But that was yesterday, and yesterday's gone

 

In this Medieval town, we live next to a building that dates back to the 12^th Century.  Formerly a church, there is still a small obelisk outside in the front with a cross atop, and the remnants of the ancient bell tower. More recently the building has been used as a “civic center,” for various town meetings.  I saw some activity going on inside for several days, wondering what was coming up.  As of yesterday, the antique “Church of San Comizio” houses a dance studio.

While the weather was warm (70 degrees Fahrenheit) the sky, the slant of the sun…just the feeling in the air for the last several days has whispered “Autumn is here.”

Late in the afternoon I had to visit the farmacia for over-the-counter allergy medication.  The sun was waning, the streets were strangely quiet, everything seemed subdued.  It was an early evening to take in, leisurely, the beauty of this town, the colorful, historical buildings, the sound of footsteps on cobblestones, what few people there were having a late coffee or early glass of wine.

When I had left the house some 20 minutes before, there were a couple of parents and grandparents dropping off their little charges.  My husband had noticed through our window that a little girl was going in carrying her ballet slippers and he smiled.

Coming home, as I turned down the street, I heard music.  As I approached it became apparent that it was coming from the new dance studio. And although I did not recognize the piece, just like when a certain melody can magically transport you back to another time and place, I was overwhelmed with memories and bittersweet emotions. 

My initial reaction was to smile.  My neighbor and friend across the street was on her balcony.  “It is nice to hear the music!”  Yes, it is.  It is nice to have a bit more life in our little piazzetta.  It is good for the town, especially since the quarantine, to have a small business open, too.

A bit later, while still hearing the studio music, I began to reminisce about my days in dance classes.  Going to the Danskin store for slippers and tights. Our teacher was “Miss Bobbi.”  She looked like Lynda Carter (“Wonder Woman”) but this was long before anyone knew that.  I am going back to the mid and late 1960s.  Her dark hair always up in a proper bun.  Perfect makeup.  Black leotard and little wraparound chiffon skirt.  There was a wall of mirrors and another wall with a “window” that contained a mirror.  That was the two-way mirror, so anyone in the waiting room could see us inside. I know several friends were in the class with me but I can only recall two, Linda and Angela.  I remember many evenings such as this one, with the taste of Fall in the air, the quickening sunsets, that strange but beautiful silence. 

Sometimes I rode my bike.  The studio was “just around the corner,” in a non-descript, flat strip mall, it was the last “box” on the left.  Usually, however, I walked.  I’m not sure how far it was…I had to get to our corner, make a right and go for several blocks to the end of our “subdivision” and then cross Commack Road and head to the right until the little row of shops.  And with that recalled, the tears began. Those sneaky, silent ones that creep down your face without warning or control. 

I cried for the loss.  Not of youth, not of flexibility or dexterity, not even for the people long out of sight who are only memories now.  I cried because of what all Americans have lost.  You see, I felt safe.  Walking or riding my bike, I never had a moment of fear – of a stray bullet, or a stalker or any kind of harm.  I knew where my friends lived.  I knew there were Moms and Dads keeping watch.  I knew I could walk up to any one of those houses if I needed to and maybe the door would not even be locked.

We moved here in retirement as a place of comfort, affordability and peace.  We have that and so much more.  We have friends and acquaintances.  There are doors I can approach if I ever need to.  We have a sense of belonging to a community.  “Salute alla moglie”…”Greetings to your wife,” from the shopkeepers because since quarantine, my husband, for the most part, has been the “designated shopper.”  Everyone knows everyone else…if not personally, then by sight.  Italy has laws about the ownership of guns.  Only the top tier of police carry them. 

Is it perfect?  Of course not.  There are people who don’t care for foreigners, there are people who are mentally ill, there are “bad” people everywhere.  But I breathe a sigh of relief whenever outside because I know, for the most part and more than I have had the pleasure of feeling in many decades, that I am safe.   It is a quiet life that some might find boring but I love it.

What will happen in November?  What will happen in January?  Will Americans be able to ever get back what they have lost over the course of the last forty years?  Will they recover from the last four or will they sink further into fascism?  Will everything that was being accomplished for civil and sexual rights be negated?  I can’t say.  All I know is that I weep for my country and for the generations who never knew the kind of security that my generation knew.  I weep for the loss.