Category: Lockdown

Phase Two: I finally found the nerve to sit in public. 

There’s a leftover lockdown guilt (or fear, or fearful guilt) of taking a bench in what was previously a crowded spot. Early in March, police were shooing folks away from the various stone perches provided by ancient princes and their architects. It was, at first, about as effective as shooing pigeons – people would get up, circle around, and collect again – but by and by the prohibition sunk in, and until yesterday – or maybe the day before – the prohibition stuck.

My first public sitting was a fairly safe one, in the large park below San Giovanale. No one has cut the weeds down to a lawn since January, so the field has reverted to its natural state. Grasses and a few little wildflowers waving in a dancing breeze invited a slow leg-brushing walk that parted into a path of shimmering varieties of green and grey. I found a bench in the shade and contemplated the valley. A couple of guys played with their little dogs at the other end of the field. 

My second act of possible civil disobedience was in the little park with a view of La Badia. Once again, it’s a park, so my vaunted criminality was considerably diluted. Parks have been open all week for just about anything so long as there are two meters between participants. The social distancing does not apply to cats, however this park’s sizable number of resident felines were observing it anyway. It was a warm afternoon, and they were spread like Dali’s clocks on whatever cool stone surface they could find. There is a ledge between terraced levels of lawn that holds a bronze bass relief, and at one end it serves as a bench well enough to warrant a sit.

Someone has been cutting this lawn. There are umbrella pines and other large trees I can’t identify, and a fantastical view of the octagonal tower and ruins of a medieval abby below. A very vocal songbird with an impressive vocabulary was holding a lively conversation with a compatriot far away. 

A man and his black spaniel slid into the scene. What seemed to be the youngest of the cats crouched preventively as the spaniel sniffed around – the others couldn’t have cared less. The dog was likewise blasé, and after doing what he had come for (his human fetching and disposing of the evidence) they left the park as quietly as they came. A few moments later, and so did I.

My third possible crime would have been more brazen had I not been copying the actions of two gentlemen seated far from each other who I observed on the way to the park. If you live here, you feel regularly drawn to the benches across from the Duomo, almost by compulsion. Two months had passed since my last visit. To a true Orvietano, that neglect is closer to a criminal act than sitting could ever be. So, even though the benches were empty on my way back from viewing cats, I took a spot and gazed at Her Elegance for a happy ten minutes. The local police cruised by, said nothing, stopped at an outdoor caffe where three men were generously spread between tables, and held a long conversation instead of moving them on.

Phase Two is real.

After that I rested on benches all over town, guilt and fear free. I perched not because I was tired, but because I could. The benches afforded wonderful vantages for observing my fellow townspeople and their dogs, and even the random pigeon.

Renzo, Gianni, and Giancarlo finished potting wall flowers this morning and the lane is truly magnificent, especially when the sun hits at an advantageous angle. My last bench for the day was in my little courtyard, and as I opened the computer to write, Renzo and Patrizia pushed open the gate, smiles hidden but obvious, carrying a plate.

“A pastry with pear jam and walnuts.”

They handed me a kind of crostata, only instead of a variation on the traditional cross-hatch, in the middle stood a heart. I melted into an appreciative blob. 

After a few compliments paid the job done decorating the street, followed by wishes that the flowers would survive the summer, my friends and neighbors were off.

“Buona cena!”

The light dims, the air cools, the pear and walnut pastry sits nearby, and guilt and fear have fled.

Phase Two is believed.

I saw the headlines yesterday: Corteo and Palombella Canceled This Year. It should not have come as a surprise, but it was still a shock. Distant thunder gave way to chain lighting, directly overhead.

Corteo Storico and Corteo delle Dame are major events in Orvieto. The first represents Orvieto at the height of its power and influence, when representatives from all the cities and counties it controlled delivered tribute to the Podestà(or depending on the political climate, the Capitano del Popolo). The procession of officials, military, clergy, and noblemen is recreated as it would have looked during the fourteenth century. The costumes are authentic reproductions down to the finest detail. Three to four hundred people are included in the event, and there are hundreds more who build, maintain, and repair the costumes, military gear, and weapons. And, of course, there are drums and trumpets, and banners and flags.

The lazy description of Corteo delle Dame is that it’s the female version of Corteo Storico, but that’s really not fair. The costumes are even more lavish, the groupings of women (and occasional men and children) are like tableaux vivant, there is music and dance, and at the end a Corteo Popolano, a parade of the common folk, which might include small livestock.

Thousands come to Orvieto for the Corteo and attendant events – banner tossing, horse racing, archery contests, and in some years, a form of jousting. But not this year.

Palombella is a local manifestation celebrating the miracle of Pentecost. As is most Italian cities, a dove is flown down a wire into the local cathedral. What happens when it arrives is interpreted differently in different towns. In Orvieto, a wooden tower is erected on the steps of the Duomo as a landing point for the dove (the bird is no longer tied to an armiture, but rides along in a plexiglass tube). In the tower are images of the apostles. When the dove arrives, smoke and fire is set off, and tongues of flame appear over the saintly heads. All this is proceeded by a parade in medieval garb, with plenty of drums and trumpets. But once the fireworks are spent, a guy in jeans and a striped shirt puts up an aluminum ladder to fetch the bird, which is then handed to two footmen dressed from the late 18^th century, who run it across the piazza to the town’s most recent parents (or other honorees) who wait on the balcony of a 19^th century palace.

Also cancelled: Orvieto in Flower, the Corpus Domini procession, Orvieto Musica, Orvieto Festival of Strings, and whatever else has the bad fortune to have scheduled events before July.

So, this evening I round the corner onto Via delle Pertiche Prima to find Renzo on his aluminum ladder, in jeans and striped shirt (sort of), and Gianni from up the street doing ground work. They were replacing the winter pansies that for a hundred meters grace the walls of the lane. In their place they are setting blooms in the colors of Corsica, the quartiere – red and yellow. Later in the month they will hang banners and flags of the same colors with Corsica’s symbol emblazoned, the castle tower.

“I thought Corteo is cancelled.”

“Everything is cancelled,” lamented Gianni, listing the defunct events like fallen heroes. “But we are not cancelled. Life goes on. No crowds will gather to look at our street, but anyone who sees it will know that we still celebrate Orvieto’s beauty and continuity with its past. No virus can kill that!”

“Grazie, ragazzi, ringrazio dal cuore.”

“Grazie a te,” replied Renzo. 

What I’ve done to be thanked for, beyond loving these people, I don’t know. Perhaps that’s enough.

Viva Orvieto! Viva Via delle Pertiche Prima! Viva la storia! Viva la bellezza.

For years I’ve been saying that those of us who live in towns like Orvieto are engaged in an act of stewardship. I’ve only had the vaguest of ideas as to what I meant when I’ve said it, but it seemed right. That was not to say that our towns are perfect, or haven’t arrived at this moment free of tumult and division, or that they are in any way utopias, just that there is something here, preserved in amber, that has come down to us unbroken. Battered, uncertain, strained, but unbroken. And that some day we would begin to discover what that unbroken thing is, and that people all over would turn to our towns for guidance, to glean and taste examples of a sustainable future.

Ahah! That word! Sustainable. I love what it represents in its broadest sense, but it has become hinged to a dream. The dream that we can continue to behave like madmen and through the miracle of engineering not pollute and destroy the planet while we do. In that sense our towns offer little help. They have fallen in love with the same glitzy, messy things everyone else has. The sustainability that I sense is here, is of another kind. It lays beneath the surface. I don’t know what it looks like, but we can all point to signs of its existence. 

The brothers at Caffe del Corso look as related to each other as do Queen Elizabeth and Beyonce. They are so dissimilar that I question my understanding when I claim that they are indeed brothers, but they have told me on several occasions, and it’s difficult to sustain a joke for five years, even one involving a semi-literate foreigner.

They are among those who are taking advantage of the “pause” to fix a few things that have needed attention. As I passed today, they were busy repairing their deck. Cristien came over with such enthusiasm that he almost shook my hand.

“Sorry! It’s just so good to see you! How’ve you been? Okay these past two months?”

“We’re coming through, aren’t we? You guys are busy.”

“The whole time we were stuck inside, we kept seeing every little thing that was falling apart around here. We’d email each other with lists of what we remembered needed fixing. Now we are free to work, so… here we are, and it’s great! We’ll open in a week, or maybe three. That’s being worked out as we all get a better sense of how safe it is, and most of us will open in better shape than we were in two months ago. It’s been hard, but good. How are you?”

Across the street, the Ukrainian couple were busy washing windows and sprucing up a chalkboard menu. Next door across the little piazza, the deck was being scrubbed, plants refreshed. Everyone knows there will be no instant return to business as usual, but a solid, clean deck and a beautifully printed menu are almost eternal positives, they are worth the time – especially when the time is so abundantly available. These are statements of confidence in our collective ability to usher in a pleasant, however unfamiliar, future.

Up Corso at Tomasso’s gelateria, what was a couple of days ago a plain black panel is now embellished with a classy graphic. I can’t tell you what it says because I don’t remember, but I do know that it struck me as beautiful when I saw it.

Montanucci seems to have embarked on a fairly elaborate project to allow takeout service directly from their front doors. Dolceamaro, Caffe Cavour, Barrique, have adjusted in similar fashion, and are now serving. We shout greetings back and forth like excited children during an unexpected snow.

People are buying plants for their gardens and balconies.

Those are all nice things, but that’s not all of it.

As I left for my post-lunch walk, Renzo called out that there will be crostata later. And when I returned from my walk, it was waiting on my table. Could be prune, might be sour cherry. I should know by the shade of color, but I’m still learning.

I passed a woman, masked, who I don’t know (I’m pretty sure, I don’t) just as someone in an upstairs window sneezed so violently that seismic sensors all over Italy flew off their charts. Our eyes met in perfect, alarmed, amusement.

I passed Giuliano yesterday evening, his tresses blowing in the wind, and evidencing curls I never knew he had. He knew I didn’t recognize him at first, and found it fun.

Closer.

For the past few days of free-roaming spring, the town has decided to dress, not in the colors of the town as is usually the case, but in brilliant pinks and reds and oranges. Occasional aquamarine.

That’s not the full picture, but those glimpses sustain us. The full picture may not be visible except in pieces, but I am certain that there is no engineering needed to reveal its parts.

For another way of saying almost exactly the same thing, click here. 

The photo is from Via Pecorelli, 2015.

My life has been dedicated to participating in the creation of reasons and opportunities for people to gather. Ooops.

I got my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in dramatic production. For the next twenty years I shored up a theatre habit with jobs in food service. I even started an Italian style caffè that I ran for four years or so (that I was totally unqualified to do so, didn’t stop me for a moment). I founded theatre companies, almost by habit, and created performance spaces out of whatever room or cavity or lawn would hold chairs (or pillows and rugs). 

And here we are, me and millions of kindred spirits, pining over locked theatres, taverns, and diners and wondering how long we will have to wait to see the lights switched on, again. Reasons to gather.

It is speculated that Shakespeare used his time in Stratford to his, and our, benefit while waiting out London’s periodic plague summers. Most playwrights these days – or perhaps, any days – write from the love of wrighting rather than from any real expectation of production; and a script can always be passed around, even during plagues. Cooks will cook because everyone needs to eat, and if we have the luxury of overcoming boredom in cuisine, both cooks and eaters will find a way to keep exchanging talents.

But gathering?

I recently read a piece on Le Corbusier and his dream city of pre-planned, vast empty space. The article speculated that a post-virus society might go that direction to avoid the contagion invited by the over-crowded modern metropolis. I immediately remembered my days as a cater-waiter, passing trays at a densely packed bank employees’ cocktail party held in their cavernous, beaux arts lobby, with the entire party voluntarily condensed into a space the size of an executive suite. We are herders. Give us vast empty space, we will gather in a knot in a tiny corner of it, and like it just fine.

As a theatre guy, I always championed the community-building capacities of the performing arts. There is something thrilling about experiencing a cultural event as expressed by living people immediately present, with spectators, also present, and without the competitive necessity of siding with a team, or the need to conform to a belief. It is said that an audience at a concert or play will synchronize their beating hearts within a few minutes of the event’s beginning.

I betcha Zoom doesn’t do that.

I ran into Giancarlo this afternoon. In normal times, he makes sure that I am kept in apple strudel.

“You’ve lost weight!” he observed.

“Haven’t we all?

“You haven’t been eating your strudel.”

“True.”

“Call me a day ahead, I’ll have it ready by the next afternoon, and will meet you at the door or even deliver.”

That’s what the cooks are doing.

Fabrizio, the fruit and nut man, this morning struggled to speak through his mask.

“Ribracgo!”

“What?”

“Rimbgifto!”

“What?”

He mimed a piano keyboard.

“Riccardo!”

“Yes! The maestro.”

“A wonderful pianist, is Riccardo.”

“Oh, yes, wonderful.”

“Have you heard him on the accordion?”

“No.”

“Amazing. I had no idea that instrument could make such a variety of sound.”

“Some day, maybe,” he said rather sadly. “But you both order naturally-dried apricots!”

“Maybe it’s a thing with performers, you think?”

Fabrizio will pull through. He looked much less burdened this week. Movement is therapeutic. 

So is gathering.

Teatro Mancinelli never announced a season this year. The non-profit that ran it had accumulated debt, and the new city administration was unwilling to prevent its dissolution by granting a subsidy. So, except for a couple of independently-booked events, the theatre has been dark since summer. From today’s perspective, it’s just as well, I guess, but a huge hole opens in my heart every time I pass. The tradition must be served – in much the same way that there must continue to be strudel.  But gathering will have to wait.

At least we wait together. Meantime, folks are doing gorgeous stuff on YouTube, aren’t they? (Even alone.)

The photo is of Teatro Mancinelli in 2016.

Don’t take this wrong. I love receiving comments, messages, emails, and calls. But the electronic lifeline is wearing thin.

Used to be I’d check email and Facebook first thing in the morning. After awhile, I realized that at least half of the friends who are likely to write were six or more hours earlier than here, so checking email after lunch would do just fine. A few days passed, and I reverted to in a morning habit for what may have arrived overnight. It was never enough. Emails would lead to Facebook would lead to The Guardian (because it’s in a closer time zone and therefore more timely) would lead to the Times and Washington Post. All the while I’m muttering to myself, “I want communication! And this isn’t it!”

Just now I passed the lovely gentleman who unearthed Pozzo della Cava twenty-some years ago, and turned it into a museum. We don’t really know each other, but I like him. I was masked, he was essentially at home, I bid him a good evening.

“Good evening, good evening! Everyone is masked!”

“I know! It’s so difficult!”

We laughed.

Now the funny thing is, what I said was “I know!  È tanto difficile!” Two languages in one sentence. However, he could have heard it as “Ai! No, è tanto difficile!” In fact, he probably did. And that linguistic glitch kept me amused all the way home.

I want communication!

At the beginning of my afternoon walk I saw Natsuko. She and her husband Andrea produced Colloquia last summer, and I’ve missed seeing them terribly. She looked radiant to be outdoors and in motion. I was still struggling to escape an afternoon funk. We exchanged information from a two meters distance, no hands were shook nor cheeks kissed. I wished dearly that my mood had already rebounded so I could adequately express my joy in seeing her. Didn’t quite happen. But we reported on the routes of the walks we were on, bid each other health, and I sent greetings to Andrea and their daughter Amane.

By the time I saw two other friends on Via Maitani I had replayed meeting Natsuko enough times that when Toni asked how I was, I had caught up with an improving mood and was able to report “Better now that I’m walking,” and be honest about it.

Communication.

After a good wander, I visited Tomasso for gelato. He was there himself with two staff. I wondered how it was necessary to have three people serving the paltry number of customers he was likely to see. I also wondered, is he so exceedingly kind that he schedules them just so they’ll have a little work while they wait together for whatever normal may look like by June?

Yesterday evening, I happened past where Stefano and Naomi live. I knew they lived close, but was tipped off as to their exact location by Stefano and his son and daughter’s being out together in their little forecourt.

“Getting some exercise?” and we traded lockdown lore of walking in circles in our respective outdoor spaces.

Stefano is of a restaurant family. His father started Pizzeria Charlie, which Stefano took over about the time I got to know him in the early 2000’s. Over the years I’ve watched him lead the creation or alteration of five or six eateries, his latest project being one of my favorites, Trattoria delli Poggi.

“So, when are you reopening?”

“June sometime.”

“But you could do takeout right away, couldn’t you?”

“We could, but it’s not really worth it. There aren’t customers now, and probably won’t be until people are able to travel again. So, we’ll take it a bit at a time,” and he smiled and shrugged. “We’ll manage.”

He is the same fellow who told me in January that over the previous two years tourism had been on the upswing, that even though the streets seemed not as full, the guests who were coming were here to dine, relax, stay a few days, and patronize the shops, whereas previously there were mostly day-trippers. Stefano has his finger on the pulse of this town as few others do, so if he thinks opening sometime in June makes sense, I am reassured.

And that conversation yesterday helped reduce today’s time online to minutes in the single digits. Communication, satisfied – face to face. Even if one or both of the faces is masked.

Time conflates. And the whole town has taken on the intriguing mystery of a masquerade ball.

I walked today like I was trying to make up for nearly two months’ lost opportunity, which is exactly what I was doing. I saw dozens of friends and acquaintances, and with each it was as if we’d seen one another just yesterday, when in fact it was in almost every case at least two months. Everyone seems to have lost weight. Those with hair are wearing it long these days. Most seemed a little misty-eyed. They all looked beautiful beyond words.

I was also greeted by people I don’t think I know, and returned the favor more than a few times. That is partly because we have our most distinguishing features blotted out, but as much because in these times we have so much in common, everyone feels like a friend.

I get teary-eyed, a lot.

I saw Kamal as I set out on my second walk of the day around noon. I mentioned yesterday that he had laid out his pizzas and felafels for the usual crowds, and wondered how that was going to work.

“Aside from you I had three customers all day. No students, no tourists – no customers.”

“Are you opening today, because if you are I could use some pizza.”

“Come around 13:30, I’ll have something for you. I imagined it would all be like before. Boy, was I wrong.”

“I’m afraid there’s no before, anymore.”

He grunted, sighed, and rode his bike towards Corso. His is a plight many are going to be faced with in the coming days. (For those who are looking for good slice pizza, Kamal is across from the Japanese restaurant on Corso. I believe he’ll be there weekends. Spread the word.)

The streets are still pretty quiet. I imagine many people are staying in out of habit, caution, and predilection. It may also be that when you take away the tourists, those affiliated with study abroad programs, shop keepers and workers who live away from town, part-timers, and shoppers from other areas of the comune, who you see now is who is left. Not a lot of people live in the upper city anymore, a fact easy to forget because Orvieto is a magnet for so many. The streets as they are today give one pause. This city exists on a precarious balance.

For my mid-afternoon walk I went to Serancia, a quarter I rarely explore further than Piazza Ranieri. That was a good choice today. The neighborhood has many beautiful gardens visible to a passerby, richly, extravagantly overgrown in the Italian custom. The area also boasts numerous container gardens, spread out on the street or hanging from sconces on walls. Alleys twist into tiny courtyards, plummet downhill onto private vistas of the valley, end suddenly at a gate protecting a riot of roses.

And today, not only was the sky clear and temperatures mild, but automobiles were scarce. Streets usually a bother to walk, yielded their centers to my humble feet, affording my appreciative gaze a new perspective on the many joys Orvieto has on offer.

When I set out on an afternoon walk, it was with the goal of gelato. I’d not remembered this morning, so was determined to visit post lunch. Tomasso and his crew were all there, everything organized for street service, as all the bars and cafes that are open are obliged to do. 

“Bentornato, Tomasso!”

“Everything good with you?”

“As can be expected, and you?”

“We’re open, that’s a relief.”

I ordered a baby cup of hazelnut, and paid my euro. He pushed the euro back with a pat of his hand.

“You’re too kind!  Grazie!”

“First of the season.”

Italian commerce seems to operate on two parts faith, six parts a savvy will to survive, three parts whim, and the rest is centuries of momentum. The peoples of northern Europe will say that Italy manages to limp along indefinitely. I’m sure it’s not as easy as they make it look, but Italians have a remarkable talent for turning that limp into a dance. I hope they can call upon those transformational skills over the next few months – they are going to need them.

The photo is of Tomasso at L’Officina del Gelato.

There were quite a number of people out during my morning walk, fewer than I was prepared for, but many more than has been usual at any time of day since March 10. Social distancing was generally observed, mask-wearing was spottier. I veered off Corso and kept to the side streets.

I walked to San Giovenale – Orvieto’s oldest church, the current structure dating from 1004 – to check out everyone’s favorite view. It did not disappoint. 

In a letter from friends, they described their view of the valley from their home in Porano (a village about fifteen minutes drive outside of Orvieto) as “a thousand shades of green”. The description is also apt in the other direction. Some trees are still in blossom, rain has encouraged new grasses, the spring is gorgeous this year. I’m sure I’m not alone in being relieved that we are able to be out and about to witness its final few arias.

From there, I went left over Porta Maggiore, and uphill past the Colonacci – the panorama following me all the while – and away from cliffside at Vicolo dei Medici. The sun was strong, the hill was as steep as ever, and everything about it was more intense than ever could be in my courtyard at home.

I passed Umbria Top where Svjetlana has a wine shop. It’s open while others are still closed. There must be nuances at play beyond the broad dictates of the national announcement.

“Bentornata, cara!”

“Grazie. Returning to regular sales, but I’ve been shipping online orders the whole time, so it hasn’t been too bad.”

“Good for you!”

“You know,” she said with a look of motherly concern, “when you’re on a quiet street, and no one else is around, it would be a good idea to lower the mask.”

“I’ve been wondering if I should.”

“You should! It’s healthier that way. Breathing in your own damp exhalations is not good for you.”

A bit further on, Antonny was in Blue Bar freshening up. A number of places have decided to use the time off to improve and repair. Something happens when you take away all the people; the rotten wood and mildewed awnings are suddenly and starkly apparent. A policewoman stood in his doorway. She seemed to be explaining Phase Two to Antonny, what he could do and when. But I’m just speculating.

Back on Corso, more were out than before. The pizzeria/pasticceria has moved its counter to open directly onto the street. Montanucci, still dark. Some activity in various shops, but only by their proprietors – maybe relieving horizontal surfaces of an almost two months’ collection of dust.

I saw Kamal, the pizzaiolo, last night during my walk.

“I’m opening tomorrow!”

“You are? The other day you said the 18^th.”

“Umbria is doing okay, and details are being sorted out by region, even by comune. Anyway, only for takeout, but I don’t have much eat-in business anyhow, so no difference really.”

“Great! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

So, for lunch I steamed some broccoli then went around the corner for a few slices. Kamal had laid out his counter as if the entire town were expected for lunch. From the look of things, I may have been his first customer. Given that foot traffic is still light that far down on Corso, and there is no way for word-of-mouth to spread, he may have been lucky to have had even my patronage.

After eating, I ventured out again. No one. I began to wonder if permission to walk had been rescinded. No, it was just lunchtime when everyone eats at home, because there is no other choice. The pizzerias were closed, too. Their clientele had taken out all they needed.

I wandered towards the Duomo. The family of cats near Al Mercato was lounging anywhere they damn pleased, and seemed very happy indeed to be doing so. As they normally glean much of their fare from falling scraps at the cafes in the area, I wondered who has been feeding them. They all look healthy, so someone has.

Later, just because I could, I went to Metà for a few things.

Now, something remarkable I’ve noticed living here is how seldom you see a local kid throw a tantrum or raise a fuss. Kids here are in society from their first or second week of life, they are brought up by dozens of affectionate friends and relatives, and seem like a remarkably secure lot.

Well, given that no one can leave their region, it’s pretty safe that the four-year-old boy having a meltdown on Via delle Donne was local. He was not happy about wherever he and his parents were going. He dug in his heels every third step, and yelled his dear head off. His parents were trying to strike a balance between firm and understanding, and were doing well, but it was not buying cooperation.

He broke my heart, this little guy. How can a kid whose family is a host of people he sees every day possibly understand why they have all, save his parents, gone into hiding? Then suddenly, he’s on the street again, only they’re empty; empty of his friends, his innumerable aunts and uncles, his favorite dogs and cats.  What is going on? “I don’t know,” he seemed to be saying, “but I don’t want to go any further. And I won’t.”

His parents, the few others watching, and myself included, know exactly how the boy feels, and wish we had a quick answer. We don’t. But we have a lot of the same questions.

I passed an edicola and checked out the headlines: “Umbria without recent new cases.” Not overly precise, that announcement, but who can argue with the spirit?

The photo is of the valley as viewed from the wall above Porta Romana.

I was circling my courtyard listening to On The Media when a small twig arrived, bouncing at my feet. I looked towards Marianna who was on her balcony with the ever-adorable Pongo, talking on her phone. She pointed up. I followed her finger to the next balcony to find Renzo.

“I couldn’t get your attention by shouting, so I threw something.”

“It worked. How’re you both?”

“We’re making gnocchi. Want some?”

“That would be incredible!” My enthusiasm drew a laugh from Marianna and a wag from Pongo.

“We’re not sure how they’ll come out, but so far it looks good.”

“Yeah, gnocchi are tricky,” I said, having myself only ever bought them in a package.

“Very tricky. I’ll bring some down in an hour or so.”

“Fantastic!”

When I first moved to this little house on Via delle Pertiche Prima, I wasn’t so sure about the balconies. Having neighbors able to peer into my yard from a short distance at any time of day or night, whenever they felt like it, made me a bit uncomfortable. Growing up in California, back yards were fenced, lots were large, neighbors had to cross driveways and other barriers to have access to our domain. Even in Manhattan, the closest thing we ever had to a balcony was a fire escape, and no one in our neighborhood used them like the Cramden’s did on The Honeymooners. I was used to privacy. I didn’t consciously consider privacy terribly important, but it was.

Sometime early in my residency here, an American friend came over to see my place. Marianna had hung bedspreads out to dry, low into the courtyard, almost to where I had to swat them away to enter my house.

“You gonna say anything to her about that?”

“No. She has a right to her airspace,” but it actually did bother me. Even though I had been here for more than a year at that point, there was still a large part of me that thought of myself on permanent vacation. My surroundings needed to be picture-perfect representations of Italian Life with as few messy daily realities intruding as possible.

But month by month, year by year my balcony neighbors have become balcony friends. Marianna drops clothes pins at a champion rate. I throw them back. When balcony herb plants are watered, my pavement gets wet. Pongo, the ever adorable, sheds all over the end of my courtyard, I sweep it up. Conversations are held between balconies and kitchens, with friends passing on the street, with neighbors in adjoining properties. That, is Italian life. That, is why I wanted to live here, even if the desire used to be more idealized than real.

One evening I was dining with Renzo and Patrizia at their table. Renzo invited me out to the balcony, stood at the rail, and gazed downward. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. He swept his hand across the view. I stepped up to the rail and looked over. My garden, imperfect and full of holes compared to the undulating mass of vegetation I aspired to, looked terrific from there. Renzo chuckled and nodded and let me have the balcony to myself. Until that moment I had viewed the garden as my project for my selfish enjoyment, and occasionally for that of a few guests. With his gesture, Renzo pointed to its function in the neighborhood. To have it tended and blooming was a pleasure for a dozen people in residences all around the property. It lifted spirits, provided color, attracted birds and the buzzings of pollinators.

I grew sleepy while waiting for today’s gnocchi and dozed on the sofa downstairs, having left the gate open for ease of delivery. Renzo cleared his throat. The covered dish waited on the table.

“You were sleeping, but you don’t want the gnocchi to get cold. They have to be eaten hot.”

“A thousand thanks to both of you. This is a very special treat,” I said, staggering to my feet.

“Buon pranzo!”

Gnocchi can be like uncured concrete if not well-prepared. Or they can be like these were; light and elegantly balanced between fluffy and rich. The sauce was deeply flavored, the cheese exactly enough.

“Congratulations,” I texted later, “Trattoria R&P wins all prizes for best in Umbria!”

The reply read, “Thanks for the compliment! I was the gnocchi chef, Patrizia is responsible for the ossobuco sauce. We are good collaborators.”

“Without equal,” I wrote back.

Balcony culture.

Photo is of Renzo making gnocchi (for the first time!)

Monday is the day. Such is the word on the streets. Streets that are more crowded with locals than they have been since early March. Save for a few of the young, masks are worn, distancing is observed, no one is touching; but people are out, unable to hold back until after the weekend.

I first went towards the hardware for a lightbulb, but while crossing Piazza della Repubblica noticed that the lightbulb store was open, its owner installed on the bus stop bench.

“You’re open?”

“Sure, come on in.”

I ordered an LED, he tested it to make sure it worked (the advantage of patronizing a niche establishment) and to see if I liked the degree of warmth it shed, charged me three euro, and reclaimed his spot on the bench. Spring was too much afoot to remain indoors.

The date I’ve seen for retail to reopen is May 18, but maybe lightbulbs fall into an essential category. Or a category all their own, like children’s literature, which I remember reading was allowed to open sooner than the rest. That sounded comical at first, until I imagined all those young parents reading to their preschoolers from books long since memorized by the child listener, at which insight it made perfect sense to permit book sales to recommence before… well, wine, for instance. Though, to be sure, an argument could be made for the bacchanalian elixir, and probably most strongly among that same crowd of young parents.

Those stores scheduled to reopen sometime between now and the eighteenth are preparing in eager anticipation.

Officina del Gelato moved location about a year and a half ago from its original place that sold gelato directly onto the street (with no seating area) to one a couple of doors down that enjoys space for a few tables. Their door was open today and Tomasso and a couple of other men were jovially moving things around. I waved and welcomed his – and his gelato’s – return.

“We’re back to how we started! Vending directly to the street! We should have never moved!” and he laughed, waving his arms in a comic parody of frustration.

Closer to where I live, a little corner pizzeria recently taken over by a Ukrainian couple had its doors wide open, too, the woman of the pair scrubbing away. 

“You guys have been busy.”

“Yeah. We had lots of time, so we decided to freshen things up for when we reopen.” 

The previous décor was charmingly peculiar. The new is charmingly Italo-Ukrainian. I enjoy those two, so earnest they are, forever improving their menu and their stake in the town, and always so genuinely excited about both.

“Are you reopening on Monday or on the eighteenth?” 

“On the eighth, actually,” a date that corresponds to none of the published schedules I’ve seen. They may be Ukrainian, but they’ve assimilated well.

Further on still, I saw one of my favorite doggie friends. Bea is small, lovely, and long haired with a feathery tail. She spied me from a distance (of course) and made a bee-line. What surprised me is that her mistress let out the leash so we could enjoy a minute or two of sweet communion.

“This is a wonderful tonic, thank you,” I said to her owner. She didn’t hear me. As Bea and I were finishing up, I tried again, “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to touch her like this, but it was a great gift for me.”

“For her, too. She’s missed you. Now, have a good day.”

A few meters on, a deli advertises pizza on their street sign. I’d sampled their cold case, but never saw any actual pizza. I stopped to check it out. Communication was slow. I’d ask a question, the masked lady would turn to pick up a plate while answering, and I’d understand nothing. That prompted her to try English – which I no longer view as a judgement on my Italian and actually regard as rather sweet – but between the mask, her movements, and my hearing, nothing much improved. After several minutes of good-natured repetition on both our parts – and in both languages – I am now happily waiting to pick up a fresh Margherita at seven this evening. Pizza Day has arrived! 

Since lockdown began fifty-four days ago, I have equated Pizza Day with Liberation, and as a cue to hang up my chronicler’s pen. But this will be pizza consumed at home, even if professionally prepared. So I’ve adjusted my thinking; this is Pizza Preview Day. Pizza Day is still when I and a friend go to Al Cordone and I order a caprese, già tagliata, and eat it there, then walk to have a cup of Tomasso’s pistacchio gelato, and maybe even a nightcap at Montanucci or Blue Bar. 

With that list of prerequisites, I may still have quite a lot of journalling ahead of me.

The photo is of the Italo-Ukrainian pizzeria, now open again for takeout.

Today was Friday. I know that because yesterday was market, and that means yesterday was Thursday. Tomorrow will be a Saturday without market, and the day after that, Sunday without church. But no day is really significant to me now until Monday. Monday we walk. Monday we can order takeout at restaurants able to be open on that basis. Why, Monday if I get it in my head to go to San Giovenale to look at the view, while carrying a sandwich I will later eat at home, I can just do that.

We are so fortunate. I really mean it, and don’t have to explain why.

It was suggested to me a week ago that I submit a few of these journal entries for publication in the U. S. So I’ve been reading back to March 10 when the national lockdown in Italy was announced. Count forward six days, I was already yearning for pizza. At the time of the announcement a two-week closure seemed inconceivably long. As of today, there is still a month to go for a haircut. And a month doesn’t seem so bad. It may be a month of long hair, but while it achieves its hitherto unimagined lengths, there will be pizza.

And there will be the unending kindness of good people.

Ten or twelve years ago, I inadvertently entered what I came to think of as “the gift wars” with friends Vera and Giovanni. Every time we would go into their shop for a purchase, we were given something of greater value than what we had purchased. On subsequent visits, we came with gifts for them, which were met with extra gifts in return. It was impossible to keep up, let alone pull ahead. Eventually, I stopped tallying, expressed my profound gratitude, and left it at that.

One night earlier this week, I won’t pretend to know which one, I finished supper wishing there were dessert. Fifteen minutes later there was a rapping at my chamber door. It was not Edgar Allen Poe, it was my neighbor Renzo with a plate in hand. 

“Crostata. Apricot.” he said, whipping off the paper towel that covered it with a flourish.

“Your timing is awesome. Thank you!”

“Buonanotte.”

It was still warm from the oven, and so light and delicate I had to hold the edges of its paper mantle to keep it from floating away. I ate half on the spot, and half after the next day’s lunch.

Maybe it was the following evening or two evenings later, I won’t pretend to have a superhuman grip on the passing of time, but I ran out of energy for cooking. The whole day had been an energy vacuum, and when faced with turning what was in the fridge into something more elaborate than a sandwich, imagination failed me. I felt new appreciation for my mother who during lunch would begin to speculate as to what we might have for dinner. The relentless arrival of mealtimes can wear a person down. I ended up fixing a sandwich, and not a very interesting one at that.

After a glum consumption of said sandwich, I spread out my newly acquired blister packs of pharmaceuticals and set to organizing them into bins and boxes, a job I never look forward to but usually accomplish with less distress that I was experiencing that night.

A face appeared at the window.

“I called but you didn’t answer.”

“My phone is upstairs. I didn’t hear it.”

“Fresh tagliatelle with Bolognese. Buona cena.” and he was off.

I cleared a spot in the chaos of the table, and enjoyed a supper far superior than I had expected or deserved.

Next morning, I sent Renzo and Patrizia a WhatsApp.

“You are a kind of wizard. I wanted a dessert after supper, and you arrived with a crostata. I didn’t feel like preparing supper at all, and you provided a delicious pasta. I cannot thank you both enough for your kindness.”

The reply, “And you are always kind to us. Our behavior is not the fruit of magic, but rather the result of what our parents taught us about the value of life – admire and respect each other. Friendship and family rise above all else. It is for us a great pleasure to have you as friend and neighbor. The simple joy of service is beyond assessment of value. Good day to you, our friend.”

When a great tenor finishes a perfect aria, the appropriate response is appreciation, so I left it at that.

About an hour ago I saw Renzo and Patrizia on their balcony.

“’Risotto tonight! Good by you?”

“Wonderful! Thank you.”

And I left it at that.