Author: dallanz

How long before we become restless and want to sit down to a really good, wood-oven pizza? Compliments to the pizzaiola! Let’s have a dolce! Not long. I’m already there.

People have compared the lockdown to wartime. I’m not old enough to remember the second world war, only that it was frequently referred to when I was a child, and simply as “The War”. But I know people here who have real memories of Orvieto during the German occupation and Allied bombing raids, and I have a feeling the comparison, if made at all, strikes them as highly superficial. It’s quiet, there is a threat lurking somewhere that has caused it to be quiet, but no fire falling from the sky, no death in the streets, no fearsome soldiers marching in tight formation through piazzas.

It’s just profoundly quiet.

I walked today, as ever. Around the house I feel that I move like a man of 180 whose health is not particularly sound. Five minutes on the street, I’m a fit forty-five. So, of course I walk. And if the town was empty on a weekday, it is even more empty on a Sunday afternoon. But how can that be? There was nothing left to cancel, no shops or restaurants left to close. Maybe the repeated experience of emptiness drives the emptiness into one’s organs, makes it hyper real.

I took a long time to get going this morning. Having no one to see, nowhere to go, and a Sunday, robbed me of motivation even to dress. Around noon, my friend Ida called.

“Are you up?”

“I am up.”

“I’m about to walk with Amber (her Jack Russell terrier) and wonder if it would be okay if I dropped by. Just to see a friendly face!”

“That would depend on how soon you’ll be here.”

“Fifteen?”

“I’m up but not ready.”

“Oh, then, that’s okay.”

“But raincheck. I’d love to see you.”

“I’m thinking of renting Amber out to people who need an excuse to walk.”

“I’ve been thinking of offering to rent her.”

We concluded and hung up. Ida has a charming, funny, and intelligent husband, but I reckon we are all of us getting a little tired of the sameness of the days. The food. The routine. The company.

When I finally got out, I passed Igor on the section of the Anello near Porta Maggiore. Igor is a brilliant presence in town – kind, friendly, energetic, and with a superb aesthetic. We exchanged the usual greetings, two meters apart.

“Are we criminals for being out like this?” I asked, only half joking.

“We are allowed to walk, even without the dog.”

“Good! Because I’ll go mad if we’re not.” And we both hurried on.

But that does reflect a change. As the novelty of a town utterly transformed wears thin, many of the people I pass seem wary, sad, unsure if they should smile or say hello. Not everyone, to be sure, but many more than four or five days ago. It’s almost like being out is in itself wrong, even if there is plenty of distancing and no contact. We avoid each other, guiltily.

I stopped to take a photo of Piazza del Duomo close to sunset, deserted, a vast expanse of untrod pavement. The local police cruised by. I quickly turned towards the stairs, and moved with great purpose. They were not at all interested in me, but the occupied city parallel must strike a chord beyond what I regard as rational.

On the other hand, children who are at home instead of school, instead of playing or wandering, instead of being royally escorted in their prams well past there being a need, at home instead of learning the vital skills of social interaction, these housebound kids are making signs. Most include a rainbow, some have handprints, self-portraits and representations of relatives – and the words Andrà tutto bene, Everything will be fine. Their art is being hung from windows and on doors, little by little, all over town. Apparently, children are not as vulnerable to the virus, and in that possibility may rest the key to effective treatment and cure. It is fitting that it is children who are crafting the town’s messages of hope.

Tonight at nine we turn off the lights for one minute, and illuminate our houses with flashlights and phones. Because we can. It may not be pizza, but it is an expression of community, and community is what we really miss.

“Carissimo, la busta?” asked the blue-eyed checker. The verbless question with a superlative form of endearment threw me for a moment. 

“Sorry, yes, I have my bag with me, thanks.” In Italian, of course. Slightly late and slightly perplexed, but with fairly good grammar.

I’d taken a long route to the store. I skipped my morning walk because I got to bed too late and slept too long for a walk to be reasonably possible, and by 14:30 every muscle in my body was screaming at me, move! for pity sakes! move! On my way to Piazza della Repubblica I passed two of my pharmacists, both masked. They nodded. They may have smiled, too, I couldn’t tell. I began to think of heroes unsung, not only the health care professionals putting themselves at constant risk, but those in essential shops who continue to be exposed to the rest of us and our usual random collection of microbes, one strain of which might be a very unwelcome guest. As taciturn as my wordless mornings make me, I tried my best to thank the guys at the supermarket for being on a front line they may not be especially aware themselves that they’re on. I managed to get out a “grazie per tutto” and with great feeling. It wasn’t much, but it seemed to have landed.

On my way from Repubblica to Metà, I’d taken an alley parallel to Corso, and past some lovely nineteenth century apartments with gardens and terraces. It sounded as if someone were on their terrace finishing up a Bach cello suite. I stopped to appreciate the last few bars. The town is brimming with musicians. I trust the cellist is not alone in sharing.

I dropped my purchases at home, and went up the Passeggiata Confaloniere, the northwest promenade along the top of the cliff. A few people were walking dogs, among them Hélène with her white poodle. She’s an American from New Orleans who lives here with her Italian doctor husband and her aspiring pianist daughter. I’d not seen her for months. I told her about the cello.

“Did you see the video from Firenze?” she asked. “A trumpeter at his window playing ‘When the Saints’. I rarely post to Facebook, but that one I did, for all my family and friends. Hmm. Our piano is by the window, when my daughter plays, we have to remember to open it so neighbors can hear.”

I asked after her husband who works at the local hospital.

“He’s still assigned to pronto soccorso (emergency). So little happening there last few days, he took along a book. But if someone has to be airlifted to Perugia’s ICU because of the virus, he has to go with them in the helicopter.”

“How is he kept safe?”

“We don’t know because it hasn’t happened yet. Probably the usual protocols, maybe something extra. They have it together, he won’t bring the virus home with him.”

“Does Orvieto hospital have ICU’s?”

“Sure, but they’re trying to leave them open. It’s not like with the virus around, all the other diseases go on vacation. Did you hear about the 97 year-old man who was in an ICU with the virus and recovered? Wonderful.”

He deserves to live to 115 after that ordeal. I was encouraged to hear that people so at risk are still able to be treated.

“So, I’ve heard various things, but what do we do if we experience what we think might be symptoms?”

“There’s a hotline to call. They will send a doctor to your home to see if your case warrants special care. If not, you stay home and they’ll check in twice a day.”

“By phone?”

“Oh no, in person. Then if hospitalization becomes necessary, they can act on it immediately. The idea is to keep you home as long as possible, with supervision, and isolated, so the hospitals don’t become more stressed than they already are. But listen, if you notice something, call me. My husband will make sure you’re attended to.”

I suddenly felt a lot better. My Italian is terrible on the phone.

Her poodle intensified his whining after not being able to sniff a fellow canine that had just passed, so they moved on. “So much fun to see you! We shouldn’t wait for a pandemic.”

At the crest of the grade the beautiful, green-eyed, three-legged cat sat contentedly in the middle of the street. I often pass to find her on the top of a car. Given that she lacks her left rear leg I cannot help but wonder how she gets there. She purred and cuddled and let me know that she had her secrets, and that everything was fine.

A friend sent me a notice. There will be a spontaneous concert at 18:00. All of Italy will go onto its balconies and serenade itself for fifteen minutes, sort of a national flash mob. I got the message at 17:57, had just come home from shopping, just taken off my shoes, just taken out my hearing aides, and was emotionally prepared for not going out again until my late night walk. And my section of town absorbs sound into its crooked, narrow lanes, so even the closest church bells sound like a Vespa with a bad muffler if my windows are closed. And it seemed ingenuous to go into the street with the single purpose of listening for evidence that others were not going into the street. But it was the most exciting thing that had happened all day, so I pushed in one aide, put on my jacket, and went through the gate in my slippers.

We had three very windy days about a week and a half ago. So windy that it blew the extra key I hide (I won’t give details, I’m naive, but not that naive) out of its spot and… where? No idea. Even suggesting that wind was responsible seemed a bit too innocent. When I discovered it was gone, a week ago, my next door neighbors, Renzo and Patrizia happened to be passing. Renzo knows about the key, so I asked him if he’d seen it.

“Somebody probably took it. Might have to change locks.”

That fed my paranoid instincts perfectly. For the past week every time I couldn’t find something, I imagined a lurking presence with the stolen key – then I’d find the misplaced item and blush.

So, I went through the gate in my slippers, and there, across the way, hanging on a nail that looked almost like it were placed there specially for the purpose, was my extra key. By chance, Renzo was arriving home. We greeted each other two meters apart.

“Look what I found!”

“Where was it?” I pointed. “Well, I guess it was the wind, after all. How’d it get on that nail?”

“Someone must have found the key and hung it there.”

“And it was there for two weeks?”

“I guess.”

Renzo shrugged and laughed in Italian, shook his head. “That was some wind.”

“How’re you doing through all this?” I asked.

“I’m going to the store, the most exciting event of the day.”

We chatted some more, didn’t shake hands or clap each other on the shoulder, rotated around an invisible axis so as not to violate the two meter rule, and went off to our respective evenings. I’d already made two trips to the store, so there was only this blog post to look forward to. Renzo had chitchat with the guys at Metà (PAM) to entertain, still ahead. I half envied him.

By then it was too late for the flash mob, so I turned around and took myself inside.

I had gone once to the Metà on Corso where, having spoken not a word all day in any language, I found myself unable to banter even our simplest routine with Corrado. It was like being in high school again and botching a once-a-week chance to impress the cool kid you wanted as a friend, with the difference that Corrado seemed more disappointed that I was. Home, unloaded, off to the Metà on Via Signorelli for a few things only stocked at that location.

There was a ticket-your-turn machine outside at the door, and three other people waiting to enter. We greeted, I took a ticket (E31) and looked around for a now-serving display. Nothing. I held the ticket up to the couple closest to the door and twisted my face into the “what’s this about” gesture. They shrugged in Italian. Someone came out, the couple went in. More people arrived, asked who was last in line, and happily waited. Standard procedure, all three; the ticket machine, the absence of a functioning number display, the informal and non-linear line self-created by order of arrival.

I spent far too much time this afternoon reading news and posts on Facebook. A couple who had been due to arrive in Orvieto for a month’s stay on Tuesday coming, got stuck behind the lockdown in Lecce where they had been staying for the past several weeks. (If you have to be stuck somewhere, I hear Lecce’s a nice spot for it.) They posted a story of going out for a walk and being told by the police they had to return home. That, too, fed my paranoid instincts perfectly, and I imagined two weeks ahead of not being able to take long walks, a circumstance that would render my body a twitching blob of nerves and locked muscle. Fortunately, Orvieto is not Lecce. Orvieto was a part of the Papal States, and unhappily so, for too long to be that draconian. More significantly, perhaps, it has only two streets wide enough for police to effectively patrol. But the dystopian vision painted kept me indoors for hours. When I finally left the house at 16:00, just to make sure I looked sanctioned, I carried, rather than pocketed, my shopping bag. An afternoon patrol slipped past me and a number of others (who were not brandishing shopping bags) without so much as a turn of the head.

I did take a walk this morning though, almost entirely alone on the streets. I passed Rafaele at the hardware. They were open. Why?

“We sell cleaning and disinfectant products, deemed essential, so are not allowed to close,” he said from two meters away, slipping his mask down from his forehead. That explained why the soap and toothpaste store is open, too.

I walked on Corso Cavour, the shopping district, alone, past businesses with everything in place as if they had been abandoned in too much of a hurry to do more than turn the key. Which is pretty much the case.

I have been saying I wanted to take more meals at home, but I didn’t mean that all restaurants and bars and pizzerias and gelato stores should close. I’ve been wishing there were fewer cars in town, but I didn’t mean people should go away with them. I’ve known that February and March were quiet times for Orvieto, but…

First virus-related death in Umbria today, not the hospital nurse in Orvieto. I trust (and pray) she is improving.

I couldn’t tell what it was coming towards me across Piazza della Repubblica from Via Filippeschi. Two bright, clear lights, one at ground level, the other a meter and a half above, more or less, with little blue sparks dancing around the lower spotlight. For a moment it seemed that after decades of expectation fed by popular culture an alien invasion were finally under way. Or was it a crack in time admitting a sanitation worker from the future? A techno angel?

I apparently read too much science fiction as a youth. It was Cho, daughter of Grazia, both women of fire and wind. She was speeding along on a one-wheeled electric vehicle wearing a helmet that sported what, were it on an automobile, might be called a fog light.

She stopped, dismounted (however that’s done), and covered the upper spot with her hand rather than turning it off. Very brief small talk ensued, then she switched to English so we could exchange on a meatier level.

“The government is declaring a nationwide lockdown.”

“I heard. Restricted travel…”

“No. More. The only shops allowed to stay open are those that sell food, and the pharmacies. Certain hours for banks. Everything else, closed for two weeks, then we reassess. I’d say more like two months, but we shall see.”

“Supermarkets?” I asked, thinking of Metà.

“Supermarkets sell food.”

“Wow.”

“We’ll get used to it. But it’ll be hard for shop owners, especially if it goes longer than two weeks. Has to be done. My mother isn’t going out at all. If you need anything…”

“I still shop. I pick quiet times when there are few people and give a wide berth to those I meet.”

“And walk at night. Very wise.”

She mounted her wheel, removed the hand that covered the light, and was off in a blaze.

That was last night. The headlines this morning confirmed Cho’s report. They also announced that the single case of the virus in Orvieto, a female nurse, is in grave condition. As I read that, I felt the whole town rooting for her. Those who pray, pray. Those who don’t, profoundly trust in her recovery. Doesn’t matter which, we want her well.

This morning’s walk took me onto the ring trail that follows the base of the cliff called the Anello. The sun was warm, the grass so green it looked impossible. Mustard is starting to bloom, not yellow yet, but attracting bees. The birds tweeted messages to one another, none of them angry or insulting or divisive – at least they didn’t sound that way to me.

The walk through town on my way home confirmed Cho’s news, as well. Caffe Montanucci, the center of town for many, was closed. The only other time I’ve seen it dark was when Reno, the supremely generous pater familias, died in December ’18. Bar Sant’Andrea, another main gathering place, had blocked its entrance with chain and recycling bins. Almost all of the smaller shops and eateries were quiet and waiting, most with its own version of a sign explaining why, expressing unspoken hope, wishing the reader well, and affirming that we are in this together and will reach the other shore on the strength of that togetherness.

The big bookstore under the Tower wins the award for saying it all in as few words as possible – somehow fitting for a bookstore. To translate the photo above, “We’ll see each other soon! #allwillbewell #Istayathome [not shown] The Orvieto Staff.”

Metà reduced its number of concurrent customers to six; either a recalculation on their parts or a misunderstanding on mine. They are well-stocked and cheerful and a blessing to us all. The blue-eyed checker wore a mask today and assiduously helped a man even older than I empty his walker, bag his goods, and pay out of his coin purse, a sweet gentleness pervading every gesture between them.

The pharmacists were some masked and some not, and reminded me not of all of Harpo or Groucho, not a one.

Marina stood under an overhang on Corso waiting on her phone, a striking new hair color and a bottle-green jacket radiating confidence and purpose. She flashed a brilliant smile.

“How are you doing with all this?” she asked.

“We survive, don’t we?”

“And that is wonderful, isn’t it?”

I woke earlier than usual this morning and worried that nothing had happened yet to provide me with a subject for Day Two’s blog post. Success! In the space of a few hours, most of them asleep, I’d managed to transfer my anxiety from something over which I have no influence (the virus) to something totally within my control (what you are now reading). The mind is remarkable in its pliability. As a complimentary extra, the benefits of yesterday’s shiatsu survived the night, a tiny thing for the world at large, but large in my tiny world.

The day unfolded slowly. I normally take a morning walk, which gets blood running and nerves working. This morning, with all my “extra” time I indulged in the New York Times, Washington Post, and the Guardian. By the time I finished, I was afraid to leave the house.

I didn’t leave until afternoon.

The town was even quieter today. Food establishments are allowed to be open only between 06:00 and 18:00, on the philosophy, I suppose, that the evening meal is that most likely to cause crowds of people in close proximity. A lot of bars and pastry shops have opted to close full time. One of my favorites posted a handwritten note from the owner that said, in essence, “In order to comply with the new directive, and for the good of the larger community, and because it’s just easier this way, we’ll be closed until it’s safe to open again. In the meantime, I’ll be hanging out at home.” Many more have taken this tact without explaining it. Some I have never seen closed in the more than four years I’ve lived here are deserted as a cave. Good for you, I say to them, you deserve the break. I imagine they would rather be making an income.

I breezed into Metà for bananas. What last night was an impromptu response to social distancing rules by creative customers, is today reenforced by stanchions with signs and masking tape on the floor. This makes everyone a bit grave and concerned. It felt like a bank in the States, and no one here is used to that kind of hyper organization. The young fellow with the blue eyes was checking, I don’t know his name.

“How’s it going?” I asked. “A little more complicated than before?”

“Too complicated. We have to keep track of how many people come in, who goes out, where to stand, when to wear gloves.”

A woman half entered, then looked up and laughed.

“Okay if I come in?”

“Yeah, we’re allowed fifteen, and it’s at six,” the blue-eyed checker told her, shaking his head. Then to me, “We gotta do it, not just because of the directive, it’s right, it’s necessary. And a pain,” and he shrugged in Italian.

Corrado slipped in.

“How’s it going?”

He laughed. “Normal, and…” we finished the sentence together “…these days, normal is fantastic.”

Next stop, the pharmacy. I passed Anna the ceramicist on the way. She was waiting two meters behind a man waiting to go into a tobacco store. I waved. She sighed and pointed to the store.

“Are you still in your studio during the day?” I asked.

“I am, but nobody else. The streets are all people I know, and they don’t buy.” She shrugged Italian and pointed again at the shop. “One at a time. The place is tiny.” She smiled apologetically as if the entire country were somehow her fault. I tried to bump elbows, but bumping elbows was yesterday. Today, it’s separation by a meter, and elbows are too intimate.

I continued on to the pharmacy. Just as I reached it, I met an American friend on the street. She introduced me to a friend of her’s, an Italian living in New York, recently returned. He put his hand out, I put out my elbow, he remembered and let his hand fly away. We tried to talk, but couldn’t decide on a language. He seemed flustered by how completely his culture had changed overnight.

A woman in a white turtleneck (oddly called dolcevita, here) doubling as a mask, stood facing the door.

“We wait here?” I said, respecting my distance.

She nodded. I approached the door to see the newly printed sign. Only two clients allowed at a time, it read. I fell into line a meter upstream from the lady in the turtleneck, and we waited.

A neighbor who works for my dentist passed.

“Are you guys open these days?”

“Only for pain.”

“I have an appointment tomorrow for a cleaning.”

“Nobody called?”

“Nobody.”

“Strange. But…” and she finished her sentence by waving her finger.

Once inside, the pharmacists were all adorned with masks and latex gloves. I felt like I’d stepped into a Marx Brothers’ film, I don’t know why. It’s a good thing I didn’t try to explain that, they would have never understood.

Shiatsu this afternoon knocked me for a loop. Michele must have released some deep-seated toxins or attitudes or fears or something. I could barely get off the table, and once off, barely stand.

“You want some water?”

“Pl-pl-please, thunt you. Thank. Thank you.”

After sitting for awhile, I adventured the stairs down to the little alley the physiotherapy studio is located on and pointed my nose towards home. After what seemed like days of wending my way past planets and moons, I arrived at my grey gate, crawled upstairs, took off my shoes, crept downstairs, and fell onto the sofa for a 45 minute state of unconscious bliss.

I woke trembling all over. Nothing severe or even uncomfortable, but still intense. I lay there waiting for it to pass. It intensified. I got up, reshuffled the pillows I’d strewn about in my eagerness to nap, and crawled back upstairs to check email.

A dear friend who has been suffering frequent unexplainable seizures for upwards of seven years, and who had recently enjoyed a several months reprieve, wrote that the relapse that began two weeks ago continues, that his brain can’t seem to get back to being “back”. I was devastated.

I checked the news, as if that would brighten my evening. After ten or fifteen minutes of heartrending reports of disease, neglect, fear, stupidity, and the tiniest glimmers of hope, another message came through from a friend advising that I stock up on food, since we’re all going to be eating dinners in for the next three weeks at a minimum, and are advised to stay home as much of the rest of the day as possible.

So, I put on a sweater with the hope that it would stem my trembling (I have great fondness for, and faith in, sweaters), donned my pea coat for good measure, wound my golden shopping bag around my left hand like a benign set of brass knuckles, and set out for what I still call Metà (our supermarket) even though the chain changed its name to Pam (which lacks music) almost a year ago, to purchase a few simple necessities. It was after seven, not much would be happening, so I’d be well within the guidelines for not spreading the virus by hanging out in crowded spaces.

I go to Metà for food and drink and sundries, sure. I also go for a social pick me up. The guys who work the store are all, each in their own way, kind, funny, and helpful. Even listening to them joke with each other improves my spirits, although I understand not a word. I swung around back to get a carton of rice milk, stepping gingerly to avoid the almost invisible piles of dust the fellow with the brown beard and glasses was sweeping into, then towards frozen food in front for a couple of veggie burgers. My first attempt at extracting a package caused the neighboring chickpea burgers to tumble. The sweeper instantly picked it up for me and set it back in place, then held the door while I retrieved my intended targets. I thanked him. He gave a little bow.

A friend passed, I waved and called her name.

“I was thinking of leaving for a couple of weeks, but now with the lockdown…” she shrugged.

“You’re American, does the ban apply?”

“Good point,” she said, and said again.

“Where were you headed?”

“Long story. Turkey. I’ll have to look into it.”

Maria Luce joined the stretched line for checkout, everyone at one-meter spacing. She was wrapped in scarves up to her eyes, so I had to stare a bit trying to recognize her. She lowered the scarf so she could smile, and waved. I returned it. We both instantly felt safer.

Corrado was checking. He’s one of the two franchise owners, late twenties, and sometimes a bit moody, but never in a way that is preoccupied or rude. We have a routine. I ask – how’s it going. He answers – normal. Then we laugh. Tonight I got an extra line in,

“Well nowadays normal is fantastic.”

“Surprising”, he added, and “Don’t we wish!” And we laughed.

“Buona serata”, I said.

“Same to you”, he replied, and “Arrivaderci, grazie” and “buona serata” again. It’s like saying goodbye to a dear friend for a year’s journey to Katmandu every time you leave a shop here.

The streets home were almost empty, the few of us that were out skirted each other to remain a meter apart, and smiled as we wove our ways past.

We may have fewer reasons to smile as the days come, but I hope we never forget how vital it is that we do anyway. I arrived home tremble-free and moving more effortlessly than I have in a year or more.