It’s all over but the shouting.
That’s an American expression I’ve always loved for its simple, punchy, elegance.
Unfortunately, these days it applies to nothing.
There is an Italian expression I love that applies to everything — piano piano. A bit at a time.
Yesterday’s numbers in Italy were the lowest since March 6: 802 new cases and 165 deaths. We can celebrate the statistical mark, but of course we cannot celebrate the misery that underlies those numbers. And consider this quote from The Guardian, “The Italian government has ordered the closure of all schools and universities nationwide until 15 March as it grapples to contain Europe’s worst outbreak of coronavirus, which has claimed 107 lives, an increase of 28 in 24 hours.” That article was published on March 4. At its worst on March 27, the virus in Italy claimed 919 lives in 24 hours.
This thing can quickly spiral out of control. So, hold the shouting. For the next two years it is likely that anything more than an occasional yip will end up being a premature victory bash followed by an extreme hangover.
What we can celebrate in those numbers is the amazing coordinated effort made by the sixty million inhabitants of the Italian peninsula. We can celebrate the courage and dedication of those in national and private healthcare, the sanitary workers, grocers, postal and delivery people, those who make sure that electricity and gas continue to flow, warehouse workers who sort and pack record amounts of merchandize ordered online, bus and tram operators – the list goes on. And we can celebrate the courage of government officials who, given the gravity of the crisis and the speed in which it developed, manage to respond thoughtfully and humanely, communicate clearly, and encourage their patchwork nation to unite in ways, and to a degree, most would have considered impossible last February.
We can celebrate that the national characteristics attributed to Italians of good humor, kindness, tolerance, and respect for life and human dignity turned out to have substance, were not just trite phases from a travel brochure next to photos of fun in the sun.
We can celebrate that wonderful music has already been written about this time, and much more will come, and will be performed with genuine feeling, from real experience, and with a flowing compassion. The same goes for all the arts, but it seems that Italy, at least, sings before all else.
But we need to celebrate gently and at a distance, lest we lose it all in an unguarded sneeze on a busy street. We are attaining a delicate equilibrium and will need to become experts at maintaining it, too.
We can also celebrate that out of a two-month exercise in isolation, we (in Orvieto at least, but I suspect everywhere lockdowns have been observed) have emerged more caring and connected than we were going in. There was, and is, nowhere to run away to. No place safer that we can get to. No hiding, no escaping, no vacations. That is a situation that would have struck me as brutal not too many weeks ago, and now I’m almost grateful for it. “Almost” because it would still be a delight to drive to the lake with friends for a well-prepared cacio e pepe and a glass of local white while at a table graced with flowers. The day will come, it’s only that there will be many days in between when we will have to forego relaxed society… at least “relaxed” in the mode of last December. As my Italian friends are always reminding me, piano piano.
As I write this, a dove is cooing somewhere on Via delle Pertiche Prima, as if to boast that there is no chance in creation that it will end up in a plexiglass tube on Palombella, this year. Ah, to be a dove! To fly to the lake with my feathery friends and pick at the crumbs dropped by a motherly cook claiming a takeout meal for her family who are bored with the fare at home. The doves! The doves can celebrate.