Month: May 2020

Time conflates. And the whole town has taken on the intriguing mystery of a masquerade ball.

I walked today like I was trying to make up for nearly two months’ lost opportunity, which is exactly what I was doing. I saw dozens of friends and acquaintances, and with each it was as if we’d seen one another just yesterday, when in fact it was in almost every case at least two months. Everyone seems to have lost weight. Those with hair are wearing it long these days. Most seemed a little misty-eyed. They all looked beautiful beyond words.

I was also greeted by people I don’t think I know, and returned the favor more than a few times. That is partly because we have our most distinguishing features blotted out, but as much because in these times we have so much in common, everyone feels like a friend.

I get teary-eyed, a lot.

I saw Kamal as I set out on my second walk of the day around noon. I mentioned yesterday that he had laid out his pizzas and felafels for the usual crowds, and wondered how that was going to work.

“Aside from you I had three customers all day. No students, no tourists – no customers.”

“Are you opening today, because if you are I could use some pizza.”

“Come around 13:30, I’ll have something for you. I imagined it would all be like before. Boy, was I wrong.”

“I’m afraid there’s no before, anymore.”

He grunted, sighed, and rode his bike towards Corso. His is a plight many are going to be faced with in the coming days. (For those who are looking for good slice pizza, Kamal is across from the Japanese restaurant on Corso. I believe he’ll be there weekends. Spread the word.)

The streets are still pretty quiet. I imagine many people are staying in out of habit, caution, and predilection. It may also be that when you take away the tourists, those affiliated with study abroad programs, shop keepers and workers who live away from town, part-timers, and shoppers from other areas of the comune, who you see now is who is left. Not a lot of people live in the upper city anymore, a fact easy to forget because Orvieto is a magnet for so many. The streets as they are today give one pause. This city exists on a precarious balance.

For my mid-afternoon walk I went to Serancia, a quarter I rarely explore further than Piazza Ranieri. That was a good choice today. The neighborhood has many beautiful gardens visible to a passerby, richly, extravagantly overgrown in the Italian custom. The area also boasts numerous container gardens, spread out on the street or hanging from sconces on walls. Alleys twist into tiny courtyards, plummet downhill onto private vistas of the valley, end suddenly at a gate protecting a riot of roses.

And today, not only was the sky clear and temperatures mild, but automobiles were scarce. Streets usually a bother to walk, yielded their centers to my humble feet, affording my appreciative gaze a new perspective on the many joys Orvieto has on offer.

When I set out on an afternoon walk, it was with the goal of gelato. I’d not remembered this morning, so was determined to visit post lunch. Tomasso and his crew were all there, everything organized for street service, as all the bars and cafes that are open are obliged to do. 

“Bentornato, Tomasso!”

“Everything good with you?”

“As can be expected, and you?”

“We’re open, that’s a relief.”

I ordered a baby cup of hazelnut, and paid my euro. He pushed the euro back with a pat of his hand.

“You’re too kind!  Grazie!”

“First of the season.”

Italian commerce seems to operate on two parts faith, six parts a savvy will to survive, three parts whim, and the rest is centuries of momentum. The peoples of northern Europe will say that Italy manages to limp along indefinitely. I’m sure it’s not as easy as they make it look, but Italians have a remarkable talent for turning that limp into a dance. I hope they can call upon those transformational skills over the next few months – they are going to need them.

The photo is of Tomasso at L’Officina del Gelato.

There were quite a number of people out during my morning walk, fewer than I was prepared for, but many more than has been usual at any time of day since March 10. Social distancing was generally observed, mask-wearing was spottier. I veered off Corso and kept to the side streets.

I walked to San Giovenale – Orvieto’s oldest church, the current structure dating from 1004 – to check out everyone’s favorite view. It did not disappoint. 

In a letter from friends, they described their view of the valley from their home in Porano (a village about fifteen minutes drive outside of Orvieto) as “a thousand shades of green”. The description is also apt in the other direction. Some trees are still in blossom, rain has encouraged new grasses, the spring is gorgeous this year. I’m sure I’m not alone in being relieved that we are able to be out and about to witness its final few arias.

From there, I went left over Porta Maggiore, and uphill past the Colonacci – the panorama following me all the while – and away from cliffside at Vicolo dei Medici. The sun was strong, the hill was as steep as ever, and everything about it was more intense than ever could be in my courtyard at home.

I passed Umbria Top where Svjetlana has a wine shop. It’s open while others are still closed. There must be nuances at play beyond the broad dictates of the national announcement.

“Bentornata, cara!”

“Grazie. Returning to regular sales, but I’ve been shipping online orders the whole time, so it hasn’t been too bad.”

“Good for you!”

“You know,” she said with a look of motherly concern, “when you’re on a quiet street, and no one else is around, it would be a good idea to lower the mask.”

“I’ve been wondering if I should.”

“You should! It’s healthier that way. Breathing in your own damp exhalations is not good for you.”

A bit further on, Antonny was in Blue Bar freshening up. A number of places have decided to use the time off to improve and repair. Something happens when you take away all the people; the rotten wood and mildewed awnings are suddenly and starkly apparent. A policewoman stood in his doorway. She seemed to be explaining Phase Two to Antonny, what he could do and when. But I’m just speculating.

Back on Corso, more were out than before. The pizzeria/pasticceria has moved its counter to open directly onto the street. Montanucci, still dark. Some activity in various shops, but only by their proprietors – maybe relieving horizontal surfaces of an almost two months’ collection of dust.

I saw Kamal, the pizzaiolo, last night during my walk.

“I’m opening tomorrow!”

“You are? The other day you said the 18^th.”

“Umbria is doing okay, and details are being sorted out by region, even by comune. Anyway, only for takeout, but I don’t have much eat-in business anyhow, so no difference really.”

“Great! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

So, for lunch I steamed some broccoli then went around the corner for a few slices. Kamal had laid out his counter as if the entire town were expected for lunch. From the look of things, I may have been his first customer. Given that foot traffic is still light that far down on Corso, and there is no way for word-of-mouth to spread, he may have been lucky to have had even my patronage.

After eating, I ventured out again. No one. I began to wonder if permission to walk had been rescinded. No, it was just lunchtime when everyone eats at home, because there is no other choice. The pizzerias were closed, too. Their clientele had taken out all they needed.

I wandered towards the Duomo. The family of cats near Al Mercato was lounging anywhere they damn pleased, and seemed very happy indeed to be doing so. As they normally glean much of their fare from falling scraps at the cafes in the area, I wondered who has been feeding them. They all look healthy, so someone has.

Later, just because I could, I went to Metà for a few things.

Now, something remarkable I’ve noticed living here is how seldom you see a local kid throw a tantrum or raise a fuss. Kids here are in society from their first or second week of life, they are brought up by dozens of affectionate friends and relatives, and seem like a remarkably secure lot.

Well, given that no one can leave their region, it’s pretty safe that the four-year-old boy having a meltdown on Via delle Donne was local. He was not happy about wherever he and his parents were going. He dug in his heels every third step, and yelled his dear head off. His parents were trying to strike a balance between firm and understanding, and were doing well, but it was not buying cooperation.

He broke my heart, this little guy. How can a kid whose family is a host of people he sees every day possibly understand why they have all, save his parents, gone into hiding? Then suddenly, he’s on the street again, only they’re empty; empty of his friends, his innumerable aunts and uncles, his favorite dogs and cats.  What is going on? “I don’t know,” he seemed to be saying, “but I don’t want to go any further. And I won’t.”

His parents, the few others watching, and myself included, know exactly how the boy feels, and wish we had a quick answer. We don’t. But we have a lot of the same questions.

I passed an edicola and checked out the headlines: “Umbria without recent new cases.” Not overly precise, that announcement, but who can argue with the spirit?

The photo is of the valley as viewed from the wall above Porta Romana.

I was circling my courtyard listening to On The Media when a small twig arrived, bouncing at my feet. I looked towards Marianna who was on her balcony with the ever-adorable Pongo, talking on her phone. She pointed up. I followed her finger to the next balcony to find Renzo.

“I couldn’t get your attention by shouting, so I threw something.”

“It worked. How’re you both?”

“We’re making gnocchi. Want some?”

“That would be incredible!” My enthusiasm drew a laugh from Marianna and a wag from Pongo.

“We’re not sure how they’ll come out, but so far it looks good.”

“Yeah, gnocchi are tricky,” I said, having myself only ever bought them in a package.

“Very tricky. I’ll bring some down in an hour or so.”

“Fantastic!”

When I first moved to this little house on Via delle Pertiche Prima, I wasn’t so sure about the balconies. Having neighbors able to peer into my yard from a short distance at any time of day or night, whenever they felt like it, made me a bit uncomfortable. Growing up in California, back yards were fenced, lots were large, neighbors had to cross driveways and other barriers to have access to our domain. Even in Manhattan, the closest thing we ever had to a balcony was a fire escape, and no one in our neighborhood used them like the Cramden’s did on The Honeymooners. I was used to privacy. I didn’t consciously consider privacy terribly important, but it was.

Sometime early in my residency here, an American friend came over to see my place. Marianna had hung bedspreads out to dry, low into the courtyard, almost to where I had to swat them away to enter my house.

“You gonna say anything to her about that?”

“No. She has a right to her airspace,” but it actually did bother me. Even though I had been here for more than a year at that point, there was still a large part of me that thought of myself on permanent vacation. My surroundings needed to be picture-perfect representations of Italian Life with as few messy daily realities intruding as possible.

But month by month, year by year my balcony neighbors have become balcony friends. Marianna drops clothes pins at a champion rate. I throw them back. When balcony herb plants are watered, my pavement gets wet. Pongo, the ever adorable, sheds all over the end of my courtyard, I sweep it up. Conversations are held between balconies and kitchens, with friends passing on the street, with neighbors in adjoining properties. That, is Italian life. That, is why I wanted to live here, even if the desire used to be more idealized than real.

One evening I was dining with Renzo and Patrizia at their table. Renzo invited me out to the balcony, stood at the rail, and gazed downward. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. He swept his hand across the view. I stepped up to the rail and looked over. My garden, imperfect and full of holes compared to the undulating mass of vegetation I aspired to, looked terrific from there. Renzo chuckled and nodded and let me have the balcony to myself. Until that moment I had viewed the garden as my project for my selfish enjoyment, and occasionally for that of a few guests. With his gesture, Renzo pointed to its function in the neighborhood. To have it tended and blooming was a pleasure for a dozen people in residences all around the property. It lifted spirits, provided color, attracted birds and the buzzings of pollinators.

I grew sleepy while waiting for today’s gnocchi and dozed on the sofa downstairs, having left the gate open for ease of delivery. Renzo cleared his throat. The covered dish waited on the table.

“You were sleeping, but you don’t want the gnocchi to get cold. They have to be eaten hot.”

“A thousand thanks to both of you. This is a very special treat,” I said, staggering to my feet.

“Buon pranzo!”

Gnocchi can be like uncured concrete if not well-prepared. Or they can be like these were; light and elegantly balanced between fluffy and rich. The sauce was deeply flavored, the cheese exactly enough.

“Congratulations,” I texted later, “Trattoria R&P wins all prizes for best in Umbria!”

The reply read, “Thanks for the compliment! I was the gnocchi chef, Patrizia is responsible for the ossobuco sauce. We are good collaborators.”

“Without equal,” I wrote back.

Balcony culture.

Photo is of Renzo making gnocchi (for the first time!)

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.

Today was Friday. I know that because yesterday was market, and that means yesterday was Thursday. Tomorrow will be a Saturday without market, and the day after that, Sunday without church. But no day is really significant to me now until Monday. Monday we walk. Monday we can order takeout at restaurants able to be open on that basis. Why, Monday if I get it in my head to go to San Giovenale to look at the view, while carrying a sandwich I will later eat at home, I can just do that.

We are so fortunate. I really mean it, and don’t have to explain why.

It was suggested to me a week ago that I submit a few of these journal entries for publication in the U. S. So I’ve been reading back to March 10 when the national lockdown in Italy was announced. Count forward six days, I was already yearning for pizza. At the time of the announcement a two-week closure seemed inconceivably long. As of today, there is still a month to go for a haircut. And a month doesn’t seem so bad. It may be a month of long hair, but while it achieves its hitherto unimagined lengths, there will be pizza.

And there will be the unending kindness of good people.

Ten or twelve years ago, I inadvertently entered what I came to think of as “the gift wars” with friends Vera and Giovanni. Every time we would go into their shop for a purchase, we were given something of greater value than what we had purchased. On subsequent visits, we came with gifts for them, which were met with extra gifts in return. It was impossible to keep up, let alone pull ahead. Eventually, I stopped tallying, expressed my profound gratitude, and left it at that.

One night earlier this week, I won’t pretend to know which one, I finished supper wishing there were dessert. Fifteen minutes later there was a rapping at my chamber door. It was not Edgar Allen Poe, it was my neighbor Renzo with a plate in hand. 

“Crostata. Apricot.” he said, whipping off the paper towel that covered it with a flourish.

“Your timing is awesome. Thank you!”

“Buonanotte.”

It was still warm from the oven, and so light and delicate I had to hold the edges of its paper mantle to keep it from floating away. I ate half on the spot, and half after the next day’s lunch.

Maybe it was the following evening or two evenings later, I won’t pretend to have a superhuman grip on the passing of time, but I ran out of energy for cooking. The whole day had been an energy vacuum, and when faced with turning what was in the fridge into something more elaborate than a sandwich, imagination failed me. I felt new appreciation for my mother who during lunch would begin to speculate as to what we might have for dinner. The relentless arrival of mealtimes can wear a person down. I ended up fixing a sandwich, and not a very interesting one at that.

After a glum consumption of said sandwich, I spread out my newly acquired blister packs of pharmaceuticals and set to organizing them into bins and boxes, a job I never look forward to but usually accomplish with less distress that I was experiencing that night.

A face appeared at the window.

“I called but you didn’t answer.”

“My phone is upstairs. I didn’t hear it.”

“Fresh tagliatelle with Bolognese. Buona cena.” and he was off.

I cleared a spot in the chaos of the table, and enjoyed a supper far superior than I had expected or deserved.

Next morning, I sent Renzo and Patrizia a WhatsApp.

“You are a kind of wizard. I wanted a dessert after supper, and you arrived with a crostata. I didn’t feel like preparing supper at all, and you provided a delicious pasta. I cannot thank you both enough for your kindness.”

The reply, “And you are always kind to us. Our behavior is not the fruit of magic, but rather the result of what our parents taught us about the value of life – admire and respect each other. Friendship and family rise above all else. It is for us a great pleasure to have you as friend and neighbor. The simple joy of service is beyond assessment of value. Good day to you, our friend.”

When a great tenor finishes a perfect aria, the appropriate response is appreciation, so I left it at that.

About an hour ago I saw Renzo and Patrizia on their balcony.

“’Risotto tonight! Good by you?”

“Wonderful! Thank you.”

And I left it at that.