Yesterday, I was frustrated and annoyed. No real reason, maybe lockdown blahs, but nothing specific. Okay, I wanted to see a tree. That was enough. Then the one social lifeline we have, the Internet, kept disconnecting. First wi-fi, then my phone as hotspot, then both, then error messages I didn’t understand and, of course, I couldn’t look them up because I couldn’t type fast enough before the web connection failed. I rebooted my phone. No. I rebooted the computer. No. I rebooted both. Sorry.
I ignored it and wrote offline. About a half hour later, I glumly tried again. Everything worked perfectly for no reason, which by that time was almost as annoying as everything not working for no reason.
Perhaps I was projecting, but whatever I read, listened to, and in all messages received, I heard a subtext of frustration and annoyance, of patience wearing thin. Understandable, but really, can you imagine what life must be like on the medical front lines?
This morning I woke to a world changed, at least in mood. I didn’t trust it. The day was spectacular to look at, chill, and crisp, forecasted to warm. I doubted it would. Before all else, I needed to walk down to Studio Medico to pick up prescriptions. That’s almost ten minutes to Piazza Cahen, it seemed too far, almost dangerously so, a journey to be dreaded. There are often crowds waiting at the Studio. I didn’t want to wait, I didn’t want to be around other people. But I had only one day’s supply of meds remaining, and hadn’t arranged with the pharmacy to pick them up directly, so I had no choice. Oh, the angst, the suffering. Really buddy, get it into perspective.
I dressed in black; wool trousers, turtleneck, peacoat. It seemed an odd choice against the colors of early spring. I put on a mask, put in my hearing aides, and walked quickly to the end of Via delle Pertiche. I turned left on Corso — left for the first time in weeks. It was very quiet. I passed a bakery, it was open. The bakeries have all been closed. I stopped in front of the edicola to read the headlines. A familiar voice called out “David! David!” I looked around. “David!” I looked up. Across the way in a first story (second story, American) window, as if posing for a portrait, was Antonny (of Blue Bar), his son Leonardo peering over the sill, and Linda, the ever-radiant, in his arms. Linda is the happiest child any of us have seen, and her smile this morning was transformative. We waved, tried to talk, waved again, and again, and waved some more.
“What you guys doing, up there?”
“Hiding out and homework.”
“Good for you!”
Leonardo waved like a celebrity, Linda smiled, having once again discovered the meaning of life (as she does every morning). I blew a kiss, hand to mask. Antonny looked puzzled, got it, and everyone blew kisses back.
I approached Piazza Cahen through Corso’s double row of chestnut trees. It was lovely to see a tree again. Not quite the epiphany I’d expected it would be, yesterday, but a pleasant reunion with really familiar friends.
I arrived at Studio Medico to find three parked cars and not another soul waiting. A sign on the door in blue marker, taped over six computer generated memoranda about hours and procedures, cut to the point with one word, “ring.” I pressed the doorbell. Seconds later, a secretary appeared – the grey-haired, ever friendly, slip-of-a-woman who delights me every time we pass on the street.
“All your meds?” she asked after we greeted.
“Just like this? I don’t have to come in?”
“Walk up service. I’ll be back.” She never asks my name, so I always forget to offer it.
In record time she returned with the prescriptions printed, handed them to me, and for an unnecessary moment we just stood there.
“Have a good day.”
“Likewise.”
“And stay well.”
“You stay well, too.”
It was an exchange between family. Simple and heartfelt and easy. And precious, because everything right now is precious. No time to waste on moods.
There seemed to be more people on the street than there were a few minutes prior. Nothing like pre-lockdown – for one thing, almost everyone wore a mask – but for these days it was downright festive.
Evandro, the pharmacist, took my paperwork and tried to explain through his mask and an improvised plexiglass partition that one of my meds wasn’t available as generic at the moment, so there would be a seven euro charge. I only understood after he had tried to explain three times, laughed, and waved his efforts into the ether.
“Grazie mille. Sta bene.” Again, that feeling of family.
Thus it continued up to the supermarket, in and out. The bakery behind the theatre was also open, as was the herbalist. I stopped at the latter; family again. I passed people, shops, waved, greeted, exchanged eye smiles. Family, family, family.
Walks like these – the nods, the smiles, the faces – often leave me giddy. This morning’s left me grounded. It only takes a moment to really look, to really hear, and to really mean it when we say “Stay well.” The subtext is powerful, and lets loose a mighty river of love.
If you want to cry a happy river, click here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5DhJS5hGWc&feature=youtu.be True, it is an ode to Italy, but it’s also a validation of spirit that applies to wherever you happen to be, and whatever you (plural) are going through, right now – or what may soon be on your (plural) horizon.