Author: dallanz

Day before yesterday, I cooked the zucchini and gorgonzola soup. It was easy to make and is (still) delicious to eat.

Nothing’s happened today, so far. I took a midday walk, didn’t see a soul. I went shopping for the first time since Saturday. Gabriele and (I’ve got to ask his name) blue-eyed checker were organizing vast delivery orders. It was the slow time, and I was the only customer in the store. Fewer than ten minutes there, and my company-deprived self felt like I had spent a weekend away with my favorite cousins.

An old friend from my San Francisco, Fabulous Theatre Co., days writes that he and his wife are in the Sierra foothills. As I read that, I could smell the crackling air, feel its special flavors, remember the bright slant of the morning sun. The noisy silence of nature. He’s teaching stagecraft online. I have no idea how you do that.

Another friend from the same gang teaches English as a second language, and is adapting to online classes via Zoom. Suddenly, Zoom is everywhere.

A third member of the company has a sprawling property near Mendocino. She normally gives massage. Her quarantine is to stop massage for a month. She’s remote enough, that’s about all that’s necessary.

The fourth member describes days not dissimilar to mine; more urban, dog-walking, house-staying.

A long-ago Santa Cruz, Parsifal’s Players friend who lives in Cambridge, MA chimes in on that score. Her days have become about organizing drawers.

My friends from New York City, Metropolitan Playhouse days, I worry about almost without ceasing. When the worries do cease, it is because they have been crowded out by shining memories.

My friend here, Maria who weaves beautiful scarves on Via dei Magoni, lives outside of Gabelletta in a cottage on a plot of land with fruit trees. She takes long walks in the woods and watches from afar the silent city brooding in the sunlight, hatching her future. Another country-dwelling chum, Giancarlo, is biding his time with his dog, Black, and tending to his garden. Both are living the lives they have wanted to live since we met, free of their shops and schedules.

Jimmy and Laura, and their puppets, near Acquapendente live in sunset-splattered meadow surrounded by trees and described by a river. They write that they hardly notice the quarantine. The puppets are content.

People here on the Rock have disappeared into their caves, or so it seems. Antonny and Romina, Pina, Franca, the various Cristiano’s and Massimo’s, even neighbors Stefano, Gianni, Maria, Annalisa, Giancarlo, and Davide. I do see Renzo, Patrizia, and the smoker with the gentle air. I wonder after Paula of the eternal smile, the bewilderingly perfect twins Nadia and Natasha, newly-arrives from the States, Joan and daughter Angela, elegant Luisa, brilliant Giorgio, jovial Kamal – they are all minutes away by foot, but have vanished! Dear friends, Erika, Michael, Andrea, Natsuko, Riccardo, Marina, Roy, Lucianna, Rosella… and so many more. In normal times I see them rarely or see them regularly, but in these times, we visit only in our minds. A trip to Piazza Ranieri or Via Malabranca seems like it would require crossing an ocean. Our personal worlds shrink precipitously.

How blithely we accepted that snack slice of Margherita pizza, a lunch picked out from Montanucci’s jeweled buffet, the true flavors of Tomasso’s walnut gelato. How used we became to being dazzled by Riccardo at the piano, demonstrating thematic variation for his class of old folk on Tuesday morning. How I came to expect Michele would be here next week for another shiatsu, that we (any of us) would walk together in the rain, arms linked and memories warm from a meal well-shared, that a knot huddled over martinis would wave me in to join them even though I don’t really drink. How long ago was all that? Seventeen days?

With devoted effort at isolation, we will be all that again, and – I hope – with newly (and devoutly) appreciative eyes.

Everything changes. So must we.

While we wait, cook zucchini soup!

• One large yellow onion
• Two tablespoons of olive oil
• Two tablespoons butter
• One shallot
• Five or six medium zucchini
• Two cans chicken stock
• One cube chicken bullion
• Half cup dry white vermouth
• One tablespoon dried oregano (or fresh sage)
• About three ounces gorgonzola & dolcetta cheese (or six ounces – or one pack – of a combo called Duetto)
• Salt
• Pepper
• Nutmeg

• Rough chop the onion and shallot
• Combine in oil and butter, sauté until tender (covered)
• Rough chop zucchini, stir into onion/shallot mixture
• Add oregano/sage, stir well, continue to cook for about five minutes on low heat
• Add chicken stock, vermouth, and bullion, bring to boil, simmer for about ten minutes
• Blend with stick blender until smooth
• Add cheese gradually while blending
• Add salt, pepper, nutmeg to taste, stir well.
• Allow to sit for at least an hour before reheating (or chilling) and serve.

A real-life metaphor. Or possibly a parable. 

I felt pretty loose this morning, and convinced myself, perhaps unwisely… “Perhaps”? Screw that. I deluded myself into thinking that I could get by with only my late-night skulk, skipping over any thought of daylight perambulations. Wrong. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that I was finally forced to admit my gross error of judgement.

This morning I ran across a bit of pertinent info (I don’t recall where) regards what is legally allowed before a walker has to resort to showing a note from his or her doctor. We are permitted to walk for exercise (ours or our dog’s) for up to two hundred meters from home. Nothing was said about walking in circles, zigzags, t-shapes, or figure eights, so I blithely assume all such figurations are okay. The news ought to have been encouragement enough for me to leap up, lace the sneakers, and bound onto the street, parameters now having been securely established. But it was cold outside. And windy. And a friend across town reported snow – which took an hour to arrive in Via delle Pertiche – and even though the attempt at snow (once it got here) appeared lame and insufficient to a former resident of Scranton and New York, I seized upon the excuse with the fervor of the desperate.

After an hour or two of masterful procrastination, I grabbed my peacoat (now permanently filled with tissue, wallet, keys, and doctor’s note) zipped it up to my chin, and twisted the grey scarf around my neck. As a second thought, I grabbed my shopping bag. I had determined I could wait until tomorrow to shop if I were strict with myself about consumption of acqua frizzante (bubbly water), but since I’d be out during the slow time at the supermarket…

Eager to know exactly at what point I would be breaking the law, I counted steps for the route that would take me furthest from my front gate. Figuring a stride is less than a meter, I estimated 260 steps to equal two hundred meters. I set out with great resolve. The wind gusted, and blew my scarf into my open mouth. It all felt rather heroic.

Arriving at the intersection of Via delle Donne and Via Felice Cavolotti, I counted 280 steps. Close enough. I could argue the additional twenty. I swiveled and strode on towards Via Montemarte, from which on my return home counted as a mere 220 steps. I was clearly within bounds.

Emboldened by my new legality, I decided that yes, I would shop today, why deprive myself of frizzante when others were having it delivered by the case? Next swing by home, I’d go in, load up with change, and at the end of my reps would head straight for Metà. Oh! I’d better check my wallet, change might not be enough. 

I reached for the zipper cursor. It wouldn’t budge. I pulled harder. It resisted harder. I yanked and practically choked myself. I removed my scarf so I could get a better grip. No dice. The wind came up, the snow returned, the scarf blew into my gaping mouth – none of which added up to my feeling heroic.

I kept walking. The problem unfolded before me. The zipper will need someone else’s pulling at it, I could not achieve the correct angle. I can’t ask one of the guys at the market because, unless one of them has exceptionally long arms, it would violate social distancing. I live alone. There is no one else.

For one circuit of my route, I imagined 1) pulling the coat off like a sweater, risking suffocation and/or a broken nose from the zipped collar in my attempt, 2) being stuck in the jacket for however long the lockdown lasts, all the while praying that the weather does not turn warm, 3) cutting myself out with scissors, which, given my random sheering techniques, constituted the most perilous proposition.

I turned towards home. The snow thickened. A letter awaited me in the mailbox, I retrieved it. I wanted to open it, but felt I should deal with the zipper first.

Of course, as is my body’s wont, within a minute of arriving home I was overtaken by a irrepressible urge to pee, which, given that I was imprisoned in a mid-thigh length coat, made for a very amusing vaudeville.

A ridiculous story made good, I sat, I studied the cursor with my fingers, I pulled at a certain angle, and the zipper gave way a few inches. I stood, gave the cursor another yank, it gave a few more inches. A third tug and it was free. And so was I.

What I just skipped over is that the first thing I tried was to remove the coat like a sweater. I did not persist, which was wise – or at least not too stupid – because as I surmised earlier, the consequences would have been dire.

The moral? A coat is not a sweater. It is vitally important that we see things for what they are.

The photo is courtesy of Ida and Hans. It’s darkly funny, but it is even more terrifying. The good news is that new cases of the virus in Italy have been down for three days in a row. Things are still grim, but our efforts seem to be making a difference. Persist.

No crostata ex machina today. I passed three people on my thirty minute morning walk – back and forth, back and forth – two smiled, one of those also nodded. Those two represent the social life of the moment. Count your blessings.

There is a beautiful grey cat with golden eyes that has, periodically, frequented my yard. (I didn’t even see him today, but never mind.) He’s friendly and affectionate, but at the height of his affections he likes to claw and bite. I’m fairly sure that in the feline universe that’s attractive, sexy behavior, but me, don’t like it much. Nevertheless it was nice to have him around gracing the flower beds, so one day last fall I bought a bag of cat chow. I set up a bowl on the ledge nearest the front door to the house, and anticipated his next visit.

Cats here are very good – I should say, remarkably good – at climbing walls. Maybe cats everywhere are, but if so it is a trait I was not familiar with until I moved here. The wall between my garden and the street is about two meters high. So is the wall that separates my garden and the rear neighbor’s. And I’ve seen any number of cats who visit leaping and scaling these sheer drops like it was nothing. My grey visitor is not one of these. Oh, he obviously can, and does, climb into my yard, and I’ve seen him do it. But he would sooner find me and meow until I open the gate, either hectoring me from the house, or badgering me on the street. And naturally, I’ve interpreted these meowings as a plea for victuals.

But my attempt to feed was not met with enthusiasm. I know where he generally hangs out, and the food they offer doesn’t look any more special than mine, but he took a few sniffs and declared (and loudly, too) my offering to be beneath his customary standards. I left the food for a few days, went to Bratislava for two weeks, and it was still there when I returned. Okay, I’d forgotten about it, and it was distinctly unappealing by then, but I use that as an example of the extreme disdain that the grey cat has shown my attempts at luring him in as a customer at my osteria.

Well, shortly after the beginning of the lockdown, he met me on the street. I’d not seen him for months, so this was a surprise. I let him into the yard and he followed me to the house, meowing in that half demanding, half pleading way that his kind is so good at.

“I only have the same food you rejected last October.”

“Meow.”

“You’re welcome to it, but you’ll probably remember it was beneath your dignity last time.”

“Meoooowwww!”

“Okay, I’ll give you some.”

“Meeuu.”

“Be right back.”

Just as I expected, he sniffed at the pile of dried ovals, but didn’t commence eating.

“Fine. I’ll leave it, do as you like.”

I passed by a few hours later, and there was a significant hole in the middle of the pile. I’ve not seen him since, but I refresh the bowl every morning, and by next morning, there are only random bits remaining. The cat is in quarantine mode. Something, even déclassé, is better than (horrors) chasing lizards.

Now, people in this town seem pretty loyal to their wandering cats. Some of the cats, I’m sure, have homes, others reliable feeding stations. So this fellow’s sudden reappearance requires a creative explanation. Could be his kitchen staff, as it were, were caught out of town by the quarantine declaration, leaving him to beg off others he knew to be at least moderately friendly, if not possessed of much gastronomic sophistication. I suspect that must be it. No lockdown rule that says you can’t step outside your front door for a moment to feed your wayward cat. So, this guy made the rounds.

“Who offered me food (even of an inferior quality) during the past six months? If I hang outside his gate long enough, he’ll eventually fall victim to my charms and let me in. He serves garbage, but it’s a meal.”

There is another grey cat in the neighborhood who hangs out two streets away from golden-eyes. She is pure grey, my visitor has a white triangle on his chest. In good weather I meet her fairly regularly. She sees me coming, climbs onto the nearest car, and throws herself into play mode. No bites, no scratches, just purrs while she pushes her head into my neck. I love her dearly, but do not want to see her until we can legally, and safely, touch. At any rate, it’s good to know that she’s not just after my kibble.

Photo is of the grey with triangle, showing off his aristocratic airs.

The door buzzer sounded like the secret police were at the gate. Must be Renzo. 

I buzzed the gate open, looked out onto the little courtyard, and there, suspended on brown twine was a tiny basket perfectly sized to hold a square of something wrapped in foil. Renzo waited on the street for my reaction. I looked up and saw Patrizia on their balcony two floors above holding the other end of the twine, smiling and laughing. Renzo pushed open the gate.

“I called but you didn’t hear me.”

“My phone was upstairs, and before that I took a walk. This is wonderful. Like I’m a prisoner, but in a good way.”

In my mind he answered, “we’re all prisoners these days.” Or maybe he actually said it. Social deprivation does that to your brain.

“What is it?”

“Crostata, fresh this morning.” And he pointed at his chest to take credit, but humbly so.

I looked up again at Patrizia “on pin rail” (a reference for you theatrical types) still smiling, and I laughed.

“You guys are the best!” Or some Italian equivalent thereof.

We all laughed. I removed the wrapped square and the basket flew up toward the fly loft in professionally smooth fashion.

“Buon pranzo!”

“Altrettanto!”

And with waves from both, they were off to lunch at their very private trattoria next door.

How elegantly planned. How perfectly theatrical. What a gift they are.

The crostata (apricot) was excellent.

I didn’t get to my Roman emperor at Capri imitation today. I did a little umbrella prep, but was discouraged by the forecast of high winds. Better to leave it for now, crank it up at week’s end. Time is one thing we have plenty of, these days.

I took morning and afternoon walks, though — the very local routes. I now believe when the policeman told me to “walk at home” he was actually saying to “walk near home”. They had seen me the day before at Piazza del Duomo and said nothing, but when I showed up on Piazza della Repubblica, they intervened. For those of you who know this town, or who are looking now at a map, there’s no way those two locations could both be “near home” and Orvieto’s best quickly figured that out. (My conclusion regards the details of the lockdown edict is courtesy of an article sent to me by a friend in Pennsylvania. That’s the connected world we live in.) I will walk again tonight. Not keeping up with three walks daily has taken its toll, and I need to get back on routine if this national regimen is going to last weeks longer, which seems likely.

At least once a day on one of my highly repetitive strolls, I see her. She is a brown (possibly small breed) boxer. I say “possibly” because she’s still young and I’m not sure how much she has yet to grow. We met on Corso Cavour one day in warm weather and became instant friends. I saw her two or three times thereafter, and each time she would frolic while her mistress strained at the leash. A lovely puppy, so adorable, so irresistibly playful.

Then a couple of months passed, and nothing.

Some time before Lockdown, maybe in late January or early February, we began to cross paths again in this neighborhood. Well, she had grown in size and strength, but was still full of puppy enthusiasm. Her greeting was a bit like an affectionate attack. Her mistress struggled to pull her away, and I struggled to turn it into play, while also rescuing my shopping bag and corduroy jacket from her eager jaws. Still, I relished seeing her, and we encountered at that spot and in that way a couple of times more. Awhile later I’d see them turning a corner, and wave to the woman with the leash. The dog would take gloriously beautiful poses of rapt attention. This repeated a number of times, then we all decided to stay indoors for a few weeks.

But our walks now occasionally coincide, except the woman’s husband is carrying the leash. All the same reactions happen, but we cannot touch. I wave and wonder how long this can go on before she becomes disappointed. It breaks my heart, and I apologize vocally, which the husband, not knowing our history, doubtless finds passing peculiar. I have to try to fill him in one of these days.

So it goes. The virus found tragically fertile ground in a country whose inhabitants love to touch, and it exploited that fondness in ruthless (though quite natural for a virus) fashion. And now we have to stop touching each other to undermine its flourishing. It’s a worthy and necessary effort, and we trust it will succeed by and by, but it sure makes for a strange interlude.

The photo is of a theatrical pin rail, so you don’t have to look it up. From there, the rigger flies drops into the loft. Follow that?

I looked at the weather for the next few days, and it is gorgeous for the weekend, then on Monday and Tuesday it dips to highs of +7C (about 45F). That’s not really cold, but neither is it gardening weather. Not for me, anyway. So I decided to forestall preparing the zucchini soup until Monday so I could enjoy the milder temperatures while they lasted. I had visions of repairing the corners of the umbrella and letting it spread magnificently across my little courtyard, then of lounging under it like a Roman emperor at his villa in Capri.

Didn’t happen. I hadn’t accounted for a chill wind and once I noticed, didn’t feel like sitting in it. One may not actually contract viruses from the cold, but why test the theory now? I managed to do a few simple tasks outside, but mostly I spent my day indoors.

I did make it to Metà at 15:30, the quiet time, and sure enough, there was no one in line and only me and two others in the store. Gabriele was on the phone as I walked in. I didn’t catch any of the conversation, but he was earnestly engaged. I went about collecting ingredients for the soup, and other basics, and returned front to an empty line.

My friend Anna came in. We did air-kisses, she smiled broadly and said, “Just like normal!” I was glad to see the smile and welcomed her good humor; last I saw her she seemed to be having a hard time adjusting.

Gabriele was still on the phone as I checked out. I couldn’t tell if it was the same or a subsequent call, but he was saying, in a most cordial manner, “…at Liceo Artistico (The Arts High School).” (pause) “Right at the bottom of Via Roma. Yes, just off Piazza Cahen. I have a green Ape (a kind of tiny three-wheeled pickup) will that be enough?” Then I became absorbed in the logistics of bagging – as Gabriele was otherwise occupied – and missed how the conversation progressed.

It sounded like he was arranging for a delivery to a plague town (though Orvieto has not been severely hit) – “Leave the merchandize at the gate with your bill, we’ll arrange for payment via our agents in Padua.” I flashed on his comment of a few days ago that everything took three times the effort of a week before, and as I reflected on shelves that showed a bit more paint than they did even on Tuesday, I wondered if that ratio were now up to nine times the effort.

As I rounded the corner to home, one of my neighbors was standing at the front door to his building enjoying a smoke. I think he just moved in a few months ago – at any rate, we only began exchanging greetings a few months ago.

“Salve,” he nodded (sort of like, “howdy”, only more Roman).

“Salve. How’re you doing these days?”

“We’re well. We have to do this, don’t we? So we do it. All we need is a little patience.”

“A little? A lot of patience.” I responded in my loud American voice.

He looked puzzled.

“Sorry. A little. It’s not really so bad.” Or at least that’s what I wish I’d said. Instead I bade him a nice evening and rushed through my gate.

Part of that sudden escape was simply because my Italian-readiness in speech has degraded during these last few days of isolation, and I didn’t trust myself to correct my over-reaction in a way that would make sense. A larger part of it was that I had shocked myself with the exaggeration, however mild, that had taken over my personality. I had vividly experienced a cultural divide concisely expressed in an exchange of a dozen or so words. Perhaps my young neighbor had not experienced those events that required more than a little patience, personally, but the knowledge of them has been passed down in the communal genetic code. As rigorous as the quarantine is, it pales in its demands on the community compared to – well, pick a decade. There are heroes aplenty in the health system, the government, the police, even in the Gabrile’s and delivery folk of the nation, but all most of us have to do so far is to stay at home.

“All we need is a little patience.”

I went out again immediately, before I lost impetus, to the fruttavendolo (produce shop) for zucchini and shallots. The shop is owned by a high-energy, bright-eyed young Orvietana who, after at least two years of regular conversation over purchases, I am finally beginning to understand – a word here and there. I usually am able to respond comprehensibly if not always appropriately, but today I could tell from her expression that it was too much trouble to figure out what I had meant by what I had just said. I dropped stuff, fumbled the change, and stammered my goodbyes.

I have to start with the online lessons again, because the slide is not going to reverse itself. Sometimes it’s a blessing to be told to stay at home.

The photo of Metà is from before it was renamed “Pam”. As a sophomore in high school I developed a crush on a girl named Pam, and, rationally or not, I don’t want my supermarket to share the name. She moved to Alaska, by the way.

(Okay, let’s see if I can write this thing in under a half hour.)

My mother seemed always to be amazed at how quickly I did things.

“That would have taken me an hour, and you do it in five minutes.”

Of course, I loved that, and years of praise for my swiftness as a child ingrained habits of swiftness as an adult. I pride myself on being swift and on schedule. Of course I do, such identities don’t go away easily, but bodily reality slows me down, and a retiree’s schedule is highly theoretical.

Then came the lockdown. I wake earlier these days than has lately been my custom, but am still nervous about making it to the bar before Giancarlo runs out of strudel (even though he always saves me a piece) and onto the Anello before it’s too sunny on the section I walk (even in winter when sunshine is deliciously welcome). Then I look outside. Oh, right, lockdown. No bar, no strudel, no Anello, no direct sun, mitigated walk at best.

So, I drift downstairs and read, then meditate. Meditation, until three days ago, always involved a timer. I had things to do! People to see! Can’t sit around all day! (Not really, but dare I repeat myself – habit is stubborn.) Then I forgot to bring my phone downstairs one morning and thought, why time it? I’ve no need. So, I meditate as long as it seems right, and is almost always about as long as it would be using a timer. (And I do check.)

Then I fix breakfast, moving as fast as my nervous system will allow, sit with it before me on the table, review my words of thanks with my spoon hovering over the muesli, ready to pound it back into its bowl should it try to escape. Breathe. Appreciate. No where to go.

And so forth, throughout the day.

The biggest challenge in these circumstances of isolation is taking time as it comes, neither putting the next thing off, nor rushing into it. The uneasiness of living otherwise, even when in satisfying-schedules mode, is thrown into sharp and distinct relief.

I stayed home again, today. I’m well-provisioned, so there was no need to shop. I decided to forego the midday walk to see if that made a difference (it did, comfort level decidedly lower). I did work in the yard for two hours (timed it, too – checked the clock going out and coming in, as if I had to report it on my timecard). I saw my neighbor Patrizia on her balcony. We chatted for a bit (I’d estimate two minutes). Five and a half minutes later, Renzo’s face popped up on the other side of the garden wall; he was watering the pots of flowers he and other neighbors put up and maintain. We discussed the weather for fifty seconds. It was wonderful to see their fond faces. Two days of solitude is nothing for a cave-living hermit, but in a town that stakes its identity on its buzzing streets and busy eateries, it’s an unnaturally long time.

(How am I doing? Will I finish before my walk at ten?)

Daily, I live a bit further from the clock. Time is not the issue, we can experience nothing without it. It’s the obsessive measurement of time that begins to look hollow from this perspective. It took me two hours to clean the yard whether or not I checked the clock. I was no less tired knowing that, the yard was no more clean. All the two hours represent is a layer I insert between myself and the experience of cleaning – the subtext being, “It would have taken my mother two days. Aren’t I a swift little bugger?!”

Tomorrow I’ll make a list of ingredients I need for the zucchini soup, plan my route, and try to arrive at Metà around three, when it’s slow and there is no line. The whole town is in suspended isolation and there is still a slow time at the supermarket. Isn’t that amazing?

Time for my walk. (Made it!)

Erika’s route (with her dog, Teah) has not taken her past new children’s art, I’m sorry to say, so I put in a photo of my garden — as it was three years, six months, and eleven days ago.

My pantry is stocked. Meds up to date. Even have toothpaste. So there was no need for commercial ventures that take me beyond the confines of my little sanctuary. I did take a walk around 13:00, even more repetitive and boring than my hooded adventure-by-night; to the end of my street, left to the cross street, turn around, back home – repeat ten times. But at the end, I felt exercised, which is the point.

Day before yesterday I made soup. One of my favorites during my Scranton period was a recipe I’d found in an Italian cookbook, a brew called acquacotta. That means “cooked water”, so named, I think, because water is the only ingredient that you can’t change. Not having the book with me, I searched the Web for acquacotta and pulled up a dozen or so recipes, none of them even vaguely alike. In the States we’d probably call it “refrigerator soup”.

So, based on what was available at the store and what was available in my memory, I made a nice big pot of it, avoided tedium after the first meal thus provided by ladling it over arugula, or bread, or a good pecorino, finally adding pasta for the last warming.

I also picked up a small ciambellone (similar to bundt cake) at Metà — industrial to be sure, but not bad considering — and a jar of mirtillo (blueberry) jam at the bodega on Piazza Sant’Angelo. It’s one of a dozen or more flavors of marmalade made by the Trappist Friars of Vitorchiano. Wonderful stuff. The fellow who owns the shop called out “be there in a sec” from the back somewhere when I came in, and soon arrived all masked and swaddled. I’d prepared exact change, for which he was grateful, and promptly dropped the jar onto the floor. I’d intended to drop into my bag.

“I missed my bag!”

“Did it break?”

“Seems to be okay. Strong jar.”

“Medieval monastery. Jar’s made of wood. Just looks like glass.”

The industrial cake topped with medieval jam is a surprisingly tasty dessert.

The main excitement today was spring. A glorious morning turned into a balmy afternoon replete with goldfinches darting around the blossoming apricot tree in my yard. Everything there needs tending, so I put on shorts and a polo shirt and set out to clean the paved area in the elevated section.

My yard is on two levels; the lower, intended as a parking space (how that’s supposed to work, I don’t know), and up five steps, a plot of earth of an area greater than my house, walled and overlooking the street. The parking space I use as a little courtyard, shaded by a three-meter square “hanging” umbrella, and furnished in plastic wicker. About half the upper area I had paved when I moved in. Daniele, the guy who painted my rooms, knew a veteran muratore (mason) so it was an easy hire. Daniele took me on a shopping trip into the countryside to search for paving materials, stopping at several suppliers, all of whom he knew. I wanted to do the job with terra cotta, which would have matched the steps and the path that was already in place. He convinced me to go with a exterior porcelain tile, because it was beautiful and on sale (what a bargain). He and Fabrizio the muratore did a wonderful job, and yes, he was absolutely right, the tile was stunningly beautiful once in place.

What I feared, however, was the difficulty of maintaining a textured, variegated, but essentially off-white tile, especially after a winter’s accumulation of grime and dead moss. Today, once again, my fears were founded. Two hours later, I have about 20% yet to scrub with brush and soap. And yes, it is still beautiful, but so is the cotta which has never been anything but swept. Oh well.

Self-isolation turns out to be well-timed. Tomorrow, I will venture out for ingredients to another soup favorite; zucchini creamed with gorgonzola and sage. And for the next six or seven days, two hours at a time, the yard will come into spring readiness.

Otherwise, I hear the same news as you do. Am sick with sorrow for the town in the north that has lost hundreds and is unable to mourn in groups. Am appalled by yesterday’s death rate in Italy. Am heartened by China’s report of no new domestic cases. Am concerned for the land of my birth.

And today, having been responsibly homebound, I have nothing much to add except my creepings within the walls of my domicile, creepings replicated in some fashion by every other resident of this town, and of this country, and increasingly (regretfully) well beyond.

Wash thy hands, world, wash thy hands!

Thanks, as always, to Erika Bizzarri (who has a dog) for the photos of children’s art.

An early post today. I took a walk around noon along with trips to the pharmacy and supermarket (on Via Signorelli) and, if my body can stand it, will not walk again until this evening. Don’t know if I’ll make it, but any walk between now and then is likely to be uneventful and will not add much to today’s story.

We don’t know how long this public health emergency will last. No one does. It’s human to want to know the end of any plot, but life is seldom structured that way. What we do know is that worry and fear are far, far more contagious than any virus, even this one. Consequently, they spread faster and affect us quite deeply.

I took a back street to the pharmacy. Halfway there a man in full protective gear was exiting a house, a youngish couple waiting together, but separated, on the street. I tried to give the woman a sympathetic smile. She returned it. The man did not, could not. The man in protective gear walked ahead of me. An ambulance waited on the cross street. The rest could be deduced.

There were three of us waiting for the pharmacy, everyone contained, circled by an invisible shield. I leaned against a wall and wondered if it was safe to do so. Someone told me that a sneeze can implant the virus on pavement, and that you can carry it on your shoes to the floors in your house. I’ve searched the Web for confirmation, but have been able to find nothing. At some point you’ve got to determine, on your own, what is prudent and what is excessive.

The pharmacist ordered something for me yesterday evening. When she told me it would arrive this morning, I was so surprised I effused. That pleased her. When I came in this morning, she seemed glad to see me, that maybe there weren’t many people effusing about anything these days, and she needed some levity, even if it were only about an-earlier-than-expected delivery. That and other items came to twenty euro, twenty centesimi. Venti, venti. I repeated it for the music. So did she, her eyes smiling behind her mask. I determined then that I would greet and smile – even effuse, when it is honest – whenever I could.

I went on to Via Signorelli. The owner of a lovely restaurant called Enoteca del Duomo was first in “line”. He smiled, I smiled back like I was seeing a favorite friend for the first time in thirty years — no exaggeration, it felt that way. We chatted from a distance, someone came out, he went in.

The usual checker at that store is a neighbor of mine. He seems as if he’s had a damaging history, evidenced in part by a longish scar on his right cheek, in part by a conscious distancing, even in normal times. I try to be as warm as I can to him. Slowly, trust has built, and we’ve gone from passing without recognition, to exchanging nods, to murmured greetings. He checked today. Even with a mask on, some people know how to smile with their eyes quite as graciously as they would mask-less. I was astonished to learn that he was one of them. In fact, the mask may enable the smile. My heart flew open.

Exiting the store, I bowed to the man next in line, he bowed back. Little bows, Italian bows. On Via del Duomo the cook from that same enoteca was walking her dog. She wore bright red lipstick and a jacket to match.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Marvelous! You?”

“Me, too.”

“The dog is good company for me. To him, everything is normal.”

At that moment her canine buddy chose to relieve himself. As she prepared her plastic bag…

“A very small price to pay for having an excuse to get out. And for friendly companionship.”

“Very useful, that fellow.”

“Very.”

We wished each other a good day, four different ways, she blew a kiss, I blushed a bit and grinned like a sophomore.

Yesterday afternoon on the way back from the bank (and holding to the back streets) I passed a man of about my age sitting on a low wall, resting his bicycle. He’s a nodding acquaintance in normal times. Yesterday, he looked in my direction, but no expression showed. I took a chance.

“Buona serata.”

His face broke into a shy smile. He looked so relieved it almost made me cry.

“Buona serata,” he nodded. And then repeated it. Twice.

As always, thanks to Erika Bizzarri for the photo of children’s art.

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.

Well, it happened. I took a midday walk to Piazza della Repubblica, about the minimum distance I can do and still enjoy therapeutic advantage. There were people standing about waiting for the pharmacy on the left, for the bank on the right, and in the middle a couple of policemen were in their car warning some old men not to sit where they were sitting – or probably at all, at least not away from home. I decided to avoid the whole thing. The car followed me down the alley, the officers probably recognizing me from yesterday’s pass in Piazza del Duomo. 

“Where’re you going?”

“I have to walk for my health.”

“I understand, but you also have to stay home. Walk at home.”

“Thank you.”

All very polite, but as I turned away, I was rattled.

Thing is, this past week I’ve felt steadily stronger, and I know that walking – and the relief of stress that it offers, both emotional and muscular – is an important contributor to that improvement. Even putting improvement aside in deference to the common good, to the stability I’ve again begun to enjoy. There is also meditation, yoga, (the greatly missed) shiatsu, and writing, but take away any one voice and the suite turns into incoherent disharmony. I’m already lacking one voice, I don’t want to lack two.

On my way home, and to the pharmacy immediately afterwards, I had short (long distance) conversations with five people I know. I told each about the encounter with the police and asked for advice. The first simply said “it’s hard.” Of course, she has a beautiful dog so is allowed to walk. The second said to stick to narrow streets and allies. I’d already been rerouting my walks in my imagination, so that sounded sensible. The third sympathized, but was outdoors for the first time in a week, so I didn’t feel she quite understoond my desperation. The fourth told me her husband got a permit to walk the Anello, for fitness. Getting closer. The last, my neighbor Renzo, told me to ask my doctor for a note. As is often the case, Renzo hits it home.

I emailed Claudia. I’m not good on the phone in Italian, and barely understand my doctor in person. My doctor is also doctor for Claudia and her family, and she has accompanied me to appointments to help communication. She wrote right back; sure, no problem, he’ll have it ready by 16:30 this afternoon. It was about 15:45, so I decided to shop, then go to Studio Medico for the note.

I tried yesterday to put on one of the masks I bought a couple of weeks ago, but I’d already put in my hearing aides and couldn’t figure out how. But going to Studio Medico, I had to wear one.

As I understand, masks are really only effective if you have active symptoms, or are with others who do. And for the people on the other sides of counters at the supermarket or pharmacy, or anyone at a medical facility, the masks are quite important because the meter distance is easily violated, and they don’t know the health of the dozens of people they serve throughout the day. For the rest of us who practice social distancing, it’s a reassurance, an indication of solidarity, and a fashion statement. So, I took out the aides and put on the mask. I checked myself in the mirror and was pleased to conform to a look that had lately become so popular. And while I wouldn’t say it felt good to be wearing one, it wasn’t horrible, either.

I walked up to Metà. There was only one other person in the store, so I waited outside unnecessarily. Gabriele waved me in. I got my stuff. One of the ladies from the pharmacy came in after me, sans mask. Gabriele and his co-worker wore masks, both askew from having been on for hours.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Okay. We’re all very tired. Every little thing takes three times the effort from what it did a week ago. But, we’re keeping it together. That’ll be eleven twenty-five. This won’t last forever.”

He bagged my stuff (not customary, but he’s particularly kind), and I said goodbye to everyone, including the pharmacist who had taken a place in line, two meters away. I walked home, left my groceries, and headed for the Studio Medico. All the way, I’m thinking of the people I encountered today. How precious they are, each one. How saying goodbye at Metà was filled with sweetness. How we are all doing this together, and increasingly not out of worry or fear, but out of love for one another.

I got my note from the doctor, handwritten on a sheet of padded paper. As is universal for a doctor’s script, I can’t read any of it, but I trust it will do the job.

I went up the hill to home, heart overflowing for this town, and for all towns and cities, everywhere. We’re doing this for love. Remember that.

And by the way, thanks to Erika Bizzarri (who has a dog) for the photos of the children’s art.