The aggressive spring winds took a break, and I can finally hear the village: the nearby river rolling through the valley, roosters singing, chickens gossiping and our dog barking at who knows what. Garikula is our summer retreat, but thanks to Covid-19, we got here a season early. The young cherry blossoms just popped this morning, and the tulips – gifts from our Dutch neighbors trapped in Rotterdam – opened wide yesterday while the plum, apple and pear trees are in full bloom. In ordinary times, our patio is full of boisterous friends as the delirious waft of mtsvadi roasting on oak coals fills the air. The only infections we are used to here are laughter and inebriation. But now, even our neighbor Zakhar stays away.

We’re launching a regular Instagram Live series with our walk leaders called CB Pantry Raid – each person will give a guided tour of the local pantry and discuss the staples that have sustained their communities over the years. Tune in on Thursday, April 16, at 2 p.m. EDT (GMT-4) to hear Amedeo Colella, our Naples bureau chief, talk about the Neapolitan pantry, with a focus on pasta. As Amedeo wrote in his Coronavirus Diary, the markets in Naples initially saw a run on pasta, with only smooth penne pasta (penne lisce) remaining on the shelves (he obviously didn’t buy it, as they eat only ridged pasta in his house).

This year Greek Easter will be celebrated a week later than Catholic Easter. I guess “celebrated” might not be the right word, as everything – for the first time in recent history – will be shut, even the churches. In Greece, Easter is as important as Christmas. If they can, most Athenians leave the city to spend the holiday in the countryside or on an island, where the setting is ideal for the ultimate Easter tradition – a whole lamb on a spit, roasting in the open air on Easter Sunday. Everyone gravitates toward this central attraction, sipping on tsipouro and wine and munching on meze till the feast is ready to officially commence.

A famous Italian saying goes, “Christmas with yours and Easter with whomever you want.” Well, this year there wasn’t much of a choice: Easter was spent at home, with family. The lockdown in Italy has largely coincided with Lent (the 40 days leading up to Easter, from Ash Wednesday to Holy Saturday). Except that this year, our Lent will not end on Holy Saturday but looks to continue for a long time (at least until May 3). Jesus Christ rose again on Easter Sunday to fly to the heavens, but it would be enough for us to be able to leave the house.

Folar is the generic name given to traditional Easter sweet bread in Portugal. Making it from scratch is somewhat of a long process, but being confined due to the coronavirus crisis, we seem to have a bit more time on our hands than expected. My family’s folar recipe is from my grandmother Felismina, who was from Rosmaninhal, near Mação (in the center of Portugal). As long as I can remember we would have this sweet bread around Easter. (A similar type of sweet bread is also baked around November 1, for All Saints’ Day.)

Though half of France’s population is officially Catholic, only 5 percent of the country regularly attends mass. Yet, les français still remain faithful to their Christian holidays. After Christmas, Easter is the second-most popular fête – perhaps because it falls on a Sunday, when lunch en famille is a French tradition that is as revered as a religion. Like many nations, chocolate is France’s essential Easter ingredient. Not surprisingly, the French exception – the country’s belief that they are unique – extends to the shape of their holiday confections. Here, a cloche (bell), not a rabbit, delivers Easter’s chocolate-y treats. How did an inanimate object become the bearer of sweets?

It’s been interesting to see how Queens has adapted to life in lockdown. Personally, I have been cooking at home a lot, particularly for breakfast and lunch, which are basically the only two meals I have every day (usually I have a snack late at night, right before I go to bed). I have been staying in as much as I can. I exercise in front of the TV. I try to ride my bicycle on rollers for at least an hour every day. I lift weights and stretch as much as I can. I go to the farmers’ market – it’s fantastic to see the farmers that are still making it into the city and providing us with access to fresh fruit, vegetables cheese, eggs, etc. I talk to Nestor from Tello’s Farm, who makes the trek down from Coxsackie, New York, with his fresh eggs.

The word “resilience” has come into fashion. I’ve heard it used everywhere in recent years, not only in the psychological field, where it was born, but also in a wide variety of disparate sectors. While I hate linguistic fashions, resilience is the only word that properly describes the ability of Naples’ long-standing family-run businesses to overcome traumatic events or periods of difficulty. I started thinking about this because the coronavirus has come in like a wrecking ball, one that risks destroying many companies. But, I wondered, how many punches in the face have the entrepreneurs of my city taken in the past? And how did they recover from what might have seemed at the moment an irreversible crisis?

If you happen to wander around a Greek supermarket or visit a Greek bakery, you will notice that there is always a section dedicated to paximadia (paximadi in the singular) of various shapes and sizes piled high or wrapped in cellophane bags. At first glance, they look like nothing more than slices of stale bread. So it can be surprising to learn that paximadia (or rusks), once a peasant food found in the poor areas of Greece, are greatly loved all over the country, with many different types available for purchase: from large rustic looking thick slices to small bite-sized “croutons.”

Editor’s note: We don’t operate in Milan, but it's the home of our managing editor, Emma Harper. So we asked her to share her experience living under lockdown in the epicenter of Italy's outbreak. The first thing I noticed on lockdown in Milan, and the thing that has stuck with me the most, is the barking. Our apartment sits on a noisy thoroughfare, with cars and trams running by at all hours. But now, save for the errant tram, it’s quiet and still; the piercing, fearful dog barks ring out and bounce between the buildings that line my street, amplified by the silence. The only sound that can drown them out is an ambulance siren. It’s safe to say that the Milanese are dog people: Canines crowd the parks and streets, join their owners on the metro, and tag along for caffè and a brioche at the bar.

I don’t recall who first poured us a shot of Riravo’s plum araki, or brandy, but I do remember the surprise at the subtleness of the cool spirit as it smoothly slipped over my tongue and down my gullet. Finally, someone was making a fruit brandy that didn’t smell like a soiled pair of grandpa’s socks. Later, friends recounted a fabulous brandy tasting they attended at the Riravo distillery in Saguramo, a village just north of Tbilisi. I tightened with pangs of envy from missing out. “You have got to meet Goga, the owner,” they urged, and I agreed, wondering whom I could get to be my designated driver out to his place. In the meantime, I’d sip a Riravo pear or persimmon brandy as a digestif when opportunity called and remind myself to get out to Saguramo soon.

Rua Antero de Quental is a short street that runs uphill from Avenida Almirante Reis – within whiffing distance of the famous Cervejaria Ramiro – to the pale yellow palace housing the Italian Embassy. Handsome 19th century buildings in various states of disrepair line both sides of the street. It’s a shortcut up to Campo Martires da Patria and over toward Avenida Liberdade so it gets a lot of thru traffic. A couple of haggard men stand at the bottom of the street waving people in toward parking spots up the street. At night, sometimes, African mestres leave flyers tucked under the windshield wipers of cars that offer remedies to all sorts of ailments. I collect these flyers.

In 2009, the A(H1N1) virus, known colloquially as the swine flu, hit Mexico hard. Only a few months before the outbreak began, I had moved from San Miguel de Allende to Mexico City trying to rescue a broken relationship. I had to take the most boring job in the world: a customer service agent at CheapTickets, an online travel company. I was in training when all of a sudden the streets of Mexico City emptied out. Essentially, my job was to sit in front of the computer for hours and talk on the phone with very upset and nervous customers trying to change their return flights. We never stopped working.

There’s some good news on the solidarity front. It’s especially nice to get good news since the coronavirus crisis in Italy goes beyond any disaster, any catastrophe I could have ever imagined. While there are few positive aspects to this experience, by nature I always see the glass half full. Professionally and psychologically, humanity will pay a high price, but I believe that we will recover soon. And my belief is buoyed by the solidarity shown in Naples (and that has sprung up all over the world).

I have sat down to write this three or four times, and every time I stop, scrap everything and start all over. For many reasons, the most important being that things are changing so fast – every time I finish, the information I have included is inaccurate. More and more restaurants are closing, businesses are changing hours, closing, opening again. It starts at the top. The Mayor of New York City, the Governor of New York State and the President of the United States can’t seem to agree on what to do and how to do it. The mayor announced we must prepare to be under “shelter in place” in the next 48 hours only to be contradicted by the governor just a few hours later.