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.

The government-enforced lockdown due to the COVID-19 pandemic in Spain is still in full effect, and today there was talk of extending it even longer. In all reality, we’ll probably be hunkered down for a month, at least, possibly even six weeks. I do not know how to process that in my present state of mind, to be honest with you. I’m sure I’ll adjust (what choice do we have?) and that we’ll find a way through, but the idea of being stuck at home really does start to weigh on you.

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.