I realized last night that taking a walk didn’t have to mean one of my usual walks. All that is necessary is to keep a steady pace with a loose stride for about a half hour. Where I go is irrelevant.
I put on a dark sweater with a hood over my charcoal trousers, and a black peacoat over that. I had my doctor’s note in the unlikely event that police would stop me at 22:30 in a back street, and was too warm, to be sure, but I wanted to be as invisible as possible. (I think I may have an authority problem.) Then I chose a route down untraveled and narrow lanes where cars are unlikely to go. (I do, I have an authority problem.)
The route was about a third of any of my usual late night walks, so I walked it three times. No one saw me. Further benefit; I didn’t feel like I was abusing privilege – it was a boring walk, almost puritanically so. I was not walking flippantly, I was exercising, pure and simple, and no one could say otherwise. Doin’ my bit.
Happily tired, and after a good session of yoga, I went to bed with a clear conscience and slept so luxuriously I didn’t want to stop. My last dream was set at one of my bars, Forno 2000, where Giancarlo serves (and makes) wonderful baked goods. Stopping there is an every morning custom on my way to walk the Anello, save rain or his taking a day off. We banter and riff on running gags of our own invention. Or more accurately, he riffs and I do my best to keep up. In my dream we were riffing away in Italian, my head spinning with each variation, when suddenly I could understand every word he was saying! Because he had switched to English.
“I didn’t know you spoke English.”
“I didn’t tell you because you needed to practice your Italian.”
“And I don’t anymore?”
“Oh, no you do, but my English is so much better than your Italian, I thought it was time to give it a rest and just enjoy each other’s company.”
In waking reality (which these days seems more and more like a dream) he knows how to say “number one” and “Kentucky Fried Chicken”, and will repeat after me if I give him new words, but forgets them by the next day. He knows that KFC stands for the above fast-food restaurant, but pronounces it in Italian.
The story there is that on his days off Giancarlo frequents a community-run hot springs out in a field on the way to Viterbo. Once every few weeks, he’d travel to Viterbo and treat himself to a KFC.
“There are only five in all of Italy, four in Rome and one in Viterbo. I don’t go very often…” and he makes the international gesture of growing enormously fat, “…but every few weeks. Kappa Effe Chi!”
I came in several weeks ago after he’d taken a few days off.
“So, how’s KFC doing?”
“Terrible news. Now there are only four in all of Italy, all of them in Rome.”
“They closed the Viterbo store?”
“Gone, finished, empty.”
“So what’d you do?”
“Ate at Burger Kinga. You can get chicken there, too. They have this sauce made of American cheese. Oooh, buona!” and he made the gesture for delicious where you push your index finger onto the corner of your mouth and rotate while executing a look of utter satisfaction. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing – a cultural inversion. “Of course, it’s all on a level of industrial waste, but once it awhile it’s fun.” This from a man who can go on for ten minutes about the relative qualities of differently sourced flour. The charm of novelty. I was quietly shocked.
Sometime just before the Lockdown he announced that an Egyptian firm had taken over the KFG store.
“What do they serve?”
“Chicken.” and he went to provide a menu. The menu is in Italian as far as product descriptions go, but all the dish names are in English, as are the banners and exciting announcements. I laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“It’s almost all English!”
“The important stuff’s Italian. Anyway, it’s nearly as good as KFC.”
And so the world grows smaller. But I’m glad he only goes there once a month.
Now, of course, he’s spending all his time at home, in the countryside around Baschi, in his garden and with his dog, Black. I know this because he sent me an email this morning, free of punctuation but fortunately short enough to figure out.
For some reason, I woke up from that dream of sudden English thinking that if we can manage to get through the pandemic with minimal damage, can we remember enough to apply the same principles of community action and self-restraint to global climate change and plastic waste? While understanding too, as Giancarlo may, that we need not be puritanical about any of it? Just figure it out and get the job done. We don’t have to only tread familiar paths.
Thanks again to Erika Bizzarri (who has a dog) for the photos of children’s art.