Yesterday marked fifty days—seven weeks—since the state of emergency was declared in Spain officially on March 14. We are still technically under the government-enforced lockdown (which is scheduled to be in force until May 9), though given the improving situation in Spain, certain restrictions have been lifted.

As of today, for example, some outdoor activity is allowed. From 6-10 a.m. and from 8:00 – 11:00 p.m., adults under 70 may exercise on an individually or go for walks no more than 1 kilometer (a little more than half a mile) from their homes. Those over 70 are allowed the same privileges from 10:00 a.m. – 12:00 p.m. and from 7:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. Same distance limits apply. Kids 14 and under (in groups of three maximum) can be outside with a parent or guardian from 12:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. A chart has been going around on WhatsApp in Spain to summarize this for us:

And then, just as quickly as they had appeared, the masks vanished. Because the situation in Spain has improved, certain restrictions that have been in place are slowly being lifted. As of today, for example, children under 14 can go outside with a parent or guardian from 9:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. If the favorable data trends continue—i.e., if the infection rates continue declining along with the COVID-19 related deaths—then adults will also be able to exercise or go for walks outside.

For me, rain is an invitation for reflection, contemplation, to travel into the past. This is perhaps more common in the days of the coronavirus pandemic. The water has been falling continuously since early this morning, collecting in puddles in the empty streets and hammering the asphalt in slanted sheets. A cool wind sometimes picks up, slithering its way under doors and lashing the rain against the glass. The storm woke me up before dawn this morning, pelting away at the concrete as it filtered its way through the lightwell. I listened to it fall against the background of Franky’s even breaths. The entire world seemed to be asleep, except for me.

In the days of the coronavirus, I’ve been reflecting more and more on how I’ve been reacting in times of crisis. Namely, though I promised I’d never turn out like them, I have inherited the same anxieties and the same precautionary nature from my parents.

There’s always a what if on the other side of the issue. I could probably go outside for a little bit, but what if I have the bad luck of running across someone who’s sick? About a week ago I really wanted to order takeout, but what if the cook or delivery guy had coughed over our food? My car’s been sitting in the garage for a month and I should move it, but what if it’s just boiling with coronavirus, eager to jump into my body?

I ran across this article by Josep Corbera in La Vanguardia which helped ease my fears. The title is “Perder el miedo al coronavirus,” or “Overcoming Your Fear of the Coronavirus.” I found it to be a balanced article which offers a healthy perspective to view the current pandemic, as well as to prepare ourselves for the months to come once the lockdown has been lifted. He talks about how our collective understanding of the virus must change as the pandemic progresses and offers a helpful glimpse at the summer. For those of you living in countries where the pandemic is in full swing, I highly recommend reading it. I’ve translated it fully for you below, and hope you find it as reassuring as I did.

Despite some stern warnings from the scientific community—and the fact that as of today there have been nearly 170,000 confirmed cases of coronavirus (nearly 65,000 of whom have recovered)—workers in Spain deemed “nonessential” can return to their jobs starting today.

As is the case in a lot of countries, though, we are having trouble receiving a unified, consistent message. In the space of three days, we’ve received conflicting news: first, that the complete confinement would last until mid-May at the least; then, that “some” workers would be allowed to return to work; yesterday, the government seemed to suggest that folks should instead remain at home. Today, workers whose jobs are deemed non-essential—the list is long and includes everything from hairstylists, smoke shops, construction work and gas stations—returned to their jobs today.

Today is Easter Sunday. After living in a largely Catholic country for nearly 10 years, I’ve come to recognize the traditional hallmarks of Holy Week in Catalonia. On Palm Sunday, there is a procession through the Gothic Quarter in Barcelona called La Burreta (“Little Donkey”) which commemorates Christ’s entry to Jerusalem. Deep-fried dough balls called bunyols are stacked high at every bakery in sight. On Good Friday, the Sant Martí church in Cerdanyola march in solemn procession through the streets of our town, images of Christ and the Virgin Mary resting on the shoulders devotees. The nazarenos, instantly recognizable because of their pointed capirotes (reminiscent of a particular American hate group), accompany the elderly señoras wearing veils and mantillas and the priests blessing the crowds, some of whom cry out for mercy to the passing crucified Jesus. And, of course, Easter Sunday means long lunches with the entire family.

As Évole writes, the fact that many people who die from the coronavirus do so alone and without a familiar face is indeed the “cruelest face of this pandemic.” People die alone, and funerals are postponed indefinitely. This, of course, does not mean that grief can be stopped.

Unfortunately, we are not exempt from this sobering reality. Because of the 16,353 people that have died in Spain as of today from the coronavirus, we knew one of them personally: his name was Ramón.

Nearly every memory I have of church involves attending Mass with my mother. While my father and siblings slept in on Sunday mornings—he still rose at dawn to work at the mechanic shop downtown; my younger brother and sister still shared a bed—my mother would wake me up bright and early to go to St. Elizabeth’s. I was ten or perhaps eleven, and while most kids that age would have complained about having to wake up at 7:00 to go to church, I actually looked forward to going. Like most other Latino kids my age, religion was important in my household: God wasn’t an abstract concept to us; God was instead a very real presence capable of unimaginable blessings or of completely upending our lives.

We will also most likely be under lockdown through the end of the month, though it seems that there is some disagreement between the central government and the Catalan parliament. The central government is planning on lifting some of the restrictions on Monday: namely, they want to let workers considered non-essential to get back to work. The Catalan government, meanwhile, wants to extend the full lockdown until at least the end of the month. The central government in Madrid has the ultimate word, though, and the regional parliament has decided to provide all Catalan citizens with up to two free face masks for its 7.5 million residents.

We stumbled in the darkness for about three weeks, but it looks like we’re taking the first painful steps toward recovery. Part of this return to normalcy involves the gradual reopening of society once the pandemic has fallen under our control. This has understandably been at the forefront of many of us who have been on strict lockdown for three weeks now. Everyone is wondering how much longer we’ll be confined and what opening things back up will look like. You’re probably wondering the same thing, wherever you might be reading this from.

Three weeks in, and we’re pretty much used to being indoors. It’s been raining pretty much all week (this afternoon the sun has decided to make a brief appearance), so I haven’t been exactly dying to get outside either. But there are times like this morning when, facing a stressful situation at work, I would have picked up my laptop and headed to one of the local terraces in my neighborhood. I would have ordered a beer, followed by lunch, and listen to the birds chirping and the soft buzz of traffic as I worked.

So, instead, I had to muster up the strength for the millionth time since the lockdown came into effect and find a way to calm down and destress from a situation that would seem banal any other day. I wrapped up my work and opened several books to search for poems that would bring me comfort and transport me to another place, even if only temporarily.

Life, in most cases, will test all of your relationships sooner or later. Marriages, friendships, perhaps even familial ties – these will all be subject to the trials and tribulations that seemingly go hand in hand with our very existence. Whether it’s the death of a loved one, problems with a spouse/partner, unexpected difficulties, or one of the many financial woes that one can fall victim to, it seems quite probable that you will one day see the true mettle of your relationships. Nearly three weeks into our government-enforced lockdown in Spain (and who knows how many weeks we have left), I’ve been thinking about how my relationship with my husband has shifted and evolved since the coronavirus pandemic interrupted our lives.

Ever since the coronavirus pandemic broke out in Catalonia, I’ve become fascinated with what influenza pandemic was like in 1918. As is often the case with historical events, things tend to move in a circular fashion: what happened once tends to happen again in a different form.

To that end, I translated an article that I ran across that summarizes the efforts to contain the 1918 flu pandemic, and which also includes interesting remedies recommended by the authorities of the time. For this post, I focused on the town of Sabadell, which is located about 30 kilometers from Barcelona (and about 15 minutes from Cerdanyola). History, like always, has a lot to teach us, and more importantly, can also offer us comfort in uncertain times.

My dear fellow Worrier,

I’m here to tell you – my voice does not shake; firm and unbreakable is my conviction – that everything will be okay. Amid the growing number of infections, the death count, the relentless advance of the coronavirus pandemic, and all the brewing economic uncertainty, I know that it’s hard to see how we, as a global community, will pull through. I have also wandered the desert of grief, searching for all-quenching hope; I, too, have peered into the hungry mouth of the abyss, searching for answers, however bleak they may be. Though I am just another traveler on the same road as you, I have stumbled on similar stones along my path, each of which has taught me a different lesson. That is why I can stand before you today and give you my full-throated promise that everything will be okay.

Little by little, I am becoming accustomed to living in this government-enforced lockdown in Spain. Whereas the first week or so was dedicated to adjusting to this new normal – gloves and mask are required for any excursions outside; smiling faces on a screen in rows of three on a Saturday night; the compulsory cleaning of newly-bought groceries and supplies – I’ve been thinking lately about what lessons the coronavirus pandemic has offered me. The urge to panic, to hoard, to obsessively watch the news, to hit the refresh button to see if the number of infections in our town has grown – all that has faded and is leaving in its place new levels of understanding.

Today came the good news that though infections are still rising, the overall situation in Spain seems to have stabilized, as it seems that the social distancing practices are starting to have the desired effect of slowing down the transmission of the coronavirus. Let me repeat that: staying at home, sacrificing time with our friends and family, being responsible citizens by considering our own health as well as that of our community – these lockdown measures are finally beginning to bear fruit.

You will understand why, against the backdrop of the bleak situation in Spain (as of today, we have 64,000 confirmed cases, with nearly 13,000 in Catalonia), Franky and I felt a stab of fear when, on March 17, María, aged 71, said that she had a slight fever. Only 1 or 2 degrees. At first, she chalked it up to a slight flu, said it was nothing major, and remained in her characteristic high spirits. At that point, María said that her only complaint was the fact that she could not drink her noontime beer due to the fact that she was ill.

Of course, not every day feels full of hope. Some days it is difficult to remember that the coronavirus pandemic is temporary, that it will perhaps one day vanish from our world as quickly as it upended it. There are nights when – hearing my husband’s breathing as he dreams next to me, feeling the cat as it nestles against my leg for warmth – I stare up at the ceiling, straining to recall what life was like before the pandemic hit Spain. Everyday, human interaction has taken on a hazardous tinge, having become infected with dirty words like transmission or contagion. Crowded summer concerts, packed restaurant terraces, trains cramped so tight their cologne stings your eyes – I feel like I see everything these days, even my memories, through the prism of COVID-19.

Today marks a dozen days of desolate streets. This coming Friday will mark two weeks since things accelerated very quickly all over Spain due to the coronavirus pandemic. We’ve spent 95% of that time indoors, adhering to the strict regulations in place during the government-enforced lockdown. And though the state of emergency is due to expire on April 11, and the confinement is due to end on April 13, the feeling among most folks is that it will most likely be extended until the end of April. Spain, which has as of today surpassed China in terms of the death toll, has an astounding 47,610 cases of coronavirus, of which 9,937 are in Catalonia.

The urge to ration, the scarcity of some basic supplies, being obligated to comply with the state-mandated lockdown orders: I have been forced to adjust to the very abrupt changes that have happened over the last few weeks, and while it has not been easy, I’ve been doing my best to stay positive, to keep my wits about me, to not fall down a vortex of panic. I suspect some of you reading this are experiencing the same thing, or will be soon, anyway.

It’s hard not to let so much bad news get to you. It was raining today, and I watched the headlines while my coffee finished brewing. More deaths, more infections; fewer jobs, less confidence that the economic and healthcare systems will hold. The rain lashed against the window; the wind beat against the cold glass and howled under the front door. The weather turned even darker in time with the terrible news. The smell of brewing coffee began to fill the flat, and after I’d poured myself a huge mug (I love coffee), I made the best decision I’ve made all day: I switched (and kept) the television off.

Besides the scarcity of basic goods, the perpetual grim news, and the seemingly inevitable onslaught of worries and anxieties, I will always remember this period in our history because of how our lives and perspective changed overnight. Two weeks ago a trip to the grocery store was just a hassle; today it is a calculated risk. Long, loud dinners with friends, the kind where so many of you crowd around the table that you’re constantly bumping elbows and feet, were a given highlight of nearly every weekend; now we bid each other goodnight over computer screens, unsure when we’ll embrace one another again.

This morning, I thought about my mother. How she’d pour out a few dozen frijoles onto the kitchen table and, with her glasses perched on the edge of her nose, carefully inspect the beans for any rocks or specks of dirt that may have snuck in. Before the pandemic, I would also pick out any imperfect ones that I’d see. Not today, though: I tossed in the ones that looked unappealing too, because I knew that I was lucky to have beans in the first place. I peeled and cut the garlic and added the salt (not too much, but not too little). The stove’s blue flame flickered on.

Today started out rough. Perhaps it was the sunshine streaming in through my living room windows on today, the first full day of spring. Or the news that California had also ordered its citizens to stay at home, sparking another silent shower of worries inside of me. Was it the news coming from Bergamo in Northern Italy, where the cemeteries have run out of room for the dead, and where even funerals are forbidden? (And even when exceptions are made, the attendees are not allowed to embrace one another.) Moreover, footage was released of 15 military trucks transporting coffins with coronavirus victims directly to the crematorium. These, I am certain, are all things that will always be with me, and that I shall always remember the dark winter of 2020.

Lots of people have asked me how I’m keeping sane in this government-enforced lockdown. How does one deal with the inescapable anxiety about everything from your physical well-being to your financial security to whether you’ll be able to find fresh fruit at the grocery store the next day? How does one “take the edge off” when you have to stay indoors, especially today, the first day of spring which was so bright and beautiful it felt almost cruel?

Time, perhaps unsurprisingly, has taken on new meaning during this government-enforced lockdown. Today, for example, is Wednesday. In a parallel universe, in a now imaginary world where the coronavirus does not exist or where, at least, all this never happened, my family and I would be on our tour of the Vatican Museums right about now. Perhaps we’d be straining our necks to admire the frescoes in Raphael’s studios or contemplating Caravaggios. Or waiting our turn in the museum’s bustling marble halls to enter the hallowed space that is the Sistine Chapel.

But in this world where coronavirus reigns supreme and where it’s the only thing we can talk about, it may as well be any other day of the week. Wednesday looks the same as Monday and Sunday cannot be distinguished from Tuesday. Time bends, time is malleable, but during this pandemic time seems to demand an exact accounting of itself.

It’s hard to strike a balance between feeling anxious (should we ration more? what if we lose our jobs? what if one, or both of us gets sick?) and wanting to stay positive (things will work out and you won’t lose your jobs; don’t worry, they’ll restock the grocery shelves; you and your loved ones will stay healthy). I cope how I can: working to keep my mind off of my worries; reading books that give me perspective (the Defoe book I mentioned last time, as well as a collection of stories by Lucia Berlin) and help me change the subject; and I find the time to videochat with friends in the U.S. and here in Europe.