We have started week three of Fase 2 of the gradual re-opening of Italy and I am a bit behind. Last week, “week two”, began coincidentally with the arrival of the hot and dusty scirocco-- winds that start in the heat and sand of the Sahara, travel across the Mediterranean sea, picking up humidity on the way, arriving here to give us a week of heavy glaringly bright white-grey skies, unseasonably hot hazy days, and too- warm nights.

As if it were summer, the early mornings were busy with women making the rounds: butcher, forno (oven), salumeria (deli), caseficio (for cheese or milk), grocery store and, now that we can, to the merceria for a needle and thread and to exchange the gossip gathered on the way. The men who have no chores out in the countryside make different rounds, walking from one end of the main piazza to the other and back again, maybe taking a caffé (standing outside) now that we can, gathering here and there in small clusters to discuss whatever matters seemed most important. As if it were any normal week, everyone disappears by 1pm. Shops are locked and shutters are dropped down across the entrance; the streets go quiet. The lockdown was this all day, but now there is again a suggestion of rhythm....
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Midweek, the vegetable seller from nearby Teggiano finally returns to our narrow streets, lively napoletano folksongs and pop crackling from the loudspeaker of his small white truck as he makes his way around slowly, stopping wherever an aproned signora stood on the sidewalk outside her door, or shouted after him when the timing was off. Beneath the canopied wagon with the sides rolled up and tied are crates of fresh produce and a scale.

As if it were summer, fase 2 and the scirocco brought back our evenings. At 4;30 or 5pm here the shops are all open again. By 5;30 or so the piazzas and streets begin to fill. On my way home from the studio, as the sun is going down, I pass two teenagers walking by hand-in-hand. He carries a bouquet of roses. She is smiling behind her mask. Behind them is another couple, arms wrapped around each other tightly. Lovers and friends can go and find each other now. A group of younger boys speed whooping down a cobblestone street on bicycles. A group of girls all wearing the same white sneakers and the same blue masks roll their eyes. Older bicycles carry older people, rolling slowly through the streets or around the piazza. Everyone gets a gelato now that we can. Or something from the forno—a folded up pizza or a small calzone. The signoras have taken off their aprons and gather on benches here and there, short legs dangling.

In the small piazza in front of our apartment, every bench is taken and there is a small group on the steps of the church. The toddlers from across the way are chasing a ball, stopping only to scream “macchina!” in Romanian whenever a car goes by. Their slightly older friend plays big sister, making rules for them to follow. House martins fly swooping and dodging from their nests under the eaves and back again. The Indian couple is sitting close together, their baby girl in the stroller watching everything wide-eyed. It takes a little silliness on my part but she smiles and then laughs. The two young African men have changed out of their bright yellow roadwork overalls and are on their balcony across from the church. It is 9pm, just now dark… we go inside to cook a quick plate of pasta with artichokes collected earlier today from the garden. The noise from the street and the piazza comes through the open kitchen window as we eat, the cool white wine mixing with the slightly bitter chokes to make my tongue tingle with sweetness.

Yesterday the flower moon was in full bloom, embodying all the sensuousness that May overflows with here in this valley and across the peninsula.
In 1885, as Naples was recovering from an epidemic of cholera, a song emerged, part of a collection of poetry, written by Salvatore di Giacomo and set to music by Mario Costa.
There quite possibly has not been a better love song written in the 135 years since (some romantics are incurable). Today it speaks to a longing I have, still somewhat sheltered/quarantined, still unsure—will I see you again? It speaks to my origins, a feeling that maybe my great-grandfather made a promise when he left here that I’ve come back to keep.
 
The song begins as the memory of one of the two lovers who meet in the month of May, when the air was cool and the smell of roses overflowed from the garden and into your bosom fell clusters of cherries… we sang together. I will never forget it, no, the memory grows even stronger the more time passes.
He, of course, must go.
She says, oh my heart-- you will leave me and go far away from here. I’ll count the hours, but who knows when you’ll return?
He promises to come back, right here to this spot by the fountain, when it is again May and the roses again bloom. If the roses come back, then I will come back.
And they meet again, of course, in May, of course, because the wound of love never heals. My heart, I have returned…  do with me what you will.
 
This just might be my favorite version of this song, filmed in the midst of the magnificent decay of the city of Napoli, from the film Passione, a 2016 documentary on napoletano music with John Turturro (the subtitles are in Italian, since the song is sung in napoletano):