CITY LIGHTS
Last night, just after sunset, after our comfort-food-coma had settled into our expanding, self-quarantined waistlines, we piled into the family Fiat and drove to San Francisco’s City Hall. My husband and I stood before a building in which we have spent many hours attending numerous events for the Italian-American community in San Francisco. But, before us, the municipal building looked different in a movingly familiar way: Mayor London Breed had lit up her office with the colors of the Italian flag to offer solidarity to our suffering country.
Although few may have seen the illuminated monument due to life in lockdown, social media helped spread the image of the Mayor’s tweet like a lightning bolt.
A couple of friends texted us — they were on their way to see it in person. We waited a few minutes but then realized we couldn’t even say hello – better to keep our distance despite our desire to feel close to each other.
The last time we had seen this magnificent gesture was to commemorate the visit of President Sergio Mattarella to San Francisco this past October, the first time a President of Italy had visited California in almost 40 years. That last time, City Hall blazed the colors of the Italian flag for a celebration – but, this time, in many ways, it was for a wake.
The car ride to the city monument had taken us five minutes as opposed to the 15-minute drive of The Old Normal. An occasional empty Uber or Lyft car cruised past us, and barren buses zoomed by with their drivers wearing blue masks, clutching their steering wheel with rubber gloves. Waiting at a stoplight felt useless with no competing cross-traffic.
The piazza in front of City Hall was empty except for two vigilant police jeeps. The nearby street corners normally inhabited by camping tents filled with homeless people were few and far between. An eerie silence spooked our dog as she walked cautiously, wary of the city square’s emptiness. My kids pointed out the concert hall adjacent to City Hall where I’d taken them to hear their favorite band play this past fall. The thought of returning to a jam-packed hall full of fans made me unconsciously squirt Purell onto my chapped hands.
My husband stood before the tricolor spectacle and smiled. It was the first smile I had seen on his face in a while. The kids paced in front of us, aware that they were to acknowledge in silence those suffering and dying where their grandparents live, where they have spent joyful summers frolicking in animated piazzas in Southern Italy, where they attended Italian public school in Rome before moving to San Francisco.
It was 9pm and I thought of Pope Francis who had requested yesterday that everyone around the world at that hour – regardless of their religion or location -- pray for those who have suffered and continue to suffer. I thought of the images printed on Italian newspapers a few days ago of the Pope walking alone down Via del Corso in Rome, a white ghost fluttering through a ghost town, out for the fresh air we all crave, desperate to understand the incomprehensible.
We woke up today to the news that the death toll in Italy has reached 3,405, becoming the highest in the world, surpassing China’s reported toll. Yesterday, over 500 people died of the virus in Milan alone.
Churches are now closed here. So, there, in front of City Hall, I prayed for my friend in Northern Italy who just lost both of her parents to the virus, and for all those in seclusion, alone and in famiglia, struggling to get through these difficult times, as we wait.
Our morning ritual as a family is to squeeze like sardines into our California King mattress and read – we used to read our books but now, shamelessly, we scroll through our phones like addicts. We dive to them as if it were Christmas morning, eager to read the gifts they offer us from other time zones of messages, photographs and videos, left under the technological tree.
We laugh and cry at the latest film that comes out of creative Italy. One of my favorite messages this morning came from an Italian doctor friend who scolded me for packing my pantry with “Rummo” pasta – not Italian enough! Following the hand-slap, he sent me a list of all of The Right Italian Pastas, all of which use 100% Italian wheat – 30 names, with Voiello at the top of his list. Throughout all this, the Italian culinary debates continue.
In San Francisco, a small movement has started through Nextdoor, the app which generates conversations among neighbors, called “Unity Light in the Night: We Are In This Together.” Every night at 7pm, those wanting to offer solidarity to Italians taking to their balconies and joining in song must place a lit lamp in their window, like candles at Christmastime.
My favorite is one that looks like it might fit best in Amsterdam – but I’ll take it in a time when I crave a belly-laugh.
Last night’s light show of the Italian flag’s colors was a gesture of extraordinary kindness to Italy, reminding us what we all hope: Andra’ tutto bene.
