Month: May 2020

I rent a room from a friend in Scranton. She donates the rent to an arts education non-profit she created, and sends me important mail. So, today I received a stimulus check, which I planned to deposit using mobile banking. I have two American accounts with mobile apps, and have used both within the last month. They were fine.

I logged on to the one for the national account. “This app is being retired, update now.” Okay. That took me to the App Store where the only option offered was “open”. That took me back to the sign-in page with the same message. After rounding that circle a couple of times more, I chose “Remind me later”.

A new version of the app opened after I signed in. I took photos of the check, front and back, but when I clicked on “amount of check” it took me back to the home screen.

I traveled that circle several times.

Then I tried the app for the Scranton bank, and had almost exactly the same experience. I looked up both apps in the Store, and both now require OS 11.0 or higher. I checked my phone; OS 10.5 installed. Choose update software. Message returned – software up-to-date.

It seems that to use a mobile app to cash my check, I will have to first buy a new phone (I am still using an iPhone 5s). (I know, ancient, but I just don’t get excited about electronic upgrades, anymore.) (I bought my first computer in 1983, I’m over it, okay?)

Of course, the reason I use WindTre as my carrier is that four years ago when I took this house, there was no reception for TIM, here, and even though once inside WindTre barely registered, it was something. Now I’m planning to move. That means, to be prudent, I’d best wait until I know where I’m moving to so I can test reception. No use tying myself to a plan with a service that has no reception in my new place, now, is there?

American cell plans get my head spinning, all such option-rich shopping does. I stopped buying potato chips decades ago for exactly that reason. And of course, Italian plans are in Italian, and while I think I understand what I’m reading, if the text is addressing something the least bit crucial, I’m never quite sure. So, chalk up another degree of complexity to this move. That’s alright, I’ll adjust.

Last night, I put out two of the five bags of garden leavings that Lucky generated on Tuesday. This morning, as I left for my walk they were still there. There was a tag on one. “Your registered container was not with this bag, inability to detect the tag.” I have no real idea what that means even translated. Maybe the barcode on the organic container has to be scanned for some reason. Is that because there’s an extra charge for garden trimmings? If so, I don’t know what to do, because when I took this house I never got around to changing the registration of the containers. That would have meant going down to the COSP office in Fontanella di Bardano, which seemed too hard by bus. I’ve paid my trash tax all along, but the bar codes are probably still registered to the guy here before me who is a restaurant owner in town, and Lord knows he has enough on his plate without having a charge appear out of nowhere for my garden trash.

At any rate, tomorrow I meet Rachel at the apartment under consideration so that I can test it out for the weekend. It is a great boon being able to do that. But there is the issue of packing. Overnight or for a month; except for socks and underwear, you have to pack more or less the same stuff. I’ll start early. I hope I like the place. I saw Massimo on the piazza yesterday, and he has people in line to see my house.

I’m very fortunate to have these niggling problems to worry about. So far, it seems that all my challenges are of a similar nature; mildly annoying but not existential. I’m tempted to feel guilty, but that would help nothing.

I received a series of WhatsApp messages this afternoon from a friend in Florida. He’s deeply involved in finding ways to produce plays that respect the safety issues now at the core of any public event. He also tells me that Actors’ Equity is insisting on safe conditions for its members, a bit of news that I find heartening. The union, lately floundering to shore up its reason for being, is finding a cause in a new, vitally important way of protecting its actors and stage managers.

The solutions my friend is cooking up with theatres are creative, effective, and fascinating. Reading his messages, I felt physically healthier. It was the kind of stuff I thrive on; how to continue to find ways of congregating despite the challenges and necessary restrictions. His work reawakened a great longing; to open the doors, seat the audience, and delight in their responses to a play while hiding somewhere out of sight. That’s my metier, my home base, my element.

But, for now, I’ll hope for more updates from Florida, and to see Orvieto’s restaurants and bars navigate a successful reopening. I’ve got a check to deposit and trash to get rid of.

The photo is of the famous azaleas on Via Garibaldi, just because they’re gorgeous.

The weeds at San Giovenale’s garden have been mowed into a lawn. I have mixed feelings about that. On one hand, the field couldn’t be allowed to turn into a forest. On the other hand, it was beautiful all shaggy and loose, and wildflowers would have soon followed. But one of the garden’s functions is a dog park, and foxtails don’t go well with dog fur. If I’m allowed three hands – on the third hand, there is something reassuring about a mowed meadow. The civilized world may look like it’s falling apart, but someone still cares enough to mow the weeds.

And my neighbors still care enough to line the lane with flowers.

And my friend Pat in Pennsylvania cares enough to practice the piano.

And Roy cared enough to list of series of apartments that may be worth looking into, while waiting in line to enter the supermarket.

And friend Catherine checked online for ground floor rentals in Orvieto, maybe for herself and incidentally for me, but that’s irrelevant, she has the courage to exhibit hope.

Sam works on videos on Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Frank writes his own loopy sonnets, and copies his friends.

Lynne snaps astounding photos from her wheelchair.

Jeff, working at home in his family’s Astoria apartment, barely large enough for him, Megan, and their kids Josie and Tucker, washes his keys when he comes in from errands.

Ida called, concerned when she heard I wanted to move.

Claudia called to let me know that she continues to seek appointments for both of us with la dotteressa, who promises to see us as soon as her own back pain releases her attention.

Alessandro scheduled to give me a haircut a week from Monday and Michele a shiatsu, next Wednesday — both after too long a pause.

Rachel will show me an apartment I can take on a weekend trial, a bit early so that Lucky can clean my house, so the Massimo can show it next week to prospective renters.

All these casual connections and hopeful actions – and that I have so taken for granted for all of my life, really – suddenly represent the real world, the thing that despite markets and crazy politicians and personal ambitions, will keep the human experiment going long enough for it to recover.

Erika writes me almost daily notes, recording her thoughts and appreciations.

Maria, who because she lives in the country I have begun to call “The Lady of the Woods” sends regular greetings by WhatsApp from just beyond the cliffside vista.

Dan, who suffers from the effects of a brain injury, emails with updates on his brain, but also on his Long Island community, and reminds me what real courage is.

Chuck doesn’t often write, but we’ve known each other for fifty-five years, so he doesn’t need to.

Ed and I keep the characters of Lord Chem and his ridiculous cousin Dizzy alive in sequential letters about the difficulties of maintaining a good household staff in his three-room apartment in Elmhurst Queens, as red zones rage around him.

David calls and we discuss life in rural Pennsylvania.

Greg and Denise call and we discuss our longings for each other’s company, not yet satisfied after forty years friendship.

Gianna calls and we discuss everything.

And backstage, as it were, tens of thousands of others support these little acts of hope, and charity, and faith, with their own little acts of similar design, and it is that infinite network that allows me to list some (just some) of the people who are dear to me, and the things that make them so. It also allows – that network – for others dear to read my scribblings.

Giancarlo makes me a strudel for old times’ sake, and Renzo and Patrizia enjoy half of it for dinner.

Marilyn in Italy wants to organize a lunch party in Lubriano, someday.

So does Victoria, but in Montecchio.

Marilyn in Clarks Summit wants to organize a virtual book club.

From beyond the Great Divide, all my relatives who have leapt that chasm send me dreams and daydreams wrapped in hope.

So the field is mown, and a bit of rain may perk up a few of the municipal flowers. But what I really hope is that someone goes out with a pitcher and a fork and puts some life into those flowers, deliberately.

Orvieto Centro Storico has, according to the word on the street, about 4,500 residents. That’s larger than any of the colleges I’ve taught at, but it doesn’t seem like an overwhelming number of people. So, how is it that on my morning walk, aside from those manning their shops, not only did I see no one I know (that’s a lie, I waved to Stefano) but no one I saw in an hour’s time looked at all familiar. As inter-regional travel is still not allowed, those folks must have come from around here. Were they all from surrounding villages, and freakishly decided to arrive in town at the same time, this morning? Was there a promotional shoot I hadn’t heard about, and empty streets were therefore filled by bussing in extras? I mean, I don’t expect to remember everyone I see, but I have lived here five years, and most of the time most of the crowd looks at least somewhat familiar.

I don’t expect answers. It’s just an odd way to begin the day. Maybe not in New York City, but here, yes.

It was also one of those odd windy days. Orvieto, as with sound, funnels wind in strange ways. My apricot tree may show a few trembling leaves. Walk to Piazza del Popolo, you may be buffeted by a gust or two. Piazza Vitrozzi will be still as a stone, but turn down either of the arched passages that leads towards Piazza della Repubblica, and you are suddenly the object of a sustained aerodynamic endurance test. Walk at a sixty degree forward lean, and arrive into a piazza that is a vast haven of serenity. The way down Via Filippeschi – all is calm. Via Malabranca is a bit gusty, but refreshing. Arrive at the cliff at San Giovenale, and you will be blown onto a bench without your having intended to sit. That, or blown over the edge, your choice.

You eventually tumble back into town, hair standing vertically, a living advertisement for one of those haircut things they’re all a-chatter about being available again on Monday, next.

Of course, for wind you can always go to Piazza del Duomo which is reliably gale force almost any time of day, and exclusive of any other street, square, or alley in the surrounding area.

Further oddness. L’Ufficino del Gelato has its post-lockdown/pre-tourist hours beautifully posted; they are closed between 13:00 and 15:00, every day. Yesterday I happened by at about 14:30 and they were open. So, when I arrived today at 14:15 I had no idea what to expect, but had pocketed a euro in change, just in case. I rounded the corner onto Corso to meet Tomasso face to face just as he was about to lock up.

“Oh! I’ll come back, later.”

“Child’s cup?”

“No, you’re closing, I’ll come back.”

“What flavor?”

“Hazelnut.”

He served me, I gave him my coins, he looked relieved that the change was exact. I thought of inquiring after his hours of business, but restrained myself. I suspect he’s searching for a predictable pattern from data that is actually, genuinely, inexorably random. I thanked him and made my way through the few, totally unfamiliar, people on the street towards my bench for eating gelato.

At least the bench was still familiar.

I wandered some, after that, and eventually ended up at (what I still call) Metà. Everyone was familiar! Okay, none of the other customers were, but at least the guys who work there were still working there; no one had been blown off the cliff or replaced by central casting. As it often is for me, the supermarket was a welcome oasis.

The blue-eyed checker, whose name I still don’t know, was behind the counter.

“How’s it going,” I asked.

“Andiamo avanti,” he replied – we go onward. “And you?”

“Andiamo avanti,” I shrugged back, “There is no choice, is there?” We smiled.

“Per forza.” Of course.

Such useful phrases these days! I replayed them over and over while I shopped.

Clinging as I was to the familiar, I almost reluctantly checked out. He bagged my items and after telling me the bill (six forty-three, which in Italian sounds one letter different from seven forty-six… sort of) playfully repeated the amount in English.

“Very good!” I effused.

He brightened. “Thank you!” he added, showing off a little. “Goodbye, now,” he said before reverting to Italian with a string of farewells even longer than usual.

I walked out onto a tranquil Corso knowing that somewhere in town, probably near an ancient church, someone I had never seen before was having hair and clothing whipped about by an inexplicably strong wind.

Metaphors for our times.

I first got to know Lucky when he was begging at the entrance of Montanucci, shortly after I moved here in the fall of 2015. I liked him immediately, so would give him a bit of change daily. He would never look down to see how much I gave him. He’d make eye contact, smile, and thank me. Simple and dignified. Were I to pass again that day, he always avoided greeting so as not to be understood as asking again. “This guy’s got class,” thought I.

After several months in front of Montanucci, he transferred to the entrance of Metà on Corso. The guys there kept his backpack behind the counter so that Lucky didn’t have to worry about it, and when a large delivery arrived, or some other task requiring extra hands came along, Lucky pitched in.

The wineshop caddy-corner from the supermarket eventually started asking him to sweep and wash the pavement around the store from time to time, and I began to see him other places helping out on a casual basis. It was about then that we traded names.

At this point my memory grows fuzzy. Either I had the idea to have Lucky and a compatriot of his named Kingsley help me open my yard in the spring of 2018, or the idea was planted by my American friend Michael, who is also a full-time expat in Orvieto. I do recall at one point Michael and I discovered a shared respect for Lucky, but the order of events fades. However it happened, they showed up one afternoon and we worked together, washing and putting things in order. They talked nonstop. “How cool,” I thought, “I’ve got a couple of guys from Nigeria working in my yard speaking Yoruba; how international, how thrilling, how exotic the sounds!”

After a couple of hours of this, and eager to show off my knowing what the national language of Nigeria was, I asked if they had been speaking Yoruba. They paused and explained, “No, English. It’s the Nigerian national language.” They had wondered why I never contributed to the conversation. Separated by a common tongue.

Since then Lucky has come to clean my house and work in the yard on a regular basis. About two years ago, Michael, who also enlists his help, found Lucky a nice situation not far from town. A friend who lives on a sprawling property had recently lost her husband, was becoming increasingly isolated, and house and garden began to fall into neglect. They arranged a trade; the guesthouse for Lucky in exchange for his services as groundsman.

“This is great, Lucky! You’re becoming a part of the community.”

“I’ve always been part of the community,” he shot back with no hesitation.

Michael knows Lucky’s story, and has shared it with me, but I’m not about to repeat it in as public a forum as this. Suffice to say, it would be turned down as implausibly tragic by even the most sensational of film makers.

This year it has become obvious to me that I am not really up to working the garden anymore, at least not pleasurably, at least not for now. A slow spring allowed it to grow out of control, which placed my laboring in it even further beyond my reach. So I asked Lucky. He came over today. I took him through to explain what was and what was not a weed.

“If it blooms, leave it. Except for that, that, and anything like this, everything else can go. If you have questions, ask.”

“No problem, no problem.”

I went inside to finish a project, and came back out in an hour. Lucky works quickly and well, and except for the obvious perennials, had stripped everything down to bare soil. Including a clematis that was overflowing in blooms.

“It was all dead from this point on,” he explained.

“No, no it wasn’t. That’s just the way it looks this time of year. It was in bloom, remember?”

“Sorry. How about this?” and he waved at a bed of brilliant yellow-orange flowers.

“Leave them! They’re in bloom! But you can cut back the sage, even though it’s still got flowers.”

“Okay, will do.”

Lucky’s Italian has come a long way, and to circumvent the language barrier that English usually erects, I’ve begun to speak with him exclusively in Italian. Today, I forgot. I returned after a walk. He was sweeping up. The orange flowers had survived. The sage was untouched. And isolated under the apricot was a lovingly preserved, if scraggly, milkweed.

It’s okay. I’ve decided to look for a simpler place to live in Orvieto. The joy of the garden – the daily sweeping, the watering, the trimming, and weeding – has turned into a chore. I also no longer want to live on two levels. I’m ready to trade interesting for comfortable. The tabula rasa that Lucky organized will allow the next tenant a free hand to build his or her own garden paradise. 

Being separated by a common language yields some inscrutable outcomes. Next time, let them be in Italian.

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.

Phase Two: I finally found the nerve to sit in public. 

There’s a leftover lockdown guilt (or fear, or fearful guilt) of taking a bench in what was previously a crowded spot. Early in March, police were shooing folks away from the various stone perches provided by ancient princes and their architects. It was, at first, about as effective as shooing pigeons – people would get up, circle around, and collect again – but by and by the prohibition sunk in, and until yesterday – or maybe the day before – the prohibition stuck.

My first public sitting was a fairly safe one, in the large park below San Giovanale. No one has cut the weeds down to a lawn since January, so the field has reverted to its natural state. Grasses and a few little wildflowers waving in a dancing breeze invited a slow leg-brushing walk that parted into a path of shimmering varieties of green and grey. I found a bench in the shade and contemplated the valley. A couple of guys played with their little dogs at the other end of the field. 

My second act of possible civil disobedience was in the little park with a view of La Badia. Once again, it’s a park, so my vaunted criminality was considerably diluted. Parks have been open all week for just about anything so long as there are two meters between participants. The social distancing does not apply to cats, however this park’s sizable number of resident felines were observing it anyway. It was a warm afternoon, and they were spread like Dali’s clocks on whatever cool stone surface they could find. There is a ledge between terraced levels of lawn that holds a bronze bass relief, and at one end it serves as a bench well enough to warrant a sit.

Someone has been cutting this lawn. There are umbrella pines and other large trees I can’t identify, and a fantastical view of the octagonal tower and ruins of a medieval abby below. A very vocal songbird with an impressive vocabulary was holding a lively conversation with a compatriot far away. 

A man and his black spaniel slid into the scene. What seemed to be the youngest of the cats crouched preventively as the spaniel sniffed around – the others couldn’t have cared less. The dog was likewise blasé, and after doing what he had come for (his human fetching and disposing of the evidence) they left the park as quietly as they came. A few moments later, and so did I.

My third possible crime would have been more brazen had I not been copying the actions of two gentlemen seated far from each other who I observed on the way to the park. If you live here, you feel regularly drawn to the benches across from the Duomo, almost by compulsion. Two months had passed since my last visit. To a true Orvietano, that neglect is closer to a criminal act than sitting could ever be. So, even though the benches were empty on my way back from viewing cats, I took a spot and gazed at Her Elegance for a happy ten minutes. The local police cruised by, said nothing, stopped at an outdoor caffe where three men were generously spread between tables, and held a long conversation instead of moving them on.

Phase Two is real.

After that I rested on benches all over town, guilt and fear free. I perched not because I was tired, but because I could. The benches afforded wonderful vantages for observing my fellow townspeople and their dogs, and even the random pigeon.

Renzo, Gianni, and Giancarlo finished potting wall flowers this morning and the lane is truly magnificent, especially when the sun hits at an advantageous angle. My last bench for the day was in my little courtyard, and as I opened the computer to write, Renzo and Patrizia pushed open the gate, smiles hidden but obvious, carrying a plate.

“A pastry with pear jam and walnuts.”

They handed me a kind of crostata, only instead of a variation on the traditional cross-hatch, in the middle stood a heart. I melted into an appreciative blob. 

After a few compliments paid the job done decorating the street, followed by wishes that the flowers would survive the summer, my friends and neighbors were off.

“Buona cena!”

The light dims, the air cools, the pear and walnut pastry sits nearby, and guilt and fear have fled.

Phase Two is believed.

I saw the headlines yesterday: Corteo and Palombella Canceled This Year. It should not have come as a surprise, but it was still a shock. Distant thunder gave way to chain lighting, directly overhead.

Corteo Storico and Corteo delle Dame are major events in Orvieto. The first represents Orvieto at the height of its power and influence, when representatives from all the cities and counties it controlled delivered tribute to the Podestà(or depending on the political climate, the Capitano del Popolo). The procession of officials, military, clergy, and noblemen is recreated as it would have looked during the fourteenth century. The costumes are authentic reproductions down to the finest detail. Three to four hundred people are included in the event, and there are hundreds more who build, maintain, and repair the costumes, military gear, and weapons. And, of course, there are drums and trumpets, and banners and flags.

The lazy description of Corteo delle Dame is that it’s the female version of Corteo Storico, but that’s really not fair. The costumes are even more lavish, the groupings of women (and occasional men and children) are like tableaux vivant, there is music and dance, and at the end a Corteo Popolano, a parade of the common folk, which might include small livestock.

Thousands come to Orvieto for the Corteo and attendant events – banner tossing, horse racing, archery contests, and in some years, a form of jousting. But not this year.

Palombella is a local manifestation celebrating the miracle of Pentecost. As is most Italian cities, a dove is flown down a wire into the local cathedral. What happens when it arrives is interpreted differently in different towns. In Orvieto, a wooden tower is erected on the steps of the Duomo as a landing point for the dove (the bird is no longer tied to an armiture, but rides along in a plexiglass tube). In the tower are images of the apostles. When the dove arrives, smoke and fire is set off, and tongues of flame appear over the saintly heads. All this is proceeded by a parade in medieval garb, with plenty of drums and trumpets. But once the fireworks are spent, a guy in jeans and a striped shirt puts up an aluminum ladder to fetch the bird, which is then handed to two footmen dressed from the late 18^th century, who run it across the piazza to the town’s most recent parents (or other honorees) who wait on the balcony of a 19^th century palace.

Also cancelled: Orvieto in Flower, the Corpus Domini procession, Orvieto Musica, Orvieto Festival of Strings, and whatever else has the bad fortune to have scheduled events before July.

So, this evening I round the corner onto Via delle Pertiche Prima to find Renzo on his aluminum ladder, in jeans and striped shirt (sort of), and Gianni from up the street doing ground work. They were replacing the winter pansies that for a hundred meters grace the walls of the lane. In their place they are setting blooms in the colors of Corsica, the quartiere – red and yellow. Later in the month they will hang banners and flags of the same colors with Corsica’s symbol emblazoned, the castle tower.

“I thought Corteo is cancelled.”

“Everything is cancelled,” lamented Gianni, listing the defunct events like fallen heroes. “But we are not cancelled. Life goes on. No crowds will gather to look at our street, but anyone who sees it will know that we still celebrate Orvieto’s beauty and continuity with its past. No virus can kill that!”

“Grazie, ragazzi, ringrazio dal cuore.”

“Grazie a te,” replied Renzo. 

What I’ve done to be thanked for, beyond loving these people, I don’t know. Perhaps that’s enough.

Viva Orvieto! Viva Via delle Pertiche Prima! Viva la storia! Viva la bellezza.

For years I’ve been saying that those of us who live in towns like Orvieto are engaged in an act of stewardship. I’ve only had the vaguest of ideas as to what I meant when I’ve said it, but it seemed right. That was not to say that our towns are perfect, or haven’t arrived at this moment free of tumult and division, or that they are in any way utopias, just that there is something here, preserved in amber, that has come down to us unbroken. Battered, uncertain, strained, but unbroken. And that some day we would begin to discover what that unbroken thing is, and that people all over would turn to our towns for guidance, to glean and taste examples of a sustainable future.

Ahah! That word! Sustainable. I love what it represents in its broadest sense, but it has become hinged to a dream. The dream that we can continue to behave like madmen and through the miracle of engineering not pollute and destroy the planet while we do. In that sense our towns offer little help. They have fallen in love with the same glitzy, messy things everyone else has. The sustainability that I sense is here, is of another kind. It lays beneath the surface. I don’t know what it looks like, but we can all point to signs of its existence. 

The brothers at Caffe del Corso look as related to each other as do Queen Elizabeth and Beyonce. They are so dissimilar that I question my understanding when I claim that they are indeed brothers, but they have told me on several occasions, and it’s difficult to sustain a joke for five years, even one involving a semi-literate foreigner.

They are among those who are taking advantage of the “pause” to fix a few things that have needed attention. As I passed today, they were busy repairing their deck. Cristien came over with such enthusiasm that he almost shook my hand.

“Sorry! It’s just so good to see you! How’ve you been? Okay these past two months?”

“We’re coming through, aren’t we? You guys are busy.”

“The whole time we were stuck inside, we kept seeing every little thing that was falling apart around here. We’d email each other with lists of what we remembered needed fixing. Now we are free to work, so… here we are, and it’s great! We’ll open in a week, or maybe three. That’s being worked out as we all get a better sense of how safe it is, and most of us will open in better shape than we were in two months ago. It’s been hard, but good. How are you?”

Across the street, the Ukrainian couple were busy washing windows and sprucing up a chalkboard menu. Next door across the little piazza, the deck was being scrubbed, plants refreshed. Everyone knows there will be no instant return to business as usual, but a solid, clean deck and a beautifully printed menu are almost eternal positives, they are worth the time – especially when the time is so abundantly available. These are statements of confidence in our collective ability to usher in a pleasant, however unfamiliar, future.

Up Corso at Tomasso’s gelateria, what was a couple of days ago a plain black panel is now embellished with a classy graphic. I can’t tell you what it says because I don’t remember, but I do know that it struck me as beautiful when I saw it.

Montanucci seems to have embarked on a fairly elaborate project to allow takeout service directly from their front doors. Dolceamaro, Caffe Cavour, Barrique, have adjusted in similar fashion, and are now serving. We shout greetings back and forth like excited children during an unexpected snow.

People are buying plants for their gardens and balconies.

Those are all nice things, but that’s not all of it.

As I left for my post-lunch walk, Renzo called out that there will be crostata later. And when I returned from my walk, it was waiting on my table. Could be prune, might be sour cherry. I should know by the shade of color, but I’m still learning.

I passed a woman, masked, who I don’t know (I’m pretty sure, I don’t) just as someone in an upstairs window sneezed so violently that seismic sensors all over Italy flew off their charts. Our eyes met in perfect, alarmed, amusement.

I passed Giuliano yesterday evening, his tresses blowing in the wind, and evidencing curls I never knew he had. He knew I didn’t recognize him at first, and found it fun.

Closer.

For the past few days of free-roaming spring, the town has decided to dress, not in the colors of the town as is usually the case, but in brilliant pinks and reds and oranges. Occasional aquamarine.

That’s not the full picture, but those glimpses sustain us. The full picture may not be visible except in pieces, but I am certain that there is no engineering needed to reveal its parts.

For another way of saying almost exactly the same thing, click here. 

The photo is from Via Pecorelli, 2015.

My life has been dedicated to participating in the creation of reasons and opportunities for people to gather. Ooops.

I got my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in dramatic production. For the next twenty years I shored up a theatre habit with jobs in food service. I even started an Italian style caffè that I ran for four years or so (that I was totally unqualified to do so, didn’t stop me for a moment). I founded theatre companies, almost by habit, and created performance spaces out of whatever room or cavity or lawn would hold chairs (or pillows and rugs). 

And here we are, me and millions of kindred spirits, pining over locked theatres, taverns, and diners and wondering how long we will have to wait to see the lights switched on, again. Reasons to gather.

It is speculated that Shakespeare used his time in Stratford to his, and our, benefit while waiting out London’s periodic plague summers. Most playwrights these days – or perhaps, any days – write from the love of wrighting rather than from any real expectation of production; and a script can always be passed around, even during plagues. Cooks will cook because everyone needs to eat, and if we have the luxury of overcoming boredom in cuisine, both cooks and eaters will find a way to keep exchanging talents.

But gathering?

I recently read a piece on Le Corbusier and his dream city of pre-planned, vast empty space. The article speculated that a post-virus society might go that direction to avoid the contagion invited by the over-crowded modern metropolis. I immediately remembered my days as a cater-waiter, passing trays at a densely packed bank employees’ cocktail party held in their cavernous, beaux arts lobby, with the entire party voluntarily condensed into a space the size of an executive suite. We are herders. Give us vast empty space, we will gather in a knot in a tiny corner of it, and like it just fine.

As a theatre guy, I always championed the community-building capacities of the performing arts. There is something thrilling about experiencing a cultural event as expressed by living people immediately present, with spectators, also present, and without the competitive necessity of siding with a team, or the need to conform to a belief. It is said that an audience at a concert or play will synchronize their beating hearts within a few minutes of the event’s beginning.

I betcha Zoom doesn’t do that.

I ran into Giancarlo this afternoon. In normal times, he makes sure that I am kept in apple strudel.

“You’ve lost weight!” he observed.

“Haven’t we all?

“You haven’t been eating your strudel.”

“True.”

“Call me a day ahead, I’ll have it ready by the next afternoon, and will meet you at the door or even deliver.”

That’s what the cooks are doing.

Fabrizio, the fruit and nut man, this morning struggled to speak through his mask.

“Ribracgo!”

“What?”

“Rimbgifto!”

“What?”

He mimed a piano keyboard.

“Riccardo!”

“Yes! The maestro.”

“A wonderful pianist, is Riccardo.”

“Oh, yes, wonderful.”

“Have you heard him on the accordion?”

“No.”

“Amazing. I had no idea that instrument could make such a variety of sound.”

“Some day, maybe,” he said rather sadly. “But you both order naturally-dried apricots!”

“Maybe it’s a thing with performers, you think?”

Fabrizio will pull through. He looked much less burdened this week. Movement is therapeutic. 

So is gathering.

Teatro Mancinelli never announced a season this year. The non-profit that ran it had accumulated debt, and the new city administration was unwilling to prevent its dissolution by granting a subsidy. So, except for a couple of independently-booked events, the theatre has been dark since summer. From today’s perspective, it’s just as well, I guess, but a huge hole opens in my heart every time I pass. The tradition must be served – in much the same way that there must continue to be strudel.  But gathering will have to wait.

At least we wait together. Meantime, folks are doing gorgeous stuff on YouTube, aren’t they? (Even alone.)

The photo is of Teatro Mancinelli in 2016.

Don’t take this wrong. I love receiving comments, messages, emails, and calls. But the electronic lifeline is wearing thin.

Used to be I’d check email and Facebook first thing in the morning. After awhile, I realized that at least half of the friends who are likely to write were six or more hours earlier than here, so checking email after lunch would do just fine. A few days passed, and I reverted to in a morning habit for what may have arrived overnight. It was never enough. Emails would lead to Facebook would lead to The Guardian (because it’s in a closer time zone and therefore more timely) would lead to the Times and Washington Post. All the while I’m muttering to myself, “I want communication! And this isn’t it!”

Just now I passed the lovely gentleman who unearthed Pozzo della Cava twenty-some years ago, and turned it into a museum. We don’t really know each other, but I like him. I was masked, he was essentially at home, I bid him a good evening.

“Good evening, good evening! Everyone is masked!”

“I know! It’s so difficult!”

We laughed.

Now the funny thing is, what I said was “I know!  È tanto difficile!” Two languages in one sentence. However, he could have heard it as “Ai! No, è tanto difficile!” In fact, he probably did. And that linguistic glitch kept me amused all the way home.

I want communication!

At the beginning of my afternoon walk I saw Natsuko. She and her husband Andrea produced Colloquia last summer, and I’ve missed seeing them terribly. She looked radiant to be outdoors and in motion. I was still struggling to escape an afternoon funk. We exchanged information from a two meters distance, no hands were shook nor cheeks kissed. I wished dearly that my mood had already rebounded so I could adequately express my joy in seeing her. Didn’t quite happen. But we reported on the routes of the walks we were on, bid each other health, and I sent greetings to Andrea and their daughter Amane.

By the time I saw two other friends on Via Maitani I had replayed meeting Natsuko enough times that when Toni asked how I was, I had caught up with an improving mood and was able to report “Better now that I’m walking,” and be honest about it.

Communication.

After a good wander, I visited Tomasso for gelato. He was there himself with two staff. I wondered how it was necessary to have three people serving the paltry number of customers he was likely to see. I also wondered, is he so exceedingly kind that he schedules them just so they’ll have a little work while they wait together for whatever normal may look like by June?

Yesterday evening, I happened past where Stefano and Naomi live. I knew they lived close, but was tipped off as to their exact location by Stefano and his son and daughter’s being out together in their little forecourt.

“Getting some exercise?” and we traded lockdown lore of walking in circles in our respective outdoor spaces.

Stefano is of a restaurant family. His father started Pizzeria Charlie, which Stefano took over about the time I got to know him in the early 2000’s. Over the years I’ve watched him lead the creation or alteration of five or six eateries, his latest project being one of my favorites, Trattoria delli Poggi.

“So, when are you reopening?”

“June sometime.”

“But you could do takeout right away, couldn’t you?”

“We could, but it’s not really worth it. There aren’t customers now, and probably won’t be until people are able to travel again. So, we’ll take it a bit at a time,” and he smiled and shrugged. “We’ll manage.”

He is the same fellow who told me in January that over the previous two years tourism had been on the upswing, that even though the streets seemed not as full, the guests who were coming were here to dine, relax, stay a few days, and patronize the shops, whereas previously there were mostly day-trippers. Stefano has his finger on the pulse of this town as few others do, so if he thinks opening sometime in June makes sense, I am reassured.

And that conversation yesterday helped reduce today’s time online to minutes in the single digits. Communication, satisfied – face to face. Even if one or both of the faces is masked.