I am told there is an expression in Italian; ha messo le termiti in testa. He put termites in the head.
A couple of weeks before lockdown, a friend wanted to see my house, as we were in the neighborhood, we rerouted and I showed him.
“It’s perfect for you!” he said enthusiastically. “Except for the interior stairs. They must be a hassle. Especially in winter when you can’t really use the ones outside.”
I’ve never been especially fond of those stairs, but they were just a feature of the house that had to be dealt with, taken carefully, planned for. There is a bathroom on each floor, so at least I didn’t have to navigate them in the middle of a groggy night. But from that moment on, the sound of crunching wood became gradually louder until it drowned out everything from bird song to Bach. My climbing up and down became slower and more pained, forgetting something on the other floor, a catastrophe, anticipating a journey up or down, an obsession.
Munch, crunch.
Then the country decided to stay indoors for two months, and the termites had a field day. The stairs, the light, the garden. I had asked Allen about his extra apartment just days, if not hours, before lockdown. He sent me a link to photos. The place is light, expansive, new, and all on one level. I could think of nothing else.
“There are lots of stairs going up to the flat,” he warned by email.
“Stairs are not a problem in and of themselves,” I answered, referencing the 180 steps that I climbed together on my morning walk at least three times a week.
Allen’s apartment became an unreachable star by mid-March and stayed that way until May. As soon as it was announced that stay-at-home restrictions were to be lifted on May 4, I was on the case.
“Can I see it like May 5th? We don’t know how long this lifting of a intra-city travel ban will last, it could be reenforced by the weekend if things get bad,” I noted, perhaps giving away just a teeny bit of eagerness to see what the photos represented, in person.
The apartment was set up to be a bed and breakfast, and Rachel, an English woman married to an Italian police inspector, is in charge of rentals and maintenance. We met at the place ten days ago. She works for a film distribution company, is a sometimes actress, and manages a BnB. She’s looking into new career choices. She took me through the flat, pointing out its genuinely cool tech features. It was everything the photos promised, and more. And yes, there were lots of stairs, but they were broken up by three generous landings, and were less than a third in number than my morning climb. A week ago, at Allen’s (and Rachel’s) urging, I took up residence for a two-night stay.
Munch, crunch, chaw.
I’ve been over the groceries-up-the-stairs issue in another post. Suffice to say that the pendulum motions of a shoulder slung shopping bag were enough to made me heed Allen’s warning, and overcame considerations of space, light, and luxury.
On Thursday I took apart the walking track I dubbed circus minimus during lockdown, put up the big umbrella, and arranged the plastic wicker into fair-weather positions. Friday, I wrote Massimo to say I was in no hurry to move, but if he found something that seemed perfect, to let me know. Yesterday, I ordered a new, thicker, denser, more accommodating pad for the wicker divan, so writing would be more comfortable. I also ran into Massimo who announced that he had a few other places to show me. I’ll look, but a new place will have to scream at high volume “here I am, I’m perfect, and totally worth the bother,” for me to pay even the slightest attention.
There will probably be another lockdown within the next year, maybe not as general or as severe, but we here may be affected for at least a couple of weeks. Some walkable outdoor space is more than an amenity, it is essential to health. My at-home walking track kept me in relatively loose form. Three weeks into being able to walk freely, I’m still not to where I was in early March.
I fumigated my head. The twisty internal stairs no longer bother me. The termites are gone.
The photo is of a plant around the corner that had died back to a single brown twig during a cold snap two winters ago. There is an expression in English; everything in its time. In Italian it may render as piano piano, which during this interlude of indeterminate duration, seems the greatest philosophical statement of any age.