Two or three feet is the new six feet apart. I’m a designer and familiar with scale and distances. A tall man lying flat on the ground between you and me, that’s 6 feet. No one seems to understand.
In the New York Mid Hudson region just north of New York City, we’re in Phase 2 of le deconfinement, as the French say. This means that our mostly suburban neighborhoods have begun to open up shops, restaurants (outside), professional offices, vehicle services, hair salons, barbershops, libraries… Next week, the avalanche arrives. During Phase 3 playgrounds and public pools will open, indoor dining, nail salons, and tattoo parlors.
A couple—old like us—told me they’ve been to the dentist—both of them—and she, on Tuesday—first day that she could—went to the hairdresser for a cut. She explains to me that the lifeblood of salons depends on how carefully they follow the rules, so she knows they’ll be stringent with the new protocols.
Is this a risk I’m willing to take? I cherish a great cut that can air dry to say, she-looks-great-but-has-other-things-on-her-mind look. Hair speaks to how we see ourselves--or how we’d like to be seen. On the other hand, who’s looking at us right now?
My life = a haircut?
D and I have been lucky that living in a house and tree lined community we’ve been able to take long walks; the lush spring and summer seasons have been a gift. We venture out several times a week to the grocery store or the little shop with great bread, and—even though most people wear a mask—I hold my breath.
On Tuesday, the day we entered Phase 2, we’d run out of lunch and dinner ingredients. Also we needed a change of scene. So we drove to a nearby town. Wanted to be the first to buy books from a bookstore that’d been shuttered for ten weeks. It was just the two of us in the small shop for twenty minutes talking books with the owners who were friends. We bought four books, felt virtuous, and said our goodbyes.
I feel safe with books.
Then we noticed that a local coffee shop had set up their outdoor tables. Instead of six as they do in the height of the summer, they had four round metal tables on the open corral in the corner of the sidewalk. No one in sight except the waiter whom we knew, masked and happy to talk to old customers. D insisted we eat in this familiar place. I was nervous but agreed to give D the pleasure of speaking with someone else besides yo. I ordered a zucchini and tomato omelet which they make paper thin and super hot on their indoor grill and I opted for Diet Coke instead of water—thinking they’d be less possibility of a canned coke being contaminated by hands.
Chatting with the Hispanic waiter was a balm for him and for us. D had an opportunity to perform (under a mask). The whole time I monitored my hands so they wouldn’t land on the table or my chair. I watched D like a hawk.
On the same Tuesday we headed out to pick up a pizza—or slices—and drove to a local Italian restaurant where we discovered a patio at the back with a lively group of young people having dinner at tables three feet apart. My instincts told me not to join the diners—unmasked of course—looking gloriously healthy in the angled sunshine of the late afternoon.
A waiter noticed my hesitation as I looked into the scene. He pointed to a ledge—attached to the interior restaurant—the bar—where there were no seated guests. To be accommodating and gracious, we agreed to sit by this ledge which turned out to be two feet nose to nose from the bartender making drinks for us and others. I ordered chianti. D ordered sangria; we tried to ignore the queasy feeling we were both experiencing as we sipped our drinks and ate our small pizza (that was not very good) facing this young man wearing his mask just below his lips.
On Wednesday I went to our small grocery store early before too many people would arrive. As usual I barely breathed through my mask as customers passed one another to reach milk or vegetables or meat. When I was ready to pay on the other side of a narrow slice of plexi, I noticed that the cashier coughed once, turning his head as he did. A simple cough that alerted me to possible death. After he’d bagged my groceries and I was about to leave, he experienced another single fit of suppressed bronchial cough.
Americans are said to be feeling quarantine fatigue.
And businesses and life as we knew it has to resume.
And all of us want to share moments and activities with others.
What are reasonable risks? For love? For fun? For a good hair day? For politeness and grace?
The flowers I see on our walks these days are peonies with their huge and drooping petal heads, and roses. And roses. I am sinking more into myself, wallowing in the quiet, happiest to notice the birds, to weed, to talk about poetry at 10 in the morning with friends in Thailand and Vietnam about to settle down for the night. What, me worry?
Spanish words of the day:
El RIESGO (rryehs-goh) - risk
Los RIESGOS - risks
TENGO MIEDO – I am scared
ME MUERO DE MIEDO – (Literally, I’m dying of fright) Better translation, I’m scared to death.