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.

The Centro Historico of Mexico City is an ancient neighborhood (as you might divine from the name) with listing canyons of Colonial edifices, streets of lumpy flagstone, and markets as teaming and surprising as coral reefs. It's my favorite urban district in the world. I've been exploring it for decades, and I know its secrets and mysteries could keep me engaged till the end of my days.

In addition to Buildings of Historical Note (of which there are a ridiculous quantity), there are scores of museums, both famous and obscure. But for your average resident, it's primarily a shopping district. You can buy everything from Italian shoes to cheap luggage to baby jesuses.

Thousands of people live here, maybe tens of thousands, but it's not considered a residential area and it tends to empty out at night and on Sundays. We keep thinking that it might empty out on weekdays too, if people start taking this seriously en masse. We imagined that we'd be able to take walks, at least. But that hasn't happened yet.

Yesterday we went out to get fresh vegetables and fruit and Vitamin D pills (and soda water, of course!). After four full days indoors, I was feeling woozy and sluggish. I almost thought I was sick, but I took my temperature, which was fine, and decided it was either my usual borderline hypochondria or my body was reacting to being deprived of natural light for 100 hours.

I expected that going outside would be exciting. I expected my senses to be heightened, like when I watched the sun set. I expected to marvel at the colors, the light, the bizarre details that have always made this area so fascinating. Instead, I just felt anxiety so intense it made me nauseated.

Here's the thing... Personal space is not really a thing in Mexico. You throw down a beach towel and the next group of people is going to set up right next to you, not as far away as possible, like they would in the US. And this can be a great thing about this country. It can also be annoying if you're not in the mood for a boombox blasting banda in your face while someone insists that you drink a warm Modelo and eat ceviche while their children crawl all over you, but, as someone with shy and antisocial tendencies, it's usually great for me to spent time around people who are more in-your-face, who want to know about you, strangers who say good morning, women who kiss your cheeks. Social distancing is the antithesis of Mexico.

Which makes this trickier...

I tend toward claustrophobia in crowds, and stepping out onto the sidewalk felt like a bad idea. We thought the street looked slightly less crowded than usual, but it was still choked with vendors, and it was impossible to stay six feet away from other people, especially since very few other pedestrians seemed to be trying.

I felt like I was in a very difficult video game. Your objective is to stay as far away from people as possible, but coughing people keep popping up right in your path.

Passing my favorite taqueria was pretty harsh, and then going into the market made me feel like I was walking into a warren of pestilence. I started to feel like I couldn't breathe, and my heart was racing.

So....not a great first foray into the great outdoors. After we returned to the sanctuary of the apartment, I felt like never going out again. Which scared me. Because staying inside hasn't been so bad. In fact, it's seemed a little too easy at times. For the first time in my life, I don't have to feel guilty for staying in and watching TV on a Friday night. I don't have to feel guilty for not taking a walk. I don't have to feel guilty for hiding away from the world.

So this morning we made ourselves get up early enough to take a run.

The neighborhood really is virtually empty on Sunday mornings, so it was much less freaky. We ran over to the Alameda, where the jacaranda trees are in bloom. On the way back, we sat in a little square and watched people walking their dogs. And, for a second, life almost seemed normal. I felt that I was in the Centro Historico, a place I dearly love, instead of in some surreal limbo.

What are your experiences with  leaving your house or apartment? How does it make you feel? Any thoughts on the long-term effects of social distancing, being holed up, etc.?

I've now been indoors for 80 hours. Yesterday we walked up to the top story to watch the sunset. There's no roof access, but I found a little balcony with a view of the Centro Historico. Funny how being deprived of outward stimulus makes simple things seem exciting. Many of you know that I'm a sunset obsessed---watching the sunset is about as close as I come to a religious devotion. So I normally pay attention. But last night it seemed like everything was extra bright and fascinating, even though the sun was obscured by a bank of grey. In addition to the towers of tangerine clouds cut through by jets, I was captivated by the blinking lights of the Torre Latinoamerica (one of my favorite buildings) and the pedestrians milling in the street below. And then, just as we were about to go, the sky fractured with lightening.

We had planned on waiting till the people dissipated so we could take a walk. But that doesn't happen till about 8 PM and in the end we got lazy after dinner, and watched our prescribed episode of dubbed-in-Spanish bootleg ALF (it was terrible but ALF looks amazing in a suit), and Breaking Bad.

Today I thought  about going to the mini mart to stock up on soda water (probably neck-in-neck with sunsets as one of the guiding fixations of life), but I didn't. Weird how staying in becomes a habit. I know we're being more careful than many people in areas with higher level of reported infection, but it's scary here because so many people aren't taking it seriously, the population is insanely dense, and the country is extremely ill-prepared to deal with the crises. Healthcare workers were protesting in the streets today because they don't have the correct safety gear and Mexico has less than half of the hospital beds per capita as Italy. Meanwhile, the sidewalks are choked with people going about their business. It feels like this city is going to go up like wildfire.

Anyway, you get to thinking...What if I got sick or made someone else sick just because I wanted some fucking soda water? Am I really that effete? Maybe I'll just stay inside and look at this comments section...

What did you do today?

3:18 PM
I've now been inside this apartment for 48 hours, except for 30 minutes yesterday, when I ran up and down the ten flights of stairs. The sounds of the metropolis filter in: the rattle of buses, honking, dogs barking, an eerie yet beautiful trumpet. I wonder if the city looks any different than it did two days ago. Are there fewer people walking the streets?

Being indoors all the time feels extremely strange. The term "outdoorsy" isn't exactly right for me. It evokes a certain level of wholesomeness that I don't manifest and implies that I own expensive hiking boots and water sandals. But I am accustomed to spending a lot of time outdoors. In fact, I just spent two months camping in an open air hut on a remote Pacific beach. I ran in the morning and swam every day, drying myself in the sun beneath massive blue skies and enjoying the breeze on my skin. I hardly got online.

I keep thinking how comparatively "normal" my life would feel if I were at home in the Oregon Coast Range. I already live alone, work from home (for which I feel extremely thankful), and seldom see other people. Instead of driving to town for supplies once a week, I'd probably set it up so I went once every two or three weeks. I'd miss drinking beer on my porch with my neighbor La Lechera and the occasional visits with other friends, but, other than that, my life would hardly change. I'd get up and run on the gravel road in the morning and garden in the breaks between the rain. 

But here's the thing. I think there's a big difference between being actually alone and just mostly alone. And the thought of being totally alone is a little scary. Is anyone out there who is isolating solo? What are your thoughts? (What do I have to look forward to?)

Here in Mexico City, I am fortunate to be "isolating" with someone I truly love and enjoy. For reasons too obscure to explain, I will call him Poodles. Poodles is good company for watching bootleg ALF DVDs and arguing about gangster movies and complaining about the terrible accents of 90% of the Spanish-speaking characters on Breaking Bad. The downside, of course, is that I am in his apartment. I've always been sensitive about imposing on people and getting in the way, and of course I imagine it's  annoying to have me snorfling around, dripping shower water on the floor, grinding my teeth, and dribbling coffee grounds on the counters.

I have a ticket home for April 5, but I have no idea if it will be reasonable or even possible to leave then. I am considering trying to change my ticket to leave sooner, but I don't know if that will be possible.

And, truth be told, I am just as scared of leaving as I am of staying here. It could mean getting stuck in the United States indefinitely. That's half a joke, but I'm also serious. My boyfriend and my mother both live in Mexico. I've always felt happier and more at home here than I do in the US. The idea of actually being cut off from Mexico makes me feel like I can't breathe.

I guess the only thing is to live in the moment and be grateful that I'm in good company and that I'm not sick, and that I have work and a place to stay other than a lonely, expensive, and probably virus-prone hotel.

It was extremely cool and heartening to get so many responses to my last post, and I was fascinated to read everyone's experiences. I hope you will keep writing.

I think it would be interesting to record what we are thinking now, at the relative outset of this epoch. How long do we imagine keeping this up? How bad do we think it will get? I am also interested in hearing from people who have been doing this longer than I have. How is isolation affecting you? Has your perspective changed much since the first couple of days?

I want to be clear that I'm not looking for sympathy. While my situation is unique, it is certainly not that bad. My goal here is, for history nerd reasons, to record my experience and the perspectives of anyone who chooses to comment. I am interested in the ways in which we are all isolated yet all in this together.

We've been laying low as much as possible for about a week, but yesterday was the first day of complete isolation. I don't actually know many people in this city, so I'm not really missing out on socializing, but I'm definitely missing the tacos and cantinas and museums.

I'm spending my time in a two bedroom apartment in the heart of Mexico City's historic district. Despite its picturesque location, the  building looks more Soviet bloc than Colonial.  The windows face interior courtyards as deep as canyons. To discern the weather, or even the time of day, I have to stick my head out the door and crane my neck.

On Tuesday we went out to look for rubbing alchohol and paper towels. Ironically, stepping out the building made me feel instantly claustrophobic because suddenly we were in a throng of people. Street vendors choke the sidewalks and people wander in large groups. In short, life goes on as usual, although we did think we noticed a decrease in traffic, and I saw a few people with face masks.

I had a surreal feeling of disconnect between the news, messages from friends in the U.S. and Europe, and the reality around me. We're hearing reports from Jalisco, where the state government seems to be taking the situation seriously, but the Mexican federal government seems to be doing very little and I fear that things are going to go from "normal" to terrible very quickly here.

So far my plans for staying sane include reaching out to friends, recording my experiences, doing a virtual writing workshop with my cousin Hannah, and watching one episode of ALF dubbed into Spanish per day.