Life in the time of corona

I was wrong. Corona won the first round, hands down [away from face]. Let’s get this bugger dethroned.

On Monday morning, just two days ago, we woke up in the morning and said: things are starting to get serious, we should get out of here. Our big plan [we have grown up since Monday!]: to rent a car and head to southern Tuscany for a few days, maybe a week, then reassess. Going north was out of the question, the coronavirus had already taken hold, we had seen it happen with our own eyes. But Tuscany? There were scattered numbers of contagi but no deaths. Indeed, all over Italy – beyond “the north” – life was fairly normal, if changing. I should add that we were ready for a week or two at home if necessary, we’d stocked up. A few tense memories of the Gulf War and other situations jostled while shopping in an emptying supermarket, but I ignored them.

This very week we were supposed to be on the Via degli Dei, the Way of the Gods, a week-long hike on an ancient Roman road crossing the Emilia Appenines and linking Bologna to Florence. In other words, we were going to take a train to Bologna and walk 130 kilometres home to Florence. But the gods had other ideas, because Bologna was now a “red zone.” So we decided on the Saturnia-Pitigliano area instead. It’s beautiful, unpopulated and exploding with first-spring colours. Also, Pitigliano is known as la Piccola Gerusalemme for its flourishing long-time historical Jewish community, connecting us that tiny bit more to home in this unsettling time, Italian style.

Backpacks at the ready, news started trickling in of more provinces closing in on themselves. The number of international whatsapp messages asking how we were doing increased and we found ourselves furtively checking the other’s mood. We could have been the Bananas in Pyjamas – “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I think I am. And what was that? It was that we should see what the flight situation was online, book for the following week, and get ready.

Then the shocking realisation that – there – were – no – flights. Not directly, not with 1 stop, 2 or 3. Not through Cyprus, Slovenia, London or even New Jersey. Sea ports were closed too. All this had happened as we were devising a Tuscan getaway. It was barely midday. This is the moment that stress levels rose. We had not even considered that we would not have the choice to leave at some future time if we wanted to. The penny dropped that should we need medical care or, worse, hospitalisation, well, we prefer our own flawed, mismanaged, under-equipped health system to this one.

Source: Corriere della Sera

At about 15:00 we got a call from Orly, the travel agent Yehouda has worked with for over 30 years: we had two tickets for the next day on the last plane, for the foreseeable future, flying out of Italy to Israel. The last plane.

This was the opposite of what we wanted, and bore no resemblance to what we thought would happen just hours ago. We hurriedly packed up these last months in several suitcases, both of us with a phone tucked between neck and shoulder as we started a series of arrivedercis. We were devastated. And not just because this incredible gift of a year was being cut short. But because we now had people here. We were worried for them.

We had just started feeling part of the landscape. Three days earlier when I had gone down the hill to the Boboli Gardens to put a mask on a statue of a dog in order to have a bit of a laugh at corona, the ticket seller said, “Residenta, si?”

No not a resident, but I have an annual pass. “I knew I’d seen you before,” she said, waving me through. I beamed. I was a known entity at the Palazzo Pitti! I felt like a confidante of Anna Maria Luisa, the last scion of the House of Medici, who bequeathed the palace, its gardens and all its precious contents to Tuscany. Now suddenly I had to leave.

After packing, we went downtown to pick up the rental car for the drive to Rome the next day. There were many less people wandering around, and by now no tourists; cafés were open, many shops already not. We got lost [my fault] looking for a particular corner on the drive home and ended up passing through many of little Florence’s craggy streets, remembering the first time we had seen them. We are not finished with you, we told them.

In the evening, Guia and Stefano, who had welcomed us to Florence and helped us throughout, came by and we all lamented the situation, big picture and small. Guia grew up in this very neighbourhood; in fact the complex that housed our flat, built in the 1970s, was once an old factory that lost its purpose after the war and became the high school that she attended before the land was again reassigned. Our landlord Patrizio joined us. He doesn’t speak a word of English but we managed very well. The pall of sadness hung over us all. When it came time to goodbyes there were no hugs, though a light moment emerged: the new alternative to handshaking, elbow-bumping, brings out the giggly little girl in all of us; it is especially quaint in older men who do the bump to responsibly avoid contact but it elicits an innocence they themselves had forgotten they had.

A little later our new friend Michelangelo came too. Like so many in Italy, he and his wife Francesca [thank you Maxine + David for sharing them with us], both expert guides, have had their livelihood swept away for the coming months. Anyway, there we were solving the world’s problems, when at about 23:00 Michelangelo glances at his phone, looks up and quietly says, “Closure. All of Italy.” We swung into action, raced downstairs, loaded the car with our luggage, shouted “ciao!” and sped off. The day had been dramatic enough – remember that in the morning we thought we would be spending the night in Pitigliano! – now it turned into a sci-fi movie, as we drove into the full-moon night not knowing if roads before Rome would be blocked, if the carabinieri would stop us from ahead or behind, or if perhaps we would be back in the same flat in a few hours, with no more supplies as we had happily given them all to our friends.

We did reach Rome’s outskirts, and headed for Fiumicino the township so as not to spend hours at the airport, where the international germ market thrives. We followed a couple of trucks into a quiet street and slipped the car between them to try and get a nap, despite the cold.

Fiumicino - full moon in the morning

A few hours and a last caffè e pasticcino later, we alcohol-wiped a baggage cart and checked in.

It was quite a surreal experience. The airport was not empty, but subdued and forlorn. Alitalia and security staff, masked and gloved, told travelers to maintain a safe distance.

Italy was in lockdown. We boarded the last plane home.

At the other end, Ben-Gurion International Airport, the scene was the same, only the language was different. Our dear friend Ati bravely picked us up and, Yehouda and I in masks, windows open, we headed home. Well, almost. Our house is rented out until the summer, so with that last dash of crazy added to these last two days, we are four houses from our own place, in the basement flat of our friends Deby and Rony. We have begun the 14 days of “self-quarantine,” which by its very nature I think will be quite reflective.

The upside to this story, for us personally, is the welcome we received at home. Here we are surrounded by very special people and they have all come together to make this transition easier. It is not to be taken for granted. If after wreaking your devastation, bloody Covid-19, can you please scatter a few seeds of this kind of love and goodness to take root; then we might all yet benefit in some way.

So for the moment we are back home. We will integrate some of Italy into our lives here – starting with aperitivo each evening, throwing an “allora” or “quindi” into the sentence whenever possible. But we’ll also have to readapt to Israeli customs: if in Italy, there is a specific cheese for every dish and every season, from every region –

Yehouda discovers opera in Parma

Gorgonzola, Pecorino, Taleggio, Fontina d'Aosta, Parmigiano-Reggiano, Mozzarella di Bufala, Provolone, Asiago, Robiola Piemonte – as Yehouda says, here we have “yellow cheese” and “white cheese.” Yup, we’re back.

Our conversation with Florence is not over; on the contrary, it has just begun. Florence Chronicles is not over either, I still have lots to tell you all about our adventures in these last months.

A presto.