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.