Life in Lombardy: a humbling reminder that despite modernity, we’re vulnerable
Without drastic action, Australia is set to replicate the Italian catastrophe.
For the past five years, I have been living in Tremosine, a tiny, romantic town in Lombardy, with my beautiful Italian girlfriend.
The fairytale has hit a highly infectious bump in the road as COVID-19 sweeps our region, leaving a trail of bodies, our economy devastated and the healthcare system on its knees.
A few weeks ago, the death toll in Italy could be counted on one hand. Italy was going to walk over this coronavirus with nonchalant, exuberant hand gestures and conversations of disregard, yelled one over the top of another over an aperitivo. All washed down with a disinfecting grappa.
Two weeks ago, after a rapid acceleration of coronavirus deaths, attitudes changed. In a friend’s restaurant one night, word spread from one table to the next that Lombardy would close its borders at midnight. The speed at which our lives have been turned upside down has been incredible.
Australians seem very reluctant to deal with the reality upon them. Aside from some irrational shopping adventures, it’s business as usual.
The government is moving too slowly to adapt the necessary, extreme lockdown measures. Without drastic action, Australia is set to replicate the Italian catastrophe. News from back home is alarmingly similar to that of Italy just a few weeks ago.
A word of advice: Brace yourselves. It would seem the proverbial merda has almost hit the fan.
Hospitals in Italy have been reduced to erecting triage tents where doctors are being forced to play “Dio”. It’s up to them to decide who will be afforded a bed and a lifesaving respirator and who will be left to die.
The latter go without proper funerals. Morgues overloaded, the military has been enlisted to transport bodies.
In an effort to relieve the burden, there is a nationwide lockdown. It dictates that we can leave the house only to buy food or for medical reasons and we must do so within our respective towns. Regulations are strictly enforced.
My girlfriend, Veronica, and I were pulled over by the military police, the Carabinieri, their blue gloves and surgical masks in bright contrast to their shoulder-slung automatic weapons.
We were advised that to maintain the recommended 1m “safety distance”, Veronica should be in the back seat. I hope not to get a house visit from them as we share a small bed.
Walking my dog too far to do his business or a pair of skis in the back of the car warrants a fine.
“Not even during the war,” my girlfriend’s Nonna Sofia yells down to me from her second-storey balcony. All our interactions have been this way for weeks. She was born in a time when the mountains here were creeping with Nazi soldiers, but since the virus came to town, she’s too scared to leave the house.
It’s not just the elderly at risk. I spoke to a friend anxiously awaiting her first child: “I’m terrorised, I’m not far off and I don’t know where I can go. The hospital isn’t taking my calls.”
Tremosine is officially infected. An invasive ambulance siren wails through the 800-year-old streets, disturbing the eerie silence and confirming what was inevitable.
The same maze of cobblestone streets has seen its share of pandemics. Despite its isolation, Tremosine was continually ravaged by plague throughout late medieval times. Even our ancient church was deliberately built in proximity to the town’s lazzeretto (quarantine centre). This virus is a humbling reminder that despite our modern times, we’re frighteningly vulnerable.
This year’s tourist season has been all but cancelled. We’re unlikely to open the family bar and hotel this year. Lombardy might be off the list of top 2020 destinations.
My new-found spare time is being directed into Nonno’s vegetable garden. He’s already got garlic sprouting, basilico seedlings are going in.
We live in a place that is not only considered one of Italy’s most beautiful towns, but also has a long and recent history of living off the land. It’s the perfect place to be quarantined. Won’t go hungry here. Maybe the next chapter of my Italian fairytale will be an even more authentic one.
It’s just a pity these fertile soils can’t grow toilet paper.
