FIB: The Noon-Hour Lull
[ another installation of Fridays in Bracciano ]
Traffic passes through Bracciano on a one way street. Through a one-way street it comes, through another one-way street it goes, like clogged arteries the whole way; motorini weaving, impatient drivers smoking, loud music blaring, AEEOOO! the old men call, waving their hands up and down like a prayer. Traffic happens every morning and every late afternoon, timely. The shop doors are open onto the sidewalks which are not wide enough for the people; the shop keepers stand talking and smoking with their hands on their hips they lean against doorways, looking long into the shadows or the sun. This happens every morning and every late afternoon but Thursday and Sunday, timely.
The hour of repose begins to trickle down at one. From one on the streets thin until they reach a stand-still. The empty cobbled road looks like a mirror and it’s difficult to remember the casino of the morning. No shop doors stand open; their metal grates have been pulled down tight. There is emptiness, desertion; the heart of the afternoon is no time for motion. Though the restaurants have been set to high-throttle and pasta comes out of all kitchens piled high on steaming plates. The Italians wait hungrily with their forks, they spin the noodles round, they eat quickly. Then the real lull starts in: digestion.
At four thirty the pace picks up again, crammed streets, crammed sidewalks. It’s difficult to remember the tranquility of the noon-hour lull. Voices and traffic, so that when I go out to get the groceries I must scramble and dodge disrespecting cars.
Each hour is made from the other. Mediterranean countries have a secret of which the whole world knows but can not practice. The industrialized office slave, his hands branded to the keyboard, his eyes chained to the monitor, has no busyness set off by lull. What hustle-bustle there is, it’s hustle-bustle all the way.
The privilege of a three hour afternoon break gives one an impression that the whole of another day has not passed blindly by. How much enjoyment is there in a meal mowed down at a fast food counter amongst the masses all mowing down? How much more enjoyment is there in a meal sat down besides friends or family, with wine and maybe some desert, a coffee and then a quick lie down?
The haphazard hustle of the street will always return; as it must always rest.
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