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!