by Edana Minghella, in Liguria, Italy

Sometimes the sadness is overwhelming.

Less than two weeks ago our town was full of energy and life.

Of people walking their beloved dogs (dogs are A Thing in Italy).

Busy baristas calling sit down, cara, I’ll bring you a macchiato.

The market, buzzing, with its cut price cashmere and designer knock off and fabulous handbags and too many people and everyone searching out a bargain.

Couples sharing a bag of fritto misto in the piazza, and hungry seagulls, staring.

Friends watching the sun go down over aperitivi on the pontoon.

The evening passeggiata along the seafront. Everyone dressed up. The older folk arm in arm, the youth smoking, the little ones running off. Everyone stopping and greeting and taking photos of the sunset.

Little boats bobbing and bumping the harbour wall, and a queue at the bus stop and the baker’s.

Tourists climbing the steep paths up to the castle for the amazing view.

Fishermen unsnarling orange ropes, and oyster shacks ready with cold wine.

The odd besuited official in shades. The uniformed policewoman, so stylish.

Oh the collie, who crouches, waiting, alert, suddenly leaping up when his owner is a metre away, running to his next spot to crouch again, wide eyed, urgent. He never tires of it. A bright and beautiful character in the town, that dog. We all know him, we all smile at his game. We all love him.

Surfers.

Ice cream.

The crepe place.

The town hall and everything needing to be stamped.

The cinema.

The nowhere to park so don’t even try.

Gone.

All gone.

How will it recover? How will we?

by Edana Minghella, in Liguria, Italy.

We made a mistake.

We prepared well for the mistake. We showered and dressed, co-ordinating everything Italian-style. We printed out the forms that you must show if you are going out, and completed them together, carefully. We felt a little nervous. We checked each other’s answers. We had two forms each; one for going out, one for coming back. We put on some lippy. We gathered our shopping list and carrier bags.

Stepping out into the village “borgo”, the medieval lane that leads down towards the town, a mile away, we are spotted by a neighbour leaning out of the window to hang out her washing. Another good drying day. The windows of this colourful borgo, with its tall pastel pink and ochre and umber houses, are decorated with lines of vests, nighties, pants, billowing like flags. Our spirits are lifted. We are fortunate.

Ciao, our neighbour says. How are you? But where are you going?

We’re fine, we say, smiling. We’re going out for food. Do you need anything?

No, no no! She cries, her voice concerned. You can’t both go. Just one person per family. If they catch you, they will fine you! And which supermarket were you going to? You can’t go to the big one. It’s not within our borders. Be careful!

We stop dead, our faces fall. I feel sick. We thought we understood. We didn’t. We didn’t at all. We return home, shaken.

Later, I go to the smallish local supermarket alone. Outside there is a semblance of a queue, although it’s almost unrecognisable as one. People, standing solitary a couple of meters apart, clutching a carrier bag or two, waiting to be called in to the shop. Most people are wearing masks or scarves around their faces. The solemnity, the silence, are a shock. This is an extraordinarily friendly town. The social connectedness of our community is something that I have treasured so much. The usual greeting from strangers is a smile and a buongiorno, from acquaintances a how are you and have a good day, from everyone else kisses and handshakes and a stop and a chat. This new gravity is chilling. My brother rings me and I am aware that I am the only person in the queue speaking. I hear my voice, stupidly loud and probably animated, and it feels utterly incongruous.

I wait for perhaps 20 minutes but it seems longer. Only four or five people are allowed into the shop at any one time, so that a distance of at least a metre can be maintained between us. We are given disposable gloves that we must wear while shopping. The atmosphere is subdued, but in other ways everything is normal. There are no gaps on the shelves, there is plenty of fresh produce available, I can buy everything I need. Leaving, I thank the masked and gloved check-out assistant for coming to work and keeping us fed. I feel a bit tearful.

As I exit the supermarket I see the uneasy faces of the waiting customers. No smiles. No connection now other than this shared anxiety. I think, it’s not just lives this virus is stealing. It’s life.

But trudging back, despondent, through the narrow streets, I notice something else. Draped from several windows and across the ubiquitous washing lines, not washing this time, but sheets painted with rainbows and a message, of solidarity, of collective hope. Andrà tutto bene: everything will be all right.

by Edana Minghella, in Liguria, Italy.

Chatting to G, my neighbour, in the garden, when we hear something. A loud something that makes us prick up our ears. There are two thick walls and a metre-wide path between us, so we’re legal. It’s sunny and warm. We are tantalisingly close to the sea – only a twenty minute walk downhill through the olive groves – but we are not allowed to wander down there. It’s 15^th March 2020, in Liguria, and thanks to the spread of deadly coronavirus, Italy is on lockdown.

It’s a man’s voice that we are hearing, muffled through a rubbish microphone, declaring something, sternly, authoritatively. I can’t make out the words. My limited Italian doesn’t help. It’s reminding me, incongruously, of the old rag and bone man who used to come with his horse and cart through our town on the Isle of Wight when I was a kid. But this isn’t a request for your old bedstead or a rusted radiator. It’s the police, G tells me, and together we listen again, harder.

Italy’s complete lockdown started a few days ago and people are only just getting used to it. Here in our small Ligurian seaside town, we had not been directly affected by the virus. But things escalated very, very quickly, much more quickly than any of us could have predicted. The speed of change, as much as its drastic nature, has been shocking.

Just three weeks earlier, a cluster of 11 small towns and villages, with a dense concentration of cases and subsequent deaths, had been put under quarantine: the red zone (“zona rossa”). It was distressing and alarming, but it seemed a distance away – some 200 miles further north – and it was being contained. Except it wasn’t. The disease was spreading and the death rate was increasing. On the 7^th March, the red zone was expanded to include heavily populated, wealthy areas like Milan, Venice, Parma and Rimini. Two days later, restrictions started to cover the whole of Italy. People would have to maintain a distance of one metre from each other; restaurants and bars could stay open for limited hours but only if they could guarantee this distance; all sporting events would be cancelled; travel would be restricted; schools were closed; our beloved street markets forbidden. Finally on the 11^th March – only five days after the sudden increase in the red zone – additional controls were introduced and the lockdown complete. All non-essential businesses were shut: no bars and restaurants, no hairdressers, no clothes stores, no post office, no banks, no solicitors’ offices, no estate agents, no stationers, no garden centres, no d-i-y shops, no Ikea, no nothing. Everyone was ordered to stay within their own homes, unless it was essential to go out for food, medical or emergency reasons. Any time we go out we must take with us a signed form, stating where we are going and why. Even with a valid reason to be outside, we must stay within our town’s boundaries. We must not congregate in groups. We cannot visit friends or family. We can be challenged at any point, and if we are found to be violating the restrictions, we could be fined.

The policeman’s voice is nearer and we can hear him better now. The beautiful day has tempted people out, it seems. There have been walkers, taking the paths up to the hills, perhaps thinking the countryside would be a safer bet than the beach. But walking out is strictly forbidden, and the police are calling through loudhailers to remind us:

-Everyone must stay at home!

-You can only go out for emergencies or necessities!

-You must stay at home!

G and I look at each other and raise our eyebrows. This is the new normal, and we have no idea how long it will last.