Torrione

Today I stopped by my mother-in-law’s place to drop off a few things and pick up some olive oil she had in the basement.
The normalcy of that statement comforts me but although life goes on that sentence is far from normal.
Linda’s building, the one she and her husband built in the fifties with 7 other families and where Silvia was born in their fourth floor apartment, appears from the outside to be in good shape. There are just two nasty cracks on the north wall, and the garden has overgrown. But like much of the Torrione neighborhood, it is still off limits. The uneven quality of the cement in the late fifties means that the stability of the building is compromised. But the garage is still accessible to drop of the girls’ old books and toys and pick up a big bottle of great local olive oil. Two of the five liter bottles survived the quakes but will not make it past our summer salads.
Torrione was one of the first big post-war neighborhoods built after the second world war. Just below the Spanish castle, across from the rugby stadium.
The name “torrione” comes from the rough brick tower at the main intersection just two buildings down from Linda’s building. It wasn’t actually a tower, just the last leg standing from the aqueduct that brought water from Gran Sasso to the nearby Roman city of Amiternum. It withstood 2000 years, it’s half as tall now, surrounded by ancient red bricks.
It was once one of the three gateways to the old city and the only main road that crosses the city still passes through. Many of the shops have reopened, but very few people have come back to live - or park there before going to work downtown (with now downtown, why bother?).
The sensation is a mix of optimism (two bars, two great bread stores, and other activities have reopened. Others have installed kiosks in the neighborhood and moved in. My doctor’s office is in a small building and he’s been back for two months. But virtually no one lives there anymore. It’s as though an ember is still burning under the ashes, but the fire still need fresh wood to burn again. How much fire will there be before winter?

Opening Boxes After the Heartquake

I keep thinking of the song from the opening credits of the series Weeds.

"Little boxes on the hilltop
Little boxes made of ticky tacky
Little boxes on the hilltop
Little boxes all the Same"

The song refers to the houses of suburban upper middle class America, but in my case they are moving boxes - three different sizes, each taped shut with brown tape - all full of the things we, a half-dozen generous firefighters and a half dozen lazy movers pulled out of our house last week in L'Aquila. After four days of trips either with or without plumbers and electricians the towering maze of boxes and stacked furniture is starting to look like a home again. Every room is still full of boxes, but almost all three couches can now be used as (surprise!) couches and not resting places for lamps sand other fragile possessions.
Today as I pulled out plates and glasses from the boxes the firemen wrapped them in I was happy to find that most of the our white, basic Richard Ginori tableware set was still intact, just dusty, as were our better (but stemless) glasses. The wineglasses were nowhere to be found, probably mixed in with one of the piles of debris we left behind in the center of the rooms in Via Giovanni XXIII. .
Everything has to be dusted, scrubbed or washed. White plaster shavings and cement dust are in everything, pieces or our previous life to be washed or scrubbed away or shaken out. One of the smaller oriental rugs is resting on top of a stack of boxes in the living room. It looks faded, as if the colors have been washed away by the sun. It's just the dust of one big earthquake – the “heartquake” as it was re-baptized by many Italians living throughout the English speaking world and hundreds of smaller ones that followed.
The new house is in Pescara, Abruzzo's biggest city and industrial center on the Adriatic coast. We are hoping to stay our stay will be short, even though the idea of having to soon go through the purgatory of moving house does thrill any of us.
As I rest from my boxes someone is practicing a flute nearby. Tonight we drive back to Navelli where Sofia and Emily are waiting out the move up in the mountains. The annual chick pea and saffron feast will be held in ten days and despite the earthquake's damage to the town families have returned as have their summer friends.

Joshua
(also read me at carbonara.wordpress.com)