This post was originally published on this site
An account of life in Rome under Italy’s coronavirus lockdown. The author is anonymous by arrangement.
Silence. The day after new emergency measures that have locked down the whole of Italy, the first thing that strikes anyone who has ever lived in Rome is the absolute silence.
Rome — the fat-cat capital, the loud matron who loves to joke, eat and party, the soft belly of the boot-shaped country — isn’t saying a word. There are only a few cars in the normally congested streets. Buses and trams are virtually empty.
For the first time since the virus hit Italy, the capital city is scared. It is a surreal climate. During a walk through my upper-middle-class neighborhood — Prati, not far from the historic center — I can immediately feel that something has changed. Even in a city that is used to chaos and mess, even with people who have turned not caring into an art form.
The Italian cappuccino-and-croissant ritual isn’t yet being called into question, but the bars are much less busy than usual, and the few who turn up eye one another suspiciously. No jovial back slapping, no handshakes with the barista. The Romans keep to the “safe” distance of one meter from each other and don’t go beyond strained smiles.
My favorite place, Irma — a delightful bistro open all hours — from today serves only takeout breakfasts and lunches from a small window on the street. Customers smile, take a selfie and post an Instagram FB, -2.63% story. “Safety and calm,” says Alessandro, the barista.
For the first time since the virus hit Italy, the capital city is scared. It is a surreal climate.
But the mood has shifted. There are even people who regard my delightful chocolate Labrador with suspicion. The attitude of strangers toward the dog has changed since the rumor — later denied by all the veterinarian authorities — that pets can be infected by, and spread, the virus. At a time when people douse themselves in hand sanitizers, there are no more cuddles for Mobi.
All it took was a few words from Prime Minister Giuseppe Conte and Romans began a mad rush toward supermarkets.
On Monday night, people were sharing on social media their photos of long queues outside the bigger stores. The one nearest to me, a small cooperative shop favored mainly by elderly people and aging Champagne socialists, was relatively untouched by the chaos.
But in the narrow aisles, strangers yield to others as if driving, and, when too many people turn up, the supermarket’s clerks close the doors and give out numbers to stagger entry.
I don’t see much hoarding apart from a lady who pays 86 euros for pasta at the checkout. Yes. Italians. Pasta. It is not just a cheap stereotype. For those born and bred in Rome, pasta is a religion. And, in these dark times, also the best comfort food there is.
I leave my neighborhood behind and head for the historic center. Here, the situation is more surreal. The lack of citizens on the streets is compounded by the absence of tourists. The elegant shops on Via del Corso, the shopping street that connects Piazza del Popolo and Piazza Venezia, are deserted.
The weather is fantastic. The sky is crisp and blue, and, when the light hits the travertine-clad buildings, it is hard not to be moved. Romans like to say: “Milan without people is sad. Rome is wonderful.”
Barron’s: ‘No happy hour, deserted gyms and empty shops’: This Italian describes life in locked-down Milan
It is true. But it is also the only good news during these dark and distressful days. I am at the Trevi Fountain now and am completely shocked. I had heard this sound only once in my life: at 6 in the morning. It is the sound of water gushing from the monumental 18th-century fountain. Usually, it is covered by the chatter of thousands of tourists. Today, it is loud and clear. It is both amazing and disturbing.
The square seems abandoned. There must be no more than 20 people. I enter Riposati, a historic pizzeria nearby. It is the paradise of Roman pizza — sold by the rectangular slice. It hasn’t closed in over a century. Not even on Christmas Day. The lady at the checkout looks at me, bewildered. “We have never seen so few clients. Not even in mid-August,” she despairs.
I head out and make toward the metro to go back home. On the A Line — one of the two main lines — very few people board the train. Those who do keep a safe distance. Some have masks.
I get off and head toward a huge pharmacy on one of Prati’s main squares, a shop that is open 24/7. Every single pharmacist is wearing a mask. Outside, a sign: “No more masks or hand sanitizers.”
I go back home, feeling desolate. A scooter with two youngsters whizzes by. “I have the coronavirusssssss!” they shout, while honking loudly. Even in dark times, Rome loves a joke.
