An Author at Home in the Time of Coronavirus

Piracas, breakfast companion extraordinaire. 

Here in Spain, we’re starting our fourth week of quarantine, or confinement, as they’re now calling it (as though the entire population were a Victorian woman about to give birth). It's especially trying to the Spanish psyche this week, which is Holy Week. Last night I heard the canticle "Jerusalem, Jerusalem," which one of the brotherhoods sings in the Plaza de Santa Lucia on Holy Monday night, every year except this year, being blasted from someone's balcony. Not even weeks of isolation can dampen the Easter spirit here! These are the fond memories I have of my first Holy Week in Zamora.

The vast majority of people are following the orders to not leave their houses except to buy groceries, visit the pharmacy, or walk the dog within a restricted area close to their homes. That's right, there's no ordering from restaurants because they're all closed. And forget buying a new light bulb when your overhead light blows out. All those stores are closed, too.

All too many of us personally feel the importance of observing quarantine because we know someone who has fallen ill or died.

Scrabble with an antique Spanish set is a genuine
pleasure for this logophile. 

This is Spain, and so there is an outpouring of emotional support on social and traditional media during this strange, history-making time, with a constant torrent of inspirational and humorous messages. I've only run across a few pieces of "fake news" among all this genuine love for our fellow humans. Then there are the people who make videos of themselves in quarantine who have swimming pools or a 40-acre ranch to run around in. Best of luck to those folks, but I don't have any of that.

I'm grateful that I don't feel cramped. Heck, I have a balcony I can go out on to applaud every day at 8. I have lots of loved ones I'm staying in touch with via technology. (Imagine if this had happened before the Internet! I really needed my friend and my mom to help pull me out of a major widow moment at the beginning of this.) I have a roommate, so I can even talk to someone without technology! My roommate's cat is deliciously oblivious to what's going on. He's weird, though. We gave him an empty box, and he's hardly looked at it!

My personal gym 

Given my numerous intellectual pursuits, the first few weeks haven’t really been a challenge. I'm learning Portuguese with an app, I'm writing, I'm learning the music for the summer season of my choir, and I'm doing small amounts of editorial work that come in. (I'll think about the probable financial shambles when the time comes.) (Please buy my books! Keep me alive!) I get exercise on the stairs in my building (without touching even the banister) and set up a tab with my roommate when it was decided he would use the only pair of gloves to make forays into the empty streets for supplies.

On Friday, my roommate bought me some kitchen gloves, and on Saturday, I left the building for the first time in three weeks. Though it was a bit eerie to see my beloved busy street with only a police car on it, the lack of activity gave me a chance to slow down and notice details I'd never seen before. Peace and beauty. In order to go the grocery store, I pass some of the most elegant Modernist architecture in western Spain. I'd thought I was fully grateful to live in Zamora, but there's always room for more gratitude.

So far, so good. With some great Spanish food! The ultimate cause for gratitude.