Today I flew, again.
But I flew backwards.
Towards freedom. Far from a London that feels under attack, under check, in prison.
The much-announced incoming quarantine was introduced on June 8th. The symbolic city of England, an image of openness and multiculturalism, which had not completely closed even at the peak moment of the Covid-19 virus, while the United Kingdom was more dead than all the other EU countries put together, London in short is found imprisoned.
Anyone entering England today will have to spend 14 days of quarantine and isolation at home or in a hotel.
Penalty fines, and firm and determined judgments. With daily checks by police officers. In a country that is still in what we would call Phase 2, and that has reopened the schools but not the pubs.
In complete contrast to the rest of Europe that reopens, England actually closes its borders as if to remark once again its difference, as if to say even more that they go on alone against everyone.
Farewell to the unruly but spendthrift Italian boys who characterized the English summers from north to south of the island. Stop to the badly born Germans who with their coldness and hardness seemed to rival the open English detachment. And the Middle Easterners so reviled as they drove in front of Harrods with their flamboyant Lamborghinis but adored in the evening when they let themselves be tipped as kings in the restaurants and pubs of the city center.
And so I flew to a Rome of true "great beauty", devoid of tourists and street vendors, without a waste on the ground and with the monuments and museums that can be visited and enjoyed as never has been in the past and as it will probably never be more.
Just over seven minutes to reach the Sistine Chapel from the entrance door of the Vatican Museums, no one on the panoramic terrace of Castel Sant'Angelo to enjoy a unique view of the eternal monumentality of the city. Unbelievable. Single. Almost melancholy of the cinematographic masterpiece. And that rehabilitates the Romans: I can say with certainty that, at least in the center are the tourists who dirty, deface, violate the Eternal City.
But now I can't go back.
And here comes the fun part.
Not only can you not enter London, you cannot even leave it. Because if, like hordes of English in the past summers, you thought of looking for the sun on Turkish or Greek beaches or doing the classic Tour of the Belpaese to enjoy the pleasures of life, and dedicate the canonical fourteen days of vacation to this activity, then however, it will take another fourteen days to be able to leave the house, return to work, meet the notorious relatives. Impossible for a country that has 21 days of annual holidays on average. And goodbye to the summer return to the country of origin, for a city that has almost a third of regular immigrants in its ranks.
And therefore, everyone in Cornwall, or in green Scotland to walk, hoping for a kind time. But with much less happiness.
The decision is unpopular, in London even more than in the Regions, and will be reviewed on June 29, when there will be the monthly meeting that establishes the Covid rules based on the data collected from time to time. Until then there will be no revisions.
Few rules, with certain dates. Strong penalties. And many hope that at the end of the month there will be a return to total freedom.
Never gossip say that this strange decision, contrary to the sense of the rest of the world that imposed quarantines during the crisis and not after, was actually a general test of Brexit, a show that even by closing in a hedgehog in their borders of Great Britain, they, the British, always make it. And for those who are guests, patience, adapt.
A message for European negotiators who in a short, very short time must find a solution to a problem that seemed a little forgotten and that could add economic malaise to a Europe already bent by Covid.