DAYS FIFTY-NINE TO SIXTY-ONE - 05/05/2020- 09/05/2020
I went to a funeral yesterday. It was my first in Italy, and my first with social distancing. Not being able to hug others, hold out a comforting hand, or place an arm around someone’s shoulders was strange, alienating and overwhelmingly sad. But of course I was honoured to be one of the fifteen people (the current maximum limit on funeral attendees) invited to be there, to say goodbye to our friend. We had no ceremony, just a simple burial. His coffin remained in the back of the hearse; one-by-one, we placed our flowers on the coffin and moved away, keeping our distance from each other. We had expected that to be it, due to the restrictions, but were then told by the funeral directors that we had been given the go ahead to accompany the coffin to the graveside, so we piled into cars (one passenger, sitting behind the driver on the opposite side, both wearing masks) and drove through the sprawling Verano cemetery until we arrived at the family tomb.
Having only ever experienced British funerals - where stiff upper lips and sombre clothing prevail, it seemed remarkably informal to me: most wore jeans, some lit up cigarettes, and the coffin was lowered into the tomb by a pulley device, by six men in t-shirts and baggy trousers, which made the whole thing feel rather like a construction site. The traditionalist in me squirmed a little- but then I suppose all rules were up in the air, for obvious reasons, and we were just lucky to be able to give him a burial of sorts, even if not a particularly ceremonious one. Important people were sadly missing, most notably the only son of our friend, who was unable to get to Rome due to his residency being in another region of the country and therefore not meeting the criteria for emergency travel. But the family will hold a more official ceremony at a later date, when restrictions have been eased further.
Despite the unusual circumstances, there were still the ubiquitous elements of every funeral I’ve been to: eyes being dabbed with tissues, grown men looking very much like little boys, light-hearted memories of the departed being shared fondly if a little awkwardly, and lots of discussions over who goes in what car, where to park, should we turn left or right at that junction, and where to place the wreaths. The most heart-wrenching moment was when our friend’s ninetysomething year-old aunt flouted all social distancing rules to shove a small pack of fette biscottate (rather like melba toast: his favourite) into the hands of the funeral director, firmly instructing the bewildered man that they were to be placed in the grave alongside her nephew’s coffin. She was understandably distressed, and looked us all straight in the eye, speaking through her face mask to tell us that she’d “lived through two wars and seen it all”, but that this virus was dangerous (and that it was all the fault of “those dirty pigeons and their poo”, which raised a much-needed chuckle from us all).
We all commented on how we’d love to hug each other, but that the time will come for hugs, and lunch, at the proper wake in a few months. We parted ways with knowing nods of the head, gestures miming an embrace, and words of sympathy and love. It was the most beautiful weather: the sun was splitting the sky, and the flowers were all in bloom, adding to the sense of the topsy-turvy nature of things, at the moment. It also compounded my very conflicted feelings about our new-found freedoms: I am grateful for them, of course, and to be able to carry out something as important as today’s event, but everything is still all so measured and unusual that I wonder how helpful they really are.
On a much more banal and insignificant level, the same can be said about having an espresso from the newly reopened coffee bars: we can have one, yes, and it still tastes delicious after months of abstinence, but having to drink it from a paper cup standing metres apart from each other outside the bar, while trying not to bump into anyone or touch anything, is almost not worth it. Writer Claire Speak found the same when she ventured out for her first proper coffee, in her hometown of Bari:
“They're serving takeaway coffees only, but after two months of nothing but the moka pot, that alone was a reason to go outside.
I regretted going out almost instantly, as a panting jogger slammed into me on a corner. It's hard to avoid people at all on the narrow pavements, never mind stay two metres apart. He mumbled an apology and carried on, and I spent the rest of my 15-minute walk trying to dodge people and traffic, crossing busy roads to avoid small groups chatting in tight circles. I passed two coffee shops with crowds outside, filling the pavement and spilling into the road. How much did I really want that cappuccino? Not as much as I'd thought.”
She goes on to say that, just as I have noticed in Rome since last Monday, “all the downsides of city life – crowds, pollution, traffic, noise - have immediately sprung back to almost pre-lockdown levels. It's life pretty much as it was, but now with added stress.
Here in southern Italy there's also the looming threat of social unrest, with poverty levels skyrocketing. Protestors gathered today outside Bari's city hall, demanding money for families and businesses left with nothing due to the shutdown. The atmosphere is heavy, people are tense, and we don't know what the city will be like after this...
...I don't know about everyone else, but I'll be staying at home for a while yet.”
Speak and I are not the only ones finding this transition strange, worrying and occasionally a little unpleasant. Stylist magazine's Lauren Geall reports that she has been feeling “a creeping feeling of discomfort every time someone mentions the easing of lockdown restrictions and a return to semi-normal life.” She described this as “change fatigue” and says “while I know that going back to pre-lockdown life will be great, I also feel like I’m not quite ready to rush back into things.”
There is, however, a silver lining. Having made it to the other side of ‘Phase One’, we have the space and perspective to look back on the last few months and reflect. The New York Times opinion writer Beppe Severgnini adopts a cautiously optimistic tone in his recent article. He writes, “now that we are beginning to relax the lockdown — cautiously, anxiously — perhaps we can say it: Italy coped.
...We coped because we found other resources that were always there: realism, inventiveness, extended families, solidarity, memories”, he believes, for which “Italians deserve praise and gratitude”, having shown themselves to be “patient, resilient and — to the surprise of many — diligent.” In this crucial next phase, he warns, “instructions ought to be simple and straightforward” and what Italians need now is “reassurance and help”.
It’s safe to say we’re all a little nervous about how this next stage will play out, with the stakes being so high: none of us want to go back, or find ourselves living through a second wave of the virus; I certainly don’t want to find myself at another funeral - with or without a mask. As Severgnini states, everything is riding on what happens next, and how we react to it: “Emotions are Italy’s fuel. At a time like this, they could propel the country toward a better future. Or burn it on the restart line.”