All good things must come to an end. The holiday month is over. Each year I have a list of things to do. There's the: I really should do that now that I have the time, and the: it would be a good idea to do that, now that I have the time. Of course, as always, I manage to do neither.
I got back from my brief break abroad in the usual deflated mood. While away I imagine things will be different when I get back, that some miracle will have taken place: the city will be tidy, the government will know what it's doing, customer service will magically come into existence, people will be civil. and stop shouting... The list can run on and on and on. Safe to say nothing has changed.
Once back in Italy, it's a clear run to that week, the week of weeks, the week everything grinds to a halt: the week of ferragosto. The day before the holiday day, a bridge collapses in the North. Not a small country bridge, one of the many that have collapsed in the past ten years, but a vast suspension bridge part of the motorway network, and the day before a National Holiday, it was busy. It's a too sad, too tragic illustration of what doesn't work in Italy. That it shouldn't have happened is evident. Concerns had been voiced about safety prior to the tragedy and ignored as 'fairy tales', only to be twitter-deleted after the fact. Fingers have since been pointed: the company that manages the motorways, the lack of adequate maintenance for such an important structure, the deceased architect's prowess and competence.
Yet again the lack of a meritocracy was nano-secondly under a micro-spotlight. It isn't how good you are but who you know that gets you the job. Hence, most major projects are led by well-connected people who may ,or not, have the competences required. I'm forever reminded of this as I step out onto my downwards slanted balcony. Drop an olive, drop a stone, overfill a pot, accidentally knock over a cup of coffee and it, or its contents, will roll over the edge onto the balconies or awnings of the lower floors. It's a masterclass in how not to get on with the neighbours. I can picture the scene, back in the sixties when my building was built.
"My nephew has just graduated from University. Yes, I know he wasn't top of his class. He just needs a little EXPERIENCE, who doesn't when they start." This would be followed by chuckles and back-slapping. It can't be for nothing that my building is the only one in the complex with downwards slanting balconies.
Nowadays, most young educated Italians want to flee their country of birth unless a parent, or an other member of familt, has a business. I am reminded of this as I help a young physicist prepare her IELTS so that she can do a PhD at Nottingham University. Her sister wants to work in China after her graduation. The other sister is working in Portugal for a few months. They love their home country but are only too aware it can't offer them the opportunities they need to reach their goals. The further South you go, the more this is true.
So what did I manage to do? I got my museum card. I ate too much. I drank too much. I read a lot, in this day and age, you can't read too much. I netflixed. I made hot sauce and pickled beetroots. I went to the various markets around the city. I walked my dog all over the place and caught up with the handful of friends who hadn't fled the heat.
The neighbours are returning now. The sounds of the condominium are back in flow: music floats out of open windows, the Indian family's children are making noise on their balcony, dogs are barking on the pavement, an argument is in progress. On the street the rush of passing cars is audible again and the car parking spaces are filling up. The workmen are back too, the gas works have cordoned off the lower part of the road and their jack-hammers are pounding into the tarmac The persistent whirr of a drill lets me know that my neighbour below is also back from his summer break and doing some heavy duty housework.
Then on the 30th August there was another collapse. A church, San Giuseppe dei Falegnami, in the centre of Rome, metres away from the mayor's office, caved in. That no one died was pure fluke. The Church happened to be closed when the elaborate wooden and gold ceiling came down. The patron saint, St John of the Carpenters must have been out to lunch too. The fingers are being pointed again, this time at the numerous refurbishments over the years. One thing is clear, here as for the Northern bridge, what has been lost can no longer be replaced, whether it be the human lives that were cut short on a rainy August morning, or the inestimable works of art that have turned to dust on a bright late August afternoon. The country is sick. It needs to be mended. It needs to be well-run and brought back to health, if that is even possible now.
I woke up last night. The hot weather had led to one of these cataclysmic storms, the thunder was so loud it shook the window panes and set off the alarms as bright forks of lightning struck down. It was the first of the end of summer storms, there will be more. Soon it'll be time to go back to work, back to reality.
