Long after the waters recede, the effects linger.

The damage is devastating, especially in my neighborhood. Total losses for some. Think Katrina. Think of water lines waist high. A two-inch layer of mud coats everything, slippery, slimy, reeking of…well…not mud. God I hope it’s just mud. For the sake of all the people who are covered in the stuff, mucking it out pail-by-pail from the low-lying areas. In my apartment building, I saw a train of people carrying individual desk drawers filled with the stuff. For many, the mud and muck is all that is left. They’ve thrown everything else out. The curbs are piled high with sofas, recliners, sopping stuffed animals, bike parts, mattresses, and cheap wooden furniture melting into cardboard paste. I’m talking high-as-your-head piles, as long as a city bus, on every city block.

This city is a hive of activity.

In a previous post, Lo faró domani, I wrote extensively about the propensity of Italians to put off unpleasant tasks until tomorrow. This mantra encapsulated an Italian state of mind that I found simultaneously repellant and alluring.

I have seen absolutely none of this recently.

The streets are filled with all manner of people, helping. First, the civil authorities: The civil guard, the red cross, the fire departments of the whole Ligurian region, the police, the carabinieri, the army, the coast guard, everyone who has ever been issued a uniform in Italy has been called into action. Policemen are mucking the muddy nutella-like substance out of sewers trying to promote drainage in the clogged arteries. The firemen have set up a command post outside the Cinema near Brignole train station. Other uniforms are manning giant cement truck-sized pumps trying to get the water out of underground parking structures, spaces the size of football fields across and thirty feet deep. We’re talking a 1.5 million cubic feet of water, give or take.

But more impressive than the uniforms have been the normal humans. People are pouring out of their homes to help rebuild. Upstairs neighbors donning their mukluks, a sturdy pair of rubber gloves, find brooms, or shovels or buckets before descending into the fray. They work from dawn until dusk. By the end of the day they are covered in the muck, looking like they came out of a Vietnam era war movie.

And the children. They say the Genovese are a closed bunch, and many attribute that to the old age of its citizens. If my apartment building is any indicator, I would say the average age of the Genovese is around 86. When I mention this to the average citizen they shake their heads, knowingly, and agree a bit shamefully. They defend themselves with their children. ‘Our children are more open!’ they cry. ‘Our children will open our minds for Genova and for the world.

The blue hairs have reason for hope. Their grandkids were incredible. Compassion and support and a greater showing of community, I have never seen. Teens, who I normally see slumped in little chain-smoking packs lurking listlessly in Piazza della Vittoria, or Ferrari or outside the Brignole train station now have been called to action. They flow in from everywhere, off busses and trains, down from the mountains, each armed with shovels and dirty clothes. They are smiling, earnest. They want to help. They do help. They smile all day.

Thanks to all these, there are already positive signs of recovery. Now, a week later, signs adorn shops in the worst hit areas: Grazie ragazzi and Grazie angeli. Businesses have re-opened, marble floors clean and sparkling. People flock to the stores, spending money on ‘flood sales’, injecting cash into the system. Sure, the streets still smell of mud and must and rot, but they move forward.

I like to see it. These ‘closed’ Genovese, up again and open for business. Makes me kind of love them.

 

An aside:

Incidentally, now I know what a zombie apocalypse would look like. It would look like this aftermath. It became normal for groups of people to be walking the streets dragging and clanging pickaxes, shovels, and rakes behind them. We are all wandering the streets aimlessly, maneuvering around abandoned cars and heaps of furniture tossed to the curb. There is no power, no food and the water supply is sketchy. Storefronts broken and shattered, a murky line about waist high on glass window displays mark high tide. These are the end times. Exchange the muck splatter for blood and add a few moaning zombies and voilà, apocalypse.