A city is a glorious thing. The restaurants, the museums, the street carts, the grimy crannies that serve the most amazing food for $2, the gracious parks, the storied clubs, the dark bars, the jovial pubs, the elegant cafes, the endless markets, the tiny weird shops, the cobblers, the fishmongers, the street musicians, the sense that you might run into an amazing stranger...

A city stripped of all these wonders is a dangerous warren of concrete and stone. These days, the thought that you might run into a stranger is not titillating, but terrifying.  The last week I was in downtown Mexico City, I didn't go outside at all and I got pretty lazy about even walking up to the top story to watch the sunset.

It concerned me that I no longer even cared. In the afternoon, the sun would hit the narrow walkway outside the door and I'd think about trying to sit in it, but then I wouldn't. My  skin turned from tan to a nasty shade of yellow and developed acne. I thought it might be from lack of sunlight or maybe from stress.

I was trying to decide if I should stay or go, and it was deeply stressful. You see, I wasn't miserable in the apartment. I missed so many things abut the rest of the world. I was deeply worried for many of my friends and society at large.  But I had a sweet little routine and the best companionship. The apartment could feel stifling on occasion, but it more often felt safe and cozy. I had some work to attend to online and I felt compelled to cook and wash dishes. Other than that, I had no real responsibilities.

As a mildly agoraphobic person with social anxiety who often feels overwhelmed by the logistics of my life, it was peaceful to know that I didn't have to deal with anyone or anything. Other than Poodles, who was a comfort  and never-ending source of amusement.

 I don't like airports and I have a near-phobia of customs agents and immigration. And I'm legitimately (overly) scared of the virus. So the idea of braving all those things to return to a life of solitude...Well, that didn't sound overwhelmingly appealing.  In fact, it sounded terrifying on every level. And I hated the idea of saying goodbye and not knowing when we'd reconvene. Thinking about it was like falling into a bottomless pit. I was also worried about my mom. If I stayed in Mexico, I'd be able to go help her if she got sick.

I didn't want to go. But of course there were reasons. Poodles made me feel welcome, but I worried about interloping on a relatively small, confined space for an indefinite period of time. I worried also that being inside so long might exacerbate my deppressive tendencies. I was also experiencing the occasional spell of claustrophobia, which, ironically, felt very similar to agoraphobia--a panicked feeling of not being able to breathe.

On the positive side, I already had a ticket home. My two cats were waiting for me, as well as my house and garden. And miles of woods and fields to roam. 

It was beyond bizarre to be faced with two such extreme and nonsensical options. In the end, I chose to leave.  It wasn't that I had better reasons to leave than to stay, but rather that I had to choose something. It almost felt like flipping a coin.

I'd given some thought to the morality of flying. But I felt okay on my end because I'd been so careful. I hadn't had contact with anyone other than Poodles in a week, and had only gone outside two or three times in the week before that. I was concerned for my friend Snowball, who had very kindly offered to pick me up at the airport. But I figured the virus wouldn't have a chance to really take root during my six hour trip and that at least my potential for contagiousness would be lower. I wore an outer layer of clothing I'd remove before getting into the car, and brought two masks. And of course I was completely obsessive with the hand sanitizer.

After a tearful goodbye to Poodles, I got into the cab, clutching my hand sanitizer and wearing my mask. The driver  showed me his mask, but said it was too hot to wear it. It was all downhill from there.

We'd seen posts on  social media from people traveling on nearly empty flights, and news stories were backing that up. So I was imagining that the airport would be creepily empty. I was wrong.

Terminal 2 seemed to be at abut 50% capacity, which is still a lot of fucking people. And only abut 10% were wearing masks. Few people seemed to be making any effort to keep their distance, and airport security decided it was necessary to paw through my backpack. The agent touched everything, including my food.

Security agents took my temperature by holding a wand above my head and asked me to fill out a form declaring I hadn't recently been to China, Italy, or Iran, but I didn't witness any other precautions.

The waiting area for my flight was crowded, and the flight turned out to be at about 75% capacity. Most people were not wearing masks, including a couple of the Delta attendants. As we filed onto the plane, I overheard two other Americans grousing about how many people were on the flight--apparently they'd flown a week ago and it had been empty. I ended up seated in a row with  another woman, though there was a set between us. At the outset of the flight, we were given ziplock bags of snacks and bottled water.

One advantage to spending three weeks inside the same four walls is that everything seems very interesting when you get out. On the cab ride to the airport, I'd been mesmerized to watch the half-empty city roll by. But my first glimpse of mountains nearly took my breath away. As we flew on over towers of whipped cream clouds and snowy plains, the beauty of the world seemed positively psychedelic.

Customs and immigration at Salt Lake City was fine, and I was relieved that I didn't have to get into a conversation with them about my suitcases full of tequila and valium. But I had to go back through TSA and they tore my carry-on apart again, taking 15 minutes to go through my stuff with a fine-tooth comb. And the airport didn't feel particularly sanitized. Smudges of god-knows-what besmirched the seats next to me in the waiting area. Very few people wore masks. All the TVs were blaring covid-19 horror stories as I cleaned my seat with an airplane bottle of rubbing alcohol.

I imagine other people's stories of nearly empty flights are valid, so I guess I just had bad luck on the draw. Twice. My flight from SLC to Oregon was at about 50% capacity, but the plane was tiny, so I was still sitting about two feet from another person. Again, hardly anyone was wearing masks.

Flying over Eugene, I looked down at the glittering lights of town dissipating out into the darkness where I live. And I wondered if I'd chosen correctly.

This pandemic is amplifying situations, forcing us all to make strange and seemingly unnatural choices.

What decisions have you been forced to make?
How are you dealing with sharing space?
How are you dealing with loneliness?

 
I’ve imagined this moment before. Like the way it crosses your mind that your dad or favorite uncle is going to die eventually. But in my mind, when John Prine died, we’d have a vigil in some appropriate spot. Maybe on the banks of a summer river or on a front porch or on a Mexican beach with tequila and guitars and a handful of the best people. We’d build a fire and pass the bottle and share stories and gain some modicum of comfort out of a sad goodbye.

I did not imagine that I’d be alone in a cold house with no hope of company other than a computer screen. Grieving is a strange thing in the time of Covid-19. I’m writing in place of the real communion I’d wish for us all. At least I have the bottle of tequila.

My dad, Steve Rogers, was a big bear-like man with a Jerry Garcia beard and a  twinkle in his eye. A marine biologist turned vagabond, he was sweet-natured but he had acerbic opinions, one of which was that most music written after 1965 was an awful racket. He made an exception for John Prine.



As a kid, I didn’t think it was cool to like my dad’s music. But John Prine spoke to me. He seemed like someone we would know. Someone a bit eccentric, but also totally down-to-earth. Someone who would be sitting on our front porch, shooting the shit, but saying everything just a little better than we could. He was a smart weirdo with a keen eye for the details that elevate life into art. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

My first real concert was John Prine with my dad when I was maybe 16. At the time, I was trying to figure out my place in the world. I’d tried preppy and failed. I was trying tough and it was better. I was doing okay with petty vandalism and wearing maroon lipstick and acting like I hated everything. But I couldn’t hate my dad. I was excited to go to the show and hoping that John Prine would play my dad’s favorite, “Paradise.”

John was playing at a sit-down opera house, and I was expecting the show to be serious and formal. It was anything but. With his friendly paunch and rakish mustache and mischievous twinkle, John Prine led a rousing chorus of “That’s the Way the World Goes ‘Round.” Staring around a hall full of happy people raising their beers to the roof, it occurred to me that this song was edgier and smarter than any of the dark bands my friends liked. It acknowledged the essential terribleness of life, while at the same time offering wise comfort:
 
That’s the way the world goes round…
Your up one day, the next your down…
It’s a half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown
That’s the way the world goes round…
 
I’d been looking for my place in the world. I’d thought maybe I could be a preppy or a skater or a goth, but instead I’d found my place amongst a bunch of tipsy people who looked like bird watchers and high school librarians. Somehow, I was fine with that.

Three years later, I bought tickets to a show on the banks of the Willamette River, outside Portland, Oregon. My dad had been diagnosed with cancer of the bile duct. The doctors said he had six months. I barely had enough money for the tickets, but I thought the show could be our last big trip together, like something from a movie.

But when the day rolled around, Steve was too sick to go. By that time, his skin had turned yellow and he could barely get up. I went to the show with my friend Chelsea and her mom, Kathy. We were too young to get into the beer garden, so we shoved a few beers into the waistbands of our jeans and wore baggy shirts, Kathy included.

While drinking Corona on the lawn, we were accosted by an officious security guard who demanded to see our identification. Kathy was the hot mom type, so I wasn’t totally surprised when the guard asked for her ID as well, but I was slightly more surprised when she seemed to think it was a fake. We were made to dump our beer out and relinquish the beers from our pants, but it was still one of the best shows I’ve ever seen, and my only happy memory of that time. The sun glittered silver on the river as John Prine sang “Lake Marie.” Do you know what blood looks like in black and white video? Shadows…

In the end, Steve only lived six weeks after his initial diagnosis. He died on July 1, 1999. His old friends played “Paradise” at his funeral. My mom and I did our best to carry on as usual, and two weeks later we went to The Oregon Country Fair, an annual hippie “family” reunion near our home. It was disorienting to be around so many happy people. I struggled to relate in the usual ways. I was feeling a distinct disconnect from reality.

Late one night, I was wondering through the woods when I came across a group of musicians playing in the dark. I could barely see them—they looked like bearded dwarves silhouetted against the tree shadows. (Okay, I was high.) As I approached, they struck up a rousing rendition of “Paradise,” jug band style. It was like flicking the switch that reminded me this darkness and sorrow had always been with us, was not unique to me, and could not extinguish the deep currents of joy.

My dad had a rare sensibility—at times cynical yet also deeply sentimental. He could see the darkness, but he had a great love for people. When I missed his commentary and his delight in strange details, I’d put on a record and find that same spirit in Prine’s voice.

As I grew older, I carried my records with me and John Prine came to remind me of a lot of people and times—both good and bad. I tried to go see John play once or twice a year, and hearing him talk always brought me home. I even once wrote him a letter, which I never sent. I wanted t tell him “That’s the Way the World Goes Round” had saved me from myself in my darkest moments. I wanted to thank him for getting me through so many sad times and for so eloquently acknowledging the darkness and the beauty of the world—and usually with a chuckle and a wink.

My memories may be unique, but they are not singular. If you love John Prine, you have a story about a wedding, or a breakup, or a funeral, or a lost friend, or a perfect day. Probably all of the above and then some. His songs are part of who we are—And unlike memories, they never wear out.
 

After several days indoors, we went outside to get drinking water and noticed a slight decrease in pedestrians, traffic, and vendors. We had high hopes for the weekend, which typically means lighter traffic in this neighborhood.

On Saturday, we set an alarm for 7 AM to get up and go for a short run  before the hoards arrived. (We don't try this on weekdays because we'd have to get up too fucking early.) I was surprised at the empty streets and was actually able to enjoy being outside for the first time since last Sunday.

Encouraged by the evening and early morning forays, I determined to revisit my aborted mission to replenish our supply of coffee beans.

Yeah, I know. Coffee is not essential to my actual survival.  But it's more important to me than almost every other substance. I guess if it came down to life or death, I'd prioritize drinking water or some source of calories. But let me put it this way...I'd go without wine before I'd go without good coffee.

Since the bars closed on Thursday, I've been thinking that the coffee shops could be next. Motivated by livid daydreams of Mexican grocery store coffee or Nescafe, I set off. Since taxis are no doubt coated in spittle and the Subway is out of question, I planned on walking the 2.8 kilometers to the source.

I'd been to the hipster coffee shop neighborhood in December, and I was pretty sure I could find it again. Poodles had shown me on a map, and I'd looked it up again myself. So I resolved not to use my phone until I actually needed it.

At first, my chances of maintaining my distance looked auspicious. The neighborhood seemed quieter, and I was able to make it seven or eight blocks without getting too close to anyone.

I've got an excellent sense of direction. Usually. But Mexico City, in all its muddled Byzantine glory, is  an exception to that rule. It doesn't help that I'm cocky about my ability to navigate by sight and always think I'll be able to figure it out. To make a long story short, I wandered off track and found myself on a busy six-lane street.

The corners were choked with taquerias, ladies frying gorditas, and juice stands; the air was smoky and made my mouth water. Strung along the hot, dirty thoroughfare, the neighborhood seemed funkier than Poodles's lower middle class block. Old men were selling used clothes and broken toys on the sidewalks and junkies of unknown denominations were skulking in the eaves. Most people ignored me and went about their business, but I noticed I was getting a few speculative looks--that particular brand of male gaze that is simultaneously predatory and unwelcoming.

I figured I was just unusually sensitive because being around so many people was freaking me out. Or that's what I told myself as I made myself even more of a mark by taking out my phone and pulling up Google maps. Which is when I discovered that my phone was out of credit.

By the time I found a mini mart where I could buy more phone credit, I had walked several kilometers out of my way. I was sweaty, short of breath, and imagining all the little sticky nodes of covid-19 floating through the air and clinging to my skin and hair.

My actual home is in a remote area and I've noticed that I sometimes develop a sort of low level agoraphobia. I get anxious about dealing with civilization, crowds of people, fluorescent lights and canned music. It manifests as indecisiveness and a kind of breathless abandon.

Typically, I only have this problem if I'm alone and it's been a while since I was in a town. After a few days of traveling and spending time in cities, I get used to the commotion, and the nasty feeling goes away.

Right now, I'm four months into a trip and I've been around people the entire time, so I was surprised when the agoraphobic feeling suddenly came pulsing back with a crazy vengeance. My heart was pounding and every person I saw seemed like a menace. I clutched my hand sanitizer with a wild look in my eye, and the guy behind the counter clearly thought I was crazy.

(If this sounds like an overreaction, it totally is. I think I'm being waaay paranoid and I've been mostly hiding inside for two weeks, which is probably overkill since the quantity of confirmed cases here is still really low. But the more I read about it, I'm actually pretty worried about getting covid-19, mainly because I am prone to serious respiratory  infections and generally  have a weak-ass immune system. I  don't want to end up in a Mexican hospital or, for that matter, an American hospital that I absolutely can't afford.)

I cleared out of the mini mart at a frenzied clip and tried to find a deserted street, but instead accidentally ran into an outdoor  food market. After backtracking to avoid the plague-carrying eaters and the delicious smell of carnitas, I finally found my way to Roma and calmed the fuck down.

Now I was on a wide, gracious boulevard with a walking park as a median strip. As I'd imagined, this more affluent area seemed less populated. Mostly just hipsters out walking their dogs, though some sidewalk cafes were still doing brisk business. I don't spend much time in Roma, so if it was hard to say if it was markedly quieter than usual. But it certainly felt like a respite to me.

 I walked around fountains in little squares below blossoming jacaranda trees. I saw two friends laughing over lunch at a cute cafe. I passed a promising bookstore and was suddenly overcome with longing for the not-so-distant past. A wistful envy of the people who were going about their lives, eating brunch and browsing in bookstores. Instead of, like, on a sweaty sprint to hoard coffee for the apocalypse.

At some point, I realized that my janky Mexican phone (or possibly janky Mexican Google) had completely misdirected me and I had walked another two kilometers out of my way. But by then I was more footsore than frantic, which was an improvement.

As for signs of the times? A bearded man and a girl in nerd glasses were selling handmade hand-sanitizer in front of a fancy lunch place. And...the coffee shop was closed.

Naturally, I did not give up. Naturally. Wearily, I hunted down another hipster coffee roaster that was on my radar. I'd been to Quentin (because of course it is called Quentin) before, and the shop had been full of people, but now it was empty. The barista wore a black t-shirt and looked bored until I started piling bags of exorbitantly expensive coffee on the counter while brandishing my hand sanitizer. Then he looked a little scared.

On the way home, my phone again misdirected me and sent me ten blocks out of my way. The final distance? Eight miles.

Anyway, if I end up with a deadly virus because I'm picky about coffee, just remember it was my own damned fault. 

Ten days indoors. We've been taking precautions for longer than  that, but they were sort of half-assed in the beginning and basically amounted to cancelling social plans and rampantly spraying disinfectant.

In the past ten days, I've left the apartment building four times. We've received four deliveries: Walmart groceries a week ago and then three yesterday--a red letter day. We got a CSA box, the guitar Poodles ordered, and a liter of rubbing alchohol.

Poodles has been revitalized by teaching himself how to play the guitar, (Fender is offering free online lessons) which has me thinking about self-imposed routine and how it can be a source of comfort and a way to prevent oneself from descending into rabbit holes.

I've been working from home for twelve years now, so I'm well-practiced in creating routines that help me manage my time and stay sane. At home, I don't follow a rigid schedule, but I do try for daily activities: exercise, meditate (off-brand, I know), sweep the entire house, prepare three meals, play with my cats, garden or do yard work, and of course my actual job.  In the morning, I drink coffee and read. In the evening, I drink wine and watch Netflix or Hulu. In other words, I'm boring, but I get shit done.

But when you live in a somewhat dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere, there's always a project or 300, which may range from the basic (splitting kindling) to the unexpected (trying to figure out what's wrong with the water system) to the esoteric (sorting through a collection of travel brochures from the 1950s that I found jammed in the back corner of a bookshelf.) So it's easy to stay busy and there's a certain amount of variety to my constructive activities.

Here, camped out in an apartment that is not my own, the range of potential activities is narrower. But I'm trying to create some kind of routine to keep myself from spending all of my time in an endless covid-19 web loop.

Unfortunately, I don't have a significant job to engage me. There's plenty of projects I could be working on, but none  have deadlines and they are all self-motivated. And I seem to be lacking motivation at the moment. The problem is that everything seems irrelevant in the face of the crises. For example, I want to write a book called The Other Mezcal, which would explore the history, culture, and politics of agave spirits made outside of Oaxaca, particularly raicilla. But for some reason it's hard to focus on topics unrelated to the pandemic. (Though no doubt the pandemic will change the landscape of the industry in question.)

So far I'm having spotty success with establishing a disciplined creative routine. I've been pretty good about meditating, working out, blogging, cooking reasonably well-rounded meals, and answering work email, but I keep "forgetting" to turn off the Internet for chunks of time so that I can focus on real writing.

I am better at the fun rituals. I've been watching friends' cracked out online videos, taking an afternoon "nap," voting on my favorite blog's annual worst fashion of the year bracket, and reading a lot of YA books by Maureen Johnson. At sunset, I make a cocktail and walk to the top story of the building, where there's a view of the sky. I look at the blinking clock on the torre latinoamerica and I survey Calle Isabel la Catolica to see if there's any discernible decline in pedestrian traffic. After that, things get really exciting as Poodles and I abandon our respective solo activities to eat dinner and watch one episode of ALF dubbed into Spanish.

I feel like I should be doing something grand. I feel like I should be focusing and kicking ass. But maybe it's okay that I'm just keeping my head above water and trying to enjoy myself?  I don't know.

Tell me about your routines...What is the difference between routine and habit, routine and ritual? What keeps you sane? What keeps you entertained?

 
I had a plan to walk 3.5 kilometers to a coffee shop to buy whole beans. Made it just over a block before I turned back. This was my first time out on the streets during  a weekday in exactly one week. I thought it might be better now because the mayor just issued an order to close museums, gyms, movie theaters, stadiums, bars, and nightclubs.

According to the Associated Press, traffic is lighter in Mexico City, and business is slower. This is likely true, but I'm not yet seeing it. Probably because, as the article explains, about 56% of workers in this city labor in the informal sector as vendors and craftspeople. Poodles happens to live in the city's oldest shopping district, which is home to a disproportionate number of street vendors.

In one short city block, I passed an orange juice vendor, a shoeshine, three taquerias, two street grills, a fruit cup stand, several people selling piles of used clothing, and a booth selling electronics. Probably more, actually--that's just what I remember. Imagine all this, plus customers. This article from Reuters makes me assume things may be quieter in the more affluent parts of the city. Too bad we can't get to them. jaja.

Meanwhile, the president of Mexico continues to encourage people to go about their business as usual. (This blog post from a friend has good insight into the situation in the rest of the country. Scroll down down to "The bigger picture in Mexico.")

But back to the really important shit. Obviously, I'm not going to go without coffee. 

We've ordered groceries from Walmart (I know, sorry, not as many options here) and are awaiting a delivery from another supermarket and a CSA. So I'm thinking we can also order coffee. It just won't be up to my snobby standards.

 I'm feeling kind of restless today. I was looking forward to that walk to buy coffee and instead ended up running the stairs in the building, ten stories of charmless cement, over and over. Good for the heart, literally, but not so much good for the heart metaphorically.

The dwindling supply of quality coffee has me thinking...For the most part, we've been having a good time. Weird, but comfortable. But we also have full cupboards, a full fridge, plenty of books, wifi, fresh water, gas, power, good company, and, like, all the tequila and mezcal.

So...yeah...super privileged.

The very fact that I'm self-isolating is a privilege. The streets are  full here because people can't bloody afford to stay home. And they'll continue to come out until they are literally forced inside, where they won't have the luxury of gourmet coffee, imported cheese, and the world's best tequila.

What would a slightly off, restless day feel like without these amenities? Without good company? That's already a reality for a lot of people and it could definitely be a reality for me, eventually.

(If I make it home, I'm going to be weathering these days alone.)

I do know what it's like to worry about not having enough to eat, but I don't know what that's like when you're all alone and the world has gone to hell in a handbasket.

I'm not trying alarmist or to make myself or anyone else feel any more anxious than we already do. I guess my takeaway is positive. What I'm thinking is this...I better enjoy this  good coffee while it lasts. This may be a time that I wistfully look back on.