It has been raining nonstop for nine days. Yes, the rhythm has changed, sometimes in the form of light misting wafting towards the ground, sometimes in angry sheets tearing across the ragged soggy fields. Yet, the rain does not stop. How could there be so much water in the sky?
Conegliano smells like an aquarium as I trot through the ankle deep puddles from my clammy car to the school. The entrance, with polished marble floors is now a slick water hazard, a lawsuit that will never happen. I grab the stair railing. Umbrellas left in a pile outside the door, slowly drip onto the floor like gangly discarded cormorants. Rain splashes against the north facing windows as if that corner of the building were plowing though an angry sea. I turn on the calm, yellow lights that bathe everything in a warm glow and wait for students to straggle in, wet and sputtering, yet driven as usual to learn English. The rain does not seem to slow them down.
Having come from drought-prone Berkeley, I watched in alarm as Luciano pushed the start button to the dishwasher with clearly only half a load.
“Wait, we can fit more…let me check!”
“Serena, our water bill for this month was three euro. Three euro. That is less than a cup of coffee.” He pushed the start button, giving me the “get a grip” look.
He is right. There is water everywhere, in deep sticky, puddles in what was once my garden, in pools on the doctor’s garden tarp, and in angry brown torrents of the Piave River which seems to have become a major character this season.
Venice is making the headlines with the waist deep aqua alta which comes and goes every year. The Venetians are used to it, with wading boots available for sale, high water alarms and elevated walkways that had I once thought were benches thoughtfully put out for me to rest my weary feet. The tourists who gleefully wade through this water which has, before arriving in the narrow alleys and hidden piazza, washed across acres of grimy detritus laden cobblestones, are wading through a soup of unimaginable contents. The inhabitants resignedly get out the sump pump and pull on the boots. No Venetian thinks it is charming.
The rain beats on the bathroom roof, with the shutters closed against the horizontal water coming from the east. It feels as if I am drying my hair under a waterfall…I worry about electrocuting myself.
Rome, on the other hand, is floundering itself into ruin with all the rain. Inhabitants are warned to stay home by a reporter who stand in the rain with a microphone (again I think about electrocution) with swarms of Romans behind him, jostling one another to get the best cell phone shots of the swelling Tiber River. A woman failed to notice that the water level was above the windows of her car and drove into an underpass, where she drowned during rush hour traffic. A barge pilot, in a case of poor judgment and, well, being Roman, attempted to continue up the river with his cargo. Miscalculating the distance between the bottom of a bridge and the newly risen surface of the water, his barge stuck fast, where it remains slowly and publically being crushed in the rising water.
I stood in the galley of my submarine kitchen, cooking an egg as the rain pounded against the shuttered window. I wondered what time of day it was.
Saturday morning quite suddenly it stopped raining. I blinked for a moment at the momentarily dry skies, and then began opening the shutters to let in some unfamiliar light, stretching my eyes in the process.
As I opened the windows, I heard a strangely familiar bell, slight, tinkling with movement. What was it? SHEEP! They were coming down our street…a river of dirty, white wool led by a herder and three horned goats. Giancarlo yelled with rage as he burst out of his door, and I ran downstairs to help. Grabbing an umbrella I ran out to defend our gardens. Anna Maria stood weaponless by her front gate, swinging her arms. I wondered briefly if she could be knocked down, like a holiday shopper, but she looked steady so I ran to the garden on the other side of the house.
Sheep are opportunists and, as they travel, anything remotely green is a meal. A furled umbrella is not much of a deterrent. In fact, as I ran back and forth in the mud swinging with all my might at the backsides of these beasts, they only reluctantly moved on, more from the momentum of being a member of a group of two thousands than from any harm I inflicted. Nevertheless for what seemed like forever, I ran back and forth with that umbrella protecting my boxwoods, then the lavender, then Giancarlo’s ivy, from the warm-blooded locusts flowing down Strada Nuova. Then, suddenly, there were only babies. I hesitated, not wanting to hurt the lambs. One got confused and ended up inside the parents’ garden. Anna Maria toyed with closing the gate, but it skittered out and joined the flock. The second sheepherder and his dog brought up the rear.
I stood, trying to catch my breath with my umbrella at my side, and glared at him. He looked at me without interest, flipped his whip at the last of the straggling babies and shuffled down the street, now strewn with sheep poo, mud and blood. Perhaps one of the dog’s had been overzealous, but the swath of destruction was depressing beyond words. I washed some of the evidence off the terrace. It began to rain again.
Luciano arrived later and, exasperated, commented that it was a good thing he had not been here as he would have used a more dangerous tool than an umbrella.
Just now, as I write this story, a pheasant strode past our house. The bird strolled along Strada Nuova, the warm rich colors of his feathers glowing in the driving rain, on a little afternoon passeggiata. This has made me feel better and now I think I can face going out…but will pay close attention to any underpasses.
