by I FaceTimed my parents this morning. That might be the only way I’ll get to see them for the foreseeable future. On a screen. Strapping themselves into a flying tube packed with 500-odd other poor souls, for roughly a day, might be out of the question long before they’re due to take off in late May. It’s sad, but there’s a very real chance I’ll miss them for the second summer in a row.
When the first Romanian cases of coronavirus presented themselves, my Biziday app alerted me with an ominous chime. For the next handful, only a message flashed up on my screen, which I often wouldn’t see until later. Now I’m not getting messages at all, and probably won’t unless and until somebody succumbs from the virus. So far “only” 15 cases have been confirmed in Romania including five in Timișoara, the same as in the whole of New Zealand. The level of panic is (so far) very low. Very occasionally I’ll see someone sporting a mask. At the supermarket this morning all the shelves were stacked with loo roll. Scented, quilted, embossed, polka-dotted, you name it, they stocked it.
The situation in Italy seems to be something approaching mayhem. This afternoon we had wet weather and I decided to watch the Serie A match between Parma and SPAL, which was a local derby of sorts. I hardly ever watch domestic football these days, but all Serie A matches are now being played behind closed doors, and I figured it would be a bit of a novelty to watch crowdless top-level football, live from Parma which I visited in 2010. At kick-off time all I could see was a large zoomed-in football in the centre of my screen. Apparently the players were on the pitch then, but the Italian Sports Minister had just made an announcement – he wanted games called off entirely, fans or no fans. The game did go ahead in the end, 75 minutes late, and SPAL won 1-0.
Lombardy and the surrounding regions, encompassing Bologna and Parma which were a pleasure for me to visit, are now sealed off. This is (or was) Italy’s economic powerhouse. The impending lockdown was leaked and chaos ensued. It’s been an awful day there, with 133 further deaths. The Wikipedia page on the outbreak in Italy now looks absurd – the initial cases, in their ones and twos, described in great detail, but the entry for 8th March simply states that more than 100 people died in Lombardy alone.
I read a piece by Paul Krugman, the Nobel Prize-winning economist, saying that when America is facing an epidemic on this scale, having this particular man-baby at the helm is dangerous. He’s dead right. It’s a shame someone like Krugman isn’t president.
In other news, my student has invited me on another trip to Cuntu (the name is still horrible) and/or Mount Țarcu, where I went last June. He’s planning it for next weekend. It’ll be a damn sight colder than it was then, so I’ve really got to make sure I’m properly prepared. I bought some boots, a bag and some wet-weather gear from Decathlon, the go-to place for this stuff, without completely breaking the bank, but still need a warmer sleeping bag. And absolutely no tinned food this time – there’s nowhere to cook it.
I mentioned to my parents that I’d browsed tents in Decathlon and was amazed just how much tent technology has come on. This prompted Mum to show me photos – the best she could on a grainy FaceTime screen – of our camping holiday in Northern Spain in 1988. Back then you could have a cheap, simple holiday by a Spanish beach without hordes of people. The trip did have its moments, though. Half-way through our three-week stay, my parents had the bright idea to visit Sitges, a resort near Barcelona where they’d clearly had a great time in the seventies before I and my brother came on the scene. Dad drove close to 400 miles, through the night, in his Mazda. Then when we arrived, Sitges had obviously changed. The sea was soup-like. My brother didn’t like to get his face wet, and Mum sensibly stayed out of trouble too. But Dad and I went in, properly, and were sick for the next four days. We went back up north and saw out our holiday up there. We went to and from Spain by boat – 24 hours each way, to and from Santander. The return sailing was rough and my brother got seasick.
I’ll give my brother a call now and see how much he remembers. My guess is a lot – he has very good recall of his early childhood. I’ll also see how much bog roll he has.
