Our World Right Now

I can't even write about this. Yet it feels wrong not to.

The world is going through a Pandemic right now, at such a scale that it's hard to really comprehend. Two thousand Americans just died today of COVID-19 and countries so dear to me like Italy are paying an insurmountable toll.

And here we are all sheltered-in-place, just one step below lock down. It's been like this for three weeks now. Is it four? Time loses meaning when the usual life rhythms are gone.

I went to the grocery store yesterday and it was surreal. I realized afterward that I was affected quite a lot by the experience, thus I’m writing down my account of the trip, full of the internal emotional colors as I was going through it. There’s no intentional artistic post-factum exaggeration, just tighter detailing due to the vivid memory it created, like one of those rare, extremely intricate dreams you can’t shake off in the morning. But it was not a dream.

Upon reading, Greg pointed out that these are “first world problems”, because people in other areas might be trying to find any semblance of food at all, while I worry about not finding what I consider basic items like organic milk. Yet it does not make this account of the world here any less valid, things are jarringly changed. I’m trying to preserve the feeling for later years to look back upon. It really is all about the stark differences compared to what a grocery store used to be, in a well-populated and fresh farming accessible area like California.

With all this in mind, we felt the need to add a clear, explicit note:

Disclaimer: We are healthy, have basic necessities and food, and are not worried about our immediate future, which is not something a lot of people can say right now. Our in-home situation with schools closed and both of us attempting to work from home is a more "plightful yet delightful" situation, but we'll go into that in a separate, more positive post. 

The following is to merely record the eerie experience of going to the grocery store in these times, and keep it for our memories.

Grocery Shopping in Pandemic Times

I’m going by myself, bundled up with clothes I plan to wash immediately when I get back - the virus can persist on clothing. Put on a makeshift mask out of a cotton scarf - no, it won't fully protect me but it will minimize exposure and stop me from inadvertently touching my face. My very sweet friend Alex had offered me medical masks out of his little stash a while ago, but both Greg and I discussed it and felt we should let those go to people who really need it. Medical staff, elderly, anyone deemed at higher risk.

Well, today as I build my makeshift cotton armor around myself I'm having second thoughts about that decision. Where is the fine line between unreasonably panicking about the situation and being dumbly unaware of the actual danger to ourselves? The data suggests that my family and I are not especially at risk, but could we be inadvertent carriers and not doing enough to prevent spread to others?

I thought of walking to the store like we used to, but decided to drive in support of better social distancing. Plus, I’d be able to buy more; we’ve been trying hard to minimize the number of shopping trips. Our food situation has changed -- all the special grocery delivery services which had been making our existence a blissful convenience during these "harder" family times with a newborn are unable to support the current overwhelming demand. Most are fully unavailable, unless you catch some extremely lucky refresh of their site right at midnight - I never caught such a window, but heard the “myth” of it from local friends in the same situation. Thankfully, grocery companies are scrambling up to evolve workable solutions like in-car no-touch delivery, though I have not tried it yet.

One last look in the mirror, with the strong resolution to not touch anything near my head after this. I look like some bandit heading to a bank robbery, my only weapon a flimsy credit card.

In the car, I consciously think of which surfaces I'm touching, before reminding myself that the virus is only viable for a few days on surfaces, and nobody's been in the car for weeks. The Chevy even squeaks with disuse like never before as I'm slowly backing out of the driveway.

For half a minute it feels like a regular sunny day, and my habit-brain triggers happy thoughts at the lack of traffic. Then an SUV from the side street blatantly runs the Stop sign with not even a hint of slowing down and swerves into the road in front of me speeding forward while I press the break. Yes, it's not a normal day. I bring my awareness back to the moment.

The store is right here, and I try to find parking. There's plenty of it and the cars are like colorful sprinkles on a cake: scattered all about and slanted in random directions. I understand the distancing, but has everyone completely given up on parking within the lines?

Indeed, not a normal day.

I get out and walk to the store's door, trying to regain any bit of normalcy out of this. I stop to thoroughly wipe my shopping cart, and casually chat with the two teenagers sitting on the ground. That's not normal either, I'd never dare approach them in regular times, yet they are startled enough that they actually have a civil conversation. I guess we're all missing social contact.

Cart fully sanitized, I’m ready to go. Grocery hunting at its best, with the other hunters stalking their prey six feet from each other, hoping it doesn't fly off the shelf before they get there. Many aisles are empty deserts due to "over hunting" - like the bread, flour, and yeast supplies. Apparently everyone is a hardcore baker in hardcore times. Though I shouldn't judge, myself looking for exactly those supplies for the same exact reason, to make something fresh for the kids. Luckily, on the bread front we're not actually desperate. Last week a neighborhood lady was so kind to share one little packet of yeast with us. She left it hidden in a small ziploc bag outside her front door, and I remember feeling like some crazed scavenger snooping all around her decorative pots to try to find the precious cargo, while she was just behind the closed door. She came out after I got into my car, to wave in friendship, and we chatted afterwards by text exchanging photos of freshly made bread (see the bottom photo for Mara's and Gaius's little breads out of that packet).

A few days after that, another friend was so sweet to drive by our house and drop off a couple more packets of the prized yeast by our gate - so no, we're not in need of that anymore thanks to lovely people!

I head toward the fresh produce aisle in hope of fruits and veggies for our meals these next two weeks. How do you even pick good produce without touching multiple items to check for firmness? I decide to switch to visual cues, which sort of works. Several items have visible bruising or are starting to mold, so I get the few that aren't, whether ripe or not - they'll ripen in the house.

Near me, two grocery staff members restock the shelf while quietly chatting about finally getting hazard pay, two extra bucks per hour. Oops! "Near" me. I back away the cart and go all around the island to the other side, giving them the required 6ft social distancing space.

As I do so, I hit the jackpot: one tiny box of fresh organic blackberries! That, plus blueberries make their way into the cart and I'm already getting a sense of accomplishment.

My mood soars as I see in the distance that the eggs section is well stocked! The eggs and milk sections were mostly barren the last three weeks. That last thought gives me a major sense of urgency since milk is the one thing we're actually out of, and had motivated this trip.

Now, if only I could navigate past the two people slowly peering above their masks at the tomatoes...

Two minutes and 16ft later, I get to the dairy aisle and get another pleasant surprise: three small containers of sour cream and even Kerrygold butter! This last one is as valuable as gold in our family - so much so that when we could not find it in any store these last three weeks Greg started looking for ways to ship Kerrygold butter online. In the cart it goes!

At this point I'm truly cheerful, freely advancing with no interruptions another 20ft to the milk fridges. I spot the last organic whole milk gallon on the bottom shelf way in the back, stuck in the rollers. It takes about two minutes of planking above the floor, stretching my fingertips as far as they go to gently shift the rollers and get the gallon to advance. And surprise! three of them come down! We have milk for two more weeks of sheltering-in-place!

On my way out I remember to check for English muffins. On each of the last two trips we took the last bag of our favorite type each time. It takes a while, as I just noticed the large red one-way stickers on the aisle floor so I walk the whole aisle and back around. As I get near my target, two teenagers walk barely a foot past me, dazedly going the wrong way. My subconscious peripheral vision and hearing slowly fills in the details as they pass by: tall, straight straw-colored hair with a slightly unwashed look, red-rimmed eyes, sniffly nose … What?! this person is quite obviously ill! What are they doing in here like that?! I can't even begin to imagine what an “at-higher-risk” person would think right now, being in fear for their own life. I'm shocked enough to forget words until they're already gone out of sight. And yes, once my newly triggered distress wears out I do find my English muffins. We'll have a true avocado toast party when I get back to the house.

At the register, finally some friendly eyes. Our neighborhood grocery store staff, still tiredly smiling at me underneath the medical mask. I've always been surprised how much you can see from a person's smile just by looking at their eyes.

I'm actually very glad to see them here: this means they're not sick, and they have a stable income still, unlike so many people out there right now! Even though I doubt that they enjoy being called "heroes" while working two feet away from hundreds of potentially-contagious strangers trickling through the store each day. I don't dare mention it. I just try to be compassionate in our meager communication. He wishes me "Stay safe!" at the end, instead of the usual “Good day!”; as if there are no Good Days to have right now...

As I push my cart out, feeling it's hefty weight, I'm quite happy though. We have perishables enough to last for at least a week, maybe even two, together with our older pantry items. And we're healthy and together, which is the most important part.

Yet it's sobering to go out on one of these trips.

A man in his thirties with a full-size helmet and face shield, connected by a tube running down his back to some sort of air filtration box is eerily passing through. An ageless Asian lady is calmly (and very properly) pushing her cart toward the far end of the parking lot, well-fitted medical grade mask on, tight plastic gloves protecting her hands. An elderly man has finished putting the bags in his car and is getting into the driver's seat; he's wearing the usual attire that we used to call normal; no mask, no gloves. Maybe he's not feeling at risk, or maybe he's decided whatever will come, will come and that's that.

And here I am, planning to return to the house swiftly, declare "quarantine" on the car, then enter through the garage to leave most of the groceries there for at least 24h before bringing them to the kitchen, because why tempt fate? And to put all my clothes immediately in the washer and fast-track myself to the shower without touching anything on the way. I oscillate between overreacting and being too lax about it. I'm guessing that's how I innately deal with the stress of this entire situation. And everyone deals in their own way, even teens being teens and ignoring the rules to try to bring some sort of normalcy to such an uncertain world.

It's a war out there. But I'm thinking back to my grandmother Mamaia's stories from the War, when intelligent human beings were actively seeking to hurt you, when we lost faith in humanity as we saw the beasts in some of us emerge.

I'm so, so grateful that this is an Inhuman War, with an invisible microscopic enemy that's simply resting on surfaces and slowly disintegrating, unless someone picks it up.

It's not alive. It's not actively trying to kill us.

All we need to do is to follow some strict rules and be patient, and we can defeat this. The only weakness here is in whether we can all do it together, and for long enough. I already see so much humanity showing through, with friends and neighbors reaching out to one another to help. A photo you send to someone is worth so much more right now; they'll really, really look at it, trying to fill their heart with your presence. A text, no matter how short, will remind someone that you are well, and that there are still trivial, placid things to think about and joke. Friends chatting with friends they hadn't caught up with in years. Families truly spending time together, and cherishing their increased time together. It's giving life and love a bit more depth than we've been used to in the past decade.

So I push my empty cart back to the store's entrance, with deep bass beats slightly skewing the rhythm of my heart, coming from the parked neighboring car, like the soundtrack of some apocalyptic first-person video game where I'm the main player. It feels surreally real. And I cherish and embrace the state of mind, locking it up in my memories for when I myself will be a grandma to share my war stories.

Now, back to the War Zone of toys, games, crafts, used dishes and laundry that was formerly known as our house...

Annex for happy thoughts:

Mara and Gaius's little breads that we made out of that first packet of Pandemic yeast (thank you Annie!!)