Category: Act Two

I’ve been writing these posts – lockdown, post-lockdown, personal lockdown – in part to keep in touch with friends, in part to create a record, in part to process my thoughts during difficult times. My abilities to process and sort are presently challenged almost to the point of paralysis. I want to hear from all my friends and relatives in California, now and every fifteen minutes until the fires are gone. There are devastating flames in communities I have held dear for a lifetime. I am thousands of miles away, isolated with a leg I can’t yet walk on, and connected tenuously through Facebook and email to friends I cannot receive assurances from on demand.

I just watched the morning briefing on the fires in Santa Cruz County’s San Lorenzo Valley, and am flooded with admiration. And am fighting profound feelings of helplessness. I can only imagine how much more profound those feelings must be when the material aspects of your life are in danger of incineration.

“Don’t try to take things into your own hands,” the people who gave the briefing said repeatedly. “Every rescue we have to undertake removes personnel from the front lines. We know your urge to help is well-intentioned – to assist your family, your neighbors, your community – but in this instance you need to step back, and wait.”

A friend whose home may be in harm’s way posted photos some brave soul took of the fires in Bonny Doon. They are devastating, especially when one superimposes those charred, burning images with the green summer-filled pictures in your mind. That not every photo was of a solid wall of conflagration, that they included a single firefighter spraying down a fence, was oddly heartening. But the image that brought tears was of what had been someone’s lovingly constructed patio, stones beautifully set with perfect care, a stone fire pit still in place – all surrounded by ash.

Big Basin, I hear, is destroyed. Surely not all the great trees — redwoods are hearty resisters of flame — but the structures that identified it as a park are gone. The redwoods will begin to rejuvenate as soon as they can reach moisture. We will not see the park we knew, again, but something wondrous will soon begin to rise. It is the way of forests. The people whose stewardship our enjoyment of the place depends upon will minister in trailers and prefabs for a few years, then slowly the facilities will catch up with the trees. And we who knew it pre-fire will share our photos and our memories until reality surpasses them. The last great fire to devastate the area was 110 years ago. My mother and her family where hiking and picking berries as soon as ten years later.

But a human community can be more fragile, less inclined to grow back so spontaneously. Human roots are different – they can be moved. There will be insurance claims, financing, emotional destruction, huge adjustments to be decided upon. And even if no more homes are lost, this week marks the end of something for those directly affected. It is the same uncertainty as accompanies the pandemic, come closer still. Even these thousands of miles away, I feel changed by the fires, more fragile, less willing to trust the material world.

In the midst of these unknowables, I still hear humor (which floods my heart with joy) and courage. I hear people just dealing with what must be done, open to the future and hoping for the best. There is some relief in natural disaster when compared to war or oppression. The pain it inflicts is beyond our capacities to prevent, but the response it engenders can embody the best that human nature has to offer. Barriers drop, hands reach out, communities are restored.

It is also natural for the human personality to want definitive endings. Movies and books and plays end with a satisfying emotional or intellectual charge, even with the plot is not completely resolved. The human experience needs punctuation, resting tones, and pauses for us even to begin to understand it. The most difficult times are those that leave too many open questions stacked on top of one another. We live in difficult times, and need to learn to blend helpfulness with waiting. That is not an easy thing to do.

Big Basin State Park in California. San Lorenzo Valley. The redwoods.

Open my mother’s photo album, there will be dozens of black and white photos of picnics and hikes among old-growth redwoods, edges ragged in the style of the day. A few pages deeper, the photos are in faded, bluish color of me and my friends with our proudly fashioned hiking sticks, or of hands outstretched with offerings of oats to not-very-timid deer. When I lived in Santa Cruz County as a young man, guests were always offered a few hours, at least, in Big Basin. It is one of my favorite spots, anywhere – a lush haven, a forest retreat, a living link with an unimaginably distant past.

Fires are burning now, up and down the San Lorenzo Valley. The houses of many friends are in danger. The fires have consumed me. I check for news far more often than it can be reported. It is a disaster for tens of thousands, and a heartbreak for thousands more whose loving memories are rooted in those mountains.

My mother’s memories included regular trips to the Park. Her father would hitch the horse to their buggy, and they would set off on a full day’s journey – five kids, a few neighbors, and supplies for a week’s stay. They reserved cottages, met up with friends from other areas, hiked, waded in ponds, and picked huckleberries. My grandmother brought her portable oven to put over a campfire so she could turn the berries into berry pie. Later, when the family was able to afford an automobile, jaunts became shorter and more frequent, but even as my grandparents grew frail, they continued to make day trips to the splendid wood.

Sometime in my infancy, my journeys blended with theirs. I don’t recall my earliest times there, but I know that by the age of seven I had memorized the official map of hiking trails – Waddell Creek, Redwood Loop, Sempervirens Trail – and every visit was planned for the walks I would coax my relatives into conquering. Sometimes we’d rent cottages, sometimes we’d leave just before dawn and hike until a half hour before sunset. The smells, textures, the presence of the trees, were wonderful, the hot sun, the tangled roots, the fungi, rotting wood, small wildlife, and flowing waters were my beloved teachers.

The day when the morning news on the car radio was obsessed with Marylin Monroe’s passing – Norma Jean – we were on our way to Big Basin. Green mosses, huge ferns, and the smell of laurel acted as counterpoint to a strangely personal grief that sprung not from the death of an icon, rather more from the sadness of her life. Of her victimhood. Yes, we knew, even then. Even at that age.

Looking back, it seems that every other summer week was punctuated by a trip to Big Basin or further south, into San Lorenzo Valley. My mother discovered an excursion railway called Roaring Camp, just shy of Felton, and was convinced by the charming conductor with the white mustache to buy a couple of thousand shares of stock. They had big dreams – a frontier village at the depot end, and a climb up Bear Mountain where a nineteenth century style resort hotel would await, all traditions of that picturesque era firmly in place. It captured my love of history and histrionics, and I encouraged the investment.

Friends of the family had weekend cottages in Boulder Creek, Brackney, Felton, and Brookdale. We were frequently invited. My uncle bought a lot near Bear Creek and intended to build a cottage there, but found out too late that the lots were zoned by the association for proper houses, not cottages. He was a master carpenter whose intention it was to build himself, and his regular job only allowed time for a cottage. Still, we’d go to his empty lot for picnics several times a summer, just for the air. That is where he taught me how to safely scale a muddy incline.

In my senior year of college I traveled north from Tucson with friends to audition for American Conservatory’s summer program. Somehow, we met up with other students and I convinced them to spend a day hiking the redwoods. Grounded in musical theatre, the grove rang with their renditions of show tunes. After college I lived for an off-season in a vacation hut near Felton, and later in a former vacation lodge in neighboring Mount Herman. All during my dozen or so years in the area, there were friends and activities to draw me into the redwoods. They capture you, make you promise to return.

About ten years ago, two of my dearest friends sold their townhouse in foggy Aptos and bought a rather typical split-level in chaparral-surrounded Ben Lomond. They turned the bland house into a California classic, and coaxed a lush garden to grow on the sandhill of their backyard. I was there when they moved in, and they have been gracious in their hospitality ever since. I can explore the shapes and feelings of their home in my mind, like the house I grew up in; thick with good memories.

This morning I woke to a post that my Ben Lomond friends had been evacuated. The twenty thousand acres ablaze yesterday had turned into forty thousand overnight.

Memories on hold, I pray for rain, no wind, and skilled firefighters.

Today something changed. Maybe because the leg is healing after the surgery to mend my left Achilli’s tendon, it is able to find a more comfortable position, and other parts of the body have adjusted into positions that allow me to write without screaming every five minutes. Maybe I am screamingly bored, cannot read the news or scroll down Facebook anymore, and those intolerances have necessarily pushed me beyond a barrier. 

I have slept enough in the past three weeks to satisfy my needs for the next year. There is nothing wrong with me that wouldn’t be made better by a brisk walk. Walking from room to room on crutches (but only when I have to) has actually seemed like exercise. 

Am I complaining? A little. Yet, I’m only three weeks into this. I have friends who have been through far worse for far longer as partial payment for a new knee. For instance. I never appreciated what they endured, what patience it takes, what stability of character. What support from others.

A few days ago, I think – time slides around like Jell-o on a warm plate, even more so than during lockdown – I discovered a site that offers free, public domain, audio books. You know, all the greats of English and American literature. This was good, for reading has been even more impossible than writing, and for all the same reasons. I’d never read A Tale of Two Cities, so I chose that as a project. I got through most of Book Two by yesterday, but so far today cannot face it again. Too much like the news, only darker. All windows are grimy, most of the players are desperate, the ruling class is cluelessly self-involved and heedlessly cruel, the poor too many and terribly ground down, the finely drawn characters often repellant. Okay, almost exactly like the news. I’m taking a break.

I’ve tried writing before during this recuperation. First failures reference the aforementioned physical discomforts. Even as those became, at least in my imagination, surmountable, an acceptable opening sentence would not present itself. They all whined and contained too many first person pronouns. Writing about experiences in lockdown was still to record a communal event, even in my solitude. This personal lockdown of recovery affects mostly me, and the kind souls – Erika first among them – who have been solicitous of my well-being and comfort. Whining feels unappreciative. In fact, it is a bit unappreciative. And as I am strongly appreciative, I don’t want to leave a contrary impression. But I am not a happy sitter even in the best of times, and while these are not the worst of times except to my restless legs and over-used buttocks, one does get bored and a little hysterical when the clock tells us that the interminable day is not yet half wasted.

I feel for prisoners of all epochs. Wonder at the anchorite. Am made humble by the hermit. Have great empathy for the bed-ridden and isolated. It is not how we are made, to be this sedentary and apart from community. It takes a great measure of letting go; some of that is good, too much can begin to turn morbid.

Cynthia’s lovely apartment, where I am spending this period of seclusion, even completely re-arranged and protected, is a godsend. If I seem to be whining now, imagine how I would sound confined to my former cottage’s upper floor, wonderful neighbors notwithstanding. Given that I have to relocate while my leg heals (with the kind assistance of yet more friends) I would have had to leave even those confines in the middle of my recovery (the house has been rented to a new tenant, already) whereas here I can see out my term. And the place that will be prepared for me is lovely in many ways. But I look at its photos online – for I saw it in person only in late May, and only once – and wonder at the kitchen, its lack of storage, its lack of an over-the-sink dish drain or alternatively, a dishwasher, and try to imagine how living there would actually be. I have to entrust to the advice of others who can physically visit and draw practical conclusions.

But I have shelter, wonderful friends, good doctors, and relative comfort and health. That is so much more than millions of others.

The surgeon will come tomorrow to see if the stitches are ready to come out. He put them in almost three weeks ago in a beautiful hospital outside Siena during an operation that involved no discomfort, not even a bill. If they come out, that will be a marker, at least. I doubt that my mobility will much increase, or if it does, it will do so incrementally. So, perhaps once I exorcise this demon of restless squirming, I will find a way to write again; about this remarkable town I live in and my view of it from Cynthia’s lovely, long terrace. A hobble onto and upon the terrace is my – practical, I hope – next goal. It will broaden my horizons, and that is always a good and welcome thing. And a reward.

Fourth of July, all things American, Giancarlo brought me lunch; pasta, salad, bread, a sweet. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a small foil-wrapped loaf.

“Do you know this stuff?”

“Philadelphia Cream Cheese? Of course I know it. It’s been clogging arteries since I was a kid! Very American.”

“Exactly.”

Brief pause. “Oh!”

“Happy July four!”

When I was a kid, my aunt loved amazing us with her No-Egg Wonder Cake. It was chocolate, and gooey, and scrumptious, and she iced it with sweetened Philadelphia Cream Cheese. That icing established the cheesy substance among my special favorites – though I rarely eat it in any form. My aunt’s recipe, by the way, used vinegar and baking soda as leavening. I was of an age when I was just discovering the marvels of vinegar and baking soda bombs, so the cake had added appeal.

Elia gets a kick out of explaining to everyone how my American accent is teaching him English. I don’t quite follow, but the idea delights him, so who am I to question? We are as much a novelty to our Italian friends, as they are to us. And Elia is Moldovan, so double that.

A few American part-time residents with solid immigration credentials – such as permanent residence or EU passports – have found their ways back. Some go into quarantine, some do not, depending I guess on where they come from and when. I don’t know, it’s very confusing. Some I had a chance to see before I entered personal lockdown because of my tendon. Others have stopped by to see the creature himself, braving the heat of the day. Still others, I have heard of their arrivals, but have not seen. I assume they are soaked in jet lag or the usual amazement of being here. 

Being here these days can involve quite a back story. One couple I’ve yet not seen, but heard from, wrote of a flight that included four stops, cancellations, delays, and missed connections over a three-day span. Others got on Alitalia at Kennedy, and disembarked more or less on schedule in Rome. These days, even uncertainty is uncertain.

One thing we Americans abroad all share; a deep gratitude for the luxury of a home in, or around, Orvieto. We talk about the town among ourselves, Americans and expats of other extraction alike, because we cannot cease but to marvel at our being a part of it.

“Do you like Orvieto?” Annette, a German physiotherapist asked me yesterday while teaching me a series of limbering and opening exercises.

“I love it. Do you know the film, King of Hearts?”

“Oh, yes. Lovely.”

“Orvieto reminds me a bit of that. Everyone is just a little bit crazy. And because we all are, we let each other play out our characters with a bemused affection. The really serious people can’t bear the inconveniences of living on a medieval street plan, and have left for more rational lifestyles. Those of us who remain embrace the loopiness, the scramble, and the beauty it creates.”

Or at least that’s my take. Actually, I only got as far as “bemused affection” with Annette present, the rest is what I would like to have said were I not being told to breathe.

The municipal building here (municipio) was designed by Orvieto’s preeminent renaissance architect, Ipolito Scalza. It is a series of arches topped by a porch, very stately and harmonious. Then one arch and a half beyond what was obviously designed as the central arch – replete with extra columns and more thickly embellish with decoration – the building suddenly ends. The government ran out of funds for the project in 1585. I’m sure there are good reasons for the project’s never having been taken up again in 435 years; lack of political stature, land rights, the Papal States. I am also sure that almost every American who passes and notices the incompleteness is driven just a little mad by it. In America, we finish what we start! Or at least, so we like to believe.

On more than on occasion, I have caught myself dreaming idly as I pass that I’d won a lottery (that I never play) and offer a stunned mayor money enough for Scalza’s vision to be realized, thereby setting off a series of political intrigues and machinations that eat up another 400 years, the end of which witnesses the filling in of the half arch that now marks the building’s western limit. 

And that is why we like it here.

Happy July four! Even if a week or so late.

Three years and several months ago, my friend Ron in Williamsburg, Virginia saw a list of plays I had written to that point and became curious.

“Do you have one you’d like a staged reading of?” he wrote.

“Try Risotto,” I suggested.

He read it, thought it worthy. We agreed that our mutual friend Mary, who I first met at the Eureka Theatre in San Francisco forty years ago, would be perfect for the lead, and Ron had ideas for the other two roles. Then logistics and reality intervened and nothing came of it. 

That summer I was in New York, and my friend Rosina, who had read the play and liked it, organized a public reading with herself in the lead. It was very helpful, and she read wonderfully. I also decided that I wanted nothing more to do with public readings of a script that was still raw.

I worked on the play during the following few months, then put it away until last November when I suddenly realized what was needed to take it over the top. I picked away at it from time to time until February, then the world stopped and so did I.

Then somehow, the project surfaced again in the Age of Zoom. Ron was interested, Mary was available, I had identified Kenny as well-suited for the male lead, and Ron knew of a good fit for the third role, a fellow Williamsburger named Ed. What’s more, our friend Travis knew Zoom, and opted to host.

I will sound like a fatuous old fool of a playwright, because that’s who I am, but I sat by the window in my bedroom in Orvieto and watched five friends, three in Virginia, one in New York, and one in St. Pete’s, and was amazed. Amazed by the fact it was happening at all, by the seamlessness of the program, by how connected and committed were the actors – by how well the play seems to work.

“It reads well,” said Ron.

“It reads better on stage than on the page,” said Travis. (That is often said about my scripts. After years of hearing it, I’ve decided to take it as a compliment.)

“That was fun,” said Mary.

It wasn’t until after we’d signed off that I became wistful. I miss the rehearsal room, the generosity of actors, friends in theatre. 

“You asked what I see next for this play? To see it onstage with this cast, Ron directing, and Travis producing. There, I’ve said it,” I wrote in an email thanking them. I have a habit of seeing rep companies wherever I look, however impractical trying to make them happen may be.

That was yesterday. I’m still captivated, replaying the actors’ performances – and my emotional responses – in my mind. I have no right to be so satisfied. In rehearsal, the holes and lumps would reveal themselves, there is no doubt work to be done, but that’s okay. I want to do the work. But when will we meet again to dream together after house lights dim, even in Williamsburg? When can I travel? Who has money for such things?

This morning my physiotherapist, Katrin, came to my house to work on my foot. There are two small tears in the tendon. She explored, showed my neighbor Giancarlo how to apply hot compresses, called a few specialists she knows, described what is probably next.

This prompted a day-long discussion among several of my neighbors as to the best way of assuring that my foot would get the regular attention it needs. Much of the discussion arrived unannounced, thus me without my hearing aides. Making sense of what was being said, and why, was about as slow as my going down the stairs, but I eventually caught on, and a solution was proposed that I had been pondering on my own, as well. Elia, who cleans my yard and waters, who harvested the apricots and shared them with neighbors, who needs money and has no other obligations, Elia will be trained by Giancarlo in the mysteries of hot compresses. A schedule was set, and everyone went away satisfied. 

This evening, Erika and Alba explored an apartment available – ground floor, balcony, centrally located, needs work – and minutes later I had a video, photos and commentary. Another option is always a good thing.

As he left, Giancarlo made doubly certain that I had milk enough for breakfast tomorrow, and food enough for the rest of the day. Because of his largess, I still have full helpings of pasta fredda and wheat berry salad, two helpings of lasagna, three or four of green beans, plus a bag of garden tomatoes and cucumbers, a half round of cheese, prosciutto cotto, and three kinds of bread. {And Emilio is shopping for me tomorrow afternoon.}

“This is great, Giancarlo, I may never want to heal if you keep this up.”

“Okay, but don’t let us catch you walking!”

Risotto was inspired by Annie Musso, our Italian neighbor when I was growing up in Sunnyvale, California. She kept a quarter of an acre of garden and from it supplied everyone on the block with gorgeous organic produce from May to November (and certain things, all year long). We thought of her as phenomenally generous. She thought of herself as normal. Now I understand why.

I renamed this (hopefully short) series of posts “Sideshow” because I really don’t know what’s happening beyond my garden walls. My world has grown even smaller than it was during lockdown. A journey up or down stairs takes planning and forethought. A journey out for groceries seems (and actually is) impossible.

Fortunately, as I hope I’ve made abundantly clear, I’m blessed with wonderful friends and neighbors.

Giancarlo, my neighbor to the north, in addition to providing more food than I have time to eat, has been icing and spreading gel on my left calf and tendon for several days, now. That involves a kind of simple massage using an icepack, waiting until the area warms up, then laying down an impasto of gel. It’s enough time for a little conversation, and today I finally had the linguistic wherewithal to ask him a few basic questions, like – where’s your country house?

The answer is, in Bagnoregio where he was born and raised. He moved to Orvieto when he and Annalisa wed thirty years ago. He began his career as principal of a cooking school in 1978, first in Perugia, then in Terni, and starting twenty years ago, here in Orvieto at the Palazzo di Gusto at the old cloister of San Giovanni. He retired a year ago, and still keeps the family house, with a separate garden, in Bagnoregio.

I’ve been to a handful of events at the cloister and it is an evocative and gracious space. You enter from the piazza, then cross to a long reception-type room into a courtyard on several levels. It’s one of those spaces that calls out for more use. 

“Even ten years ago it was the site of many more gatherings, concerts, parties. There was a concert of medieval music there a few years ago, absolutely magical. Orvieto used to be so much more lively than it is.”

I’m told this often. The summer before last there were more than a dozen concerts a week from mid-July through August, you couldn’t get to them all. Last summer there was also a six-week long outdoor film series. Seemed pretty lively to me.

“No, much more than that, and more variety of everything.”

“What happened?”

“The spirit went away.”

Every time I hear this I think of the towns I’ve lived many times the size of Orvieto that would love to have the cultural life this town has – had (before March).

“And now the theatre is closed, and most things this summer have been cancelled… Will it ever be as vivacious as it once was? Who knows?”

That question, more than anything, motivates me to restore my health and improve my Italian.

“But you retired so recently, I didn’t realize.”

“Yes, but before lockdown I would go to the school several times a week, anyhow. When you love a place, you want to remain connected. But this year, enrollment was down, hard to say why. Even before the crisis.”

This morning Bobbie and Peter stopped by again to puzzle out the drip system that was dripping only in selected zones. Elia came over to wash the paved areas, so I switched him to harvesting apricots until the drips had been scrutinized. He picked four small buckets in various stages of ripening, and distributed sacks among the neighbors.

Peter found a blockage, repaired it, only to find evidence of another block further along. It was hot, and rain is promised late tonight, so we called off the project for now. In the meantime, Bobbie affirmed that the ultrasound used in yesterday’s echo/Doppler can have therapeutic properties, which may help explain why my pains were so quickly reduced.

Around noon, Maria wrote to ask if I needed anything. I sent her a short list, and she said she would deliver after closing, which is usually around 17:30. She appeared at four.

“Nobody coming in,” she said, trying not to be as disappointed as she really was. “Nothing sold.” We tried to make light of it, but didn’t do very well. I thought of reminding her again of my American friends who want to do mail order, but thought better of it. She likes the idea, but the spirit wasn’t there just at that moment.

I had planned to meet with Rachel at six to discuss her maybe managing my move – whenever that is to wherever it might be – whatever that means. She called at five.

“My car wouldn’t start. The garage says they might have it fixed by seven or eight. Argh! I hate cars!”

My mother used to write letters like this. Who came over, who said what. I cherished them. They were like snapshots – no real composition, nothing of note, just a few hours caught by words and sent across the miles with fondness and a simple love of life.

I hobbled to the little piazza with the trees to meet Claudia at 11:20. It’s a short walk, but I left at 11:08 to be sure I’d get there. Walking was less painful this morning, and I arrived in good time. We were going to Todi.

There’s a ghost town in California named Bodie. For reasons forgotten, I grew fascinated with the place when I was about ten, so on a trip to Yosemite my parents took a side trip so I could say I’d been there. The town’s slogan, as it were, was “Goodbye, God, I’m going to Bodie”. 

Todi is not like that. But the road to Todi from Orvieto could draw comparisons, however slight. The road to Bodie was unpaved and seemed about 500 miles long. My father the mechanic cringed the whole way. And it went through the most desolate countryside imaginable. The road to Todi is 22 well-paved kilometers, goes past a beautiful lake through lush forests and stunning cliffs. And is clogged with the traffic of enormous trucks and busses. One feels on the edge of entering paradise at every other curve. Okay, every curve. So maybe the slogan is “Hello, God, I’m going to Todi”.

But I digress.

We went to Todi as the result of heroic efforts on Claudia’s part to secure an appointment for an echo/Doppler exam that was close enough not to devour the entire day. What she went through seemed to have devoured much of yesterday what with calling, waiting for the appointed hour, receiving calls from offices contacted that morning to tell her that had she called again, a morning appointment would have been available in Orvieto, and checking in with Dr. Gazzurra to report on progress. Claudia is a nourisher, and she gives her everything to whatever she chooses to care for, including a host of lost or ailing animals. And friends. Like me.

The actual exam took less than twenty minutes, but probably due to viral-related protocols, we had to arrive 45 minutes early to be allowed access to a series of waiting areas that led to the inner studio. We began outside. Then when two chairs seemed to empty, we asked the couple remaining if we could enter.

“Certo,” the woman said. We complained about wearing masks in hot weather. The inner door opened and names were called, mine among them. We exchanged goodbyes with the couple as if we’d just been to a wonderful concert together. I wanted to hug them, but restrained myself.

The woman in charge of leading us through the series of waiting areas is a cheerful, energetic, kind, attentive person in her fifties (guessing) with hair dyed Italian red, a color almost obligatory for any woman who doesn’t want to wash grey hair in the morning… at least not her own. I cannot describe nor explain how pleasant it was just to be in her presence. No one could have been better chosen for her job, and every medical facility in the world should have someone like her in residence.

I took advantage of the flat floor to pace. Also, to avoid the first few painful steps after sitting. 

Right on time, we were let into a small office staffed by a male physician and his young female assistant. 

“You begin with me, then he finishes up,” she said. “Shoes and trousers off, please.” Then she directed me to a small set of steps, impossibly narrow and uncomfortably steep for the state of my left leg and foot. With both of us participating in the maneuver, the table was successfully reached, and the exam begun.

I’m glad they’ve training. What showed on the screen was such a jumble of grey globs that I wanted to laugh. I restrained myself, not wanting to cause need for explanation. 

They tested everything.

“I leave no stone unturned,” he said.

After questions about pain, lots of grey globs, and pointing often to the screen and muttering, it was affirmed that there were no clots anywhere. Good news. By then, I’d grown so fond of this duo, I wanted to invite them or lunch. Again, I restrained myself.

We stopped in the tiny village at the bottom of the hill leading up to centro storico for sandwiches. Not much was on offer, so we settled for lettuce and tomato between lightly toasted bread. They were somehow utterly delicious.

On the way home, Claudia’s eldest son Tobia called. The small cat that Claudia had been trying to nurse back to health, had died. She wasn’t surprised, but there was a silence as she wiped away her tears.

What we nourish, we grow to love.

Tuesday, and I saw Katrin (physiotherapist) in her new studio in Ciconia, Roy drove me down, drove back up for his shiatsu session, then drove down again to pick me up. Bless his soul. That evening, Claudia drove all the way from Monterubiaglio to give me the short ride to see Dr. Gazzurra; she also acted as translator when needed. Bless her soul.

Katrin is intensely generous, caring, and knowledgable. She spent an hour gently examining calf, tendon, and heel to conclude that there was probably no clot, but that I should have an echo-doppler exam to be safe. Then she called Dr. Gazzurra and Michele (shiatsu) to fill them in. We made another appointment for Monday, assuming that no clot is found. Short on cash because of a lengthly transfer from my stateside bank, I asked her if I could pay her at our next session. She smiled as if to wonder why I would even have to ask.

Dr. Gazzurra reminds me of all good creatures of the earth. Specifically, there is a golden retriever near Piazza Cahen that I frequently scratch just above the tail. I don’t do that for the good doctor, but he has the same dignified composure, kindness, and patient good humor, and I always call the dog, dottore. After his examination, he came to the same conclusions as did Katrin. When I couldn’t understand him behind his mask, Claudia repeated what he said from behind her mask – in Italian – and mostly it worked. The whole thing was worthy of a bit from “I Love Lucy”.

Gazzurra wrote down four recommendations for doctors who could do the exam to increase our chances of getting it done quickly, handed it to me, and I offered it to Claudia. She took it with a smile. The doctor, dressed head to toe in wine red, warmly shook his unruly grey locks, and sent us on our ways with a masked smile, brimming with good cheer. 

This morning, Claudia hit the phones. So did I, and cancelled all appointments for today and tomorrow so we could take whatever slots were offered. Those cancelled included two visits with my dentist. I managed to explain to his receptionist why, she managed to understand, and promised to message me with replacements dates. Claudia ran right into the meshed gears of the medical machine; to book an appointment call this number, but only between the hours of… and we’ll put a request underway. She messaged later that we’re going to Todi, then immediately afterwards, no maybe Orvieto. No, probably Todi, and in the heat of the day.

Between Katrin and Gazzurra, there was Massimo. He is the agent who found my current house for me, and connected me with a woman who wants to take advantage of the lull – hell, complete stop – in her BnB business to switch to having a regular tenant. It’s a nice ground floor apartment near San Giovenale with a view and an internal courtyard. I looked at it with Maria maybe two weeks ago, had some questions but in the main it felt like home. Massimo was (is always) accompanied by Oliver, his Jack Russel Terrier, an extremely affectionate little creature who likes to climb onto my lap, even when I’m standing (well, he tries). Massimo and I discussed rent and length of contract. Then he saw a tiny potshard under the apricot tree, showed it to me and declared it to be painted in the style of mid-fourteenth century. 

“Those bits are all over the yard!” I told him, and he was on his feet in seconds exploring the mounds of rock and clay I’d piled up as edging. 

“Thirteenth century, seventeenth, eighteenth…”

“How do you know so much about ceramic painting styles?”

He kept on finding shards, said something about his family’s palazzo, and dated a dozen other pieces, then picked up a small flower pot and dumped them together.

“Maybe there was an Etruscan cistern here, used as a trash heap until these buildings were put up. Who knows? You’re right, they’re everywhere.”

A few minutes after Massimo left, his friend Gianluca appeared.

“Massimo tells me you’re moving, may I look around? We have a new spaniel, and not having an outdoor space is getting on all our nerves.” He shared photos of a beautiful blond Cocker.

“May I come back tomorrow with Monica?”

“Anytime, just message first.”

Giancarlo next door messaged me just as I returned from seeing Gazzurra.

“How about a frittata for supper?”

“That would be wonderful.”

“Around eight okay?”

“At your convenience.”

And precisely at eight he pushed open the gate, which has not been locked for a week, with a beautiful, piping hot, avocado and cheese frittata laced with green onions and herbs.

Renzo messaged me from the beach.

“Sorry it took so long, reception was bad. How’re you doing?”

“Better, thanks. Giancarlo is a prince.”

“Is he? I’m envious.”

“Don’t worry, you are too!”

“Alright, then.”

Three weeks ago, I was touring an apartment near Porta Romana when I jammed my left foot against a tiny, almost invisible step. It jarred my body from cowlick to toe-wart. I had to sit for twenty minutes to recover, not that there was pain, but there was a kind of trauma. Fortunately, the conversation was lively, and I forgot about it.

Two weeks ago, I noticed that the first few steps after sitting, even for only a couple of minutes, caused a pain in my left calf. But walking a few meters worked it out, so I thought little of it.

A week ago, after having dined on one of my favorite soups at Vincaffe, I stood and hobbled painfully out the door. I could read Cristiano’s concern even in my peripheral vision. Cristiano is a jogger.

Two days later when Michele suggested we change Thursday’s shiatsu session to the following Monday, I essentially screamed an objection via email. “I can barely walk! I’ll never make it to Monday!” Michele kept Thursday’s session in place.

Friday morning, Renzo saw me hobbling around, quizzed me, and resurrected a pair of crutches he’d used twenty-some years ago.

“Both knees replaced with metal joints,” he explained, tracing the massive incisions with his fingers “three months on these crutches for each knee.”

“You know these crutches well.”

“I know them too well. But worth the pain, my knees have shown me no problems since.”

Claudia and I were on our way to dottoressa Fritz. The last appointment was March 5, then because her studio lay outside the comune of Orvieto – and because Claudia couldn’t have even picked me up for similar reasons – nothing until mid-May. Then the dottoressa’s back problems kicked in, and forced postponement of two subsequent visits. Friday’s painful calf was not about to prevent our trying again. She switched treatments from my nervous system to my left leg.

Minutes after returning home, Renzo and Patrizia appeared with a rice salad, stuffed zucchini, and a generous slice of Renzo’s crostata. Maria soon followed with groceries and pharmaceuticals. Elia (known during the lockdown as the smoker with a sweet smile) checked in to see that his cleaning of my house’s outdoor areas was adequate, and if I needed anything more. Giancarlo, my neighbor in the opposite direction, made sure that he understood how to gel and wrap the calf, then promised to return in the morning to help. Meals were offered and provided on Saturday by Renzo and Patrizia, then when they left on Sunday for a week’s vacation, they passed the wooden spoon to Giancarlo who brought me food enough to last several days.

I was neither able, nor compelled, to leave the property for the weekend. It was like a personal lockdown.

But the lack of walking made me jittery and dispirited. For all the kindness offered and done, I felt dry inside; deeply appreciative, but disconnected. Without the communal purpose of a lockdown, being stuck at home is just being stuck at home.

Monday morning, American friends Bobbie and Peter came over to install the control mechanism for the drip system I’d installed three years ago. Elia was willing to water from time to time, but I worried for the hydrangeas, so wanted to back up with evening drips. It was lovely of them to help, I thoroughly enjoyed their company, but as soon as they left I returned to my funk. I tried a few vain circumambulations of the courtyard. Too painful. Too risky. I iced the leg for a second time, and dozed.

All afternoon I wanted to jump out of my skin. This was boring. Walking holds my body in balance; it also is wonderful entertainment. I sulked.

Then in a hour’s time I suddenly had appointments for physiotherapist, shiatsu, medical doctor, real estate agent, and dentist lined up for the rest of the week. This would need some cash. Cash required a trip to the bancomat. That required walking. So, with the heat of the day waning, I set off on Renzo’s crutches.

I felt ridiculous at first, like I was playing a hackneyed role badly. But the air on the street was breezy and felt good. Young people drifted by, none of them even with canes, let alone crutches. Their healthy appearances were more welcome and appreciated than usual. 

Bianca, whose face naturally assumes a smile no matter what she’s feeling, furled her brow and asked what was happening.

“Left calf is hurting, and I’m not used to crutches.”

“Don’t get used to them, and be careful.”

Francesca, my tax advisor in Italy drifted uphill with her adorable black poodle.

“Are you acting or is this serious?”

“Good question. Cute dog.”

The male half of the human couple that belong to the elegant dog named Bea, passed as I was returning home, loaded up with euro.

“No, use them like this. Left crutch forward, left foot forward, right crutch forward, right foot forward. It’s a dance.  Con calma, piano piano.”

I tried, failed, tried again, failed again. Bea looked on, puzzled as to why we weren’t interacting.

“Keep it up, it will feel natural in a few minutes.”

I did. It didn’t. As I turned the corner home, I carried the crutches the last few meters. My mood was lifted, my left calf more supple, and my body more agile. For me, walking is an elixir. I dread the days without it, and there may be several. But my friends and neighbors behave as if there were nothing in the world more important than taking care of one another. They may be right.

Intermission is over. Act Two started out with a big production number on Saturday; lots of people in the streets, restaurants fully booked that evening. Most everyone coming into town on Saturday was wearing a mask, but only about half of those were wearing them on their faces. By Monday, the older teens, still dressed to the nines, had abandoned masks all together – that fashion accessory, as it turns out, was short-lived.

We all want to return to a pre-pandemic life.

It was wonderful seeing people fill the streets and restaurants. It also gave many of us pause, especially those of us who were here for lockdown. We paid a price and want the goods delivered in good condition. I was involved in several discussions about both the wonder and the fear. We would decry the lack of masks while unmasked ourselves, proclaim them unnecessary except for extended conversations at less than two meters while within a meter of one another. The signs are here – crowds, bustle, food – we pick up on them unconsciously and a whole culture returns without any effort at all.

Another subject oft repeated; how lockdown seemed perfectly normal at the time, and now, looking back, has become surreal. There is almost a nostalgia for its purity, its simplicity. Intermission was engaging, greeting friends who had spent the previous two-plus months within a few meters of each other, as if they were returning from a global adventure – which in a way they were. The joys of cleaning, reestablishing, opening, took us into a state of heightened appreciation, the future was daunting, but it also felt fresh and stimulating.

Then about two weeks ago I felt a change in the air and in myself. Maybe it was a kind of slump after being on high alert for so long, the psyche’s natural desire to have time off, to lower guard. Umbria was without active cases, inter-regional travel was still closed, we were safe. And with the relaxation came of kind of depression. I kept my daily routines intact, but felt adrift. Drifting turned to world weary. I stopped sending out plays to festivals and submitting to theatres with announced calls. Why bother when they’ll be closed for at least another year? I barely wrote at all. The sense of purpose suggested by lockdown waned. I plugged the hole by eating out and providing a bit of commerce to the dining establishments struggling to re-open. Now that, too, seems unnecessary. 

And in the past two weeks I’ve been told again and again by Orvietani that their fellow townspeople treat one another poorly, that only foreigners (including Italians from outside of town) are treated kindly. And in the past two weeks I’ve heard Italians disparage Italy, over and over. Those complaints are always there, here, and every other place I’ve ever lived, but lately they’ve become harsher and more difficult to listen to. Maybe weeks of compliance have created an especially strong need to complain – get it out of our systems.

The Fantasticks, the longest-running American musical of all time, ends the first act with everything in its romantic place. The second act begins with the gentle light of the moon being replaced with the heat of a noonday sun. “This plum is too ripe” is the repeated complaint. The dressed up youth that were so charming a week or two ago, now seem a bit brash and to be trying too hard. The day-trippers trooping up Corso, so welcome on Saturday, even with their elbows protected with masks, by Sunday seemed a little desperate, and far too few in number to make more than a superficial difference.

“I can’t go on like this,” lamented Maria whose scarf shop saw no business despite the crowds. “I’ll keep the shop open through July to sell what I can, but I won’t produce any more scarves.” Then perhaps she’ll take booths at the special markets, when there are special markets again. When she first reopened in May, she had been surprised how much she had missed not only the creation of products but the community connection the shop gave her. Now, the hill looks steeper, the path more overgrown, the weather uncertain.

“I’m bleeding,” said today’s partner at afternoon tea. “I can’t say ‘we shall see’ anymore and believe it.”

One of my favorite places in town to eat is Trattoria delli Poggi, located a few handy steps from where I live. The delli Poggi family runs several eateries, including Pizzeria Charlie with its ample courtyard. So Stefano, who is a driving force for most of it, made a well-considered decision to have Charlie “host” the Trattoria for the summer. It was a lot of work, like creating a new location for a new business, but when Erika and I went for their first night last Saturday, there were no places available. 

“Congratulations, Stefano! I’ve never been happier to be refused seating.”

“We shall see,” he responded. “It’s a risk, but what else can we do? We have to maintain a solid business and healthy distancing, together.”

Being adrift is contrary to the human experience. 

As the young lovers find out in Act Two, the lessons learned in the light of day are difficult and often painful, but they are the price we pay for gaining back a future.