Corona will not take the crown this year!

In a slow-motion flash, everything changed. For a few days we were in Piedmont, happily bobbing from winery to winery, visually following the vineyards as we went, repeatedly skipping a breath at the snow-capped background or budding signs of spring, making our own wry references to the novel Corona virus outbreak [“this wine is so good, it must be the cure” – that kind of thing]. We stopped in a sleepy town, bought a ticket for the short journey on a sleepy train to Milan. And then – BOOM – we were helpless at Milano Centrale, a hub of a train station, emptied of people in its main hall, with all trains cancelled and no one to answer questions.

And the very quick realisation that we had to get out of this place, now.

Let’s get back to the fun stuff. Of late: Pisa twice. Rome twice. A hop to Lucca, a skip to Piombino [departure point for Elba and Sardinia], a jump to Lisbon and back. And more piggiama parties with friends and family in Firenze.

And this last weekend: a month earlier, luck responded to my incessant pressing of the refresh button on the computer when four tickets for Leonardo’s Last Supper eventually popped up. There we scheduled our meeting with Adi and Ruthy, Yehouda’s brother and his wife.

Despite the viewing being limited to 15 minutes, and despite the fact that almost nothing of Leonardo’s actual hand actually remains on the wall – in 1652, Jesus’ feet were even destroyed so that a door could be built in the edifice! – it is worth hurting your finger on the refresh button. [Though I feel sure I saw more of Leo’s touch the first time I saw it in 1985, which was that much closer in time to his being there.]

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From there to the welcoming city of Torino. Every corner you turn opens up to another piazza, there is so much open space. Which is good, because there are also multiple manifestazioni blocking roads and byways every day, so many that the locals we met were confused as to who was demonstrating where and when. But the point is: crowds. They were abundant. The largest market in Italy is here, set up and dismantled every day, splendid in its burst of colours and sounds. Among the wealth of stunning produce are the herb merchants who sell from flimsy stands created by empty plastic crates; you can tell who does not have a license to trade because any time the police approach they hustle together their parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme etc. and hide, their “stands” falling randomly on the ground as in any respectable market. The police disappear – the sellers come right back to where they were standing a moment before. It cannot be good for their blood pressure, but that seems to be their way of life at this time.

The streets, the museums, the restaurants – all bustling as is normal, with face masks seen at random on passers-by, most of them unsurprisingly Asian, since it is de rigueur in Asia to don a mask to keep to your own germs.

We went to the opera too, in Torino’s rich-red Teatro Regio. A beautiful, simply designed and robust-in-voice production of Nabucco, with “Va, pensiero” still resonating here, in pre-election-again Israel and elsewhere. Again, a crowded venue, not a mask in sight or on anyone’s mind.

The drive out to country Piedmont was easy and uneventful, until we happened on a small-town family-filled festival in Farigliano in full swing. Music, mirth and massive pots of hot polenta and ragu, as well as local wine [you know it is going to be good!], all for free or make a small donation if you like.

The late-winter sun was still high as we continued, slowly changing its effect on the bare vineyards that were awaiting new plantings. France and Switzerland were in view and their ambience was occasionally felt in village names or flavours. We stayed at Bricco Rosso, a red house standing alone on a hill, and spent our first few hours there tasting their wines before heading out, at Carla’s recommendation, to Trattoria da Lele for dinner. Our only complaint is that we were not exactly forewarned that it was a menu degustazione – 11 courses of deliciousness. Somehow we managed to roll home. We had serious plans for the following day – cruising and stopping at wineries. Key words: Dolcetto, Barolo, Nebbiolo, Barbera.

The two standouts of the day are Giovanni Rocca’s azienda agricola in the morning and Irma and Bruno Porro’s Ribote at sunset. In both places the conversation was extensive, though we had few words in common. Communication was made easier as more bottles were opened and alcohol levels rose, just enough to enjoy and appreciate the moment – and dare to talk in Italian. Another amazing dinner, this time at Il Torchio, capped a lovely day.

On Monday morning we knew we were saying goodbye to these vistas for a while but we were all satisfied. We drove to a town called Novara, bought train tickets to Milan, had time to sit in a café for a farewell cuppa and chug along to the big city with no sign of lurking problems, and Ruthy and Adi drove on for their flight.

But Milano Centrale was eerily quiet at first. Then we saw confused crowds in two spots only – near the platforms and in the ticket offices. Just minutes before the decision had been made to halt all trains. For a moment we thought about a night in town but quickly understood that “away from here” was necessary. By now everyone around us had their scarves or collars halfway up their faces, even if they knew that that was ineffective.

Milano Centrale

We spent the following hours trying to track down a rental car and to get ourselves back to Florence. Finally, we signed on the dotted line and were handed the keys to possibly the last available car in the city, and it was waiting outside. Upon approach, I said but this is the absolutely best parking spot in Milan – it’s almost a pity to leave it!

Best parking spot in Milan!

It is good we did. Two hours later, halfway home, we pulled in at a rest stop on the highway near Parma and though we were still in “normal” evening hours, it was almost empty. One of the servers told us: “They have closed Parma.” Everything became more still for the rest of that evening. As we drove south, town after town north of us closed. I mean: closed.

Back in Florence it was hard to assess what was going on. In the morning I went down the street to get some supplies. Everyone in our neighbourhood was saying the situation was “pazzo”… so I learned the word for crazy. When I got home I looked at what I had bought: mozzarella, two kinds of pecorino, a fresh and a more mature one, because we might be stuck at home and will have time to compare them, some citrus fruit, parsley and bietola, a kind of chard, peanuts and that’s about it. Was this really survival food?! Moreover, I poured some milk to have with a piece of cake. Okay, okay, so the cake isn’t the issue here – though it’s good; it’s schiacciata, a flat yet light sponge cake typical to Tuscany. But I never drink milk, except in coffee. True, it was terrific milk that the wine shop sells [yes, the wine shop], and it’s from a local cow I might even have met. Was I secretly stressed? Don’t know, but all seemed fine after that.

In the evening I went on a just-in-case mission to the supermarket, a bus ride away. There a surprise was waiting: shelves were already empty, but people could be divided into two groups: those who did not stop to chat and those who were clearly miffed by the craziness of it all. I am sticking with the latter group.

Then as the hours passed it became clear that Yehouda could not take his flight back to Israel, where he planned to vote in the almost-quarterly elections, and we are concerned that our son Uri will not be able to visit next week. Our small family is now claiming space in three continents, with Omer in Australia, but we can’t get to each other too easily. Covid-19 – be gone with you!

Still, we continue to laugh about it. You’ll hear from me when it starts to turn into nervous laughter.