Forty days. How biblical. Forty days in the desert. Forty days of rain.
I set out for the Metà on Corso mid-afternoon – sunny and warm. By the time I reached the end of the street, it was obvious that an afternoon walk offers infinitely more pleasure than one in the dark. My late-night skulks are usually accompanied by a puritanical attitude; this is exercise, not pleasure, walk quickly, walk hard, the stones are black, so is my coat, so is the sky (even so, now and then I catch a glimpse of the moon). By contrast, my trip to the store was so inviting I kept going past where I usually turn, right into Piazza Vivaria. It was a daring incursion into foreign territory.
I passed Ubaldini, the housewares store. Their door was open, but the lights were out. Federica was inside. So was Katrin, the marvelous physiotherapist. They were just hanging out.
“You’re open?”
“No. Only in the morning.”
“It’s afternoon.”
“I know, so we’re not open. Only the door is open. Don’t ask me for anything. We are only open mornings. I guess because the virus is a late riser.”
I meandered more, and eventually convinced myself to shop groceries. The blue-eyed checker was the only fellow in the store. I asked him how he was.
“Normal, you know. After six weeks, none of this seems strange anymore.”
“How much longer do you think this will last?”
“Well, they say May 3, but some shops are already opening. Not restaurants and bars…”
And we said more or less simultaneously, “…of course it’s a little difficult eating and drinking while wearing a mask.”
“Eh,” he concluded.
As I was checking out, Gabriele came in.
“You got a haircut!”
“All of it. Right down to the bone.”
“Where?”
“At home, where else, eh?”
After taking my purchases back to the house to run under hot water and soap, I went back out for Metà on Via Signorelli. I crossed paths with Corrado, one of the partners, on the way.
“Free for the day, and tomorrow! I don’t know if I can handle the time off!”
I saw him at the store a few minutes later, shopping for himself. Some of that free time will be spent cooking.
Between getting bread and juice, I passed condiments, and there was a normal size bottle of soy sauce. Kikkoman, no less! I got two.
There were people I know on the street. This morning I had fretted that having spoken so little Italian for a week that I would sputter helplessly all afternoon, but the joy of seeing friends overcame all that. There was the moment at Metà Corso when I was told how much I owe (€20.71) and I could not make sense of “71” despite repeated attempts, so short changed him by fifty centessimi (he took it anyway, I’ll explain next time) but otherwise the only really awkward moment came when I had trouble switching to English when I met a fellow expat.
On my next pass home, I ran into Renzo.
“Pizza tonight.”
“Pizza! Oh, boy!”
“You don’t like it? Maybe you can give it to someone.”
I normally avoid expressing opinions about pizza, especially to expats who are far more particular about what constitutes good pizza than most Italians I know. But I believe my fixation with pizza as the ultimate indication that we are teasing the edges of normality lies in the fact that my last meal out was at Al Cordone where I had perhaps the most delicious pizza of my life, or at least a serious contender. The crust was thin and crispy, and stayed crispy through to the end. The toppings (for a caprese, that is, mozzarella, fresh tomato, arugula – because basil was not yet in season) were luscious. And they always pre-slice it for me so I don’t spend the whole meal sawing ineptly away only to take so long cutting that the pizza is stone cold halfway through. Upon exiting the pizzeria that evening, I swore to myself I’d be back once a week for their excellent product. That was forty-three days ago.
As I was coming down just now, Patrizia was on the balcony and repeated the promise of pizza.
“What flavors this week?”
“Mozzarella. Zucchini. Maybe a potato pizza. And I think I’ll do a pizza bianca, you know, plain with just rosemary.”
On the forty-first day He came out of the desert. On the forty-first day, there was land. At the end of the fortieth day, there is pizza. Close enough. Works for me.
Thanks to Erika Bizzarri for the photo; neighbors on Piazza Ranieri.