It’s a drizzly day during a lockdown. Oh, my.
Last October, I wanted a light, hooded windbreaker just for this sort of weather. I am a terrible shopper, so ended up with a waterproof, synthetic-fill, hooded jacket, ideal for a more-than-usually-severe Swedish winter.
Two months ago I developed a crush on a sweater in a window. It was a thigh-length cable-knit cardigan, reminiscent of one I’d recently seen in Vienna, and was only thirty-nine euro. It still took me two weeks and the purchase of three turtlenecks to work up the courage to ask about it. What didn’t show in the window was its zipper and hood, neither of which I really wanted. But I bought it anyway – because I’m a terrible shopper.
Today, I really, really needed a walk. I toughed it through the morning and napped after lunch, but by 16:30 was uncomfortable enough that I had to either do something about it, or scream myself crazy. I don’t mind carrying an umbrella if I’m actually going somewhere, but hefting one while walking in circles around the neighborhood, however large they might be, I find burdensome. So, I stepped outside to assess weather conditions more fully than “it seems to be raining out” and to see what solution may be arrived at.
It was colder than it looked. So, I dug through my jackets and pulled out the waterproof with the hood, donned a mask, and slipped through the gate onto our lovely lane, made lovelier still by the rain.
Let me get this off my chest; I Hate Wearing a Mask! Okay, I understand the necessity (even though the rationale has changed a half dozen times in as many weeks), and whether it is for my own safety or the safety of others is of equal weight as far as I’m concerned. And it won’t be forever. But my nose drips when I walk (or sit, or eat, or… you get the idea), and behind a mask, it drips more frequently. The masks I have are very well-designed, they fit the face – a good thing in a mask. But that creates a micro-climate between chin and bridge-of-nose, one that tends towards the tropical. And breathing in my own warm air makes me flushed. Add to that, that I was dressed for midnight in Antarctica, and after a single circuit of streets and alleys, I was more soaked than had I gone into the rain in regular house clothes.
So, I nixed the hooded jacket, and tried the hooded sweater. Now, instead of growing moist from the inside out, it was from both directions at once. Rain penetrated the sweater, which acted like a sponge, and yet it was heavy enough to spread my flushing face all the way to mid-thigh. That lasted two circuits. At this point, I could have surrendered, but the walking made such a difference in how I felt! I understood that if I didn’t find a way to walk in this weather, the rest of the day – and all days like it – would be wasted.
So, I went back to the armadio, mask still in place, pulled out my white cotton blazer and my black, wide-brimmed felt hat, adjusted it at a rakish angle, and tried again. That worked… at least for about twenty minutes until everything was damp enough to begin to be clammy against the skin. But I got my walk, and the day again felt like it could have purpose. I’d surmounted the challenge of an afternoon pioggerellina (as Maria called a similar meteorological event of a couple of weeks ago) during a lockdown.
(Pioggerellina is a word I want always to remember because it captures what it describes so perfectly. Say it out loud, you’ll see what I mean.)
As I passed my mailbox at the end of the final loop, I noticed something blue inside. There were two masks, not structured like the one I was wearing, but of a good quality. I went up and down the lane, each mailbox contained them. As with almost everything of late, I have no idea where they’re from: the comune, the region, national health, a concerned not-for-profit. But thank you, and if anyone needs mine, let me know, I already had several.
Just before I decided my hat was sufficiently wet and my muscles sufficiently exercised, the lovely brown boxer came onto the lane with her mistress. I waved, she jumped up on her hind legs, the woman holding the leash restrained her and seemed justifiably annoyed at me for provoking her dog. They went on towards the Vicolo, the dog looking back in my direction every three paces. I waved each time. I want her to know that despite my not returning her enthusiastic greetings, I think of her as a friend, and that we will resume normal play when this is over. She seems to understand. I’ll try to explain it to her owners some day, too. My Dog tends to be stronger than my Italian.