Monday is the day. Such is the word on the streets. Streets that are more crowded with locals than they have been since early March. Save for a few of the young, masks are worn, distancing is observed, no one is touching; but people are out, unable to hold back until after the weekend.
I first went towards the hardware for a lightbulb, but while crossing Piazza della Repubblica noticed that the lightbulb store was open, its owner installed on the bus stop bench.
“You’re open?”
“Sure, come on in.”
I ordered an LED, he tested it to make sure it worked (the advantage of patronizing a niche establishment) and to see if I liked the degree of warmth it shed, charged me three euro, and reclaimed his spot on the bench. Spring was too much afoot to remain indoors.
The date I’ve seen for retail to reopen is May 18, but maybe lightbulbs fall into an essential category. Or a category all their own, like children’s literature, which I remember reading was allowed to open sooner than the rest. That sounded comical at first, until I imagined all those young parents reading to their preschoolers from books long since memorized by the child listener, at which insight it made perfect sense to permit book sales to recommence before… well, wine, for instance. Though, to be sure, an argument could be made for the bacchanalian elixir, and probably most strongly among that same crowd of young parents.
Those stores scheduled to reopen sometime between now and the eighteenth are preparing in eager anticipation.
Officina del Gelato moved location about a year and a half ago from its original place that sold gelato directly onto the street (with no seating area) to one a couple of doors down that enjoys space for a few tables. Their door was open today and Tomasso and a couple of other men were jovially moving things around. I waved and welcomed his – and his gelato’s – return.
“We’re back to how we started! Vending directly to the street! We should have never moved!” and he laughed, waving his arms in a comic parody of frustration.
Closer to where I live, a little corner pizzeria recently taken over by a Ukrainian couple had its doors wide open, too, the woman of the pair scrubbing away.
“You guys have been busy.”
“Yeah. We had lots of time, so we decided to freshen things up for when we reopen.”
The previous décor was charmingly peculiar. The new is charmingly Italo-Ukrainian. I enjoy those two, so earnest they are, forever improving their menu and their stake in the town, and always so genuinely excited about both.
“Are you reopening on Monday or on the eighteenth?”
“On the eighth, actually,” a date that corresponds to none of the published schedules I’ve seen. They may be Ukrainian, but they’ve assimilated well.
Further on still, I saw one of my favorite doggie friends. Bea is small, lovely, and long haired with a feathery tail. She spied me from a distance (of course) and made a bee-line. What surprised me is that her mistress let out the leash so we could enjoy a minute or two of sweet communion.
“This is a wonderful tonic, thank you,” I said to her owner. She didn’t hear me. As Bea and I were finishing up, I tried again, “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to touch her like this, but it was a great gift for me.”
“For her, too. She’s missed you. Now, have a good day.”
A few meters on, a deli advertises pizza on their street sign. I’d sampled their cold case, but never saw any actual pizza. I stopped to check it out. Communication was slow. I’d ask a question, the masked lady would turn to pick up a plate while answering, and I’d understand nothing. That prompted her to try English – which I no longer view as a judgement on my Italian and actually regard as rather sweet – but between the mask, her movements, and my hearing, nothing much improved. After several minutes of good-natured repetition on both our parts – and in both languages – I am now happily waiting to pick up a fresh Margherita at seven this evening. Pizza Day has arrived!
Since lockdown began fifty-four days ago, I have equated Pizza Day with Liberation, and as a cue to hang up my chronicler’s pen. But this will be pizza consumed at home, even if professionally prepared. So I’ve adjusted my thinking; this is Pizza Preview Day. Pizza Day is still when I and a friend go to Al Cordone and I order a caprese, già tagliata, and eat it there, then walk to have a cup of Tomasso’s pistacchio gelato, and maybe even a nightcap at Montanucci or Blue Bar.
With that list of prerequisites, I may still have quite a lot of journalling ahead of me.
The photo is of the Italo-Ukrainian pizzeria, now open again for takeout.