The Coronavirus Runs Freely While My PROVINCE is on Lockdown

On day 14 of the Coronavirus outbreak in northern Italy (I call the real outbreak the day we went from 22 to more than 100 cases) I started to calm down a bit.  I'd lived through going to the supermarket, a few tense English lessons, disinfecting a new car and re-disinfecting a new car.

I was studying tutorials on the right way to wash my hands.  I was starting to remember to take the Coronavirus Emergency Kit every time I left the house. I gave myself kudos every time I sneezed into my elbow.  I was really starting to believe that I could make it through this and it was getting easier to laugh at myself, like everyone else was laughing at me. And then, towards the end of Saturday evening (March 7) I heard that there might be a lot more rules when I woke up on Sunday.  I understood that the decision makers were going to pull an all-nighter.  At  bedtime everything was still just a rough draft.  Rough drafts don't always come to fruition.  Just check my Yahoo account.  I went to bed unaware that it was the eve of my last day of freedom for at least one month. 

On Sunday they announced that starting Monday, March 9 my province in northern Italy would be on lockdown until the third of April (or maybe the fourth or fifth, I don't remember.  But it doesn't seem terribly important right now).  And anyway, there's a good chance the date will be extended.  I'm not the type that likes to think I might go on vacation or I might buy a blue convertible because I don't live well with disappointment. So memorizing the last day of the lockdown as the next day of freedom didn't seem like such a good idea.

Lockdown seemed eerie when I'd read about it in Wuhan, in a galaxy far, far away.  I saw the video of a man lowering his dog on a rope from his balcony so the dog could run in the grass below.  And the haunting one of the hi-rise neighborhood at night where the residents opened their windows and sang.  I'm not sure what word a good writer would use to describe that scene, but I'm at a loss.       

What does lockdown mean in the province of Treviso, Italy? I don't know all of the rules, but here's how it will affect my life. I can't have any more English lessons. First, because all forms of private lessons must be stopped immediately. And secondly, because most of my students live in the province next door where I'm no longer welcome.  The only people that can move between locked down and non-locked down provinces are commuters.  If they're stopped, they have to show proof of their place of employment. And if they have no proof, they'll be fined.  

Schools and universities are closed. All events are cancelled. Pools and gyms are closed. I'm not so sure about public transportation. Funerals and weddings can be attended only by close family.  Actually, that might take a little research.  I think that was a rule before the lockdown, so I imagine it's been changed.  I woke to  this message from an English student yesterday. 

my uncle Silvio is dead.....tomorrow the funeral cannot be done but there will be a greeting in church at 3pm.

By greeting, she meant goodbye.  In Italian she would have written un saluto, which can mean hello and goodbye. But our friends at Google translate choose greeting. And Italian doesn't have three words for die, dead and death. It's an especially difficult one to teach and translate.  She didn't mean to make her message so blunt.  But the truth is, it's the truth. 

I'm living in a time and place where funerals can't be done. And the only thing I can do is take walks in the countryside and write this silly blog.   Rest in peace, Uncle Silvio.      

Coronavirus Delivery

Just when I thought I had nothing else to write about and I was putting the final punctuation on the previous post, the delivery man pulled up.  Due to the fact that I have no doorbell attached to a gate at the end of my driveway because I have no gate (https://10leaves.blogspot.com/2014/07/lions-and-tigers-and-bears-oh-my-gates.html)  FedEx trucks can pull right up.

A private delivery truck in the driveway is usually a good sign. It saves me a trip to the Italian post office which often involves at least a 30-minute wait. In the past it also meant paying 15 to 25 euros in customs fees for packages from the States filled with marshmallows, Libby's pumpkin pie mix and Heath bars. But my favorite postman informed me that filling out the paperwork differently in the States meant I could stop paying for my gifts once they got to Italy.  So I informed my friends and it seems to be working.  The recent Reese's Peanut Butter Cup delivery was free. 

Fortunately, after years of roasting an array of Italian marshmallows, I've finally found some that seem to puff just like Kraft Jet-Puffed.  As for the Libby's, I've tried cooking a real pumpkin but decided it's too much work.  And I've recently found canned pumpkin, but instead of 100% Calabaza Pura (why is that written in Spanish right above "America's Favorite Pumpkin"?) it's only 82% pumpkin with some other added ingredients.  I've made a few pies and they're not so bad, but my Italian friends aren't big fans.  In my opinion it's because there's no Cool Whip. 

My normal 'delivery truck panic' involves the fact that maybe I'm still in my pajamas with unbrushed teeth and hair (even though my hair is never really brushed).  This time a different panic set in..... how to keep a Coronavirus courier a safe distance from your door.  As soon as he stepped out of the van I told him that he had just arrived at the house of the woman most frightened by the Coronavirus in all of Italy.  He smiled and kept approaching.  They're not used to hearing an American accent and they have to get used to me before they understand.   So I said it again, waving my arms for him to keep his distance.

Unfortunately he had to pass the package and I had to sign for it, so the transaction may have been wireless, but it couldn't be touchless.  I asked him to drop the package on the step telling him I'd open it with gloves later.  As for the signature, we both laughed when he offered me his pen.  I pulled mine from my ponytail and scribbled on the paper as it blew in the wind. He was intrigued to find an American living in this small town in northern Italy and ready with questions to which I replied, "You're the cutest delivery driver I've ever seen and I can't believe I'm sending you away so quickly."  It sounded almost as suave as an Italian casanova.  But that would have been, "You're the cutest delivery driver I've ever seen and even the Coronavirus won't keep me from you." 

If anyone ever figures out how to send me Cool Whip, hopefully I'll have the same delivery guy.  And even if it arrives through the regular mail, I'd be willing to pay the customs.   

Don't Lose................Hope.

Two weeks has passed since the emotional day that I got and lost my Italian driver's license.  Reporting it immediately to the police was easy because at that time I wasn't afraid of public places.  It was three days before the Coronavirus outbreak. The police told me to let a few days pass to see if it turned up.  And if it didn't, I had to go back to the driving school to request a new one.  At first I was dreading that trip due to embarrassment.  But a few days after the loss of the license and the arrival of the Coronavirus, instead of the dread being an issue of embarrassment it had become an issue of anxiety (which I suppose should also be embarrassing). 

Suddenly my new license didn't seem all that important. The lobby of the driving school is small and usually filled with students.  You really can't get out of the way and wait your turn six feet from the receptionist. I had the piece of paper from the police and I thought that for the time being it would be sufficient. How long it would really be sufficient was uncertain. We're in Italy, the land where little things often turn into big things overnight.

I spent the first week looking in ditches, checking my mailbox and expecting to see a huge bus pull in my tiny driveway to deliver my license. In my downtime I was planning what seemed the inevitable trip.  I went out of my way to pass the driving school at various times throughout the day recording high and low traffic periods (just kidding, but it had entered my mind).

I spent the second week the same as the first.  But, on the fourteenth day of the missing license and the eleventh day of the Coronavirus outbreak in northern Italy, I received good news from the bus company.  They had found my license. The leather case that I'd bought at G.H. Bass & Co. in Michigan City, Indiana was waiting to be picked up an hour away in Treviso, Italy, a new city on the Coronavirus map.

I found the courage to google the situation in Treviso before I made my move.  One headline included the word focolaio which I had to look up.  Here are a few synonyms:   focus, locus, site, hotbed, breeding ground. That's exactly why I shouldn't be googling.  A trip to the driving school to order a new license didn't seem like such a bad option.

Fortunately it was a nice day for a convertible ride and I convinced myself that there was no time like the present.  The bus station was empty. There was one guy in the lobby and one ticket seller seated safely behind his thick glass window. The station door was propped open, a new courtesy in these parts to curtail the spread of the virus. Fortunately I had my right hand man for the trip.  He passed through the door and went to the window.  I didn't pass through the door.  I stayed outside on the sidewalk long enough to wave at the ticket seller to prove my identity and then ran back to the car. 

The leather case made the trip home in a plastic bag.  There was no peeking at my driver's license photo that had only been in my possession for less than 30 minutes two weeks ago.  It was in the leather case in the plastic bag in the trunk.  I wanted to celebrate, but going out for pizza and gelato wasn't an option.  (If I'm your source of information for the Coronavirus in Italy, I don't want to mislead you.  Most places are open. But someone that's afraid to touch a plastic bag just because it was in a bus station for 30 seconds can probably live without pizza and gelato for a bit.)

I'm happy to say that my slogan for the Italian bus company still holds true.  Meglio tardi che mai, better late than never. 

See Spot........Run! English Lessons with the Fear of the Coronavirus

I teach private English lessons in northern Italy. I have the lessons at my home, at bars (that's Italian for coffee shops) and at students' offices and homes.  For many people here, life with the coronavirus has had to continue as normal.  People wash their hands a bit more often (hopefully) but they still go to work.  Fortunately for me, the choice is mine. 

The first week of the outbreak, I only had two lessons.  The first was at my house where we modified our seating arrangement.  Instead of sitting across from each other with the narrow table between us, we sat at the ends, getting as close to the suggested two meter safety zone as possible.

*What happened to Dick and Jane?

Regardless of the distance, I was nervous.  I opened and closed the door so my student wouldn't touch it, tried not to breathe too deeply, stifled little coughs in my elbow and checked for tiny water spots on my notes that might make the ink run.  I have to (and hate to) admit that I use my cell phone as a dictionary. But now instead of sliding it across the table for her to take a look, I took a screen shot and sent a message from my end to hers.  When we finished the lesson, I opened and closed the door again and waited for her to drive away.  Then I put on my plastic gloves, cleaned her chair with alcohol and put the tablecloth in the washer.  

The second lesson was at a student's lab.  I usually meet him at the church's recreation center, but a place swarming with ping-pong playing kids and roaming retirees leaving the matinee didn't seem like the best place to avoid the virus.  My student is a chemist and spends his days alone testing buckles, rivets, leather, snaps, zippers and anything else that has to do with the designer fashion industry in Italy.  His lab is spotless and the air is recirculated 50 times a day.  It seemed like a good place to get my feet wet to re-enter normal life (if you can call a laboratory a place for normal life).  We kept our distance and he opened and closed the doors for me so I wouldn't infect his lab.  My parting gift was a mask.

As we come to the close of the second week, lessons are getting easier.  I've added a leaf to my kitchen table due to the conflicting reports on the real safety distance, and if need be, I can add another.  I've offered Skype lessons, writing lessons and a discount price for a "walk and talk in English". And just as I've started finding my courage, they announced that schools will be closed for a third week.  It's kind of like hearing you've got a 'snow day', but the snow is volcanic ash.


*Photo caption not intended for children under 40 (or Italians).

CoronaviROSE

For the first month of 2020 I googled the coronavirus in China.  For most of the second month, I did the same thing.  But with it's not so-warm-benvenuto to northern Italy, I stopped googling.  Most of my news poured in from worried friends in America and that's where I noticed the name change. According to the the World Health Organization "COVID 19 is the name of the illness caused by the coronavirus" (which I've decided no longer needs to be capitalized).

Unfortunately, I've become so used to the coronavirus, I'm finding it hard to change its name.  COVID 19 seems like a nickname and according to Cambridge Dictionary a nickname is "an informal name for someone or sometimes something, used especially to show affection."   And since we haven't felt a lot of affection for COVID 19, we aren't embracing the new name. It came as the coronavirus and (hopefully) it will leave as the coronavirus. And anyway,

"What's in a name?
That which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet."
---William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
(better known in Italy as Romeo e Giulietta, pronounced as I've mentioned before "Ro-MAY-o ay Ju-li-ET-ta"). 

  

Anxiety and the Coronavirus

I may not be suffering from the Coronavirus (yet), but I am suffering from mental anxiety caused by the Coronavirus.  I've recently discovered that walking and laughter are the best medicine for my illness.  Since nothing else in Italy is going hand in hand these days, I've found that these two make quite a nice pair. 

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried about what was in the big white cloud.

I'm really a runner not a walker, but for the last few days walking has seemed a bit less stressful.  I'm afraid of a running injury that might call for a trip to the hospital....a place most of us are tyring to avoid at the moment.  And if I run a bit faster than usual and feel short of breath, I'll be sure it's a new respiratory problem.  So, for the time being, I'm not embarrassed to be a walker.

A friend invited me for a walk the other day and I warned her that I was a bit nervous.  I was happy when she said that she was nervous, too, because things are always safer with two healthy wackos. I kept my glasses on and tied my red bandana around my neck like Howdy Doody.  It was right there ready to pull up over my mouth and nose at any time.

We chose to walk on country roads.....she stuck to one side and I stuck to the other.  It seemed ridiculous.  But there's no sense in going out for a breath of fresh air if you're constantly in panic that maybe the air's not so fresh.

When I walk alone I prefer the countryside.  I don't have to worry about bumping into anyone and trying to casually pull up my bandana.  I like to walk through the vineyards and olive groves  talking TO and laughing AT myself. 

On the way home today I opted for the shortcut.  Not because it's shorter, but because it's a long set of stairs up to an old church on the top of a hill.  It's shady in the summer and a nice place to stop to stretch.  When I got to the bottom of the stairs today there was a closed gate.  I'm not sure if it's always been open and I've just passed right through without noticing or if it's new.  But having left home without my Coronavirus Emergency Kit a closed gate was a problem. 

Houston, we've got a problem.

If I opened it I'd have to walk home with a possibly infected glove and try to remember not to touch my face.   Or should I remove the glove and infect my hand and put the glove back on until I got home?  But the idea of a possibly infected hand instead of only a possibly infected glove was too much.  And maybe I'd take the risk and it would be locked anyway.  The best decision seemed to be turning around, adding the extra two kilometers and considering it part of my Coronavirus Weight Loss Program.

 

A New-Car Smell (of alcohol)

Picking up a new (used) car should be exciting. And it should be even better if you haven't driven for 8 years and the new (used) car is a convertible.  Unfortunately, I would have been happy to leave it at the dealership and go pick it up some sunny day when the Coronavirus had changed its course.  But seeing that it had been paid for before the outbreak, I thought it was safer to have it in my possession.

Before leaving for the big event my thoughts should have been to pack a hat and a scarf and a ponytail holder for the drive back home.  Instead I was worrying about packing the Coronavirus Emergency Kit with plastic gloves, papertowels and pink alcohol.

I entered the dealership with my coat, hat and wool gloves.  The gloves seemed a little less conspicuous worn with my coat and hat.  I was told I'd have to wait a few minutes and a woman led me to an office.  She showed me in through one door and then told me to shut the other door to keep the heat in.  I chose to leave the other door open.  I thought a ventilated room was better than a closed one.

When it came time to sign the papers I realized that I'd forgotten my pen.  It has since been added to the Coronavirus Emergency Kit for future outings.  I used their pen to sign the documents but kept my gloves on and kept repeating (to myself, I hope), "Don't touch your eyes or nose with these gloves.  Don't touch your eyes or nose with these gloves."

We went to the garage where the salesman got in and drove my car out to the parking lot.  He explained a few controls, touching each one as he explained.  I learned nothing.  I just watched his dirty fingers on my buttons.

Before getting out of the car he started to put the top up.  I stopped him and said I'd be driving home with the top down.  He said that in Italy in February, you don't drive with the top down.  I told him not to worry because I'd probably driven with the top down a few times in Chicago in February.

It was time for the send-off.  Like all sensible Italians, he suggested that I stop after a kilometer to put the top up because it really wasn't good for my health to have it down in the cold. Then he stuck out his hand for a healthy Coronavirus handshake and laughed when I refused with my gloved hands. 

Little does he know, I stopped after a kilometer like he suggested and threw the wool gloves on the floor.  I got out the Emergency "Car-own-a-virus" Kit, put on the blue plastic gloves and started sterilizing the interior with pink alcohol.

I'm not sure why it looks like I'm giving the peace sign. I think I was just trying to get used to the gloves.  Or maybe it's foreshadowing that peaceful times are coming.