Life in the Times of Coronavirus: Lockdown Day 1
LOCKDOWN DAY 1: MARCH 14, 2020
Everything was fine until it suddenly wasn’t. Until Wednesday, March 11, the situation was relatively calm in Catalonia: people washed their hands more often and there was a general sense of concern, but other than that you couldn’t really tell that any serious disruptions to our lives were about to take place. The cafés were still brimming with retirees browsing newspapers; children were still being rushed off to school or soccer practice; the supermarket shelves were fully stocked and the usual people milled about, dropping stuff into their carts; museums and movie theatres and gyms were all open, though with reduced numbers. The government kept insisting that though infections were on the rise, things were relatively under control.
Then came the onslaught of bad news. First the (inefficient and ill-communicated) European travel ban implemented by the U.S. government on Wednesday. Then, on the afternoon of March 12, the Spanish prime minister warned of an increasingly dire situation and the stark warning that “the worst is yet to come.” Later that day the local Catalan government announced its decision to close schools, educational centers and retirement homes as of the following Monday – a decision that wound up being implemented immediately given the growing crisis. And then, on Friday the 13th, the Spanish prime minister, in a televised address, said that his government would declare un estado de alarma. The translation isn’t exactly comforting in English (literally: a state of alarm) but it’s akin to the U.S. government declaring a national emergency. It basically means that under the Spanish constitution, the government has the power to limit the movement of its citizens and take whatever measures it sees fit to prevent a bad situation from getting worse. We were all ordered to stay at home and to leave only for essential tasks such as going to work or going to the grocery store or pharmacy. Bars, restaurants, clubs, shopping malls, parks, monuments, casinos – as of midnight, everything must close for a minimum of two weeks. And last night the Catalan government announced that Catalonia itself would be completely isolated (i.e., police-enforced roadblocks) from the rest of Spain to prevent the virus from spreading even more and thus avoid a collapse of the healthcare system. And then there’s the first confirmed case of the coronavirus in the town where you live. As if that wasn’t bad enough, there was the very real possibility that people would lose their jobs and that another economic recession was on the horizon.
All of this happened with dizzying speed. We were all going on with our lives, taking the necessary measures but still slightly comforted by the fact that things seemed relatively under control in Spain. Then everything went downhill overnight. And let me be clear: I agree with the measures and will do my part to ensure that the pandemic comes under control. I also think these unprecedented measures are a bit late in coming, considering the fact that nearly 100,000 people marched on March 8 all over the country to celebrate International Women’s Day. The capital is now the epicenter of the COVID-19 crisis in Spain, and yet just today, there were reports of people heading to mountain parks to have picnics instead of staying at home. It’s a mess and from the look of things, it’s only going to get worse.
Given the strict orders to stay home, my husband and I made plans to work on our projects and make the most of the compulsory measures. Then, in a stab of fear, we realized that we were missing a few essentials and talked about going to our local grocery store much in the way we would discuss a furtive military assignment. We weighed the potential risks (crowds? lots of elderly people? contamination, since there’s an outbreak not too far away?) and decided that we’d go around 4 in the afternoon when there would be less people. And then came the part I’d never thought I’d experience: suiting up with latex gloves and a hoodie, as well as face mask. (I know they’re not effective, but we had some lying around and put one on for psychological reassurance, a placebo of sorts.) We left our phones at home to avoid any potential contamination and I took only my bank card to pay contactless and took great pains to touch everything gingerly. What was left, anyway. Most everything – bread, rice, pasta, milk, and nearly all of the fruits and vegetables aside from a lonely pair of bruised tomatoes – was gone, having been pilfered hours earlier. And, of course, there was no toilet paper or rubbing alcohol left either.
I felt slightly ridiculous wandering the nearly empty aisles wearing the face mask which, despite my best efforts, still fogged my glasses. My hoodie was pulled tight around my head, the gloves fit snugly and securely on my fingers. Much to my surprise, my apocalyptic appearance didn’t attract the attention I thought it would from the few customers that were also inspecting the barren shelves. They, too, were taking precautions: one college-aged woman wore pink gloves as she handled the jar of pickled peppers; a Pakistani man wore a kerchief tied tightly under his eyes and used a napkin to stack several six packs of Diet Coke into his overflowing shopping cart. Even the workers seemed to have a blasé attitude about everything. A woman – let’s call her Esmeralda – was restocking yogurts and complained out loud to her male co-worker about how crazy everyone was getting, that it reminded her of the terror attacks of 2004. Panic everywhere. She motioned to the empty shelves. The co-worker grunted in agreement. They both wore gloves, though, as did the cashier who glanced up at our end-of-the-world getups but didn’t seem to react much. She handed me the receipt and for a moment my latex-clad fingers brushed against hers, and I was reminded again about how strange this all is; how we’re all perhaps in a moment of emotional shock and still processing everything that’s going on.
We gathered our groceries (the essentials, plus a couple of bottles of booze to pass the time) and started our way home. On a normal day, before the outbreak, senior citizens would gather in pairs and read the paper or go to one of the nearby cafés for a cup of coffee and take in the morning sun. People would buzz up and down the main avenue, some pushing strollers and tugging along young children, hurrying off to the train station or town square or to one of the many restaurants lining another pedestrian thoroughfare in the other part of town.
Not today, though. We were alone except for a teenager rolling a spliff, seated on a bench. He looked up as we approached and said what perhaps I was thinking all along. ¿qué miedo todo esto, no? This is all scary stuff, isn’t it? He then proceeded to sing what sounded like an imitation of Pavarotti, and belted out – “corooooooooooonaaaaaaviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuuussssss!!” Laughing, he slid fully onto the bench and guffawed up into the sky. I couldn’t help but cringe when I saw him wipe a tear from his eye using the same finger that he’d rubbed along the length of the bench.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon. We had the whole evening ahead of us, and goodness knows how many weeks we’ll be dealing with this. And today was only day one.