Month: April 2020

Back in the day – and I don’t mean early March, I mean when my life was described by schedules – all it really took to feel like I had time off was to remove my wristwatch. That simple act meant that I didn’t have to keep track of the hour, I could follow my impulses, linger at enjoyable tasks, ignore routine. Plunging into the second month of all things in suspension, I am so hungry for time-related commitments I could scream. And it’s been years since I’ve worn, or even owned, a watch.

My schedule has been slipping randomly around for months now. October in Bratislava was very structured, and I enjoyed it. Back home, I’ve been trying to reestablish order to my day ever since. About as far as that has gotten; I’m pretty good at taking pills.

Last night as I fell asleep I said – almost in full voice, but not quite – I really have to get up at a normal hour (for me, that’s 06:30) and take control of my day. I heard an interview yesterday, and the fellow told how he and his wife, both working at home, had decided from the first day of lockdown to maintain schedules as if they were still going into Manhattan for work. The last time I’ve gone into Manhattan for work was in 2002, but it still made me feel clumsy by comparison. Hence the midnight vow.

Well, talking to myself, even sotto voce, apparently works. I woke at 06:30, was moving around before seven. By nine I had eaten, showered and dressed, and unloaded the dishwasher. By ten I’d meditated. At eleven I took my courtyard walk, and I arrived to wait in line across the street from the fruttavendolo at 12:15. I stood at the door and ordered a list of produce with the confidence of someone who knows what he is going to prepare (totally untrue) and even attempted to use my huge pile of collected coins to pay the bill (didn’t work out, she was short on the necessary paper change). I had the last bowl of Wednesday’s soup for lunch, wrote a few emails, worked on the play I received an epiphany about last week, and walked again for an hour while listening to tear-inducing stories on This American Life. I decided to scramble eggs for supper rather than spending the late afternoon cooking. That would allow me to write a post early and get to bed early, too. Setting priorities.

It was back in the saddle again, time. The wristwatch was metaphorically in place. It felt good, I felt good.

Then Renzo sent me a text. It had a link to a video just posted on YouTube by Metarmonica, the band his son plays drums with. It’s really good. They’re really good. And he followed it up with the fabulous news that Patrizia was making pizza tonight, and that they would have a piece or two for me. Pizza! Pizza and scrambled eggs! Why not?

If you’re waiting for the punchline, so am I. One has not presented itself, yet.

When I first moved to Orvieto for a seven-month trial five years ago next October, I didn’t know it, but I was looking to create a permanent vacation. I’d been taking all my vacations here for twenty years at that point. They were always budget, and often intertwined with work, but they also somehow managed to include beamed ceilings, thick stone walls, pergolas, good wine, great dining, and trips to the lake.

Except for the wine and dining, my first seven months included none of those things. Instead, I described the time to both myself and others as a self-styled writer’s retreat. And true to the maxim that what you say to yourself, even sotto voce, is often how things works out, that is what it became. 

I knew few people here, and every venture into Italian society was tinged with linguistic terror, so at three or four every afternoon, I would sit to write and continue until bedtime with an hour off for supper. I accomplished more projects and learned more about craft than I had ever imagined possible. But it was totally unlike any vacation I’d ever taken.

That basic schedule continued until a year ago December, when health became a project of its own. It still is, but what I’m discovering during lockdown is that creativity (cooking, writing, sharing, caring) is a vital component to regaining, or stabilizing, health for me. I don’t need time off to recover, I need a wristwatch. 

And that is all I have to say on the subject.

But there is always more to say on the subject of pizza – three kinds, all delicious!

The weather is warm. Spring warm, inviting. The window in my sitting room is open, and as it is shortly before six o’clock, I can hear the bells at Santa Maria dei Servi. They seem to be at a great distance, but are in fact only two and a half streets away. When the windows are closed, the ringing can be mistaken for a malfunctioning motor. Recently – meaning more than a month ago – I happened to be walking near the church while the bells were singing in their full splendor, and they are rich and mellow and as inviting as this spring day. Astonishing bells. Masterpieces of the foundry. If I could, I would time a walk to be there for an evening concert. Some day, again.

This city absorbs waves of all kinds. The Orvietani will tell you that the great and ancient structures – the towers, the churches, the nobles’ palazzi – have survived innumerable earthquakes because the mesa upon which they sit is made of tufa, tufa that has the qualities of a sponge. They will say that all those tiny cavities, encapsulated in stone and filled with air, deflect and soften the shock waves, and render them relatively harmless. Add to that the hundreds of excavated chambers and passageways, cisterns and wells that the occupants of the city have created over the millennia, and the worst damage a quake is likely to inflict is a few cracks. I hope they’re right. They probably are.

The buildings are largely made of tufa, as well, the common method having been; dig your cellar, shape the stone, put up your house. Very efficient. All that tufa, combined with staggering streets of varying widths, plays with waves of sound in a manner similar to the way the caves disperse geologic ones. 

In times recently past, I might suddenly hear a brass band, somewhere. I would follow the music, always turning towards it until I’d find myself back where I began, and having discovered nothing as to its physical location. I’d try again and follow people instead, pass through silent spots, and find the band a few meters away.

More than a dozen years ago I was here for Pentecost. To cap a day of festivities, a fireworks display was offered. I saw it advertised, but forgot, and was already in my room near Piazza del Duomo when I was reminded by the explosions. I quickly dressed and dashed across the square towards the noise of rockets and arial displays. I knew where they were supposed to be seen from, by name, but was not familiar enough with the town to know where that name referred to. So, I followed the booms.

This was a major pyrotechnical event. When I could hear the explosions, they were loud. Then I would turn a corner and – complete silence. It was only after I saw Giovanni and Vera ahead of me – having closed their shop to watch, and strolling hand in hand – that I had a clue as to which direction to go. Even as we drew close, there were acoustic blank spots.

During these times, it is only the bells that regularly break the silence. Oh, and the comune has had workers out with weed whackers trimming the growth between paving stones. If my windows are closed I can mistake the motors’ whine and sputter for bells. Once every few days, an engine attached to an unknown vehicle can be heard. Rarely, there are voices. Even the birds are quiet, as if they don’t want to disturb whatever is going on that has prompted such a human hush; they like the spell, they’re careful not to break it. The bells are the one steady, and unnatural, feature of the daily soundscape.

I picture silent sections of town in my mind. I can catch a glimpse of what they look like by going out for an essential purpose, or on the back streets late at night (and even then, to be legal, only within 200 meters of home), but mostly imagination must do. I would love to be out at sunrise, perhaps having donned a cloak of invisibility, and able to creep through the familiar streets in their stoney silence. Much the way we crept the morning after a significant snowfall, two or three years ago; carefully, stealthily, not daring to leave traces, hoping to catch a glimpse of a pristine, snow-covered, piazza.

Instead, I walk in elongated circles in my little courtyard, tuned to This American Life, or (perhaps more appropriate to the setting) The World, or Living on Earth. After a couple of hours, if I feel saturated by viral references, I’ll pull up Selected Shorts for relief. Only in extremis do I simply shut down the connection and walk the ovals without, movement accompanied only by the squeaky scraping of my slippers. And an occasional bell.

I don’t have a photo on file of Santa Maria dei Servi, but the one posted at least shows a bell tower.

A play in ten minutes.

MAX enters alone. He is wearing a protective mask, a knit cap, and blue latex gloves. He walks rapidly, looking down at his feet. RODRIGO enters opposite, wearing a homemade cloth mask, mittens and a scarf. They nod as they pass. MAX continues, RODRIGO stops.

RODRIGO

Max? (no response) Hallo!

MAX

Mi dispiace. Come potrei aiutarti?  Lei.  AiutarLe.

RODRIGO

Sono Rodrigo!

MAX

Rodrigo? Hey, yeah, I see it now.

RODRIGO

It’s good to see you!

MAX

It’s been… how long?

RODRIGO

At least a month, right?

MAX

At least a month. Hey! It’s good to see your face, too. 

RODRIGO

And I. 

MAX

Well, some of it. Some of your face.

RODRIGO

I am all the time missing your smile. Are you smiling?

MAX

I think so. Are you?

RODRIGO

Yes. It is wonderful to see someone I know. And to hear another voice.

MAX

A little muffled, but…

RODRIGO

Another voice. Not on my telefonino. Right here. Bouncing onto my ears.

MAX

Great. Where you headed?

RODRIGO

Headed?

MAX

Going. Where you… Dove stai andando?

RODRIGO

Dove vado? I hear there’s a giant party in Piazza della Repubblica. You going?

MAX

What?

RODRIGO

Coming away from the supermarket. Got my bag of foods for a week, maybe five days.

MAX

I’m on my way.

RODRIGO

Very exciting, going to supermarket. I dream about it all night before the day I go.

MAX

Hah, yeah. So, been keeping busy?

RODRIGO

Keeping?

MAX

Um… sei occupato? 

RODRIGO

A waiter can’t work at home.

MAX

Right. So, no work, no income.

RODRIGO

A shopping bag full of vegetables and pasta. What do you doing?

MAX

I’m writing.

RODRIGO

Oh, yes, so you are… accustomed to this… isolazione. For me, this solitude is for making a person crazy.

MAX

Solitude? Why… what..? Where’s Francesca?

RODRIGO

She was visiting her family in Puglia when the edict was announced.

MAX

Oh, no!

RODRIGO

Oh, yes. Could not return. No children, no wedding, not essential. Probably just as well. For one thing, there is not so many virus in Puglia. For another thing, we love each other, but together in our… monolocale?

MAX

Studio apartment.

RODRIGO

Yes, we would yell and scream after a week or two weeks. But too bad, if she was here, I could, you know, carry the pasta from the stove to the table, ask her which wine she would like.  Vorrebbe un dolce, signora? Caffe?  You know.Sta in forma. How do you..?

MAX

Keep in shape.

RODRIGO

Keep in shape. I speak five words a week, I forget how to… how works the mouth.

MAX

I know. I know what you mean. Writing and talking are not the same.

RODRIGO

So, what are you writing? Last time I see you, you were working on this book.

MAX

I got two hundred pages in, and realized it was awful. No, now it’s songs – lyrics, some dialog. I’m putting together a cabaret act for this couple I know in New York. So, like, no distractions. None. Nooooo distractions. Really, really quiet. When the Internet goes down, I feel like shooting myself.

RODRIGO

I have not shaved in two weeks.

MAX

Two weeks? Oh, well, yeah – the mask.

RODRIGO

I discovered I have a terrible beard.

MAX

You’re Italian.

RODRIGO

With a terrible beard. 

MAX

Aren’t you like required by law to have a beautiful, full, perfect beard?

RODRIGO

I’ll show you. Can anyone see?

MAX

Like who?

RODRIGO

Come over here in case someone is looking. (pulling down his mask) Ecco!  Quasi nulla, si? Dopo due settimane!

MAX

You call that a beard?

RODRIGO

Grazie.

MAX

That’s pathetic!

RODRIGO

Grazie, ancora. What is your secret?

MAX

Well, I was already way overdue for a haircut, and had an appointment for the day after the start of lockdown. So… I usually keep it pretty short, but now… So long as it doesn’t look like it’ll trap insects it’s fine. I wear a hat and avoid reflective surfaces. Wanna see?

RODRIGO

I am scared a little bit.

MAX

Take a deep breath. (takes off his hat) I half expect it to cascade down to my shoulders.

RODRIGO

By the time this is finish, you will have a horse tail…

MAX

Ponytail.

RODRIGO

Ponytail. Yes? And I will have twelve very long hairs growing from my chin.

MAX

When this is finished.

RODRIGO

Finished. Do you believe?

MAX

Believe what?

RODRIGO

Non credo che questa cosa sarà mai finita.

MAX

Naw, well, yeah, but I mean, it will be over in another few weeks, a month…

RODRIGO

No.

MAX

It has to end, it can’t just go on and…

RODRIGO

There will be no end. 

MAX

Sure there will. People can’t do this forever.

RODRIGO

It won’t be as with liberazione dopo la guerra mondiale – the Americans arrive with nylon stocking and chocolate bars and we throw flowers. One day, the bakeries will reopen, then the bars and pizzerie. Then it will be okay to shake hands, and shops will be open while we continue to wait in line outside, and most people’s masks will go into a drawer next to the shower. But it will never end.

MAX

Well, okay, maybe a year, two years…

RODRIGO

…we will think everything returns to normal, but we won’t remember what normal is. We will watch the videos on our phones from last year, two months ago, and try to build again the past, but it will seem too far away.

MAX

Which could be a positive thing.

RODRIGO

Spiegami.

MAX

For me, all this time alone has forced me to examine my habits; what I think I need, what I say to myself, my dreams, my fears. And I see how I am totally responsible for my own life – for how satisfied I am, for my moods, my cravings.

RODRIGO

So?

MAX

Maybe when things… move beyond social distancing and travel restrictions, we won’t just snap back into our frenetic lives. I don’t want to. I won’t. I’ll make more careful choices.

RODRIGO

To make choices you must have the possibility of options to choose from.

MAX

And?

RODRIGO

That is a very American luxury. And America no longer exists.

MAX

What?

RODRIGO

It, too, is only a memory. Like the Roman Republic, or the High Renaissance. A dream from which the world has… si svegliato?

MAX

That’s a very Italian way of looking at things.

RODRIGO

Except for my beard, I am a very Italian person. And it is very American to think you know what is the Italian way.

MAX

And very Italian to put a huge country like America in a pretty little box. America… America is… The thing about America – it’s an experiment in evolution.

RODRIGO

Italy was an experiment in creation, made up all at once from nothing, an elegant chaos. We keep thinking if only we can do this or that, we can be as organized as Germany, but that is not who we are. You say evolution, but to me America is always wondering what it is, and the rest of us sometimes laugh, sometimes cheer, and sometimes weep. Now is time for weeping. We don’t want to be a part of your cinema… movie… but it is too fascinating for us not to watch. Now I have to go; I have too much nothing to do and too much nowhere to go. I cannot have the time to stand in the street and insult my friends. We will not shake hands and not embrace so that we both do not become ill and live to see what is next.

MAX

The cabaret act I’m helping to create is about… Well, these two people meet on a street while waiting for a bus. The bus never comes, but in the space of an hour they search for meaning and conclude that meaning is in the search.

RODRIGO

I don’t understand.

MAX

And I don’t know how to translate. Another way of saying it might be, the past and future are imagined. The only thing real is what’s in between.

RODRIGO

When this is finished, as you say it must be, we will have a pizza, at a restaurant, wood-oven, and a good bottle of wine. Francesca will escape her family, your New York friends will come here for holiday, and as we imagine the past, we will also imagine the future. The only things we will not imagine is the pizza.

MAX

And the wine.

RODRIGO

And each other.

MAX

Can I use that for a lyric.

RODRIGO

You are the artist. I am only a waiter.

MAX

Who is an artist at what he does. Good to see you. Don’t touch your face!

RODRIGO

Don’t stay on the street.

MAX

Don’t talk without a mask.

RODRIGO

Un abbraccione, amico. Da lontano.

MAX

Altrettanto. Buona giornata.

RODRIGO

Buona giornata! Alla prossima.

MAX

Ciao.

RODRIGO

Ciao.

MAX

Ci vediamo.

RODRIGO

Speriamo a presto.

They continue on in opposite directions. MAX stops, calls after…

MAX

I see!

RODRIGO

You see, what?

MAX

Why you think this will never end.  Ciao, buona serata, grazie, a dopo.

RODRIGO laughs. They do an air high five, an air elbow bump, an air double kiss, and are gone.

I thought I might go shopping today. It’d be nice to see someone not a neighbor. My neighbors are all terrific, and I enjoy seeing them, too, but… you know, just to get out. As the day went on, I looked at what I still had available in the kitchen, weighed the trouble of figuring out what to buy that would equal something interesting for supper, and became increasingly reluctant to leave the property.

Now, that is strange. I’d love the walk. I’d love the company, however brief. I’d love to see if everything out there, beyond Via della Pertiche Prima, is still in place. Is this a syndrome? Does it have a name? Am I coming down with agoraphobia? Can you come down with a phobia the way you come down with a cold?

Anyway, I surveyed the hermetically sealed jars I have lined up with varying amounts of stuff purchased from Fabrizio at the market on Piazza del Popolo – back when there was a market on Piazza del Popolo – and decided I had enough to make soup without going out for more ingredients. Cannelini beans, rice, barley, a tomato, a small onion, garlic, sage (in the yard), tomato purée, etc. This is possible. Okay, I’m out of bread. I’ll survive.

I looked up cannelini for cooking instructions. “Soak overnight.” Damn. Or. “Cover with at least two inches of water, bring to a boil, and soak for four hours.” That’s the plan! 

I got a pan, put the beans in water, set it on the stove, and left it. I walked the circus minimus while listening to a charming show on PRI, went in for a glass of water, and noticed that I’d not turned on the burner for the beans. Silly me. Rectified. Just remember to turn it down once boiling. 

Back to the walk. Walked for an hour. Wow, a nap would be in order. Upstairs, put my feet up, happily dozed.

Not too much later, I woke up coughing. Great, I got the virus. I tried to figure out a way of feeling my forehead for a fever without touching my face, failed, and concluded there was none. No fever. Buoyed by having escaped the plague this time, at least, I opened my eyes.

Wow, my vision is cloudy, I wonder how come that is?

The damn beans.

Oh, yes, a lovely white smoke filled the house, interestingly similar to the (former) color of the beans themselves. I turned off the flame, left the pot in place (for which I applaud my good sense), opened all the windows, pulled down all the screens, and listened to another charming show while walking for another hour.

I don’t know I’ll ever get the pan clean. It’s pretty black. But I’ll try. 

As for the soup, the beans were the least of the ingredients, it was more about using them up than anything, and I’d venture to say that goal has been accomplished. The beans have been used. Up. Way up.

On my way down the exterior stairs after having opened windows, Marianna was on her balcony hanging laundry.

“A beautiful spring day,” I observed.

“Yes indeed, spring has really arrived. Are you set for groceries?”

“Funny you should ask. I was going to go today, but got distracted, so now I must go tomorrow.”

“Well, if you need anything, just let me know.”

“Thank you, I will. But I look forward to having a reason to go out.”

I felt a little like I was lying.

“Opening all your windows to let the spring inside?”

“You could say.”

I left it at that. I wasn’t sure my Italian would be up to the full story, but even if it were, it was too soon after the fact for confession.

One great thing came of the misadventure – it gave me something to write about. As the days become increasingly redundant, this screen, devoid of black pixels, becomes blanker and more of a threat.

Tomorrow, although there will be no charcoaled legumes, but there will be stories about shopping adventures. Or…? Who knows? All kinds of things can come to pass. Or come to mind.

I’m happy to report that my house is set up with wonderful cross-ventilation. Aside from the pan, no evidence remains of my memory lapse. Except, of course, for my having told the story to friends all over the world. But that’s life in the modern age.

Last, and as far from least as least can get, the number of new cases in Italy has been dropping significantly for several days. Don’t slacken now.

The photo is of a spring day, 2015. I imagine that parts of town are beginning to look a bit like that.

A few days before the lockdown began, I sent a message on Facebook to someone I didn’t really know.

The virus was advancing. Containment efforts in Lombardy and Veneto had not worked. Word had gotten out that travel restrictions were soon to be imposed so thousands of people left those regions, taking the virus with them. We were all worried, and a quiver of fear was beginning to creep into previously benign social interactions.

That evening on my walk, a song from years ago and miles away came into my head:

I shall not fear my body takes me there

I shall adore this hour within my skin

I shall release myself through words that bring forth tears

I have refused to be alone

My cries are yours

and it goes on to its joyous ending,

Sing the glory of your life to the world

Dance the story of your life to the world

Tell the tale of living flesh to the world

Till the pain that you feel goes away

I didn’t remember all the lyrics, and only knew some of the music, but I was startled at that moment to realize I had been hearing and singing that song – and quoting what I remembered to friends – since the mid-seventies. It was written by Donald Currie, and he sang it, along with many others, with musical partner Pilar Montaine. They called themselves, appropriately enough, Don & Pilar, and I was a stalwart fan for almost all of the six years they were together, following them from venue to venue like a purring cat.

Then in August 2016, and totally by chance, I saw on Facebook that they were planning a reunion concert for the twentieth of that month at a church in San Francisco’s Noe Valley. I was in the Bay Area when I discovered this, but had already booked my return to Italy for the sixteenth. Had I known sooner, I would have planned my trip around them.

That night before the lockdown – a day or two more than a month ago – on my walk home, I also realized that there were a host of songs Don & Pilar had given me that I have woken up to, walked, gardened, and driven with, for most of my adult life. I owed them a thank you, and social media made that possible. So, I messaged the Reunion Concert page and hoped for the best.

Donald wrote back immediately.

“Give me your address, I’ll send you a DVD of the concert.”

Emails were exchanged.

“Can it be coded for region two?”

“I’ll check.”

“May I reimburse your costs?”

“It’s a gift from the heart.”

I felt like saying that their music had already been that, and for decades. No further gift was necessary. Instead, I ardently watched my mailbox for three weeks.

Last Friday night I found it. It was too late to play immediately, so I put it aside for Saturday. 

I used my DVD/CD remote drive for my computer, that I had bought just before I moved here in 2015, for the first time, steeling myself for technical difficulties. Everything worked as it was supposed to. The recording was of a good quality.

It was like seeing a dear cousin after a forty-year separation – my gosh, we’ve grown up.

If they took all those years off from performing, it certainly didn’t show (and I know nothing of their intervening histories). The performances were masterful. The music was so rich, so elegant, detailed, complex. The variety of experience encompassed by the stories the songs told, a dazzling mosaic. The first half left me feeling like in some mysterious way I had been brought home. 

One problem. I couldn’t find the second half. 

Maybe I’m playing it wrong. Check the envelope for another disc. Click on “menu”. No, no, and nope.

So, I risked being a nuisance and wrote Donald. He didn’t know why act two was missing either, but as a kind of recompense, sent me a dozen mp3 files of recordings from 1974-75. 

Yesterday, on my circular evening walk, I listened. Same songs, same wonderful voices, same committed performances. But, my gosh, we were so young! I remembered myself in the audience as borderline crazed, gilding the real beauty of the moment with my own over-reactive fandom; an act unto myself. They were virtuosi in speed and vocal dexterity, technically wondrous, exceptionally sophisticated.

The Reunion Concert, on the other hand, was so much more; informed by all those years of living — passionate, deep, and thrilling. The songs were let free to express themselves. Maybe I was also impressed by their talent and technique, but found their music so transporting that I had no attention left to notice.

Donald tells me that the second half was even better.

A personal effect of quarantine has been a stretching out of time to embrace friends, family – even difficult friends and family, even relative strangers – from far distances and decades ago with fresh appreciation, love, and affection. That gift of the heart from San Francisco acted as a vortex, focused all that love, made it strong, made it worth having lived for, and worth reliving. Every bit of it.

The power of art is immeasurable.

In my yard there is an apricot tree. It was one of the reasons I took to this place so quickly. My mother’s parents had an apricot orchard in Cupertino, California; ten acres that my uncle farmed until the mid-seventies when they were parceled out to make room for an electrical substation and a go-cart park. He was getting tired of farming, no reason not to sell, and the land was being taxed as commercial which made farming impossible, but for all of us it was ceding away a piece of the family.

So, when I took over care of the tree in my yard, I felt somehow qualified by birth to do so. Never mind that it was a variety of apricot I’d never seen before. Never mind the depth of my agricultural training consisted of many a July spent first, playing house with my cousin, Gail, under the shelters built by our adult relatives using drying trays, then, as we became old enough to wield a knife, cutting “cots” at those same trays, arranging them in neat rows to be set in the California sun for a week before they were weighed and boxed for Del Monte, or another distribution company. Never mind that my only other experience was an hour with my father at another tree in another yard at another place I lived, in Santa Cruz, when he demonstrated and explained how best to prune an apricot for a solid yield, and that was in 1980. Apricots were in my blood. I could do this.

The tree had not been pruned in years. Concerned neighbors stopped me on the street to inquire about my plans for it.

“If it is allowed to get bigger, it will send roots into the foundations of the house.”

“Best to prune in February before it begins to grow, but when it’s cold enough to prevent disease from infecting the cuts,” I responded knowingly, quoting Dad from thirty-six years prior.

I still remembered his exact instructions: remove crossed branches and suckers, trim frutaceous branches to the fifth lateral bud, prune for shape and ease of accessing fruit. Simple, right?

Well, the first pruning would reflect none of that. I had to purchase a chain saw. This was not a matter of selective trimming, there were branches that needed to come off, and some were thick enough and heavy enough to qualify as timber.

The tree recovered beautifully, but produced few blossoms. The crop that year – four. Apricots.

Having been largely shaped, the next February I greeted the tree with optimism. While the first pruning took a week, the second was finished in five hours, with my friend Lucky turning the trimmings into kindling for the following winter as the branches fell. To be honest, I stood looking at the tree, tools in hand, for quite awhile beforehand, trying to apply my father’s instructions to an actual tree, and ended up just hacking at whatever seemed right at the moment. So much for family line.

The tree bloomed handsomely and grew a luxuriant crop of leaves. Oh, and an increased bounty of fruit – five. Apricots.

Maria, who has fruit trees in the country, and Renzo, who worked as a plant sales and delivery person for more than a dozen years, explained that the rain had come at exactly the wrong time that spring, knocking blossoms off before they could set. Vivid memories of my mother lamenting April showers that arrived a few days early, sprung to mind.

Last year, I wasn’t fit for the job, so hired a guy to prune. He approached the tree, sized it up, and proceeded methodically. I was encouraged. When I looked at it with attention a week or so later, I realized that he had trimmed entirely for shape, and we would most likely be back to square one; that is, a crop of four instead of five. Apricots. Yep.

“When nobody took care of it at all, there was enough fruit for the whole neighborhood!” Renzo noted by way of comforting me.

January rolled around, and I asked Renzo if he might be able to prune the tree. I like apricots, it would be nice if the tree did, too.

“No, I really don’t know anything about pruning, but I know a guy who does, I’ll ask him.”

I managed to wait a week without bugging him about it. Late January arrived, I was getting anxious, and Renzo, now retired, was not around much. Finally, we ran into each other on the street.

“Yeah, I asked that guy. He said leave it alone, let it bloom and bear, then after the harvest prune it severely, down to the main branches. The tree will grow back vigorously in two or three weeks, and the crop before that will be good.”

Forty years of received wisdom went up in smoke. I know that’s not how my family did things, but hey, this ain’t Cupertino. At least, I don’t think it’s how they did things. But then again, my dad, the one who imparted the agricultural know-how to his theatre-guy son? was an auto mechanic.

The tree has blossomed nicely, though not the full cover I was expecting. It rained, but few blossoms fell. And now leaves are showing in clumps. None of it looks right to me, or familiar, but I bet there’s a crop good enough to supply the neighbors, and regardless of how we got there, that would be great.

After a productive morning spent pretty much in a chair, and lunch (also in a chair) I craved a walk. So, I tuned in WNYC on my phone and hiked the circus minimus for over an hour. It was good, and as you can imagine, the scenery was spectacular. 

Okay, that snark is unfair. I’m surrounded on all sides by the exposed tufa walls of old Umbrian buildings, and pass a garden bursting with spring three times a minute, the scenery is spectacular, just under-appreciated as a result of over exposure. I’ve got to choose to see it again with new eyes, to call up my tourist days when every moment here was to be savored. To be honest, even then, I was usually so tired from all the effort it took to get here, that I didn’t savor it as fully as I wanted to, but the memory of how special this town was, is still strong. 

It’s still strong because the town is still special, only in different ways. With rather amazing regularity I’ll look out my window of a morning and see that peculiar slant of light falling golden onto stone, and a luscious wave of contentment mixed with wonder washes over my body (or is it my soul?) and the freshness is back. 

The font of memory those moments evoke goes back decades and isn’t confined to La Rupe.

A fruttavendolo in San Casciano, 1995, his hair still wet from a shower, who gave his attention to my question – about something – as if I were extemporaneously composing a sonnet worthy of Petrarch. The gentleman, on the same trip but in Siena, whose job it was to manage a public parking lot, explaining with glee how we could park in blue spaces and pay, or in white and park for free, and (special for today) as long as we wanted. The red house in La Romola with a blue green comforter airing at a street-side window. The dome in Montefiascone as viewed from the Teverina. The black sand of Lago di Bolsena, rich between my toes. 

Although my first visit to Orvieto occurred in 1975, I have no reliable recollection of it. My first legitimate memory of this place is from a night in late July, 1997. I had rented a large, old farmhouse in the village of Roccalvecce, about forty minutes from here, and organized a five-week vacation with a rotating group of American friends. We had two cars to share at that point, and it was during our first week, so we were still getting used to which direction to go for everything – and I mean, everything.

The trip of the day was to Assisi. We spent a full afternoon, along with several thousand other non-residents, and departed for home base around sunset. I drove one car, my friend Page drove the other. Page’s mother, Mary, rode in my back seat. Randy, who immediately pronounced herself an inexperienced navigator, sat in the front with a folded map (on paper, remember those?) But the map was not going to be necessary. Page had the return route figured out, so we would just follow and all would be well.

We lost Page instantly in the crush of vehicles eager to get out of Assisi before sundown. So, the map was unfolded, and off we went. All was well until we got to Attigliano, the train stop handiest to Roccalvecce. I’d been there and back several times already, picking up guests as they arrived, so it should not have been an issue which way to turn at the T intersection. But it was. It was late, there was confusion, all mine, and I couldn’t remember. Randy swiveled the map, traced the road ahead of us and directed me left. At first, it seemed fine. Many kilometers later, on the darkest, twistiest country roads I had ever experienced, it became obvious we were very, very lost.

Mary is from Georgia and has a beautiful, luxurious accent. Every town limit sign we approached she would ask, “Now David, when we get to (Baschi, Montecchio, Tenaglie) will anything look familiar?” Every time she asked, my shoulders inched up towards my neck and my face burned. I was hosting this trip, and our first outing I had led them into a dark, spooky, unknowable landscape filled with unpronounceable names. Every time we passed a town’s sign, Randy would scramble to find it on the map, announce that we were really, really in the wrong part of Italy, and suggest a remedy that led to our being even more lost than before.

Suddenly, we found ourselves on an ascending road to a town that introduced itself with triple-branched nineteenth century street lights, and a sign that read, Orvieto.

“Orvieto! We went east instead of west at Attigliano! Now I know where we are! Looks like a nice town. We’ll have to come back.” Had I been alone, I would have found a room and stayed. The place already had me, it was just thinking about how to reel me in.

Everyone here who wasn’t born here has their Orvieto origin myth. That’s mine. When the spring riot in my garden looks a bit too familiar to be interesting, I remember the climb late one July night when all we did was turn around in Piazza Cahen and leave. And the town was still enchanting. 

The peculiar slant of morning light falling golden onto stone. The days can still be that fresh and magical, if I’m willing, even when viewed from my tiny courtyard. Breathe. See for the first time. Listen, rapt, hair still wet from a shower.

About a year ago, I began to write a play. The seed for it was a scene I’d written for a summer acting class at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York. It was one of ten “blank scenes” I created as exercises to encourage the student to make bold choices and stick with them for awhile, then commit to new choices… and so forth. As such, the scenes were purposely constructed with very little character detail and the barest minimum of plot. Some of them didn’t even have obviously sensible dialog. In that way, they were quite realistic.

At various points I’ve half-heartedly tried my hand at turning seven or eight of the scenes into an evening of ten minute plays, but I somehow lose interest before anything really begins to develop. 

The scene that did suggest something larger about a year ago, features a Dorothy Parker-esque character and a much less complicated friend (or lover) going their separate ways. I’ve always enjoyed the repartee in that one, and have been curious to see where it might lead.

So, about a year ago, I began to write a play. That was during production for Colloquia (a play I’d already written) so the script only expanded as I had time to give it. I got maybe thirty pages in, became overwhelmed with other stuff, and let it sit.

Then in November, I picked it up again and cranked out another fifteen pages. I still had no idea where it was going, or – in any essential way – what it was about, but I rather liked what there was so far. Every time I read it, I wanted to know what happened next after the point the pages turn blank. That’s a good sign, but the pages stayed blank, and I remained curious.

About a week ago, I began to wonder if maybe the play ended during the lockdown. I pulled up the script, read it over a few times, and decided that no, it wasn’t a lockdown play. But I didn’t close the file, either, so on the way to other stuff I’d look at it, read bits, and continue to wonder.

On last night’s otherwise uneventful walk, it suddenly hit me that it was a lockdown play. All I had to do was adjust its calendar, and the lockdown would begin at almost exactly the point that I had put the script down as un-finishable. A rush of energy warmed my heart, and I understood that the play’s time had finally arrived.

The blank scene it’s based on I wrote in 1998.

I’ve often heard writers complain about being unable to find a suitable ending. I’ve more than complained about that myself, I consider it a personality disorder – always impulsively launching this or that project without a clue as to where I’m headed. I’ve learned to live with that habit, but a play is not life, and needs an ending. No matter how interesting you may find the characters, if at some point they refuse to resolve a story, it becomes impossible even to edit what you know still needs work. It’s just flashy dialog and a promising premise.

That was a good walk. 

This morning I made notes on the specifics of what to change and how to approach the next section. From here on out, it’s all up to me, no more excuses. But I find it so interesting that the play was waiting for current events to inform it. Sometimes it is better to just do nothing.

The only person I passed last night lives on the corner of Via delle Donne and Via Angelo d’Orvieto. The house has a walled forecourt, and is built up in a fascinating assemblage of layers. But the best thing about that house is its dog.

He’s a smallish creature of no particular breed, but is pleasant to look at with uniformly tan fur. I’ve never seen him excited, he sniffs a little but mostly just walks. He nods as he passes, but asks for no favors. His master keeps him on an extendable leash, but the dog seldom wanders far enough to make the extra length necessary.

His master drives a Vespa, a scooter that features a platform for the driver’s feet. When the human readies himself to go somewhere on his motorino, the little dog takes his place on the platform, sits and waits. They go all around town like that, passing, I’m sure, any number of cats and other dogs, but the fellow never barks or lurches or is tempted to jump.

When I first saw the dog, I assumed a strict owner, that it wasn’t serenity he displayed, but the effects of oppression. I couldn’t imagine a dog so calm, so I manufactured blame. But no, the owner is kind and aware of what a special friend he has.

So, we don’t always know how things connect, what they mean, how they end, or how we get there – and I reckon that’s okay. We learn how to wait until the moment is ripe — when to act, when to do nothing — and that may be the most valuable lesson we have in life. If that’s true, these are important times.

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.

Twenty-three has been my favorite number since high school. I don’t remember why or how it gained such status, but when the number of my choir folder in my freshman year at college showed up as twenty-three, I was thrilled. The number had already shown itself in various other ways around the same time – in what ways I’ve since forgotten – and the folder’s numeration was enough to tie a sense of destiny to its appearance for years, thereafter.

By my count, this is day twenty-three of the Italian lockdown. I can’t honestly say that I noticed much difference from day twenty-two, or day fourteen. We’re into our fourth week. From here, this climb goes up rather steeply for awhile. Patience is wearing (not just mine) with no ready outcome. It’s time to breathe and remember that we’ve advanced towards the goal, however jerkily. This is no time to slip.

This morning I was seized by a sudden fit of machismo. It was cold out, a clear, sparkling, picture-perfect day, but my foray to the street to retrieve the recycle bin for plastics was enough to convince me to wait before I walked. Then I checked the weather – currently +4c, with an expected high of +8c. I decided to stay in for as long as I could. Now you may wonder what about that was macho. Well, I told myself I didn’t need a walk at all. If the weather was going to be that cold, fine, it could go right ahead and be cold without me. I’d be happy and warm indoors, thank you very much.

By 15:30 I was paying dearly for that strut, so at 16:30 I swallowed pride and put on my coat and scarf.

Now, I’ve been pretty consistent about starting my night walks between 22:00 and 22:30, and when I see anyone at all, it is usually from among a group of the same four or five people. We’ve begun to exchange greetings, smiles, nods, and eye-contact as we hug the walls on either side of the lane so as to keep a proper distance. It’s not exactly the evening passeggiata but it is a ghost of normality, and is luxuriously social, in its way.

At 16:30, it’s a whole new crowd. Right off, there was a mother and her two little children up ahead, taking their sweet time. I like to walk fast, but to be respectful of distance – especially with little ones whose trajectory was not all that predictable – I decided to cut that leg of the walk short and turn around. Turning around put me behind a man of more years (or at least a slower gait) than mine, so I turned again, caught between the young and the old, and was forced back onto my street heading home.

As I approached home, the smoker with the sweet smile stepped out from his door. I waved, sent him a salve, turned and walked quickly away. (I’ve got to remember to look up the Italian for “back and forth” so I can explain to the guy what I’m doing, that I don’t just turn around to avoid him.) At the other end of my street I encountered another young woman and her meandering offspring, so turned right instead of the usual left, only to come up against a man at the narrowest part of the lane, and standing smack in the middle, examining his phone. Trapped again, I hugged the wall and squeezed past him towards the little bridge with the window.

The shutters were open again – or still open, for having not walked this morning I may have missed an episode – the curtained half seemingly innocent of watchful eyes. The little girl I imagine there jumped forward in time, today. No longer did I picture myself as her in the tiny observation chamber of some pre-lockdown past, counting her favorites, eager for the map-totting, utterly lost tourist, but as a child of the twenty-third day of lockdown, yearning to see her friends and relatives pass once again on the street below, and further, able to run to surprise them before they escaped down Via Montemarte. Even more, able to follow them, if she chose to, towards the umbrella pines of the ex-caserma, the friendly plane trees on the Confaloniere, or the enormous tree-choking wisteria in the garden before Liceo Artistico. Instead, she watched all that in her mind – the people, the trees, the vines – she saw them at her favorite times of year, and sighed for not being able to share in their special qualities of scent, sound, and sight – for not being able to hug them, run her fingers on bark, kick leaves, giggle and wave.

Memories are good, they whisper to us that the past is a living part of the present, but we are not made to be so alone in such numbers. Here and there the hermit or the anchorite, sure, but the mass of us (even those made nervous by crowds) enjoys experiencing a mass of us at least every once in awhile. So, I will stroll at 22:15 tonight to murmur salve and nod and smile to the people I’ve become used to seeing at that time, and revel in that small society; sparse, spaced, and spread. Every night the smiles sweeten, the eyes soften, and the wave becomes more playful, and for all of us, we are reminded of our town’s promise to reconstruct itself once these times are past, as it has done so many times before.