Andalucid Again

100 Days of Solitude: social distancing in small-town southern Spain, Week 3

Eds studying botany at the casita

 

WEEK THREE: 29 March-5 April 2020

 

Sunday 29 March

I don’t much like Sundays; the one day of the week we usually stay at home, not seeing or being seen. It’s a day when domestic chores loom large, and when I miss far-off family and friends more than usual. Today I realise that not only is every day now Sunday, but that many millions are having another week of Sundays too. We are all in the same boat. Somehow this is cheering.

Back in February, some lovely friends left us the keys to their holiday casita in the near campo. A tiny cottage in a huge garden studded with olive and orange trees and swirling with wildflowers. Beautiful junky treasures of furniture and garden décor, and a couple of mismatched sunbeds. Fred and I would take Eddy in the car, together with a picnic lunch. We’d enjoy the warm bright afternoon, and come back as the sun was setting behind the tall eucalyptus trees at the edge of the gardens. Our ears would be filled with birdsong and cock-crow, and our bags with endless oranges.

But we haven’t been since early March. It’s just too far to take my disobedient knee for a walk, and we are not allowed to drive anywhere now, especially together, without good reason. Without a garden or terrace space to our flat, the casita would be a delightful escape. But like other simple pleasures, it will have to wait.

Luckily an active friend who lives in a flat in town is able to get there at least twice a week, with Eds in tow. She says it is keeping her sane and that’s great. Anyway, we like to think of Eds galloping around the grounds, then coming to rest in his favourite clump of wildflowers, basking in the sun.

 

Tuesday 31 March

The rain started at first light. Fred and Eds splashed round their morning route, but by the time I went out for food, the sun was shining, and the mountains around the town had a fresh topping of speckled white.

Gloved and masked, I hobbled to the nearest supermarket. (I tried a ‘simple’ Tai Chi class online yesterday and tripped over while Parting my Wild Horse’s Mane). Each week there seems less to buy, so menus and shopping list get altered on the hoof. Rejecting the last bag of pink rubber commas masquerading as prawns, I hook the last pack of salmon fillet instead. Half a chicken again, good for two or three meals, and – small victories – in the permafrost section of the freezer, a rogue packet of Hot X Buns! I am keeping them for Easter Sunday, when I can once again spread them with proper butter after my Lenten dairy fast.

Fred collects the bags and hands me the rubbish to take up to the public bin; soon I’m back indoors again. I’ve felt ill-disposed to socialise today, even from behind my pastel pink mask. Sad at the weight of uncertainty and fear all around us, at livings and lives lost or in limbo. The rising death rate in Spain is the highest behind Italy and the damage to the economy incalculable. Even when this emergency phase passes, as New York governor Andrew Cuomo says: “life won’t be going back to normal, but to a new normal.”

Wednesday 1 April

Up four times during the night to try and stop Eddy’s exuberant snoring. At 5.30 am I give up and get up, and we self-isolate on the living room sofa. Wedged in along the length of my legs, his liquorice nose tucked between my feet, he settles down to sleep without another sound. I doze and half-dream about the new supermarket aisles that will be set up for biohazard products; masks, gloves and gowns, hand sanitizer and wipes, electronic thermometers…special offers on family packs.

Late in the afternoon, out with Eds, a warning thunderclap sets us hurrying home.  Too late to miss the sleet-storm, pelting us with needles of ice as we run back. From the safety of the living-room windows I watch the sleet billowing across the dark greens of the far trees, the sun dazzling through the nearer eucalyptus, leaves electric green, sparkling with a million diamonds. It’s my happiest moment in three weeks.

 

Friday 3 April

Happy Birthday Mum! She would have been 91 years old today. I’m glad she didn’t live to experience all this – in spite of her blindness, deafness and increasing frailty, Mum remained highly sociable and hospitable to the end. She would not have been able to connect at all via social media. I bring her photograph into the dining room, put it next to the single splendid red rose our tiny balcony ‘garden’ has produced, and light a candle for her.

We find the last dozen paper muffin cups and Fred bakes orange and vanilla muffins, a wonderful taste of spring on a cool, grey afternoon.

 

Saturday 4 April

I overdo the social media contacts this morning, and spend the rest of the day avoiding the screen – any screen. I hear about people in difficult situations. Couples that were only staying together by spending most of their time apart, now held captive by coronavirus. A friend with MS who went back to the UK to help her mum, who has cancer, and is now stuck there while her partner carries on alone in Spain. A friend in the UK whose elderly father from our neighbouring village is in hospital with Covid-19. Will she see him again?

We talk to good friends in the States. Jovial as ever, they tell us how they were hurried out of Wal-Mart on Monday as soon as the ‘shelter in place’ order went out. They’d been buying baseball bats, in order to defend their home from the law-and-order fallout they anticipate once the immediate emergency is over. Meanwhile, they were waiting to take delivery of a gun, but with demand far exceeding supply in their state, they hadn’t been able to pick one up with the groceries. This is a professional couple living in a pleasant Maryland suburb. Anticipating the desperation of those left to fend for themselves. With the 10 million jump in unemployment registration over the past two weeks, perhaps they are just being pragmatic.

The Spanish government will now extend the ‘estado de alarma’ until 26 April. Although the rate of deaths is slowing, I don’t think anyone is surprised by the extension. I would like to know when people will feel safe to sit at the same outdoor tables again, or go to the hairdresser, or get on a bus? I think it might not be the same day the government tells us it’s OK.

100 Days of Solitude: social distancing in small-town southern Spain, Week 2

With thanks to Matthias Boeckel and Pixabay for the picture of chive blossoms

 

WEEK TWO

 Sunday 22 March – Week Two, Day 1

I wake as daylight fills the bedroom window. For a moment, everything seems fine, then again, that startle of recognition: “This is really happening to us right now.”  This ‘after-the-bomb’ slow-motion transformation of our everyday routine and lifescape. People with shuttered faces hurrying past shuttered shops in deserted streets.

On the news, Chinese families emerge from their 'house arrest' for the first time in eight weeks. You can see their eyes smiling above their masks, as they take in the sun and fresh air. What will be the first signs of hope here? Perhaps our first coffee on the terrace at Galindo’s, every table full of friendly faces upturned to the sun.

Luckily, Fred has channelled his creative energy into cooking and baking. He is my secret weapon for making this situation much more than bearable. Today’s Sunday roast chicken will be turned into Monday’s curry and Tuesday’s stir-fry (helped along with a tub of Pot Noodles).  Even better, the last two prune and walnut muffins he made this week are crumbed into today’s classic Apple Crisp – a triumph!  I tell Fred there is no-one I would rather be trapped indoors with.

Tuesday 23 March – Week Two, Day 2

We’ve decided to plan menus more carefully and shop just twice a week for groceries. This morning’s ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ mission: go up the hill to the car, drive to vets for giant bag of wheat-free kibble and special diet tinned food for Eds. Stop at pharmacy for one missing medication; Fred assures me he will be a goner by Thursday teatime if it is not replaced. Drive past street door and dump food with waiting Fred. Park car even further than usual, walk to greengrocer, leave bag to collect on my way back. To supermarket to order half a corn-fed chicken for Friday. Return home via greengrocer’s, with siege provisions for rest of week.

Wednesday 24 March – Week Two, Day 3

There is a knock at the door after breakfast. Yolanda, who lives in our block, and who I never spoke to before yesterday, presents me with three handcrafted cotton face masks. A manly blue one for Fred, pink for me, faced with pink gingham, and a little baby size one – maybe it’s for Eds! How kind. Three guesses what I put in the inner panels to insulate the masks…

I think about getting the vacuum cleaner out and doing the rugs. Unfortunately, though the time available for housework has expanded significantly, my interest in doing it has remained exactly the same size as it was. The vacuum cleaner is left undisturbed, gathering dust.

I have found a hair colour I can live with, a dark blonde shade. According to the picture on the box, I will emerge as a pouting beauty with rippling golden tresses. I think it is just a serving suggestion.

Thursday 25 March – Week Two, Day 4

I talk to a friend living in London. She admits to being quite relieved at the lack of social obligations – nowhere to go, no-one to see. She can watch Holby City guilt-free; pollution levels are way down; people are rediscovering a sense of community; we are seeing how much the NHS really matters. The clamour of sports and celebrity trivia has dwindled to a whisper. If we are fortunate, we might look back on this strange few weeks and months and think it was not all bad.

Friday 26 March – Week Two, Day 5

I’m out with Eds for his teatime walk, and juggling a bag of fruit and veg from Antonio, whose stall is at the end of our block. I hiss my order at him as I go past with the dog, fling money on the counter and collect the bag at speed on the return leg. Often a local policia squad car is parked across the road, watchful. Hopefully this doesn’t count as a shopping trip, as I have the dog in tow. And Eds will never blab.

On this rare rainy afternoon, the Lujar mountains are slate grey against the pearl grey sky, white clouds billowing across them, a magical frame for our small, sleeping town.

It’s a local fiesta today, when the Alpujarras’ patron saint, El Cristo de la Expiración, is paraded from the church at sunset, accompanied by the Virgen de los Dolores. It is a matter of pride to Orgiveños that the ensuing hectic release of firecrackers, the ecstatic crescendo of  noise and dense smoke, are unrivalled in the many similar ceremonies that take place in Andalucia around this time. This year, it is all played out as usual, echoing eerily through the deserted high street.

Saturday 27 March – Week Two, Day 6

Every day this week has produced a record number of coronavirus fatalities for Spain. Madrid is the epicentre; here in our little town, the only infections we know about have happened to three members of the post office team. And yet the possibility of infection seems to lurk around every corner, the invisible item given out with the change in every shop. Our ‘estado de alarma’ seems to have been in place for a long time already, but we all know there is a long way to go. 

100 Days of Solitude: social distancing in small-town southern Spain

WEEK ONE

Sunday 15 March – Day 1

Our 'estado de Alarma' has already begun, eased in on a Sunday when shops are always shut anyway.

Today I went out only to take the dog for a walk.  The first rain in weeks had revived all the green growing things. Intense perfume of orange blossom with whiffs of wild garlic, raindrops still glittering on leaf and flower, the mild still evening. I could have walked for hours in near solitude. Stripped of possibilities for being anywhere to meet anyone, time feels expanded, I am less restless than usual on a Sunday. Should I feel this good?

I'm sad for our local bars, cafés and restaurants. They are the best part of our town, each with its own personality presiding over it, grumpy and grudging or warm and welcoming. Some, already trading on slim margins, will have closed their doors for good.

To bed, where all the baffled hopes and plans of all my family members, friends and complete strangers weave a veil of worry around my head.

 

Monday 16 March – Day 2

Cool and showery, this morning’s grey sky sets the new tone. Armoured in my beacon-red puffa jacket, I set off with shopping list and bag in hand. I need to reassure any passing Guardia Civil patrol that I am just an anxious housewife out to get basic supplies for my clamouring family.

On his usual corner, Andy, one of our street entrepreneurs, is scowling into a rubbish bin. He usually has a cheerful greeting to share, but this morning, he doesn’t even see me. The police won’t let Andy stay on the street all day now, and anyway who will pass by to give him change?

In my local mini-supermarket, staff are wearing masks and gloves. Usually, it’s a social hub, but no-one is even making eye contact today, as if glances could transmit. Shelves are still half-stocked, though choice is already more limited. I buy sliced bread, a big jar of Marmite, more baked beans and coffee.

I planned to use these weeks to get slimmer, fitter, by exercising every day. I would step out in Holy Week, toned if not exactly tanned, wearing my skinniest black jeans and a black vest, transformed. Instead, I go back to the supermarket this evening and buy a huge bag of salt and vinegar crisps for me, and the Thai flavour for Fred. And I seize the last-but-one packet of frozen crumpets with a secret, savage joy.

Rain stopped before lunchtime, but the bright air has turned sharply cold, with a sawtooth wind. I need comfort food to face our sad, diminished streets again.

Tuesday 17 March – Day 3

I’m starting to understand that the next two weeks are going to feel like one very long Sunday. Don’t think about it.

Poor Antonio – our greengrocer is wilting more quickly than his unsold lettuce, without the rain of social contact that he flourishes in. I usually hear his voice below my bathroom window every morning, booming out greetings to passing drivers and pedestrians, or hanging out loudly with ‘the Choir’ – five or six of his old friends, who gather around the bench opposite his shop.

Today Antonio is wearing a mask as well as gloves. He says almost no-one has been in, and is taking an unusually gloomy view of things. He could be right – there are fewer people than ever in the street, and no-one I know. When you do see someone, you feel abashed, furtive, as if they have caught you outside after curfew.

When I get back from walking Eddie, I see a message from a friend who lives in town. She’s getting cabin fever after a whole day indoors, so I offer up Eds to her for a bonus walk after dinner. He looks at me reproachfully, but I tell him we all have to do our bit right now.

Wednesday 18 March – Day 4

Reader, today we defrosted the freezer. Over the past year, a mini-Ross Ice Shelf had formed above the top drawer. After a long morning spent pouring away ice-melt, swabbing everything dry, and throwing out age-old packets of petrified proteins, we gazed on our depleted but orderly freezer with quiet satisfaction.

Later, I worked out how to use liquid detergent in the washing machine. I’ve had a big bottle of the stuff in the laundry for months but couldn’t work out the Spanish instructions. It took an hour, plus washing out the dispenser and polishing the top of the machine. And I caught up with all the laundry. By the weekend I will probably be scrubbing behind the toilets.

Thursday 19 March – Day 5

Sounds that don’t soothe: In the big villa opposite our dining room, someone is busy with power tools. I shut the windows tight against the fitful rattle and rasp of the drill. Later, our upstairs neighbour seems to be hacking at furniture. And every breakfast-time, a shower door (?) slams repeatedly, directly above us. Owing to the strange position of our corner flat, we are not even sure exactly who counts as our neighbour on one side. We are only sure that we wish they hadn’t started DIY projects this week.

Our US client sends a kind email, also asking us to hold all marketing activity on this year’s event until further notice. As for so many others, the next few months are shrouded in uncertainty about work and pay.

I delete my Guardian news app, which I have been checking around 20 times a day to get my next fix of shock and awe. It had to go and I feel better without it.

Saturday 20 March – Day 6

This time last week, I was sitting on a busy, sunny terrace having coffee with a friend, who was going to drive back to the coast afterwards.  It seems like another life, and I suppose it was. Yesterday, Spain suffered its highest 24-hour coronavirus death toll, with 235 fatalities and almost 20,000 confirmed cases.

In our small local supermarket I assess the remaining shades of hair colour with which to rescue my greying roots. Black seems improbable, blonde, impossible. I decide to let it go. When this is over I will emerge like Mrs. Rochester from her attic, clawing long grizzled locks aside and frightening the young.

With work currently on hold, I’ve tried to create some kind of daily timetable, to stop me binge-reading Edith Wharton novels on my Kindle App. There is Domestic Chores Hour, K.I.T. with Family and Friends Hour; Writing Hour ( or ‘Not Writing Hour’). Followed by Fitness Hour and Spanish Language Hour, then Dinner. Followed by Collapse In Front of Netflix Hour (actually 2.5 hours on average), and so to bed.

In practice, all these Hours tend to seep into each other, and I find myself doing KIT with FF in response to a random WhatsApp message, when I should be doing Domestic Chores, and so on. Anyway I should have plenty of time to refine and perfect my self-immolation routine over the next few weeks.

I reinstall my Guardian news app.