Well, it happened. I took a midday walk to Piazza della Repubblica, about the minimum distance I can do and still enjoy therapeutic advantage. There were people standing about waiting for the pharmacy on the left, for the bank on the right, and in the middle a couple of policemen were in their car warning some old men not to sit where they were sitting – or probably at all, at least not away from home. I decided to avoid the whole thing. The car followed me down the alley, the officers probably recognizing me from yesterday’s pass in Piazza del Duomo.
“Where’re you going?”
“I have to walk for my health.”
“I understand, but you also have to stay home. Walk at home.”
“Thank you.”
All very polite, but as I turned away, I was rattled.
Thing is, this past week I’ve felt steadily stronger, and I know that walking – and the relief of stress that it offers, both emotional and muscular – is an important contributor to that improvement. Even putting improvement aside in deference to the common good, to the stability I’ve again begun to enjoy. There is also meditation, yoga, (the greatly missed) shiatsu, and writing, but take away any one voice and the suite turns into incoherent disharmony. I’m already lacking one voice, I don’t want to lack two.
On my way home, and to the pharmacy immediately afterwards, I had short (long distance) conversations with five people I know. I told each about the encounter with the police and asked for advice. The first simply said “it’s hard.” Of course, she has a beautiful dog so is allowed to walk. The second said to stick to narrow streets and allies. I’d already been rerouting my walks in my imagination, so that sounded sensible. The third sympathized, but was outdoors for the first time in a week, so I didn’t feel she quite understoond my desperation. The fourth told me her husband got a permit to walk the Anello, for fitness. Getting closer. The last, my neighbor Renzo, told me to ask my doctor for a note. As is often the case, Renzo hits it home.
I emailed Claudia. I’m not good on the phone in Italian, and barely understand my doctor in person. My doctor is also doctor for Claudia and her family, and she has accompanied me to appointments to help communication. She wrote right back; sure, no problem, he’ll have it ready by 16:30 this afternoon. It was about 15:45, so I decided to shop, then go to Studio Medico for the note.
I tried yesterday to put on one of the masks I bought a couple of weeks ago, but I’d already put in my hearing aides and couldn’t figure out how. But going to Studio Medico, I had to wear one.
As I understand, masks are really only effective if you have active symptoms, or are with others who do. And for the people on the other sides of counters at the supermarket or pharmacy, or anyone at a medical facility, the masks are quite important because the meter distance is easily violated, and they don’t know the health of the dozens of people they serve throughout the day. For the rest of us who practice social distancing, it’s a reassurance, an indication of solidarity, and a fashion statement. So, I took out the aides and put on the mask. I checked myself in the mirror and was pleased to conform to a look that had lately become so popular. And while I wouldn’t say it felt good to be wearing one, it wasn’t horrible, either.
I walked up to Metà. There was only one other person in the store, so I waited outside unnecessarily. Gabriele waved me in. I got my stuff. One of the ladies from the pharmacy came in after me, sans mask. Gabriele and his co-worker wore masks, both askew from having been on for hours.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Okay. We’re all very tired. Every little thing takes three times the effort from what it did a week ago. But, we’re keeping it together. That’ll be eleven twenty-five. This won’t last forever.”
He bagged my stuff (not customary, but he’s particularly kind), and I said goodbye to everyone, including the pharmacist who had taken a place in line, two meters away. I walked home, left my groceries, and headed for the Studio Medico. All the way, I’m thinking of the people I encountered today. How precious they are, each one. How saying goodbye at Metà was filled with sweetness. How we are all doing this together, and increasingly not out of worry or fear, but out of love for one another.
I got my note from the doctor, handwritten on a sheet of padded paper. As is universal for a doctor’s script, I can’t read any of it, but I trust it will do the job.
I went up the hill to home, heart overflowing for this town, and for all towns and cities, everywhere. We’re doing this for love. Remember that.
And by the way, thanks to Erika Bizzarri (who has a dog) for the photos of the children’s art.