbound fixation on the possibility of a social interaction, I look around at the people going here and there and am struck at how strongly we too are socially wired, we just have more complex communication skills – or at least more complicated.

At times like these, during which spontaneous contact is so rare, I am reminded again that even in its rareness and brevity, and even from a two-meter distance, contact is very, very special.

The photo, by the way, is from 2018.

Orvieto endured occupation by Nazi forces for nearly nine months, and that was followed by months more of chaos, uncertainty, and civil strife. I can’t honestly bring myself to complain about twenty days without pizza. I may think about complaining, but really, for both the common and personal good, I will endure, too.

Spooked by various interpretations I’ve heard as to what walks are allowed, I decided to count the steps back and forth in my little courtyard as a possible surrogate, at least for daylight treks. As you may recall, I paced out the route of my late night walk a few days ago, so I had a gauge that only needed use of the multiplication tables to produce a total: 2,600 steps. The courtyard paced off at 10-12 steps, so I settled for 250 repetitions as a midday walk equivalent.

At first, I went from door to gate. I did that fifty times. Then I looked at the umbrella (still down in winter mode) and the plastic wicker, and drawing inspiration from Roman sports architecture, quickly built Circus Minimus, an oval route around a long spine. That was much better, more fluid, so a hundred circuits finished the walk. It was a little like doing laps in a 30-foot pool, you never get up to speed, but in the end I felt exercised.

Halfway through this routine, Renzo came onto his balcony.

“I’m sending down the basket.”

“Why? More baked goods?”

“Yep. Hold on.”

He disappeared into his house. I continued my circuits, picking up speed. Imagining myself a charioteer, I heard the thunderous the roar of the crowds. As I was rounding number sixty-something, the tiny basket dropped down.

“Another crostata, and marmalade-filled cookies.”

“Oooh! Perfect!”

“For lunch!”

“Excellent timing, I just had lunch before I came out.”

“Now you have dessert,” and he hoisted the basket aloft. Okay, for elegance sake I left out that he dropped the ball of twine, and after some confusion, I placed it in the basket so basket and twine could ascend together.

“Thank you my friend!” I took the gifts inside and sampled one of the cookies. The pastry was melt-in-your-mouth delicious, and the filling soft and fruity.

On repetition seventy-something, Renzo came out again.

“Did you try one?”

“Mamma mia, so good!”

He nodded and smiled, chuckled a bit. “There will be more.” What have I done to deserve such kindness?

A story on a darker side of sugar has been playing through my head these days. You’ll understand why when I tell you.

Forty-some years ago, a friend recorded an interview with his father who had survived several Nazi concentration camps. What he shared was remarkable, and I will never forget it. At the end of the interview he told about the liberation.

The last camp he was in was run by a regular army officer. The war was coming to an end, and SS rarely visited anymore, so the commandant made every effort to assure that the prisoners under his charge made it through, alive and safe. Each night, the prisoners and their guards stood at the fence and watched the fire of the Allied advance. When it became clear that liberation was only a day or two away, the commandant sent a trusted second-in-command towards the lines with news of what lay ahead, and to implore the Allies to move quickly. Also, to tell them to be prepared to take hundreds of prisoners to safety. Then against orders, which were to burn the prisoners alive, they marched towards the Americans to surrender. Everything progressed accordingly. The Allies took charge of the men and sheltered them in a warehouse while they sought ways to provision them.

“Then came the great tragedy,” my friend’s father said. The Americans didn’t know it, but in storerooms off the main part of the warehouse were closets filled with sweets; chocolate bars, soft drinks, candy. The men housed there had not tasted sugar for months, some for years. The closets were discovered, the sweets eaten, and that night more than half the men died of insulin shock.

It’s not over until it’s over.

Today, yesterday’s need to connect with distant others grew more ferocious. We have the means to communicate such as no humans before have imagined, and we can do it instantly during a crisis that is watched in ways no humans before have done. So, I treated it as a moral obligation to text and write whoever was on my mind. People I love but normally wouldn’t want to bother. I bothered them, asked how they are and “please stay well and in touch” and signed off with “hugs”, “abbracci”, and “love”. Because yes, that’s how I feel, and what purpose can there possibly be in pretending otherwise?

A friend I’ve probably spent less time with than I have with my dentist (in fact, you can scratch the “probably”) but who is dear just the same, responded that he had caught a flu, but nothing serious, twenty-four hour bug. My hair stood on end (metaphorically – my hair only actually does that early in the morning). Here, he would have already been tested, his condition assessed, precautions taken. I told him that. It felt like I was being invasive. Also felt that I may be proposing a fantasy. Are there kits available where he lives, does he qualify if there are, could he afford the test? I read what is and what is not going on in the States, but I don’t really know what it all means on the ground.

Another friend who lives in Queens – reported to be the New York City borough hardest hit by the virus – answered that he was on his way into town for work. (New Yorkers quaintly refer to Manhattan as “town”. Go figure.) I wanted to cover him with a protective coating, a cape of gold.

I just messaged another friend of importance, someone else my dentist beats out for quality time spent. Because his office is in Manhattan, I’d not given him much thought. This afternoon, I suddenly remembered that he lives in Westchester County which was hit hard and early. This person is distant enough from my social circle that he may not have my number in his phone, so I signed my name. He may find it strange even to hear from me, but he’s a fine and generous fellow, and I’m concerned.

Express my concern! Whoever it is comes into my thoughts, or into my life. I never know why they appear in that manner or at that moment, my contact may be important in ways I cannot anticipate.

It makes a difference where you have spent the last two weeks in how vociferous (via text, email, call) you become. People from abroad have been contacting their friends in Italy because we have been perceived to be residing in the monster’s belly. We still are, but there is apparently no shortage of bellies that belong to this monster. And by now we know the drill, and it’s coming your way, and I, for one, want to know how you’re handling it. Seriously, I hope. Take it with good humor, a smile if you can, and as much kindness and patience and forbearance as you’re able to muster, but take not a bit of it casually. And please, please, stay well. Bad enough that people I felt I knew but didn’t, like Terrance McNally, have been taken, I want my friends (and everyone’s friends – impossible as that may be) to live and flourish, to not join any statistics. 

The World Health Organization publishes those statistics at the end of every day. We can access them here so long as our Internet connection holds. Today there was a uptick in new cases in Italy after five days trending (though not always falling) downward. This makes me sad – for the suffering it represents, the lives that could be lost, and the dear ones that may be missed. It is also sad because the numbers are not reflecting our efforts at containment as well, today, as they seemed to be, yesterday. And maybe I’m unreasonably impatient.

Can a country that may have begun its health emergency measures a few days later than it should have, still succeed? If so, watch what we are doing, here. I want to participate in that model because we all need to know this can work. Most other places are late, too. Some seem to be treating that fact as if cavalier neglect were a virtue. Learn from us! Listen to the educated, compassionate, and caring voices among you. There are plenty of them. Don’t let the noise drown them out.

The Italian word for noise is rumore.

I read the early pages of this diary with a bit of chagrin. The person who wrote them seems so innocent. Not that I’ve hardened in the days since (quite the opposite, really) but I had the notion that with the earnest acceptance of “doing what we must do” we would, by April, come to a point where the crisis would begin to abate, even if just enough for us to transform hope into trust. I suppose it still might, we’re approaching a crucial point in containment strategy. But whenever we reach that point, it is a good thing that in this new isolation we are learning the qualities of attentiveness, simplicity, and more careful application of our energies. We may be building a new society from these bricks of purpose, without a masterplan and not knowing exactly why, but one that leads to a positive resolution. The way some of us write blog posts. The way this beautiful city was built.

Day before yesterday, I cooked the zucchini and gorgonzola soup. It was easy to make and is (still) delicious to eat.

Nothing’s happened today, so far. I took a midday walk, didn’t see a soul. I went shopping for the first time since Saturday. Gabriele and (I’ve got to ask his name) blue-eyed checker were organizing vast delivery orders. It was the slow time, and I was the only customer in the store. Fewer than ten minutes there, and my company-deprived self felt like I had spent a weekend away with my favorite cousins.

An old friend from my San Francisco, Fabulous Theatre Co., days writes that he and his wife are in the Sierra foothills. As I read that, I could smell the crackling air, feel its special flavors, remember the bright slant of the morning sun. The noisy silence of nature. He’s teaching stagecraft online. I have no idea how you do that.

Another friend from the same gang teaches English as a second language, and is adapting to online classes via Zoom. Suddenly, Zoom is everywhere.

A third member of the company has a sprawling property near Mendocino. She normally gives massage. Her quarantine is to stop massage for a month. She’s remote enough, that’s about all that’s necessary.

The fourth member describes days not dissimilar to mine; more urban, dog-walking, house-staying.

A long-ago Santa Cruz, Parsifal’s Players friend who lives in Cambridge, MA chimes in on that score. Her days have become about organizing drawers.

My friends from New York City, Metropolitan Playhouse days, I worry about almost without ceasing. When the worries do cease, it is because they have been crowded out by shining memories.

My friend here, Maria who weaves beautiful scarves on Via dei Magoni, lives outside of Gabelletta in a cottage on a plot of land with fruit trees. She takes long walks in the woods and watches from afar the silent city brooding in the sunlight, hatching her future. Another country-dwelling chum, Giancarlo, is biding his time with his dog, Black, and tending to his garden. Both are living the lives they have wanted to live since we met, free of their shops and schedules.

Jimmy and Laura, and their puppets, near Acquapendente live in sunset-splattered meadow surrounded by trees and described by a river. They write that they hardly notice the quarantine. The puppets are content.

People here on the Rock have disappeared into their caves, or so it seems. Antonny and Romina, Pina, Franca, the various Cristiano’s and Massimo’s, even neighbors Stefano, Gianni, Maria, Annalisa, Giancarlo, and Davide. I do see Renzo, Patrizia, and the smoker with the gentle air. I wonder after Paula of the eternal smile, the bewilderingly perfect twins Nadia and Natasha, newly-arrives from the States, Joan and daughter Angela, elegant Luisa, brilliant Giorgio, jovial Kamal – they are all minutes away by foot, but have vanished! Dear friends, Erika, Michael, Andrea, Natsuko, Riccardo, Marina, Roy, Lucianna, Rosella… and so many more. In normal times I see them rarely or see them regularly, but in these times, we visit only in our minds. A trip to Piazza Ranieri or Via Malabranca seems like it would require crossing an ocean. Our personal worlds shrink precipitously.

How blithely we accepted that snack slice of Margherita pizza, a lunch picked out from Montanucci’s jeweled buffet, the true flavors of Tomasso’s walnut gelato. How used we became to being dazzled by Riccardo at the piano, demonstrating thematic variation for his class of old folk on Tuesday morning. How I came to expect Michele would be here next week for another shiatsu, that we (any of us) would walk together in the rain, arms linked and memories warm from a meal well-shared, that a knot huddled over martinis would wave me in to join them even though I don’t really drink. How long ago was all that? Seventeen days?

With devoted effort at isolation, we will be all that again, and – I hope – with newly (and devoutly) appreciative eyes.

Everything changes. So must we.

While we wait, cook zucchini soup!

• One large yellow onion
• Two tablespoons of olive oil
• Two tablespoons butter
• One shallot
• Five or six medium zucchini
• Two cans chicken stock
• One cube chicken bullion
• Half cup dry white vermouth
• One tablespoon dried oregano (or fresh sage)
• About three ounces gorgonzola & dolcetta cheese (or six ounces – or one pack – of a combo called Duetto)
• Salt
• Pepper
• Nutmeg

• Rough chop the onion and shallot
• Combine in oil and butter, sauté until tender (covered)
• Rough chop zucchini, stir into onion/shallot mixture
• Add oregano/sage, stir well, continue to cook for about five minutes on low heat
• Add chicken stock, vermouth, and bullion, bring to boil, simmer for about ten minutes
• Blend with stick blender until smooth
• Add cheese gradually while blending
• Add salt, pepper, nutmeg to taste, stir well.
• Allow to sit for at least an hour before reheating (or chilling) and serve.

A real-life metaphor. Or possibly a parable. 

I felt pretty loose this morning, and convinced myself, perhaps unwisely… “Perhaps”? Screw that. I deluded myself into thinking that I could get by with only my late-night skulk, skipping over any thought of daylight perambulations. Wrong. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that I was finally forced to admit my gross error of judgement.

This morning I ran across a bit of pertinent info (I don’t recall where) regards what is legally allowed before a walker has to resort to showing a note from his or her doctor. We are permitted to walk for exercise (ours or our dog’s) for up to two hundred meters from home. Nothing was said about walking in circles, zigzags, t-shapes, or figure eights, so I blithely assume all such figurations are okay. The news ought to have been encouragement enough for me to leap up, lace the sneakers, and bound onto the street, parameters now having been securely established. But it was cold outside. And windy. And a friend across town reported snow – which took an hour to arrive in Via delle Pertiche – and even though the attempt at snow (once it got here) appeared lame and insufficient to a former resident of Scranton and New York, I seized upon the excuse with the fervor of the desperate.

After an hour or two of masterful procrastination, I grabbed my peacoat (now permanently filled with tissue, wallet, keys, and doctor’s note) zipped it up to my chin, and twisted the grey scarf around my neck. As a second thought, I grabbed my shopping bag. I had determined I could wait until tomorrow to shop if I were strict with myself about consumption of acqua frizzante (bubbly water), but since I’d be out during the slow time at the supermarket…

Eager to know exactly at what point I would be breaking the law, I counted steps for the route that would take me furthest from my front gate. Figuring a stride is less than a meter, I estimated 260 steps to equal two hundred meters. I set out with great resolve. The wind gusted, and blew my scarf into my open mouth. It all felt rather heroic.

Arriving at the intersection of Via delle Donne and Via Felice Cavolotti, I counted 280 steps. Close enough. I could argue the additional twenty. I swiveled and strode on towards Via Montemarte, from which on my return home counted as a mere 220 steps. I was clearly within bounds.

Emboldened by my new legality, I decided that yes, I would shop today, why deprive myself of frizzante when others were having it delivered by the case? Next swing by home, I’d go in, load up with change, and at the end of my reps would head straight for Metà. Oh! I’d better check my wallet, change might not be enough. 

I reached for the zipper cursor. It wouldn’t budge. I pulled harder. It resisted harder. I yanked and practically choked myself. I removed my scarf so I could get a better grip. No dice. The wind came up, the snow returned, the scarf blew into my gaping mouth – none of which added up to my feeling heroic.

I kept walking. The problem unfolded before me. The zipper will need someone else’s pulling at it, I could not achieve the correct angle. I can’t ask one of the guys at the market because, unless one of them has exceptionally long arms, it would violate social distancing. I live alone. There is no one else.

For one circuit of my route, I imagined 1) pulling the coat off like a sweater, risking suffocation and/or a broken nose from the zipped collar in my attempt, 2) being stuck in the jacket for however long the lockdown lasts, all the while praying that the weather does not turn warm, 3) cutting myself out with scissors, which, given my random sheering techniques, constituted the most perilous proposition.

I turned towards home. The snow thickened. A letter awaited me in the mailbox, I retrieved it. I wanted to open it, but felt I should deal with the zipper first.

Of course, as is my body’s wont, within a minute of arriving home I was overtaken by a irrepressible urge to pee, which, given that I was imprisoned in a mid-thigh length coat, made for a very amusing vaudeville.

A ridiculous story made good, I sat, I studied the cursor with my fingers, I pulled at a certain angle, and the zipper gave way a few inches. I stood, gave the cursor another yank, it gave a few more inches. A third tug and it was free. And so was I.

What I just skipped over is that the first thing I tried was to remove the coat like a sweater. I did not persist, which was wise – or at least not too stupid – because as I surmised earlier, the consequences would have been dire.

The moral? A coat is not a sweater. It is vitally important that we see things for what they are.

The photo is courtesy of Ida and Hans. It’s darkly funny, but it is even more terrifying. The good news is that new cases of the virus in Italy have been down for three days in a row. Things are still grim, but our efforts seem to be making a difference. Persist.

No crostata ex machina today. I passed three people on my thirty minute morning walk – back and forth, back and forth – two smiled, one of those also nodded. Those two represent the social life of the moment. Count your blessings.

There is a beautiful grey cat with golden eyes that has, periodically, frequented my yard. (I didn’t even see him today, but never mind.) He’s friendly and affectionate, but at the height of his affections he likes to claw and bite. I’m fairly sure that in the feline universe that’s attractive, sexy behavior, but me, don’t like it much. Nevertheless it was nice to have him around gracing the flower beds, so one day last fall I bought a bag of cat chow. I set up a bowl on the ledge nearest the front door to the house, and anticipated his next visit.

Cats here are very good – I should say, remarkably good – at climbing walls. Maybe cats everywhere are, but if so it is a trait I was not familiar with until I moved here. The wall between my garden and the street is about two meters high. So is the wall that separates my garden and the rear neighbor’s. And I’ve seen any number of cats who visit leaping and scaling these sheer drops like it was nothing. My grey visitor is not one of these. Oh, he obviously can, and does, climb into my yard, and I’ve seen him do it. But he would sooner find me and meow until I open the gate, either hectoring me from the house, or badgering me on the street. And naturally, I’ve interpreted these meowings as a plea for victuals.

But my attempt to feed was not met with enthusiasm. I know where he generally hangs out, and the food they offer doesn’t look any more special than mine, but he took a few sniffs and declared (and loudly, too) my offering to be beneath his customary standards. I left the food for a few days, went to Bratislava for two weeks, and it was still there when I returned. Okay, I’d forgotten about it, and it was distinctly unappealing by then, but I use that as an example of the extreme disdain that the grey cat has shown my attempts at luring him in as a customer at my osteria.

Well, shortly after the beginning of the lockdown, he met me on the street. I’d not seen him for months, so this was a surprise. I let him into the yard and he followed me to the house, meowing in that half demanding, half pleading way that his kind is so good at.

“I only have the same food you rejected last October.”

“Meow.”

“You’re welcome to it, but you’ll probably remember it was beneath your dignity last time.”

“Meoooowwww!”

“Okay, I’ll give you some.”

“Meeuu.”

“Be right back.”

Just as I expected, he sniffed at the pile of dried ovals, but didn’t commence eating.

“Fine. I’ll leave it, do as you like.”

I passed by a few hours later, and there was a significant hole in the middle of the pile. I’ve not seen him since, but I refresh the bowl every morning, and by next morning, there are only random bits remaining. The cat is in quarantine mode. Something, even déclassé, is better than (horrors) chasing lizards.

Now, people in this town seem pretty loyal to their wandering cats. Some of the cats, I’m sure, have homes, others reliable feeding stations. So this fellow’s sudden reappearance requires a creative explanation. Could be his kitchen staff, as it were, were caught out of town by the quarantine declaration, leaving him to beg off others he knew to be at least moderately friendly, if not possessed of much gastronomic sophistication. I suspect that must be it. No lockdown rule that says you can’t step outside your front door for a moment to feed your wayward cat. So, this guy made the rounds.

“Who offered me food (even of an inferior quality) during the past six months? If I hang outside his gate long enough, he’ll eventually fall victim to my charms and let me in. He serves garbage, but it’s a meal.”

There is another grey cat in the neighborhood who hangs out two streets away from golden-eyes. She is pure grey, my visitor has a white triangle on his chest. In good weather I meet her fairly regularly. She sees me coming, climbs onto the nearest car, and throws herself into play mode. No bites, no scratches, just purrs while she pushes her head into my neck. I love her dearly, but do not want to see her until we can legally, and safely, touch. At any rate, it’s good to know that she’s not just after my kibble.

Photo is of the grey with triangle, showing off his aristocratic airs.

The door buzzer sounded like the secret police were at the gate. Must be Renzo. 

I buzzed the gate open, looked out onto the little courtyard, and there, suspended on brown twine was a tiny basket perfectly sized to hold a square of something wrapped in foil. Renzo waited on the street for my reaction. I looked up and saw Patrizia on their balcony two floors above holding the other end of the twine, smiling and laughing. Renzo pushed open the gate.

“I called but you didn’t hear me.”

“My phone was upstairs, and before that I took a walk. This is wonderful. Like I’m a prisoner, but in a good way.”

In my mind he answered, “we’re all prisoners these days.” Or maybe he actually said it. Social deprivation does that to your brain.

“What is it?”

“Crostata, fresh this morning.” And he pointed at his chest to take credit, but humbly so.

I looked up again at Patrizia “on pin rail” (a reference for you theatrical types) still smiling, and I laughed.

“You guys are the best!” Or some Italian equivalent thereof.

We all laughed. I removed the wrapped square and the basket flew up toward the fly loft in professionally smooth fashion.

“Buon pranzo!”

“Altrettanto!”

And with waves from both, they were off to lunch at their very private trattoria next door.

How elegantly planned. How perfectly theatrical. What a gift they are.

The crostata (apricot) was excellent.

I didn’t get to my Roman emperor at Capri imitation today. I did a little umbrella prep, but was discouraged by the forecast of high winds. Better to leave it for now, crank it up at week’s end. Time is one thing we have plenty of, these days.

I took morning and afternoon walks, though — the very local routes. I now believe when the policeman told me to “walk at home” he was actually saying to “walk near home”. They had seen me the day before at Piazza del Duomo and said nothing, but when I showed up on Piazza della Repubblica, they intervened. For those of you who know this town, or who are looking now at a map, there’s no way those two locations could both be “near home” and Orvieto’s best quickly figured that out. (My conclusion regards the details of the lockdown edict is courtesy of an article sent to me by a friend in Pennsylvania. That’s the connected world we live in.) I will walk again tonight. Not keeping up with three walks daily has taken its toll, and I need to get back on routine if this national regimen is going to last weeks longer, which seems likely.

At least once a day on one of my highly repetitive strolls, I see her. She is a brown (possibly small breed) boxer. I say “possibly” because she’s still young and I’m not sure how much she has yet to grow. We met on Corso Cavour one day in warm weather and became instant friends. I saw her two or three times thereafter, and each time she would frolic while her mistress strained at the leash. A lovely puppy, so adorable, so irresistibly playful.

Then a couple of months passed, and nothing.

Some time before Lockdown, maybe in late January or early February, we began to cross paths again in this neighborhood. Well, she had grown in size and strength, but was still full of puppy enthusiasm. Her greeting was a bit like an affectionate attack. Her mistress struggled to pull her away, and I struggled to turn it into play, while also rescuing my shopping bag and corduroy jacket from her eager jaws. Still, I relished seeing her, and we encountered at that spot and in that way a couple of times more. Awhile later I’d see them turning a corner, and wave to the woman with the leash. The dog would take gloriously beautiful poses of rapt attention. This repeated a number of times, then we all decided to stay indoors for a few weeks.

But our walks now occasionally coincide, except the woman’s husband is carrying the leash. All the same reactions happen, but we cannot touch. I wave and wonder how long this can go on before she becomes disappointed. It breaks my heart, and I apologize vocally, which the husband, not knowing our history, doubtless finds passing peculiar. I have to try to fill him in one of these days.

So it goes. The virus found tragically fertile ground in a country whose inhabitants love to touch, and it exploited that fondness in ruthless (though quite natural for a virus) fashion. And now we have to stop touching each other to undermine its flourishing. It’s a worthy and necessary effort, and we trust it will succeed by and by, but it sure makes for a strange interlude.

The photo is of a theatrical pin rail, so you don’t have to look it up. From there, the rigger flies drops into the loft. Follow that?