Author: dallanz

After a productive morning spent pretty much in a chair, and lunch (also in a chair) I craved a walk. So, I tuned in WNYC on my phone and hiked the circus minimus for over an hour. It was good, and as you can imagine, the scenery was spectacular. 

Okay, that snark is unfair. I’m surrounded on all sides by the exposed tufa walls of old Umbrian buildings, and pass a garden bursting with spring three times a minute, the scenery is spectacular, just under-appreciated as a result of over exposure. I’ve got to choose to see it again with new eyes, to call up my tourist days when every moment here was to be savored. To be honest, even then, I was usually so tired from all the effort it took to get here, that I didn’t savor it as fully as I wanted to, but the memory of how special this town was, is still strong. 

It’s still strong because the town is still special, only in different ways. With rather amazing regularity I’ll look out my window of a morning and see that peculiar slant of light falling golden onto stone, and a luscious wave of contentment mixed with wonder washes over my body (or is it my soul?) and the freshness is back. 

The font of memory those moments evoke goes back decades and isn’t confined to La Rupe.

A fruttavendolo in San Casciano, 1995, his hair still wet from a shower, who gave his attention to my question – about something – as if I were extemporaneously composing a sonnet worthy of Petrarch. The gentleman, on the same trip but in Siena, whose job it was to manage a public parking lot, explaining with glee how we could park in blue spaces and pay, or in white and park for free, and (special for today) as long as we wanted. The red house in La Romola with a blue green comforter airing at a street-side window. The dome in Montefiascone as viewed from the Teverina. The black sand of Lago di Bolsena, rich between my toes. 

Although my first visit to Orvieto occurred in 1975, I have no reliable recollection of it. My first legitimate memory of this place is from a night in late July, 1997. I had rented a large, old farmhouse in the village of Roccalvecce, about forty minutes from here, and organized a five-week vacation with a rotating group of American friends. We had two cars to share at that point, and it was during our first week, so we were still getting used to which direction to go for everything – and I mean, everything.

The trip of the day was to Assisi. We spent a full afternoon, along with several thousand other non-residents, and departed for home base around sunset. I drove one car, my friend Page drove the other. Page’s mother, Mary, rode in my back seat. Randy, who immediately pronounced herself an inexperienced navigator, sat in the front with a folded map (on paper, remember those?) But the map was not going to be necessary. Page had the return route figured out, so we would just follow and all would be well.

We lost Page instantly in the crush of vehicles eager to get out of Assisi before sundown. So, the map was unfolded, and off we went. All was well until we got to Attigliano, the train stop handiest to Roccalvecce. I’d been there and back several times already, picking up guests as they arrived, so it should not have been an issue which way to turn at the T intersection. But it was. It was late, there was confusion, all mine, and I couldn’t remember. Randy swiveled the map, traced the road ahead of us and directed me left. At first, it seemed fine. Many kilometers later, on the darkest, twistiest country roads I had ever experienced, it became obvious we were very, very lost.

Mary is from Georgia and has a beautiful, luxurious accent. Every town limit sign we approached she would ask, “Now David, when we get to (Baschi, Montecchio, Tenaglie) will anything look familiar?” Every time she asked, my shoulders inched up towards my neck and my face burned. I was hosting this trip, and our first outing I had led them into a dark, spooky, unknowable landscape filled with unpronounceable names. Every time we passed a town’s sign, Randy would scramble to find it on the map, announce that we were really, really in the wrong part of Italy, and suggest a remedy that led to our being even more lost than before.

Suddenly, we found ourselves on an ascending road to a town that introduced itself with triple-branched nineteenth century street lights, and a sign that read, Orvieto.

“Orvieto! We went east instead of west at Attigliano! Now I know where we are! Looks like a nice town. We’ll have to come back.” Had I been alone, I would have found a room and stayed. The place already had me, it was just thinking about how to reel me in.

Everyone here who wasn’t born here has their Orvieto origin myth. That’s mine. When the spring riot in my garden looks a bit too familiar to be interesting, I remember the climb late one July night when all we did was turn around in Piazza Cahen and leave. And the town was still enchanting. 

The peculiar slant of morning light falling golden onto stone. The days can still be that fresh and magical, if I’m willing, even when viewed from my tiny courtyard. Breathe. See for the first time. Listen, rapt, hair still wet from a shower.

About a year ago, I began to write a play. The seed for it was a scene I’d written for a summer acting class at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York. It was one of ten “blank scenes” I created as exercises to encourage the student to make bold choices and stick with them for awhile, then commit to new choices… and so forth. As such, the scenes were purposely constructed with very little character detail and the barest minimum of plot. Some of them didn’t even have obviously sensible dialog. In that way, they were quite realistic.

At various points I’ve half-heartedly tried my hand at turning seven or eight of the scenes into an evening of ten minute plays, but I somehow lose interest before anything really begins to develop. 

The scene that did suggest something larger about a year ago, features a Dorothy Parker-esque character and a much less complicated friend (or lover) going their separate ways. I’ve always enjoyed the repartee in that one, and have been curious to see where it might lead.

So, about a year ago, I began to write a play. That was during production for Colloquia (a play I’d already written) so the script only expanded as I had time to give it. I got maybe thirty pages in, became overwhelmed with other stuff, and let it sit.

Then in November, I picked it up again and cranked out another fifteen pages. I still had no idea where it was going, or – in any essential way – what it was about, but I rather liked what there was so far. Every time I read it, I wanted to know what happened next after the point the pages turn blank. That’s a good sign, but the pages stayed blank, and I remained curious.

About a week ago, I began to wonder if maybe the play ended during the lockdown. I pulled up the script, read it over a few times, and decided that no, it wasn’t a lockdown play. But I didn’t close the file, either, so on the way to other stuff I’d look at it, read bits, and continue to wonder.

On last night’s otherwise uneventful walk, it suddenly hit me that it was a lockdown play. All I had to do was adjust its calendar, and the lockdown would begin at almost exactly the point that I had put the script down as un-finishable. A rush of energy warmed my heart, and I understood that the play’s time had finally arrived.

The blank scene it’s based on I wrote in 1998.

I’ve often heard writers complain about being unable to find a suitable ending. I’ve more than complained about that myself, I consider it a personality disorder – always impulsively launching this or that project without a clue as to where I’m headed. I’ve learned to live with that habit, but a play is not life, and needs an ending. No matter how interesting you may find the characters, if at some point they refuse to resolve a story, it becomes impossible even to edit what you know still needs work. It’s just flashy dialog and a promising premise.

That was a good walk. 

This morning I made notes on the specifics of what to change and how to approach the next section. From here on out, it’s all up to me, no more excuses. But I find it so interesting that the play was waiting for current events to inform it. Sometimes it is better to just do nothing.

The only person I passed last night lives on the corner of Via delle Donne and Via Angelo d’Orvieto. The house has a walled forecourt, and is built up in a fascinating assemblage of layers. But the best thing about that house is its dog.

He’s a smallish creature of no particular breed, but is pleasant to look at with uniformly tan fur. I’ve never seen him excited, he sniffs a little but mostly just walks. He nods as he passes, but asks for no favors. His master keeps him on an extendable leash, but the dog seldom wanders far enough to make the extra length necessary.

His master drives a Vespa, a scooter that features a platform for the driver’s feet. When the human readies himself to go somewhere on his motorino, the little dog takes his place on the platform, sits and waits. They go all around town like that, passing, I’m sure, any number of cats and other dogs, but the fellow never barks or lurches or is tempted to jump.

When I first saw the dog, I assumed a strict owner, that it wasn’t serenity he displayed, but the effects of oppression. I couldn’t imagine a dog so calm, so I manufactured blame. But no, the owner is kind and aware of what a special friend he has.

So, we don’t always know how things connect, what they mean, how they end, or how we get there – and I reckon that’s okay. We learn how to wait until the moment is ripe — when to act, when to do nothing — and that may be the most valuable lesson we have in life. If that’s true, these are important times.

Yesterday, I was frustrated and annoyed. No real reason, maybe lockdown blahs, but nothing specific. Okay, I wanted to see a tree. That was enough. Then the one social lifeline we have, the Internet, kept disconnecting. First wi-fi, then my phone as hotspot, then both, then error messages I didn’t understand and, of course, I couldn’t look them up because I couldn’t type fast enough before the web connection failed. I rebooted my phone. No. I rebooted the computer. No. I rebooted both. Sorry. 

I ignored it and wrote offline. About a half hour later, I glumly tried again. Everything worked perfectly for no reason, which by that time was almost as annoying as everything not working for no reason.

Perhaps I was projecting, but whatever I read, listened to, and in all messages received, I heard a subtext of frustration and annoyance, of patience wearing thin. Understandable, but really, can you imagine what life must be like on the medical front lines?

This morning I woke to a world changed, at least in mood. I didn’t trust it. The day was spectacular to look at, chill, and crisp, forecasted to warm. I doubted it would. Before all else, I needed to walk down to Studio Medico to pick up prescriptions. That’s almost ten minutes to Piazza Cahen, it seemed too far, almost dangerously so, a journey to be dreaded. There are often crowds waiting at the Studio. I didn’t want to wait, I didn’t want to be around other people. But I had only one day’s supply of meds remaining, and hadn’t arranged with the pharmacy to pick them up directly, so I had no choice. Oh, the angst, the suffering. Really buddy, get it into perspective.

I dressed in black; wool trousers, turtleneck, peacoat. It seemed an odd choice against the colors of early spring. I put on a mask, put in my hearing aides, and walked quickly to the end of Via delle Pertiche. I turned left on Corso — left for the first time in weeks. It was very quiet. I passed a bakery, it was open. The bakeries have all been closed. I stopped in front of the edicola to read the headlines. A familiar voice called out “David! David!” I looked around. “David!” I looked up. Across the way in a first story (second story, American) window, as if posing for a portrait, was Antonny (of Blue Bar), his son Leonardo peering over the sill, and Linda, the ever-radiant, in his arms. Linda is the happiest child any of us have seen, and her smile this morning was transformative. We waved, tried to talk, waved again, and again, and waved some more.

“What you guys doing, up there?”

“Hiding out and homework.”

“Good for you!”

Leonardo waved like a celebrity, Linda smiled, having once again discovered the meaning of life (as she does every morning). I blew a kiss, hand to mask. Antonny looked puzzled, got it, and everyone blew kisses back.

I approached Piazza Cahen through Corso’s double row of chestnut trees. It was lovely to see a tree again. Not quite the epiphany I’d expected it would be, yesterday, but a pleasant reunion with really familiar friends. 

I arrived at Studio Medico to find three parked cars and not another soul waiting. A sign on the door in blue marker, taped over six computer generated memoranda about hours and procedures, cut to the point with one word, “ring.” I pressed the doorbell. Seconds later, a secretary appeared – the grey-haired, ever friendly, slip-of-a-woman who delights me every time we pass on the street. 

“All your meds?” she asked after we greeted.

“Just like this? I don’t have to come in?”

“Walk up service. I’ll be back.” She never asks my name, so I always forget to offer it.

In record time she returned with the prescriptions printed, handed them to me, and for an unnecessary moment we just stood there.

“Have a good day.”

“Likewise.”

“And stay well.”

“You stay well, too.”

It was an exchange between family. Simple and heartfelt and easy. And precious, because everything right now is precious. No time to waste on moods.

There seemed to be more people on the street than there were a few minutes prior. Nothing like pre-lockdown – for one thing, almost everyone wore a mask – but for these days it was downright festive.

Evandro, the pharmacist, took my paperwork and tried to explain through his mask and an improvised plexiglass partition that one of my meds wasn’t available as generic at the moment, so there would be a seven euro charge. I only understood after he had tried to explain three times, laughed, and waved his efforts into the ether. 

“Grazie mille. Sta bene.” Again, that feeling of family.

Thus it continued up to the supermarket, in and out. The bakery behind the theatre was also open, as was the herbalist. I stopped at the latter; family again. I passed people, shops, waved, greeted, exchanged eye smiles. Family, family, family.

Walks like these – the nods, the smiles, the faces – often leave me giddy. This morning’s left me grounded. It only takes a moment to really look, to really hear, and to really mean it when we say “Stay well.” The subtext is powerful, and lets loose a mighty river of love.

If you want to cry a happy river, click here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5DhJS5hGWc&feature=youtu.be True, it is an ode to Italy, but it’s also a validation of spirit that applies to wherever you happen to be, and whatever you (plural) are going through, right now – or what may soon be on your (plural) horizon.

Twenty-three has been my favorite number since high school. I don’t remember why or how it gained such status, but when the number of my choir folder in my freshman year at college showed up as twenty-three, I was thrilled. The number had already shown itself in various other ways around the same time – in what ways I’ve since forgotten – and the folder’s numeration was enough to tie a sense of destiny to its appearance for years, thereafter.

By my count, this is day twenty-three of the Italian lockdown. I can’t honestly say that I noticed much difference from day twenty-two, or day fourteen. We’re into our fourth week. From here, this climb goes up rather steeply for awhile. Patience is wearing (not just mine) with no ready outcome. It’s time to breathe and remember that we’ve advanced towards the goal, however jerkily. This is no time to slip.

This morning I was seized by a sudden fit of machismo. It was cold out, a clear, sparkling, picture-perfect day, but my foray to the street to retrieve the recycle bin for plastics was enough to convince me to wait before I walked. Then I checked the weather – currently +4c, with an expected high of +8c. I decided to stay in for as long as I could. Now you may wonder what about that was macho. Well, I told myself I didn’t need a walk at all. If the weather was going to be that cold, fine, it could go right ahead and be cold without me. I’d be happy and warm indoors, thank you very much.

By 15:30 I was paying dearly for that strut, so at 16:30 I swallowed pride and put on my coat and scarf.

Now, I’ve been pretty consistent about starting my night walks between 22:00 and 22:30, and when I see anyone at all, it is usually from among a group of the same four or five people. We’ve begun to exchange greetings, smiles, nods, and eye-contact as we hug the walls on either side of the lane so as to keep a proper distance. It’s not exactly the evening passeggiata but it is a ghost of normality, and is luxuriously social, in its way.

At 16:30, it’s a whole new crowd. Right off, there was a mother and her two little children up ahead, taking their sweet time. I like to walk fast, but to be respectful of distance – especially with little ones whose trajectory was not all that predictable – I decided to cut that leg of the walk short and turn around. Turning around put me behind a man of more years (or at least a slower gait) than mine, so I turned again, caught between the young and the old, and was forced back onto my street heading home.

As I approached home, the smoker with the sweet smile stepped out from his door. I waved, sent him a salve, turned and walked quickly away. (I’ve got to remember to look up the Italian for “back and forth” so I can explain to the guy what I’m doing, that I don’t just turn around to avoid him.) At the other end of my street I encountered another young woman and her meandering offspring, so turned right instead of the usual left, only to come up against a man at the narrowest part of the lane, and standing smack in the middle, examining his phone. Trapped again, I hugged the wall and squeezed past him towards the little bridge with the window.

The shutters were open again – or still open, for having not walked this morning I may have missed an episode – the curtained half seemingly innocent of watchful eyes. The little girl I imagine there jumped forward in time, today. No longer did I picture myself as her in the tiny observation chamber of some pre-lockdown past, counting her favorites, eager for the map-totting, utterly lost tourist, but as a child of the twenty-third day of lockdown, yearning to see her friends and relatives pass once again on the street below, and further, able to run to surprise them before they escaped down Via Montemarte. Even more, able to follow them, if she chose to, towards the umbrella pines of the ex-caserma, the friendly plane trees on the Confaloniere, or the enormous tree-choking wisteria in the garden before Liceo Artistico. Instead, she watched all that in her mind – the people, the trees, the vines – she saw them at her favorite times of year, and sighed for not being able to share in their special qualities of scent, sound, and sight – for not being able to hug them, run her fingers on bark, kick leaves, giggle and wave.

Memories are good, they whisper to us that the past is a living part of the present, but we are not made to be so alone in such numbers. Here and there the hermit or the anchorite, sure, but the mass of us (even those made nervous by crowds) enjoys experiencing a mass of us at least every once in awhile. So, I will stroll at 22:15 tonight to murmur salve and nod and smile to the people I’ve become used to seeing at that time, and revel in that small society; sparse, spaced, and spread. Every night the smiles sweeten, the eyes soften, and the wave becomes more playful, and for all of us, we are reminded of our town’s promise to reconstruct itself once these times are past, as it has done so many times before. 

Number 22 in a month of Sundays. May we look back on this day as a turning point, a bridge back.

Yesterday’s new cases in Italy were lower by more than a thousand from the day before, and to a level not seen since March 17. Today, the number was basically unchanged, but neither did it go up. It may be that our efforts are paying off.

There are still terrible numbers of fatalities. Nothing more to say.

This morning during my walk (yes, I managed to advance the hour to a 09:30 start) the window in the little bridge had its shutters open. The glass was shut – it was chilly – and one pane was covered by a tatted curtain. Someone moves in there! Would it not be intriguing to have a house that bridged a street? Or are they sisters who live one to either side of the alley? Is the arch flanked by doors, making it a piece of neutral territory between related households? Were there arguments about the need of a curtain, settled by leaving one half of the window bare?

No sign of the little girl, that I could see. I have a feeling that she was crouched with her eyes at the level of the sill at the curtained half, using two of the tatted holes as the eyes of a mask. Now that she knows that I know that she is there, she’s playing a game of hiding.

So much drama in such a small space.

I fixed an acquacotta again today. Yesterday, I asked Renzo to provide another container like the one bearing yesterday’s soup so I could share today’s soup with him and Patrizia. I texted a reminder about an hour ago, hinting that the soup was pretty damn good for having been prepared by an American, but he hasn’t seen the message yet. We are at the mercy of our electronics. The good thing is, the longer the soup sits, the better the soup becomes. And neither it, nor I, are going anywhere.

The blackbirds are back. There is a pair that lives in my yard spring, summer, and early fall. They are probably of a type better described than “blackbirds”, but I haven’t an idea what that might be. The male is shiny black, the female a dull brown. They like to grub for worms by raking the leaves and twigs collected in the flowerbeds, where I have swept them, back onto the tile. It’s an ongoing conversation. The female, for reasons unclear, will fly at my second-story sitting room window several times in a row, at several points during their residency. The male worries in the apricot, seeming to apologize.

“The little lady’s a tad daft. She’s had a tough life. This thing she does only makes it worse, but I’ve learned to accept it. Her virtues are many, once you know her.”

I’m happy to have them back. Quirks and all, they represent dependability. In times like these even a crazy bird, if consistently so, can seem a bridge to the normal.

Renzo just rang to claim their soup for supper. I met him at the gate, he gingerly held out a little two-handled pot from a safe distance, I gingerly accepted it.

“Give me a minute,” and I took the pot inside and ladled it full of what by now is a nice thick mix of onion, pasta, and sage. I returned to the gate and gingerly handed it back. I have to admit, it looked pretty legitimate sitting in its pot, uncovered. Renzo’s face lit up as if the soup were a surprise. That made my day. A little while later I received a message of praise, noting specifically that they had finished it all. That made my day for tomorrow.

The universally acknowledged problem with soup when prepared for fewer than three is that it means soup, and the same soup, for days. When boredom is a threat even more present than The Menace Among Us, soup for days can have a grave impact on our novelty-wired brains. I try to resolve this by adding cheese, toast, arugula… whatever can mix things up a bit. But now there’s a better way; I’ll take turns sharing it with my wonderful neighbors. The advantages are many, and if you have sanitizer handy for after you touch the container, the risks are few. Soup has always been a kind of bridge in my world.

Should you care to adopt this scheme as your own, here’s one to try.

 Acquacotta con cipolle.

• Six or seven medium golden onions
• Four shallots
• Two tablespoons olive oil
• One liter vegetable or chicken stock
• Two cubes vegetable bullion
• 500 ml water
• 250 ml puréed tomato
• A dozen small leaves of fresh sage, or equivalent
• Half cup of ditalini rigati pasta
• 1 teaspoon white granulated sugar
• Fresh ground nutmeg
• Fresh ground coriander seed
• Fresh ground black pepper
• One tablespoon lemon juice
• Medium slices of toast or stale bread, one per serving, brushed with olive oil
• Grated parmesano reggiano cheese

1. Quarter the onions, then thinly slice
2. Thinly slice the shallots
3. Place both in a large soup pot, add oil, cover, and cook over a medium heat until soft, stirring often
4. In a small pan boil the water, add the bullion cubes, nutmeg, and coriander
5. Add the bullion mix, tomato, and the stock to the onions, bring to a boil, then simmer for 20 minutes
6. Stir in the sugar, sage, and lemon juice, simmer for another 10 minutes, stirring occasionally
7. Add pepper to taste
8. Add the pasta, simmer for 7 minutes
9. Serve over toast or bread, and top with the grated cheese

Big day, today.

First a walk, then shopping at the Metà on Corso Cavour, home to unload, then more shopping at the other store on Via Signorelli. Each time, my shoulder bag was so weighed down that I could barely get it place. I should be stocked for the better part of a week. I also ordered a six liter pack of water for delivery.

“Thursday okay?”

“What’s today?”

“Monday.”

“Really? Sure, Thursday. About what time?”

“Why, you going somewhere?”

“Good point.”

“Usually before lunch.”

“I’ll make an extra effort to dress.”

“Appreciated.”

With no outside obligations, my daily schedule has been slipping further and further from what I’m used to. My winter hours are already on the late side, mostly as to when I take a morning walk (waiting for sunshine), but from this vantage they look like a page out of Poor Richard’s Almanac. “Early to rise” has been replaced with, “rise after looking at the clock and deciding that 10:30 isn’t terribly late, so why not take a nap because after all, I didn’t really fall asleep until almost four.” But the weather is milder, and with these short, repetitive walks, why not hit the trail by seven or eight, even if it means doing it unshaved, un-meditated, and without contacts (but with hands well-washed)? I feel better all day when I walk early, and frankly like I’m cranking up a leaky bucket from a very deep well, when I don’t.

On my way to Via Signorelli, I passed Anna (my ceramicist friend and Renzo’s sister). She waved and blew a kiss. Seconds later, the first car I’ve actually encountered (as opposed to watching one pass on a cross street) in maybe two weeks, barreled around the twist in the road. The driver waved cheerily. It was Riccardo, owner of the restaurant, Il Malendrino, and one of the warmest and most enthusiastic spirits I’ve ever known. At the market, Corrado rang up my purchases, bagged them, and helped me heft the bag onto my shoulder. All that together made for a thrilling afternoon.

On the way home down Corso, past the theatre, I began to reminisce about Umbria Jazz – my jazz buddy, Gianna, the packed streets, the wandering band who call themselves Funk Off and who are alone worth a trip to Orvieto between Christmas and New Years. I imagined having an extra bedroom; who would I invite for Jazz Fest? 

Before all that, just as I decided that a walk was long overdue, it started to rain. Serious rain. Drenching rain. Raindrops bouncing off the garden pavement, rain. I hung inside and read emails. One asked if I’d walked yet, and offered by way of inspiration Papa Francesco and his Easter stroll, which he will take regardless of the weather. I put on my shoes, reached for the umbrella. The rain stopped, and sun broke through. I like Papa Francesco. I guess he likes me, too.

Emboldened, I organized myself for going to market, figuring that if the weather held, the walk would ease seamlessly into shopping. I hit the streets like a puppy that had to pee. The weather held. Two laps on, it hit me that the streets were almost completely dry, already. Here and there an indentation on an individual stone held a pocket of water, but the deluge had been absorbed by…? By what? The air? The spaces between pavers filled with spring grass of an exaggerated green? I may never know.

I also took time to notice the little bridge between houses the lane passes under just before it joins Via Montemarte. I remembered correctly about its height; five useable feet inside, at best, with the window set snugly under the eaves. The planter boxes are showing a bare hint of geranium, but sport an untamed beard of English ivy. The shutters are closed. 

I pictured myself a little girl (I can do that, it’s all imagination) who loves to sit at that window on a low stool and peer over the flowers at those passing beneath her; friendly children, grandparents and cousins, favorite dogs, stealthy cats, Stefano on his bicycle off to make soup. No one looks up save the occasional foreigner (with or without a camera) and some of those stop, stand, wave, wink, or look away suddenly because they are startled by the girl’s smile and sparkling eyes. When she wants to give them their privacy, she closes the shutters and peers through the slats. But it is not privacy for her own sake, only for their’s – to allow them stare as long as they like while they wonder what sort of creature walks across that bridge, trims and waters the flowers, closes the shutters against the sun, and opens them again to let in the evening breeze.

Postscript – after I finished this, Renzo provided a container of puréed vegetable soup and two pieces of pasta sfoglia stuffed with squacquerone (a soft cheese), cherry tomatoes, and roasted eggplant, with compliments from Patrizia. I could have sworn there were caramelized onions in the pasta sfoglia. I didn’t take a photo, I was too delighted to wait. It was all delicious.

I last went shopping on Wednesday, I believe. I should check my notes. 

I planned to shop again yesterday, but it wasn’t absolutely necessary, so I put it off until today. This morning I surveyed my stores and determined that I could wait until tomorrow. That can’t be delayed. I’m out of honey. My mother swore that the best immune builder was apple vinegar and honey (local and seasonal, if available), a tablespoon of each in hot water once a day. She lived to be ninety-six, so even as I made fun of it during my luxury of youth, I am now a devotee. She’s pleased, I know, that at least one scrap of her wisdom finally made it through to me.

Late this morning, I took a nap, and had a most sprawling, complex dream. (So you will keep reading, I promise not to bore you with weird dream details, only the essence.) I was teaching a class to a group of young Italians as a favor to my friend Riccardo Cambri. “Here’s an American,” he said, pulling me out of the crowd, “Ask him questions about America!” I felt totally unqualified, so gradually redirected that to having students give presentations on theirimpressions of America. The last of these was by local shoemaker, Federico Badia. His wife is from Ohio, and his English is excellent, so he presented in English. Federico is one of the most gracious and admirable people I know. It was so great to see him that I woke up smiling.

Sometimes, a dream is all it takes.

I walked the Circus Minimus of my courtyard again, this afternoon, while podcasting On the Media. Listening to Stateside news, or even to general references to it, makes my toenails curl. Enough said.

That was followed at some point by emails and messages. 

Everyone is now in Italy, or so it seems from this perspective. Where Italy was a few weeks ago, all are there now, or are rapidly approaching. I’d sooner you had come in healthier circumstances as cherished guests, but no one consulted me for my preferences. But at least fear rarely reaches me anymore. The best we can do is apply caution as public health requires, and live well. Orvieto is still relatively unaffected, probably in large part due to isolation and lockdown. I’m more than happy to do what we must, and as long as we must, to keep it that way. 

Life in this town is still richer, more comfortable, and less dangerous in lockdown than in most periods of its several thousand years of history. We can do this. The Etruscans are cheering us on. The birds we see at eye-level – whose ancestors’ flight patterns were observed by those Etruscans to augur weather, crops, and auspicious times to begin projects – still swoop and fly even if I can’t personally watch them from cliffs’ edge. Friends who do live close to the cliff (or have a dog) can watch, and if they have an Etruscan moment of revelation regarding our collective efforts to withstand the viral siege, perhaps they’ll write me about it. If there is a way through this, the Etruscans should be our happy guides. According to the murals we’ve found, they loved song, dance, and good food. Though most of our song and dance may be streamed these days, I have a good feeling that households alla rupe know well how to enjoy their meals.

I just returned from a walk. I had counted on something happening that would finish this post. Someone exited a house on our lane and rushed off carrying a bag, walking away from me. That’s it. It has been a very quiet day in my little world. When it is this quiet, it’s an even greater challenge to pay attention, to notice detail.

The major part of my walk, a length of narrow lane called Via delle Pertiche No. 2 was, before I lived on Via della Pertiche No. 1, a spot I’d come to this part of town especially for. Just as the lane ends at Via Montemarte, there is a little arch between the houses on either side. In the arch is a window. During good weather, beneath the window is a box planter overflowing with geranium. The arch doesn’t seem tall enough to function as a passage for anyone over the age of ten. I love that marvelous thread of incongruity, yet tonight, I don’t remember looking up as I approached that little arch, even once, nor during many nights prior.  (But what a magical place to have access to as a child!)

Renzo sent out a sort of carpe diem message earlier that he’d received from somewhere. It read lovely in Italian with musical repetitions and looping phrases. I wonder if there is a carpe noctem version. I’d find both quite handy about now.

The photo was taken at about this time of year, three years ago. Somebody tell me what it looks like now!

I took my midday walk in the Circus Minimus, but instead of counting laps, I listened to a fifty minute podcast from WNYC; Krista Tippet’s conversation with Ross Gay, an essayist and community organizer. I trust I did the reps as scheduled. I was appropriately tired at the conclusion. But never getting to free movement may suggest returning to the street tomorrow for my midday jaunt. Or, to take advantage of the privacy of the courtyard, adding an early morning walk in my sweats and slippers.

As I climbed the exterior stairs to my studio, Patrizia came onto her balcony. We chatted.

“Any big plans for today? Exciting trips? Maybe a movie? Dinner at Sette Consoli?”

“Maybe I’ll sit in the living room, just for a change. I didn’t work today.”

“No?” Patrizia is secretary for the entire district of five (maybe six) high schools. “Because it’s Saturday?”

“No, because I didn’t feel like it. Working at home is fun for awhile, then it feels like you never leave work. So, today I’m staying at home.”

Renzo joined her. I explained I was walking the circuit and listening to a podcast, “Not the news, the news from the States is too brutal.”

“Brutal all over. Difficult to listen to. I’ve got something in the oven.”

“Oh boy!”

He chuckled and went in. Patrizia remained, taking the air and staying at home.

The circular walk merited a short nap, so I took one. I replied to a bunch of emails, trying to direct friends to this blog in answer to questions about life in Orvieto, or at least about my life in Orvieto. Then after a phone conversation with a friend who lives five minutes away by foot (ten by car), I fixed a sandwich and sat down to write an early post.

When I use too many adjectives, it’s a sure sign I have no real idea of what I’m trying to say. These pages are a journal. I may admire the work of essayists, may slip toward that format myself from time to time, but these should be based on what happened today, or at a minimum what memories were provoked by the day’s events. So, I pronounced the post aborted, saved it generically, and took a walk.

Probably because it was earlier than usual, I passed several people tonight. The beautiful brown boxer was out with her owner. She slyly managed to perform a double feint and snuck in a lick on my hand. That alone might sustain me for a week. It was as if she understood the situation and wanted to express her affection in spite of it.

I passed my neighbor, Enrica, who is also an assistant to my beloved dentists.

A man I don’t know in stocking cap and mask, collar on his coat turned up, appeared suddenly out of an alley as I passed. My body responded with a thrill of unnecessary, but rather pleasurable fear. At the end of the street I turned to change direction and inadvertently paid the poor fellow back in kind.

At the same spot on the next lap, I caught Stefano, who makes my favorite soups, just as he went into his house. He recognized me late, reopened his door, and sent a smile, a wave, and a buona sera my way, all three gratefully returned.

Mumbling back to my gate I could feel my body loosen, slide into synchronicity with my gait. A healing body is not only an expression of mechanical functioning. It wants to be well-tuned. I’ve had several wonderful conversations with absent friends yesterday and today, courtesy of WhatsApp, but this evening’s brief encounters were as rich and beneficial with no conversation at all, and really helped with the tuning.

I love the rapt attention dogs will give each other from across a piazza, an unabashed admission that to see one of its own species is significant, even if one of them is a wolfhound and the other a terrier. What happens next is not always so admirable, but each time I see that spellbound fixation on the possibility of a social interaction, I look around at the people going here and there and am struck at how strongly we too are socially wired, we just have more complex communication skills – or at least more complicated.

At times like these, during which spontaneous contact is so rare, I am reminded again that even in its rareness and brevity, and even from a two-meter distance, contact is very, very special.

The photo, by the way, is from 2018.

Orvieto endured occupation by Nazi forces for nearly nine months, and that was followed by months more of chaos, uncertainty, and civil strife. I can’t honestly bring myself to complain about twenty days without pizza. I may think about complaining, but really, for both the common and personal good, I will endure, too.

Spooked by various interpretations I’ve heard as to what walks are allowed, I decided to count the steps back and forth in my little courtyard as a possible surrogate, at least for daylight treks. As you may recall, I paced out the route of my late night walk a few days ago, so I had a gauge that only needed use of the multiplication tables to produce a total: 2,600 steps. The courtyard paced off at 10-12 steps, so I settled for 250 repetitions as a midday walk equivalent.

At first, I went from door to gate. I did that fifty times. Then I looked at the umbrella (still down in winter mode) and the plastic wicker, and drawing inspiration from Roman sports architecture, quickly built Circus Minimus, an oval route around a long spine. That was much better, more fluid, so a hundred circuits finished the walk. It was a little like doing laps in a 30-foot pool, you never get up to speed, but in the end I felt exercised.

Halfway through this routine, Renzo came onto his balcony.

“I’m sending down the basket.”

“Why? More baked goods?”

“Yep. Hold on.”

He disappeared into his house. I continued my circuits, picking up speed. Imagining myself a charioteer, I heard the thunderous the roar of the crowds. As I was rounding number sixty-something, the tiny basket dropped down.

“Another crostata, and marmalade-filled cookies.”

“Oooh! Perfect!”

“For lunch!”

“Excellent timing, I just had lunch before I came out.”

“Now you have dessert,” and he hoisted the basket aloft. Okay, for elegance sake I left out that he dropped the ball of twine, and after some confusion, I placed it in the basket so basket and twine could ascend together.

“Thank you my friend!” I took the gifts inside and sampled one of the cookies. The pastry was melt-in-your-mouth delicious, and the filling soft and fruity.

On repetition seventy-something, Renzo came out again.

“Did you try one?”

“Mamma mia, so good!”

He nodded and smiled, chuckled a bit. “There will be more.” What have I done to deserve such kindness?

A story on a darker side of sugar has been playing through my head these days. You’ll understand why when I tell you.

Forty-some years ago, a friend recorded an interview with his father who had survived several Nazi concentration camps. What he shared was remarkable, and I will never forget it. At the end of the interview he told about the liberation.

The last camp he was in was run by a regular army officer. The war was coming to an end, and SS rarely visited anymore, so the commandant made every effort to assure that the prisoners under his charge made it through, alive and safe. Each night, the prisoners and their guards stood at the fence and watched the fire of the Allied advance. When it became clear that liberation was only a day or two away, the commandant sent a trusted second-in-command towards the lines with news of what lay ahead, and to implore the Allies to move quickly. Also, to tell them to be prepared to take hundreds of prisoners to safety. Then against orders, which were to burn the prisoners alive, they marched towards the Americans to surrender. Everything progressed accordingly. The Allies took charge of the men and sheltered them in a warehouse while they sought ways to provision them.

“Then came the great tragedy,” my friend’s father said. The Americans didn’t know it, but in storerooms off the main part of the warehouse were closets filled with sweets; chocolate bars, soft drinks, candy. The men housed there had not tasted sugar for months, some for years. The closets were discovered, the sweets eaten, and that night more than half the men died of insulin shock.

It’s not over until it’s over.

Today, yesterday’s need to connect with distant others grew more ferocious. We have the means to communicate such as no humans before have imagined, and we can do it instantly during a crisis that is watched in ways no humans before have done. So, I treated it as a moral obligation to text and write whoever was on my mind. People I love but normally wouldn’t want to bother. I bothered them, asked how they are and “please stay well and in touch” and signed off with “hugs”, “abbracci”, and “love”. Because yes, that’s how I feel, and what purpose can there possibly be in pretending otherwise?

A friend I’ve probably spent less time with than I have with my dentist (in fact, you can scratch the “probably”) but who is dear just the same, responded that he had caught a flu, but nothing serious, twenty-four hour bug. My hair stood on end (metaphorically – my hair only actually does that early in the morning). Here, he would have already been tested, his condition assessed, precautions taken. I told him that. It felt like I was being invasive. Also felt that I may be proposing a fantasy. Are there kits available where he lives, does he qualify if there are, could he afford the test? I read what is and what is not going on in the States, but I don’t really know what it all means on the ground.

Another friend who lives in Queens – reported to be the New York City borough hardest hit by the virus – answered that he was on his way into town for work. (New Yorkers quaintly refer to Manhattan as “town”. Go figure.) I wanted to cover him with a protective coating, a cape of gold.

I just messaged another friend of importance, someone else my dentist beats out for quality time spent. Because his office is in Manhattan, I’d not given him much thought. This afternoon, I suddenly remembered that he lives in Westchester County which was hit hard and early. This person is distant enough from my social circle that he may not have my number in his phone, so I signed my name. He may find it strange even to hear from me, but he’s a fine and generous fellow, and I’m concerned.

Express my concern! Whoever it is comes into my thoughts, or into my life. I never know why they appear in that manner or at that moment, my contact may be important in ways I cannot anticipate.

It makes a difference where you have spent the last two weeks in how vociferous (via text, email, call) you become. People from abroad have been contacting their friends in Italy because we have been perceived to be residing in the monster’s belly. We still are, but there is apparently no shortage of bellies that belong to this monster. And by now we know the drill, and it’s coming your way, and I, for one, want to know how you’re handling it. Seriously, I hope. Take it with good humor, a smile if you can, and as much kindness and patience and forbearance as you’re able to muster, but take not a bit of it casually. And please, please, stay well. Bad enough that people I felt I knew but didn’t, like Terrance McNally, have been taken, I want my friends (and everyone’s friends – impossible as that may be) to live and flourish, to not join any statistics. 

The World Health Organization publishes those statistics at the end of every day. We can access them here so long as our Internet connection holds. Today there was a uptick in new cases in Italy after five days trending (though not always falling) downward. This makes me sad – for the suffering it represents, the lives that could be lost, and the dear ones that may be missed. It is also sad because the numbers are not reflecting our efforts at containment as well, today, as they seemed to be, yesterday. And maybe I’m unreasonably impatient.

Can a country that may have begun its health emergency measures a few days later than it should have, still succeed? If so, watch what we are doing, here. I want to participate in that model because we all need to know this can work. Most other places are late, too. Some seem to be treating that fact as if cavalier neglect were a virtue. Learn from us! Listen to the educated, compassionate, and caring voices among you. There are plenty of them. Don’t let the noise drown them out.

The Italian word for noise is rumore.

I read the early pages of this diary with a bit of chagrin. The person who wrote them seems so innocent. Not that I’ve hardened in the days since (quite the opposite, really) but I had the notion that with the earnest acceptance of “doing what we must do” we would, by April, come to a point where the crisis would begin to abate, even if just enough for us to transform hope into trust. I suppose it still might, we’re approaching a crucial point in containment strategy. But whenever we reach that point, it is a good thing that in this new isolation we are learning the qualities of attentiveness, simplicity, and more careful application of our energies. We may be building a new society from these bricks of purpose, without a masterplan and not knowing exactly why, but one that leads to a positive resolution. The way some of us write blog posts. The way this beautiful city was built.