It is necessary that the daily becomes heroic and the heroic becomes daily.
By the dim lights of Delhi, I saw hundreds that night, under trees, shrines, intersections, on benches, squinting at newspapers, holy books, journals, Communist Party pamphlets. What were they reading about? What were they talking about?
John Paul II
But what else?
Of the end of the world.
Aravind Adiga, The White Tiger
Reading this article in the New York Times Magazine, for some reason, set off a chain of events in my head. Both moving and personal, this account of a photographers desperate attempt to portray the unravelling crisis in Northern Italy, all the while underpinned by his own family’s precarious circumstances, is a very moving read.
It is a very moving account of how the pandemic first seized power on the people of Northern Italy, and of the heroic actions of the medical staff who desperately tried to put out fires, whilst also trying to maintain their own sanity.
It struck me that this photographer, Andrea Frazzetti, realised quite instinctively what was unfolding. This was in contrast to some of his family, which, like the much criticised government, were slow to react. Unfortunately, as has been seen, this lethargic response proved to be deadly.
Of course now the present is far from perfect, but in the midst of all that has been happening in Northern Italy, some light at the end of tunnel gingerly seems to be filtering through. Of course, I do not want to speak too soon. I have not dwelled on my time in Italy, but it does strike me how in many ways, I left just before the explosion. Just before things got really bad. I was even in Bergamo in early December. All these places have recently become stamped on our collective consciousness.
My time in Milan was chiefly characterised by instability. Dragging my belongings from hostel to hostel down busy roads in the Porto Romano, finding a few chic cafes and a little home-made vegetarian place VegAmore – which I’m sure has been hard hit, but I do hope has not been closed down – my life ambled on chaotically. You could almost make a film of it; set to the Benny Hill music.
I was very fortunate to meet some great people at the Queen’s hostel. There was a group of South American, mainly Brazilian, guys who worked there. Mostly volunteers, they showed me some of the magic and delights of Milan. It was still a shock, to have come from a small city such as Groningen to a bustling metropolis like Milan, and suddenly having money to spare too.
Undoubtedly things went from bad to very bad, quite quickly. It became apparent that finding somewhere to live would not be an overnight endeavour. I had this strange double-life, with people I met at the Hostel and then business-as-usual at the school. I remember going to a flat viewing with an Italian actor, who had spent time in the hip Brent Cross in London, and seemed to spend much of his day meditating and doing a form of Yoga I had never before witnessed.
One morning, I tried talking to him, and he told me not to disturb him, “the problem is, I need to spend the whole day in the Vortex, Tom.”
However, this was a man who went by the moniker ‘Baby Rush’.
Now of course, looking back, it feels like I was incredibly fortunate. Not that I didn’t bring some of the hardships on my self. But the constant chaos with its brief respites, which mainly consisted of hanging out in the cold sunshine of Park Sempione with a Brazilian girl I had met at the hostel, seems now to be a trite comparison to the current state of affairs.
My problems were never really problems in the grand scheme of things. Mine was only one story, meandering its way through the rubble and street-life, just as many were doing. To look back and appreciate in its chaos, a learning curve, is to unequivocally accept what I could not accept at the time. The option to see the trees and the wood.
The people I knew from my short time there, are all fine. So that is great. Of course, their lives have been greatly affected; the school I worked at is of course closed down. The hostels too, no doubt, will not be offering accommodation to either the needy or the less needy.
I remember one evening after work, nearing the end of my time in Italy, feeling a little lost and depressed, I took a walk to the centre of the city. I hadn’t wanted to go back to the hostel, nor see the Duomo and its surroundings, so I went walking.
It was a week-day and this was a shopping precinct, so it was quiet. Just the dazzle of the nearby glass interiors of the shops, Christmas glowing from inside, like the belly of a colourful beast. The lights spilled out onto the streets. The occasional Tram went by, and a few cars cruised down the central road. I remember seeing tinfoil and feeling dazed from the lights.
I saw a homeless man. He had nothing but his dog and a tent. No-one bothered him, and he was busy – moving his things and preparing for the night. I approached him with a smile. At first he was taken aback, and scoped me out. Seeing I did not pose a threat, he relaxed and looked at his dog, who was sleeping. I handed him a beer, and tried to speak in broken Italian. He responded in broken English. We had an awkward conversation, then enjoyed a drink and looked heavenwards. The stars were out that night. Hopefully they are still out for that man. Hopefully, somewhere now, he is in a good place. Perhaps a better place. I’m lucky enough to say I am. Cliched as it is, right now, only time will tell.
An Englishman in Hanoi 