Category: Quarantine

A pleasant surprise today, instead of an opera the Metropolitan Opera is taking us to the artists homes where they perform a short piece of their repertory for a At Home Gala. The entertainment is international and intimate, the backgrounds as different as the artists themselves. Most Opera singers had a piano to sing along, one from Poland had an accordion player to accompany him, another a harp. Unlike the news reporters broadcasting from their dwellings, the walls were lively with art or posters, books were also prominent. A fish tank here, a plant, and furnishings of all periods produced good human vibes and more appreciation for the artists belting arias with very little background music. It’s A patchwork of musicians, playing their instruments from home, filled our tv screen, a virtual orchestra conducted over the bandwidths, the technology of it baffling but welcomed, and  we watched, listened and enjoyed the show immensely.

It kept us entertained for a couple of hours. Afterward we took a well needed walk with the purpose of getting a pie and a couple of loaves of bread from the pizzeria on Main Street. It’s a 15 minutes walk and long enough to open our appetite. We passed by our old house and I was filled by memories of buying a neglected fixer upper, only to sell it only a year after we finished its 15 years rehabilitation. A dwelling becomes part of its inhabitants and the emotions run deep when memories are brought back. The daffodils we planted years ago on the frontage were showing an abundance of yellow against the grey clapboards walls, it was a warming sight on a rather cloudy afternoon.

The pizza was delicious, the thin crust helped by a few minutes on the oven stone to a crispy layer upon which laid a nutritious mixture of cheese and vegetables. Reading, listening or watching covid news I am always finding new facts or new ‘tricks’ to lessen the risk of contamination. Today, it’s the use of nylon stockings fabric as an extra protection for face coverings, making the mask fit tighter around one’s head and reducing air gaps around the face. I will definitely destroy one of Carolle’s pair for the cause. Bad news arrive faster than good ones, infected folks who recovered from covid infections are not immune, according to the experts. That’s distressing and will further people’s anxieties and fears to get back to normal, specially that testing is still far from been adequate, in fact it has been dismal. More alarming news about covid and its killing skills, is that it attacks several organs of the human body, brain included. Covid has a bad effect on blood, the worse adverse effect is unusual clotting sometimes leading to strokes in patient young and old. A young man in our town died last week of a stroke, a strong and reserved teenager well liked by his peers. The newspaper article does not mention covid, but death is always tragic and unjust when young people die, covid or not, and the town is saddened by the news.
Getting precise figure on covid death in our small town of 34,000 inhabitants is a matter of news links gymnastics. As far as I can gather in Connecticut we have seen 24,582 infections and 1,862 deaths. In the micropolitan Litchfield county spearheaded by our town we count 834 infections and 73 dead from covid, and so far 22 still hospitalized. That’s if you trust the numbers in light of the testing fiasco and the underreported deaths at home or elsewhere. With news of another milestone, I am again paying attention to the latest numbers of global deaths. Two hundred thousand folks have succumbed to covid according to the latest data. That’s a large number, but we are bracing for more while covid is on the run, the chaotic responses to the pandemic enabling its spread and, as sure as the sun will set this evening, the numbers of casualties will rise quickly until a magic bullet is found. Thought and prayers are not gonna be enough. After the first reported local death due to covid, March 6, the response of our town officials sums up the degree of urgency they perceived and their reaction to it. “It’s very sad,” the Mayor said. “Our thoughts and prayers go out to the family and friends of this individual”.

That’s nice, everyone should have thoughts and prayers, even the fiercest atheists should. But in my opinion, a strong alert to the pandemic should have been raised in our town, instead of sticking to the president’s playbook of diminishing the threat of infections and adopting the do nothing or do little (too much government) often seen from conservative politicians. When I contacted town hall to raise my concerns of an inadequate first page in pandemic times, I did not do it out of political reasons, I really could not care less whose party is running the town, progressives or conservatives, none of that mattered, what was important was the education it would have provided town folks, because many are still not respecting the protocols mandated by the health officials. It has been over a week since I contacted the mayor’s office when I was told:
“I have our city clerk working on the page modification. Again, many thanks for the suggestions! It’s all about the message!!”
You would think that a week time would be enough, in light of the seriousness of the message. After all, as a crude example on how quickly and with rudimentary knowledge of html, one can create a functioning website in less than one hour, and that’s with securing a new domain name. I know because I did just that once on the way to a show in Allentown, my friend was driving and I built the website on my mobile phone. By the time we reached our destination, we had a searchable front page. And I am not a wizard at html, been self taught, but the task of adding information on a page should not take more than ten minutes once one knows what to publish. Why is there reticence to inform the citizens of our town to pay attention to the severity covid presents to all, and to advise them of the proper protocols? Some politicians are walking the line not realizing that lives could be spared by raising awareness in the public when catastrophes fall upon us. At least our elected local leaders are not pushing for bleach injections, that would be more deadly than the unfortunately inadequate warnings to our citizenry.

My two requests to the company managing our building have so far received no response. The brick holding our front gate open, a gate made of heavy steel with a rather recalcitrant lock that unlocks only when the key is in a certain position, has been taken away twice. The brass handle shines from its constant daily use by the dwellers of this 120 units complex. Some folks want to keep that gate open, thus eliminating contact with possible traces of covid. Granted that copper alloys have germicidal properties, according to science, any brasses were almost completely bactericidal at 4 °C within 180–360 minutes, still the immediate danger exists. Thankfully, the rear of the parking lot has a good pile of bricks left over from a long over project.  But aside the tenants and units owners precautionary steps, no other means of protection and no cleaning in the common areas has been done since our confinement. Can the neglect be called a dereliction of duty?

The number of covid related deaths will soon surpass the numbers of American deaths during the war with Vietnam, in less than three month. The sad part, besides the lives lost and all the misery around it, is that we are in the mist of the pandemic, this is our war and it is not over, it only started, and we can expect more deaths from covid. The more I write about covid, the more repetitive I sound, not by design, but because the news keep on publishing the same alarming informations of supplies penury and shortage of already exhausted first responders.

Our Sunday was busy, and for the first time since our lockdown, we did not watch Opera. We spent time tying up the loft, rearranging and reorganizing the pantry, keeping busy to spend time. The weather is not getting better, intermittent sleet and rain kept us inside and with nowhere to go we are creative with our time in the loft. I finally wired a new outlet to the pantry, and took advantage of the easy access under the staircase to change a recessed single outlet to a quad. The small distance between the new quad, the feed for my new line, and the closet made it easy to conceal the line in the wall, an esthetic must for Carolle. She keeps a part of her shoe collection on the pantry’s top shelf and 21 shoe boxes have filled the shelf. She took the opportunity to cull some, a pair of Ralph Lauren bought in the 70’s, resoled at least once and showing quite a bit of wear, another pair of RL, this one pink sandals sporting thin high heels, together with another dozen pairs she does not care for, or should I say, she cares less for. There are more shoes stored in the various bins still unopened since we moved. For a woman with only two feet, she sure has a lot of shoes. Notice that I am only mentioning shoes, we did not get into boots this time, we still are in a lockdown, time is on our side.
When I went to buy electrical supplies for my closet/pantry project, the store at the hilltop was adhering to the recommended precautions, people wearing masks and keeping distances, same for the employees except one happy go lucky greeting shoppers around the aisles. I told him he ought to wear a mask. The public was respectful keeping distances as well as was feasible, all in a courteous way. I took advantage of  my roundabout to stop by the large store nearby to get milk, fruits and batteries. Most folks wore mask, except for a couple of youngsters, but the  most disturbing was mothers or couples with children shopping together. The employees, except one tall guy, were wearing masks and there was an employee cleaning carts as they got back from the parking lot. It made shopping way less stressful when all people are aware of their environment in the time of covid. The view outside our windows would be gloomy if it was not for our tree now in full bloom, its white flowers and greenery more visible against the grey sky. The good thing is, no one wants  to frolic around in bad weather, staying inside is not so bad.

With more folks wearing face coverings we are becoming a faceless society. Strangely, now people are looking more like me, as I have worn a mask for six weeks. Then my attire must have made a strange image in some folks minds, but now I am part of the norms. There is something satisfying about that, a new sense of belonging, something I had not felt in quite some time, before covid.

 

 

We are back to our daily routine, and Rossini’s *Cinderella* is our opera. With a twist on the classic story, the evil stepmother becomes an evil stepfather, and the fairy godmother transforms into a fairy godfather sporting gold wings over his white suit. The rest of the story unfolds as we know it—the tale of someone longing to belong after being told they could not. Cinderella finds her place, but many still struggle, unsure if and where they truly belong. This struggle existed before COVID, but the pandemic has amplified it, leaving people frozen in place, some in foreign countries, in unfamiliar settings, and near-empty cities. It will take time for people to feel they truly “belong”—out in public, at restaurant tables, at concerts, or in movie theaters—without the distance or masks.

Reflecting on this reminds me of my friends and the times we could simply stop by and chat. I miss human interaction; I even miss handshakes. As for COVID, *Remdesivir* has reemerged as a promising treatment, despite premature reports of its ineffectiveness. This is good news, restoring some faith in my instincts. I was humbled for a while, but the encouraging results have nearly restored my confidence—perhaps too much, as my ego can sometimes get in the way. All joking aside, the drug offers hope, and trial results are expected soon—within a week. The world should keep its fingers crossed that *Remdesivir* proves to be the bullet that defeats COVID.

On the political front, our national “evil godfather” is treating some states as Cinderellas, balking at the necessity of footing their COVID-related bills. He echoes the bankruptcy mantra trumpeted by a senator whose state receives a generous share of federal funds. Ironically, the states that prop up his are now pleading for help, seemingly to deaf ears. Unsurprisingly, his state remains one of the poorest, with its constituents unable to rise above poverty after decades of his tenure. “Let them eat cake,” his actions seem to declare.

In *Cinderella,* forgiveness and hope prevail—she forgives her stepfamily and marries the prince. Perhaps our battered states will find their prince in a new administration. Meanwhile, our master of fake news has decided to skip daily briefings. Not that anyone cares—the “covfefe” is overwhelming, the scientific message muddied by his looming presence. Daily briefings resemble a Punch and Judy show with a mean twist, leaving viewers battered. Am I bitter? I am only a small voice in a chorus of indignation. My hope for a better world lies in being heard at the next election.

Three million people have been infected globally. One country, New Zealand, stands out, with only one active case. Led by a decisive female prime minister, they acted swiftly to contain the virus. Despite its isolation, COVID had arrived there through travelers. Her humanity shone through—reassuring children that the tooth fairy is an essential worker—while her decisiveness and the citizens’ civic responsibility made the difference. These qualities are glaringly absent in our government’s potluck measures.

Routines die hard. Though the president claimed he would stop attending briefings, he was back the next day. Yet the news that commands our attention involves the human misery wrought by this administration’s chaotic response. Most tragic was the suicide of a young ER doctor who had seen too much death and suffering to cope any longer. Ironically, the president once warned that a lockdown would lead to suicides due to financial loss.

In our small town, we lead Connecticut in COVID-related deaths: 14.3 per 10,000 residents, compared to the runner-up’s 10.8. Nationwide, infections have surpassed one million, with testing hindered by mismanagement and shortages. Yesterday, gloom descended as we watched Donizetti’s *Mary Stuart,* part of his Tudor series of operas—another day, another beheading. Today, it’s *Roberto Devereux.* Let’s hope he keeps his head, though it’s hard for us to keep ours amidst the bleak news.

Meanwhile, the White House and conservative governors push for reopening states against scientific advice, prioritizing corporate bottom lines over human lives. Meatpacking plants, rife with COVID cases, have been ordered to stay open. Could this be because the president loves hamburgers? The low-wage workers in these plants are treated as expendable—collateral damage. The same disregard is evident in the sacking of a naval commander who raised concerns about COVID on his vessel. Though reinstated, his case underscores the administration’s lack of understanding: an army must be healthy to defend the nation.

The weather does its part to keep spirits low, with gray, rainy days confining us further. To combat boredom, Carolle has begun a long-anticipated project: creating a hooked leather rug from old garments she has collected over the years. I’ve volunteered to cut strips of leather—half an inch by four inches—keeping myself occupied in the process.

In other news, a French newspaper I read online tackled an unusual but important question: Can COVID spread through fellatio? The answer was reassuring: sperm does not transmit the virus. Usual precautions apply, and condoms are recommended. Oddly, mouthwash was not mentioned.

Meanwhile, my trip to France remains indefinitely postponed. Airlines, unsurprisingly, have yet to refund canceled tickets. These small inconveniences pale in comparison to the suffering of others, but they remind me of the collective uncertainty we all face.

**John Adams’ *Nixon in China*** is today’s entertainment. For the first time since the start of our confinement, the opera is in English with subtitles—a welcome change, as we can (most of the time) understand the singing. It’s a war between two men, between two ideologies. One cannot help but draw even more contrasting arrows between Nixon and Trump—one president opening China for U.S. profits, and another trying to close it, believing China has profited enough.

Today, one million people have been infected with COVID-19.

Carolle thinks we have another month of confinement; we should be so lucky. I believe we will be fighting COVID-19 until summer. The country is not on the same level of urgency, with some states still hedging their bets. One governor, who claims not to have gotten the memo about the highly contagious nature of the virus, is fighting with town officials trying to close beaches, even threatening jail if they proceed with their protective plans. If all states lock down, there is a chance of containing the virus in hotspots; otherwise, the health community will be playing whack-a-mole for a long time. I am not optimistic that this lockdown will be short.

I feel bad for Carolle. I have essentially cloistered her. She can’t visit stores for fear of falling ill. Shopping, a simple pleasure, is no longer hers, and I sense from her questions that she misses it. She longs for normalcy. Normal has gone, and it won’t be back anytime soon. I believe one person doing errands is risky enough, but with all precautions taken, the risk is controlled. So far, so good, and I intend to keep it that way.

The opera had an entertaining perk: a wonderful ballet. Carolle, who loves ballet, enjoyed it immensely. In one scene, women workers overtook their abusive rapist boss—a powerful depiction of women taking charge of the revolution. The scenes were violent by nature; Pat Nixon, so frightened by the performance, thought it was real and leapt on stage to help a woman being flogged. It was great theater until we learned it had actually happened. Then we began wondering: what was wrong with that poor woman? Was it a reflection of her husband’s well-known paranoia? Was she medicated?

The next day’s opera, Verdi’s *Don Carlo,* brought us the Inquisition and the burning of heretics. The good thing about these horrifying scenes, always accompanied by powerful arias, is that they make one feel better about one’s condition—reminding us that others have endured far worse. As if to say: don’t complain. In the old days, you might have been skewered or, like Saint Lawrence, grilled on a charcoal pit. Small consolation, but in these days of confinement, rationalization helps.

Today, fatalities in New York reached 3,000.

The guitar I sent my grandson has arrived, and he seemed excited by the surprise. He’s just the right age to start learning and can progress quickly if he practices. They say it takes 40,000 hours of practice to master any skill. I’m sure I’ve long surpassed that threshold, yet my fingers still feel clumsy. Seeing his happiness elated me. COVID-19 must be frightening for him and his peers; perhaps this instrument will distract him. When I was his age, I was terrified of the atomic bomb. I remember being in school in France during the Cuban Missile Crisis, under Kennedy, thinking bombs would rain on us. I was in school, too, when his assassination was announced. Class was interrupted, and we were not only sad but also scared that war might result. I know what it’s like to grow up scared. I hope the guitar brings him as much joy as it brought me during the short time I was its custodian. And it should keep him occupied for a while.

Our days are a roller coaster of bad news and deep sadness. Countless artists and beloved personalities are succumbing to COVID-19. Today, it’s Bucky Pizzarelli, the virtuoso guitarist. At first, I thought it was his son, John, whose radio show I listen to occasionally. But it was Bucky, John’s father, more famous than his son but unknown to me. Discovering recordings of them playing together delighted me—and filled me with jealousy. Though I know a few licks, watching Bucky reminded me that I would never attain such skill. Not that I ever aimed to be a professional guitarist like my friend Danny, who is stranded in the islands due to COVID-19. For all its glamour, it takes immense work to make a living as a musician, even backing legends like Etta James, Buddy Guy, or Otis Rush. My guitar playing is a hobby, mostly for my amusement. Perhaps, one day, my fingers will land on the right string at the right time to produce a perfect note. Until then, I’ll keep playing, self-punishing yet enjoying the noble instrument.

I abandoned France and my prior life when I was twenty years old. Together with a newfound friend—a self-proclaimed poet whose name I have forgotten—I left my car at the ferry docks and took the next boat to England. After a few days there, we crossed the Channel in the opposite direction to Amsterdam. Out of money, he returned to France, and I ended up in Vondelpark, where hundreds of hippies were converging in the 1970s. There was drumming, music, and the sweet smell of hashish everywhere. The police were very lax.

In the park, I met a German man and his friend Charlie. Stephan played a simple flute, and they were traveling like me, kind enough to share their food. Stephan, a musician and artist, knew Amsterdam well and let me tag along. We slept in communal houseboats or lofts equipped with bunk beds for hundreds. Food was basic—mostly yogurt and muesli, if I recall. Stephan’s favorite spot was Zandvoort on the shore, where we visited his friend Richard, recovering from a near-fatal overdose. A kind woman had found him half-naked in the street and nursed him back to health.

Richard, born in Belgium, had traveled to the U.S. and worked in commercial art, though he was vague about his past. One miserable, foggy day, we sought refuge in an abandoned WWII bunker on the beach. While my friends were out buying food, two young men arrived, seeking shelter. I invited them to the rear, where they discovered a bag of coins. Unsure what to do, we waited for my friends to return. Richard declared it a treasure: finders, keepers. We divided it into four shares and sent the Swiss boys on their way. The coins, silver guilders, brought us food and new plans.

Richard taught us to draw with chalk on sidewalks, earning money from passersby. I learned to work with the medium, creating simple but striking designs. When Amsterdam grew less profitable, we moved to Germany, staying with Stephan’s family. There, I learned my first guitar chords from Stephan, my talented friend. His girlfriend, a beautiful Turkish woman, eventually had to return home. We decided to follow her on our way to India.

Crossing Europe by train and bus, we reached Istanbul. The markets were vibrant, with tea vendors weaving through the crowded souks. But trouble arose when the police raided our hotel, questioning Stephan’s girlfriend’s passport. We were jailed for two days in a dungeon-like cell. Without explanation, we were released, and I decided to return to Germany. Stephan stayed behind.

Months later, I learned Stephan had been found dead, meditating in his Istanbul hotel. His loss devastated me. He was the first friend I lost to death, and I still think of him often.

The opera *The Pearl Fishers* by Bizet reminds me of Stephan. The opening scene, with deep-sea divers, reflects the beauty he sought in meditation. Perhaps he dove too deeply, finding something that took his breath away. The sadness lingers, as does the weight of the pandemic. Time stands still when you lose someone you love.