(A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19,
first published March 18, 2020) The cities and towns have all gone quiet but the countryside follows its own rhythm. It is quiet in the winter. It is quiet when it rains. It is quiet briefly at midday most seasons, longer in summer. But it isn’t quiet now. Farmers don’t follow ordinances, they follow Nature. Today there tractors in the fields, chainsaws on the hillsides; three-wheeled trucks buzz from town to somewhere beyond and back again. Today I’m tired and just want to hear the soothing noises that the forest makes. It is a glorious day.
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(A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19,
first published March 17, 2020) "Micio!” I call. The big picture, the global view, has receded this morning. My attention has been scattered wide lately. My attention has been on our family trifecta: China, Italy, New York. My attention has been in the valley: new cases; roads are blocked. But my attention today is focused on a very localized and intimate detail of the global picture. “Miciomiciomicio!” There’s no response. There hasn’t been for a week now, but I try anyway. Today I leave the back door open, just in case, and go upstairs. (A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19,
first published March 16, 2020) I can hear them outside in the piazza. I peek through the curtains. There are three of them and they are clearly not following the order to "restate a casa", stay at home. They are keeping their distance from each other as suggested though, and there’s about a meter and a half or more between each of them. Which means they’re shouting at each other. They’re shouting at each other. Yes, I know. Should we say something? What can we say? I don’t know… “stop shouting”? “We live here”? “Go home for chrissake”? (A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19,
first published March 15, 2020) I wake to the sound of bells, as always. Despite the call to the early mass, the piazza won’t fill this morning. No one will lean against our kitchen window gossiping, unaware that we’re drinking our coffee inside. I don’t especially mind. A piano sings faintly from two floors up. I’m slicing the bread when he comes in. I can tell something is different. “What do we want to do today?” he says. (A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19, first published March 14, 2020) I look into this face all afternoon because I don’t want to look at the news anymore. I don’t want to look out the window either right now but something’s going on so I do anyway. The carabinieri have stopped a car full of people who should’ve known better than to go four all together. To make it worse, they don’t have their documents in order: they’re missing the auto-certification that states where they’re going and proves that where they’re going is on the very short list of “acceptable” outings permitted. I watch the argument, the exchange of paperwork. They’ve been fined and they’ll have to go home to a full 15-day quarantine, no exit for any reason whatsoever now. The new directives for our region came out last night and are, inexplicably, more strident than the national regulations. It is even forbidden just to go for a walk. Out here in the countryside that makes no sense and I feel the stirring of revolt. Where I go, they won’t find me. (A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19,
first published March 13, 2020) The first thing in the morning he reads out the numbers. There are many numbers and whether they’ve climbed or fallen since yesterday, they’re not good numbers. In our house there’s no fever. There’s a jar full of coins by the front door. We don’t count them but I guess €3.53, our “rainy day fund”, the “financial cushion” I've heard people talk about. He wants to invest it in seeds for the garden. I know what goodness grows in the woods and think we should save it instead for our first caffè and cornetto out in the piazza when we’re finally allowed... we’ll have to split the cornetto (unless there’s more change than I think in the jar) but we’ll have had a moment of blissful civility. (A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19,
first published March 12, 2020) The discussion over lunch starts innocuously enough. “I’m going to head over to the market [the only one that doesn’t close for three hours at lunch] before I head back to the studio. Anything in particular you think we need? “ “What? No. ARE YOU CRAZY?? You’re not going.” I just look at him. “…Because there’ll be PEOPLE there.” “Um, yes… I would imagine there would be. But it’s lunchtime, so not so many.” “NO. You’re not going. Absolutely not.” For balance, every household needs one person who’s OCD is rearing its disinfected-6-times-today-already head, and one person who is continuously on the verge of a mass-murder-suicide trip. (A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19, first published March 11, 2020)
My Italia is not entirely herself today. Sure, she still is beautiful, even with her dust mask half on, hole cut out for her nose to peek through (I don't correct her, she's never been practical and one must breathe, even in times like these). She's beautiful even with shutters where there should be open doors and the smell of coffee. But she’s quieter than usual on a sunny late winter morning; the warmth and light have not brought with them the expected chaos. And, when we meet halfway through the empty piazza, she is perhaps just a little less exuberant in her affection: should I kiss you? Should I not kiss you? (Ok maybe just this once as I would be sorry to have missed the chance.) Looking through the fence, through the carefully pruned and tied up climbing roses which just now are sprouting new red shoots, to where there should have been sown rows of favas already dark green and leggy between the mounds of grey artichokes, and likely the last of last autumn’s fat ruffled cabbages alongside slim feathery bulbs of fennel, but instead, finding dry patches of weeds and a shovel propped against the stone wall at the far end of the garden, comes an understanding, belatedly, of that which earlier in the morning, from the church down in the piazza, was an unscheduled long ringing of bells.
First published March 6, 2020 |
MBI added this blog as a way to share some thoughts and experiences around the impact of Covid-19 on my life here in Southern Italy. These posts have been a near-daily practice during this time and are largely unedited, most having been first posted on Facebook. They are of course in order with the most recent entry on the first page. I invite you to explore previous posts or even start from the beginning. Archives
June 2022
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