Tag: pandemic

Breton Gray Skies

The Breton gray skies were back yesterday, but it didn’t stop us from enjoying a morning outside. It is a privilege after all to slide open your kitchen door, step outside on a patio with bare feet, and breathe in fresh, floral garden air, especially during home confinement in the middle of a pandemic. A heavy awareness of this privilege sits with me – defined even by my ability to find 30 minutes of enough peace to reflect and record my thoughts in a blog whose name literally means the hideout. This is not representative of what most are dealing with right now. Romain and I spent some time getting into a similar topic after dinner tonight, how we’ve been fortunate, given the timing. If this were 12 to 18 months ago, we’d be screwed. And scrambling. And absolutely terrified.

So let’s be clear: Confinement by pandemic is not a glamping retreat. It’s not a springtime revival where the soul is replenished with all that’s been left parched from the dry winter air. It’s not sleeping in. It’s not finally getting to that to-do list. And it’s definitely not romanticizing la vie francaise. It’s job loss and dream loss and stress-induced toss and turns. It’s fear and isolation and long days of combating such fear and isolation in others when you are a caretaker charged with putting your fellow humans (the ones who are already sick or fragile or disabled) first. It’s being called from retirement to put on the white robe once more at a hospital in Vannes because there aren’t enough medical staff to meet the demand. It’s washing your hands in 20 minute intervals (which could mean 8+ transactions between each trip to the sink) because someone has to work the cash register. It’s mass layoffs. It’s the final few weeks of health insurance coverage before you’ve got to work out a new chemo treatment plan because Uncle Sam’s not going to buck up and pay. It’s the fuck you that sits in your stomach when the entire state of California has been ordered to stay home, yet scenes of crowded beaches along the Pacific continue to be the norm. It’s the way your shoulders sink when you exhale in disbelief at the related deaths at a Burlington, Vermont nursing home.

The list goes on. I’ve barely brushed the surface.

So yesterday’s Breton gray skies were a reminder (nature’s Bat signal of sorts) to shut down any whines about the weather and get outside. I put on an old pair of jeans, grabbed my machete from the garage, and spent the morning hacking away at our overgrown backyard on hands and knees. When I was eight months pregnant, I found myself home alone with two dogs for a few weeks in Vermont as Romain had an unexpected trip back to France. There were some deep trails behind our house that were perfect for the dogs, but they had become overgrown – and I wasn’t going to chance it with ticks. Since I slept with a machete under my bed (long story that has to do with a coyote), I grabbed it one day before a hike with the dogs, carried it with me to an overgrown area by a bridge, and got to hacking. And pretty much instantly, I fell in love with slicing a blade through tall, thick bands of weeds. Serrated or straight edge. It didn’t matter. I just loved to hack. Who knew.

As of lunchtime yesterday, we now have a trail cleared so that one can traverse the yard, from patio to compost bin and back, without the need for boots. There are also other random clearings where my machete meeting a mass of leaves and weeds went much further than I had anticipated, but, as expected, it brought me joy (and let’s be honest, I just couldn’t stop). I’m sure it brought the neighbors to the window with a few quips of mon dieu and qu’est ce qu’elle fait maintenant…and in doing so, took their minds off this confinement. This virus. This world turned upside down. Those Breton gray skies who, given the chance, are actually perfect.

Five Minutes in a Photo Booth in the Middle of a Pandemic

Nina is singing while she dresses paper fairies in a sticker book I snagged at Carrefour yesterday:

hohohohccccccackkkcackcackcackhuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhcocococococo cwa cwa cwa cwa yeeeee attends moi woc woc woc et le neee neee nee umadhhhmehhh maman je veux jouer avec mon playdough yup-pyuu pyuu, yup-pyu pyuuu, cahhhhhhhhh.

About an hour earlier, she was asking me to name things that are jaune. She did not believe me that birds are yellow, and somehow that feathered creature conversation has subconsciously flown itself into the depths of her tout-petit brain stem so that the only song she can sing right now literally is that of a morning bird. A small but resilient morning bird (the kind that can wind their way through my rose bushes at full speed without getting pricked) that is overstimulated from the chocolate morsels that swirled their way into my bowl of pancake batter and onto a certain three-year olds breakfast plate earlier today.

This is day one/morning one of a 15-day home confinement in France.

We sensed this was coming and knew it had to happen when the news reports Sunday night showed scenes of city goers continuing on with life as if nothing was happening. Ca me deprime were the words of one man interviewed when asked about the crowds of people hanging out behind him despite the recent order to stay home and avoid assembling. Was it defiance against being told by the political machine what to do? Was it a unique disregard that stems from a fundamental lack of roots most have grown in their cultivation of empathy and compassion for others? Was it simply fear and a lack of courage on display – because doing what is uncomfortable/being vulnerable requires everything brave within us? Probably a mix of it all.

In any case, I started hearing reports yesterday morning that full confinement orders were being finalized and prepped for public presentation. My biggest concern, apart from not being able to get to my in laws and help if needed, has been my appointment scheduled next week for the renouvellement de mon titre de sejour. Of course. My visa appointment had to fall in the middle of a pandemic. So while all of France was readying themselves with caddies of food and drink – or driving to summer homes to escape the city (I heard reports of a big uptick in ferry traffic to Belle-Île), I was at Carrefour yesterday camped out at the copying machine trying to finalize a dossier that awaits with impatience its date with the prefecture. 31 copies and 6,20 euros later, I was done with step one. I realized that I had no cash left to operate the photo booth to get my ID photos for step two, so I went to the bank, returned, and stood at the accueil to wait for someone to break my 10. But I soon learned that no one is going to voluntarily come to you and your germ-infested bank note in the middle of a pandemic. And if you stand at the accueil long enough by yourself in the middle of a pandemic, you’ll soon be overcome with an eerie sense of impending doom as your eyes pan the aisles anticipating a scene from a robert kirkman thriller and bring this reality into view: the store will be packed with people, the store will be silent from noise, and the store will be absolutely empty of food. There are exceptions.

— I saw a lot of disappointed pineapple, two heads of green cabbage (the kind you expect to find babies growing in), a sad box of eight forgotten kiwis, a few pears, and two barquettes of baby tomatoes (now in our pantry). A few packs of shrimp. A freezer full of smoked salmon spreads and the like. Two packages of magret de canard, sliced thin. A half row of ham in the bio section.

— A woman of about 70+ walked into the store and rushed passed me, suddenly pausing. Il y a une guerre ou quoi? Il n’y a plus de rien. (Is there a war or what? There’s nothing left.) I turned and met her eyes which were red and weepy. A routine cold or a consciousness that only hard-lived experience can invoke? I almost wish for the cold.

— There was a store employee with a scarf wrapped tight around her neck as she moved around with so much speed that I almost remember her being on wheels. Once customers caught on that this woman was giving 200% to helping anyone in need find a substitute for items on their shopping lists, they flocked to her. And my eyes stayed on her. Stayed on her scarf. It was red white and blue and full of stars. An American flag. I stared. I’m sure I opened my lips and mouthed mom. I thought of home. This home. That home. The global home. What the hell is going on? Will Nina believe us when she’s 17 and listening to me recount the time the world stopped?

I made it out of the store. Arms full of my long-loved Trader Joe and HEB bags and two sacks of dog food. I eventually found someone at the accueil to break my 10, and I spent 5 minutes in a photo booth in the middle of a pandemic. The stool was too low, so my squats came into good use as I had to balance my thighs to get me leveled at just the right height. Doing this + trying to push the right button to start the camera without my glasses on is a skill. I took the first round of photos without using my two extra attempts and drove home. Once I got a chance to really look at those photos, I touched my face on the photo paper. Dear girl. Dear me. The face of giving everything you’ve got in the middle of a pandemic. I wake up each night in a deep sweat, even if the window is open. My eyes beat the 6 AM alarm by minutes. I do my best to let the little things tumble by. I read 3-4 children’s books a night in two languages and fall asleep in a toddler bed, always brushing my teeth before dumping myself into our bed down the hall. And there’s work and being a partner and being my own human all folded up in there. So that face. Dear girl. Dear me.

After dinner, we crowded on the couch and quickly found the channel for the presidential address. Someone was live transcribing the words coming out of Macron’s mouth, and I couldn’t help notice the corrections they’d make on the screen as words were typed incorrectly, deleted, and type correctly again. Nous sommes en guerre. Nous sommes en guerre. We are at war declared Macron. We must all do our part to get through this. Businesses will have their overhead fees, like utilities and rent, waived. Associations will be given funding to support residents in need of food. And we will be in confinement for 15 days. In order to leave the house, we will have to print out a permission slip to present if/when asked by the authorities. Even to go for a run.

There’s not much more to say. It just has to be done. Nature will get us through this. Coloring and playdough will get us through this. Being reasonable and understanding will get us through this.

Dear girl. Dear me.

When this is all over, I will be making a trip back to that photo booth. To record the face of what one looks like on the other side. To test my thighs in that 5-minute squat. To find that woman with the scarf and share a smile and probably way more than she wants to hear.

In the Heart of a Pandemic

It’s been some time since I’ve come here to write. Perhaps this is because I spend my professional life online, capturing behind-the-scenes product logic and details from the trans-Atlantic mouths of my brilliant, code-filled colleagues and transforming it into digestible material for our clients. I absolutely love it. But when my work day ends, my WANT TO DO list looks something like this:

  1. See my girl.
  2. See my man.
  3. See my dog.
  4. Color. We have a family set of map pencils, crayons, and markers that get put to good use each late afternoon alongside some good tunes and drinks. This is our family apero.
  5. Actually complete a full crossword puzzle (this is me dreaming – I get a puzzle in MAYBE once a month).
  6. Read. Brene Brown’s Dare to Lead sits with a bookmark on page 47 next to a thin paperback in French that I grabbed months ago in town.
  7. Get outside. Nature is constantly calling.
  8. Soak in any sun that might find a way to shine through given that it’s been raining in Bretagne since October.
  9. Prune my rose bushes. Machete off dead branches from my banana tree. Snip away flowers and weeds from our very Honey I Shrunk the Kids yard (we haven’t cut the grass since October).
  10. Get in a full phone conversation with my mom and dad (that’s not interrupted by a certain 42-month old needing to ask “Maman, le requin mange quoi? Et le toucan?”).
  11. NOT look at a screen.
  12. NOT sit in front of a computer.

So with that, I’ve purposely distanced myself away from technology during my “me” time in a concerted effort to give space to those people and things that bring joy to my life. Yet, with our current COVID-19 situation, I need to give space to documenting what is quickly reshaping all of our routines.

Two weeks ago we met some friends at a movie theatre in Vannes. There’s always some kind of toddler-focused programming going on, and we love a good film (with popcorn – they sweeten it instead of adding butter here). It’s usually two short films followed by a slightly longer third one, and each one has their own respective artistry on display. Whether you’re nearly 4 or 40, the programming is thoughtful, and I appreciate how the theatre staff is involved with greeting the children, introducing the films, and handing out an activity pamphlet that keeps our child busy when we go to eat lunch afterwards.

Back to the movie: we noted in our conversation with friends that the COVID-19 situation was something to keep an eye on. But we were still out. The theatre was full of other families. Even in the rain, the street sidewalks were dotted with umbrellas. Our post-film creperie was packed as usual. A routine Saturday looked and felt like a routine Saturday.

The next day, the first COVID-19 cases in our area were announced. And a cap of 5,000 people was put into place for the max limit allowed in public assemblies. The buzz around COVID-19 was taking off. And though we weren’t still sure what this meant, we talked about it a lot with the initial conversation thread being something like this: WTH is really going on with COVID-19? It’s wrapped its wheels around the global media circuit and steamrolled forward, leaving environmental and social issues in the dust for now.

I’ve kept my ears open to information coming in from reliable sources amid an inundation of news. For me, this has included tracking what’s been happening at a local level via the Prefet du Morbihan. They’ve done a great job of harnessing social media to reach the community, posting a regular “point de situation” each day, and responding to questions from the public.

It’s also meant staying attentive to Italy and the situation which continues to unfold there because this story is the one that demonstrates what we could be facing in France. The key points that rest in my mind are:

  • An aging population has the highest risk. And France has a large aging population.
  • No matter how much infrastructure exists at present to support those who are ill, there is not enough infrastructure to meet the needs when the young and healthy fall ill alongside the elderly and anyone with a compromised immune system. ALL AT THE SAME TIME. There simply will not be enough medical staff and ICU beds and specialized equipment to meet these needs.

It’s these two points that sit heavy on my mind. I have been calm – and rational. We wash our hands. We live in a very small, rural village, so it is easier for us to distance ourselves from others. But I think about my neighbors in this community, one where every association is geared towards retirees because most people are retired. They are part of this aging population who will be most affected in the coming weeks days.

I went to the grocery store today a little after lunch time, and the parking lot was eerily empty. The first two rows closest to the entrance are usually packed. Today I probably counted 12-15 cars in the entire parking lot of six rows.

Inside the store, everyone was at least 60+ years old – and very much keeping to themselves. I wondered how many of them had to pep talk themselves into getting into their car to grab extra items today. I was humbled by the fact that the aisles were stocked with toilet paper and bottled water and all the things people in other areas/countries seem to be running towards (like the Best Buy big screens on Black Friday). One woman was in the yogurt aisle with her cloth handkerchief that she used to discreetly dab at her runny nose. I thought, the risk for her is everything – to be elderly and perhaps afflicted with a minor cold – but needing to come to the store. Who do you call to grab the basics when, well, you have no one to call?

That whole grocery store trip felt off. All of this feels off.

Fast forward to a few hours ago: all schools nation-wide are being closed in France as of Monday, March 16.

We’re in the heart of a pandemic.

I need to sleep on this to process what our dear France will become in they days, weeks ahead. And of course, my mind turns to the large-scale question of what will WE become? Will we check in on each other and act with patience and compassion? Or will the worst of us be on display – will we see a global state of “each human for themselves”?

For now, I look to nature. That beauty will be what saves us all right now. With the forecast finally showing multiple days of sun, we will retreat to the yard for more of maman’s wacky gardening habits – and mud pies with flower soup. We will retreat to the forest for a quick run in the early morning and late afternoon. We will retreat to the beach to search for shells at low tide and breathe in that fresh, cool Atlantic air that stirs the body into taking a deep afternoon nap. I have a feeling that we will all need as much rest as we can get to fuel us as we move forward.