Life Beyond The Heatdome

By the early part of last week, things had reached a breaking point even in central Italy, which by no means had the worst of the extreme heat enveloping most of Europe this summer. In France, more than 70 people drowned trying to cool off in the Seine and other rivers (perhaps a cold shower or a water park would have been a more rational choice for non-swimmers, but I get the desperation). In Spain, temperatures hit 113 degrees Fahrenheit. Sicily was battling wildfires while Romans were being offered free movie tickets to grab a few hours of air conditioning.

At our house in the countryside in Le Marche, the suffocation was slower and more subtle. Over the course of several weeks, each day got a little hotter; the once-reinvigorating wind became more of a labored wheezing; the thick-walled stone house transformed from a shady cocoon to a pizza oven built for two. The old story about the oblivious frog immersed in water slowly being brought to a boil came to mind.

Even the usually whip-fast geckos—the small green reptiles that run rampant on the terrace—were moving so slowly that the cat was able to catch one, which he showed me and then set free, a little confused at having witnessed nature’s laws subverted. As the humidity thickened and gray clouds pulled up and over the mountains like a warm blanket when you least needed it, I finally raised my hands to the sky and pleaded:

“Anything— I’ll take anything to get rid of this heat…”

I did not expect thunderbolts from heaven.

Zeus tossing the first pitch

Waiting for rain in Italy is like watching a European movie— endless scene-setting without much dramatic arc, lots of starting and stopping that never leads to any real action. More often than not, the sky darkens ominously, the winds whip up, perhaps a few drops of precipitation plunk tantalizingly down from the sky, and then minutes later, the sun is poking through and you realize… that’s it. That’s all you’re going to get.

So the prediction of rain that I’d heard that morning at the bar didn’t give me much hope for relief. In fact, I’d gone so far as to throw some water on the garden that afternoon, pretty sure that I had about as much chance of seeing a cooling shower as a man crawling through the desert has of finding a freshwater pond. This time I would not fall for the mirage. Even as the lethargic wind slowly stirred to life, I left the windows open and let nature’s version of the Big Ass ceiling fan take a shot at airing out the house.

The cat was the first to catch on. After his midday lizard hunting, he had spent the rest of the afternoon comparison-shopping for the coolest terracotta floor tile in the house, sampling one under the table, then one in the kitchen, then one under the bed. Then suddenly, he was racing from room to room, leaping onto every windowsill and peering out, anticipating the arrival of a long-awaited guest.

When the thunder boomed out its opening salvo, he could take it no more. I opened the door to the terrace to pull in the seat cushions and tablecloth—just as a precaution, mind you—and he darted behind me and raced outside. I tried to catch him (cat pursued by man with armful of pillows), but now the rain really did come—not a light mist but a pelting of oversaturated drops that hit you like a slap in the face. I opted to save the seat cushions and ran inside.

In an instant, the wind was gusting in all directions at once, rain blasting in from every window, shutters slamming shut then blowing open again faster than I could secure them. Clearly, I had misjudged what now appeared to be a full, batten-down-the-hatches storm.

We were apparently being struck by a bomba dell’acqua, a super-powered thunderstorm that occurs when the hot air from the Sahara that had been hanging over us for weeks collides with a cooler, unstable air mass passing through the region. You can translate that as all hell breaking loose.

With her always impeccable sense of timing, C was back in New York that week, which meant I was on my own, the sole caretaker of casa and cat. Having already lost the cat, I was really hoping to come through in good form with the house, but quickly found myself outgunned. Water was seeping under the antique doors, coming in from the terrace, the balcony, and then the chimneys. I dashed from room to room with towels, lightning flashing in the windows like a strobe light at a 1970s discotheque, thunder rumbling across the countryside.

As I sopped up water and squeezed it into a bucket, I heard a crash in the cantina. Seconds later, the cat, having burst through his cat window, wandered into the puddle forming around me and jumped up onto the white seat cushions for which I’d risked life and limb. After leaving his paw print on each of them, he decided it was safer under the dining room table.

That’s when the assault began.

Projectiles started hitting the house as if fired from a cannon, bouncing off doors and walls. Was there an angry mob outside? I glanced out the window trying to figure out the nature of the battle at hand, just as a giant white gob smacked into the glass. It turns out I was in a sort of one-sided snowball fight: under siege in a hailstorm for the ages.

Grandine the Italians call it, and it’s not unusual in the Mediterranean this time of year. It’s the stuff of winemakers’ nightmares. But these were tennis ball-sized stones coming down as if hurled by Zeus, battering the house with a ferocity I’d never witnessed before.

I contemplated joining Mino the cat under the table. Lights flashing, thunder exploding, water coming in everywhere: I felt like a one-man captain and crew navigating my ship through the Strait of Hormuz.

I learned later that others had it worse. Our neighbors had just sat down for an outdoor dinner at the local trattoria when the storm kicked off—within seconds, desperate diners were streaming inside as glassware went flying and hailstones took out the pergola cover. Our friend Eugenio told me about a man who went outside (probably chasing a cat) and was beaned by an ice ball, winding up in the hospital. Across the country, it is now possible to identify someone as a Marchigiano solely by checking the top of their car, which will inevitably look like Andre the Giant tap-danced on top of it.

Photo: ANSA IT

Of course, the bad news went well beyond the anecdotal, with the region announcing that, on average, 60% to 90% of the crops were affected, particularly peaches, melons, sunflowers and grapes, and hundreds of thousands of dollars of damage was done to property ranging from beach chairs to solar panels. In the province of Ascoli Piceno alone, more than 70 people showed up in the emergency room.

Photo: ANSA IT

Despite it all, I have to confess that if that’s what it takes to puncture the heat dome, it might have been worth the bargain. Friends in Rome, Sicily, Madrid, even London will have little sympathy for stories of downed sunflowers or a bad year for Rosso Piceno when I add that the day after the storm, dawn came with a cooling breeze that lowered temperatures nearly 20 degrees. You could hear the whole countryside exhale, with the deluge opening the door to seven blissful days of true Italian summer: warm afternoons ripe for the beach, pleasant evenings for a gelato and a passeggiata, cool nights fit for sleeping and renewal.

At least from a European vantage point, there can be little doubt that Nature is angry at the moment—the heartbreaking forest fires sweeping through France, Italy, and Spain are a terrifying reminder of what she can do to wreak her vengeance. But she’s still capable of doling out a lot of beauty as well, often more than we probably deserve. Despite the calamities of climate change, I hope that wherever you are, you get some opportunity to experience the joys of summer over these next few weeks. And for those of you sweating it out in a heat bubble, I hope it pops soon.

Watch your head when it does.

In the interests of cultural authenticity and the need to put some time into other projects, Life Lived Italian will take a break in August. I’ll share the adventures of the summer on Notes, but won’t likely be posting again until September. Thanks always for your support of this newsletter— I deeply appreciate each of you and the insight you bring to your reading and comments. Buon Ferragosto!