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.
 

 
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.?