January, You Kill Me

One month in and so far 2026 feels like a year where you just try to come out of it alive. And I’m not even talking about politics.

Ask almost anyone in America, the UK or Europe about their holidays and get ready for a diagnosis rather than a description, eked out between coughing fits, sneezing, eye-watering and nose-dabbing. It appears that what everyone got for Christmas this year was sick.

Blame the grandkids. Or the weather. Or holiday travel in a suffocating metal tube (bring back the one-horse open sleigh!) Or everyone’s favorite villain (or maybe second favorite) the Subclade K, 2025’s parting gift to 2026. The viral sensation arrived as the Superflu, and by late December, New York State was recording the highest number of flu cases ever in a single week.

I’m afraid Italy was hit as well, recording 6.7 million cases in just one month. The German newspaper Stern (such a Teutonic name) described the flu as “bringing Italy to its knees” (a very Teutonic way of putting it). To be fair, it doesn’t take all that much to bring Italy down, or at least send it to bed for a week.

Piero Della Francesca “Dream of Constantine”.

Contrary to their well-curated public image as tan, fit bella figuras nourished by serotonin and a Mediterranean diet, Italians are sick a lot. This is especially true in December and January, when a whole hellscape of tribulations descends upon the populace.

Whether it’s the colpo d’aria (“the hit of air”) from a cold draft, or the colpo della strega (“the strike of the witch”) usually aimed at the lower back, or a combination of too much rain, too much cold, not enough cold but too much humidity, or simply the gastrointestinal challenge of feast days that arrive with little more than a cigarette break in between, by mid-January half the country is nursing something.

Watching Italian TV at the bar last week, I saw five straight advertisements for potions and powders to ease the pain. The only thing that broke the streak was an ad for a soft as a bouncy house recliner chair complete with wheels (for rolling from living room to kitchen) and a tray with drink holder and ashtray. Of course, the ad depicted a proud if pallid owner, wrapped in a blanket and looking decidedly under the weather. Undoubtedly assigned to week of bed rest.

One would never guess that Italy’s life expectancy is among the highest in the EU. Perhaps what doesn’t kill you really does make you stronger. Once you’ve survived the colpo della strega, what can really befall you?

I would find out soon enough. There are apparently some things not even a scarf can protect you from.

I entered January feeling quite pleased, maybe even a little smug, for having evaded the micro-biotic mayhem all around me, despite two international flights, a snowstorm in New York, and a coterie of coughing, sniffling friends. Surely, I was made of strong stuff to walk into January unscathed.

As I gloated, C raised her eyebrows. “Mmm. Careful there Superman, ” she said. “You know what they say about pride and falls.” It should have come with a spoiler alert.

Our first social event of 2026 was a birthday party at our house in Le Marche and by that Friday afternoon, preparations were well-underway. C had been cooking all day, completely set the table, and was busy tidying up the kitchen. I’d probably carried in some wood for the fireplace or something. If it seems like an unfair division of labor, it would soon even out.

I’m not sure exactly where we picked up the “chandelier” that hangs in our dining room— most likely from a street market that uses antiquario interchangeably with primitive and wildly impractical. It’s a simple proposition: no wiring, just nine candle holders in a rusty, old metal sphere that hangs from a beam over the center of the refectory table. It looks a little like one of those medieval instruments of torture that certain osterias hang on their walls. I liked it because we didn’t have to call the electrician.

But don’t the candles drip? Constantly, though most of it is caught in the little sconce underneath each candle. It’s only dripped on one guest— but it drips on her every time, regardless of where she sits.

But don’t the candles have to be replaced? Given the duration of most Italian dinners, they need to be replaced after every get-together. Which is why the chandelier was sitting on a nearby counter rather than hanging on the beam. C had been at it already, chipping off the candle wax and putting in all new candles.

“I just need you to hang it back up for me”, she said. “But be careful so the candles don’t drop out onto the table”. It must be a terrible gift to foresee every worst-case scenario before it happens I thought, as I climbed up the ladder with my 20 pound ring of fire in tow.

After all, life is full of danger. It’s not just the invisible germs swarming around us like bees. It’s all of the awkward, suddenly precarious situations like the one I found myself in at that moment— twisting on the ladder, trying to hold the heavy chandelier in one hand and hook it to the ceiling with the other. All of my weight leaning out over the table. So many things can go wrong…

As I plummeted from the ladder in an almost picture-perfect swan dive, it crossed my mind: if only the candles were lit, we could have had the full Phantom of the Opera effect. Our cat Mino, slumbering on one of the dining room chairs, looked up just before landing. Then he took off like a rocket to his bed. He later gave the dive a solid 8.5, with deductions only for the splash upon entry.

And what a splash it was: chandelier flying, wine glasses shattering, knives and forks skittering everywhere. A ceramic pasta bowl in the middle of the table was obliterated underneath me— I landed in it like a 180 pound turkey being dropped from the sky.

Given the number of ways in which I could have impaled myself, I had to take the absence of bloodshed as a win. And at least the guests weren’t due for another 30 minutes.

In the end, it seems January gets us all. Blame it on the weather, or the witches strike, or a failure to properly gauge weight distribution. But we can only take to our beds for so long.

Sooner or later, we have no choice but to clear our throats, wipe our noses, clear off the cratered crockery, and try again. To all of those who wished us a happy, healthy new year, we’ll take a do-over, please.

Here’s to a good February.