 | Paris’ spring lockdown was harsh. We could go outside to buy groceries or to exercise one hour a day, within certain hours, within one kilometer from home. Parks were closed, loitering was forbidden. When the police stopped you, you had to show them your sworn attestation stating why you were out. The fine was €135. |
The government promised we’d never go into lockdown again, that they would find other solutions. We had a relatively nice summer, taking our in-France vacations and wearing masks and distancing. Kids went back to school in September, and it all looked pretty good until a cold snap drove us back inside and all hell broke loose. Numbers shot up, hospitals filled, the death rate soared. We’re back to lockdown.
I’ve come to talk to you again.
Some things are easier this time, though. Schools will stay open, most restaurants can serve take-out, and parks will be accessible. It’s confinement lite, compared to last time.
Except for the fines. They start at €200, but increase with repeated offenses, up to €3750 and six months in jail. France is not playing, this time.
I know lockdown is necessary, but I’ve got an attitude problem this time. I’m getting impatient. To be specific, I’m not angry at France. The unified government response gave me hope last spring, and it worked for a while. When the second wave hit Macron said he took full responsibility. Bravo, monsieur.
I’m getting impatient with careless people, with selfish people.
I haven’t seen my stateside kids in almost a year. My mother died in August, alone in a rest home. I have friends that have been out of work for months, living off unemployment or savings. Some of my loved ones are struggling with debilitating loneliness, mental health issues, claustrophobia, or trying to take care of their children while working from home. Some are at risk of physical abuse.
Fiction set me up for disappointment.
I really thought the plague would be more exciting than this. In all those future-dystopia books and movies, 98% of the population dies and the remnant embark on an adventure, dealing with outlaw bands, foraging for food, finding love, realizing inner resources that they didn’t know they had. If 2020 were a novel, by nine months past patient zero, we’d have provisional governments in each little community. We’d have roving bands of musicians and actors, and bartenders serving home-made hooch. Gardening would be sexy. Deer would graze in town squares, we’d be able to spot the Little Dipper, and creek water would run clear. Civilization would get a reboot.
But COVID is just boring and soul-sucking and lonely and scary. It’s going on way too long, and there’s no end in sight.
What to do?
We know scientists will come up with something, but we don’t know when. There’s not much to do, besides wear your mask, wash your hands, and keep one cow-length between yourself and other humans.
I’ve also started saying, Monsieur/Madame--la masque, s’il vous plait! to whoever needs to hear it. Bite me.
That’s the physical aspect, but what about the other parts--the secret parts, the parts that worry and fret and brood?
There’s just one thing left--hope. They say love is blind, but hope is, too. Hope doesn’t need a reason or a plan. It doesn’t need your permission or your acceptance or your forgiveness. It just is. And you can have it, all you want of it. You can hope for a cure, for a vaccine. Hope to see your friends again, hope to hug your children. Hope for sports and concerts and plays to come back, hope to go to church and sing out loud. Hope to earn enough money to pay the bills or take a vacation. Hope to find a job. Hope to taste a frozen margarita or hot biscuits or go out for dim sum and flag down the cart that has the sticky rice triangles with little bits of pork inside.
You can hope for anything you want. Hope big, hope grand, hope plentiful. No guarantees on delivery, but a day with hope is better than a day without.
So, Lockdown, stay as long as you need to. We’ve got masks and hand sanitizer and hope.
I’ve come to talk to you again.
Some things are easier this time, though. Schools will stay open, most restaurants can serve take-out, and parks will be accessible. It’s confinement lite, compared to last time.
Except for the fines. They start at €200, but increase with repeated offenses, up to €3750 and six months in jail. France is not playing, this time.
I know lockdown is necessary, but I’ve got an attitude problem this time. I’m getting impatient. To be specific, I’m not angry at France. The unified government response gave me hope last spring, and it worked for a while. When the second wave hit Macron said he took full responsibility. Bravo, monsieur.
I’m getting impatient with careless people, with selfish people.
I haven’t seen my stateside kids in almost a year. My mother died in August, alone in a rest home. I have friends that have been out of work for months, living off unemployment or savings. Some of my loved ones are struggling with debilitating loneliness, mental health issues, claustrophobia, or trying to take care of their children while working from home. Some are at risk of physical abuse.
Fiction set me up for disappointment.
I really thought the plague would be more exciting than this. In all those future-dystopia books and movies, 98% of the population dies and the remnant embark on an adventure, dealing with outlaw bands, foraging for food, finding love, realizing inner resources that they didn’t know they had. If 2020 were a novel, by nine months past patient zero, we’d have provisional governments in each little community. We’d have roving bands of musicians and actors, and bartenders serving home-made hooch. Gardening would be sexy. Deer would graze in town squares, we’d be able to spot the Little Dipper, and creek water would run clear. Civilization would get a reboot.
But COVID is just boring and soul-sucking and lonely and scary. It’s going on way too long, and there’s no end in sight.
What to do?
We know scientists will come up with something, but we don’t know when. There’s not much to do, besides wear your mask, wash your hands, and keep one cow-length between yourself and other humans.
I’ve also started saying, Monsieur/Madame--la masque, s’il vous plait! to whoever needs to hear it. Bite me.
That’s the physical aspect, but what about the other parts--the secret parts, the parts that worry and fret and brood?
There’s just one thing left--hope. They say love is blind, but hope is, too. Hope doesn’t need a reason or a plan. It doesn’t need your permission or your acceptance or your forgiveness. It just is. And you can have it, all you want of it. You can hope for a cure, for a vaccine. Hope to see your friends again, hope to hug your children. Hope for sports and concerts and plays to come back, hope to go to church and sing out loud. Hope to earn enough money to pay the bills or take a vacation. Hope to find a job. Hope to taste a frozen margarita or hot biscuits or go out for dim sum and flag down the cart that has the sticky rice triangles with little bits of pork inside.
You can hope for anything you want. Hope big, hope grand, hope plentiful. No guarantees on delivery, but a day with hope is better than a day without.
So, Lockdown, stay as long as you need to. We’ve got masks and hand sanitizer and hope.