Fear and hoarding in Villecomtal

My friend, Mr. X, left his native land to come and stay as isolated as he could in his refuge at the French countryside. He is a cautious man, and thus obeys the rules of confinement to the letter. He did have to go get some groceries, though, and the lines outside supermarkets can be very long; not more than 10 people are allowed in at a time. So he was standing there, queuing like a Brit (the norther you go in Europe, the more orderly queuing you'll find, unlike our French and, say, Italian counterparts), minding his own business. The wind was cold and he was standing in the shade, so he moved a bit toward the sunny spot right next to him. 
"Almost got my face bashed in", he sighed afterwards, "some guy thought I was jumping the queue, started waving his fists and threatened me with physical violence". 

I was yelled at as well, for bringing home a take-away pizza from our local restaurant. They had to close, but could remain open for take-away. I don't know about you, but when you're spending your days in quarantine, thinking various apocalyptic thoughts and listening to your kids scream out of sheer boredom, a take-away pizza does not sound bad at all. So I took a pizza home and was deliriously happy eating food prepared by someone else. Not that I mind cooking, in fact I love it and can proudly state I manage it well indeed. It's just that when you can no longer go to a restaurant, all of a sudden, the thought of restaurant food becomes more tempting as ever, forbidden fruit syndrome and all.

So I casually mentioned our friendly village grocers how much I had enjoyed eating a take-away pizza. Just to talk about something else than our nemesis the Corona for a while. Like Mr. X, minding my own business, searching for a bit of comfort. And like him, immediately attacked. A village guy, previously very friendly toward me and the family, started yelling from the top of his lungs. "So they sell pizza to go, do they! And you go and buy some, do you? Well, it's because of connards like that we're all going to DIE! (Connard, as it turns out, is not that forthright to translate. The online dictionary suggests either "asshole", "shithead" or "motherfucker" as the most appropriate translation.) I looked at the guy, fuming now. "Man, you're just plain exaggerating", I told him, shaking my head. " The pizza guys are by law allowed to sell their pizza. I for one am very glad they do."
"Well, I hope you're still glad when you're kids are dying, gasping for air in a hospital in front of you!" the guy yawped, red now. "Now you're inducing panic", I hissed from between my teeth, "and that is not a correct thing to do". I was trying to stay calm and turned away to leave. The hell if I was going to get mad over a damn pizza. "You're no longer welcome at my home!" the guy screamed after me.

This was a week ago, week 1, and 2 days into the quarantine. Now we're at week 2. I just got back from the village grocery store. Sylvie, my friend the grocer, shook her head at my question when I asked if she had any eggs. "No eggs available. There are beginning to be more and more holes on the shelfs", she whispered. She pointed at the newspaper headline. France pleads any able-bodied person to help farmers. 

That felt strange. As a poor metro-tunnel singer  (see blog postings from the years 2011) I used to have so little money I counted cents to buy a loaf of bread, so I've lived with meager means before. This is the first time I've seen a slightest sign of a food shortage in my life, a food shortage that isn't my of own doing, that is. I'm 44 years old. Somehow I feel this will not be the last time.

Now, some of this aggressive behavior can be construed as just ye olde consumerist withdrawal symptoms. We have been told for so long to spend our days working and our free time shopping that it has become the norm. Sure, it's hard to look back at one's life and realize it's been nothing but an elongated shopping spree. It's even harder to change, since it would mean a change in what we call the western way of life. 

But if epidemics are to become the new normal, the food shortages, the fear and hoarding, the name calling and fist-waving at the grocery store, what will the western values become? How fast can they change, and into what? In my crystal ball, I do see one thing. I see hoards of people leaving big cities to look for those values in the countryside. 

Welcome to the second week in quarantine. 

The Crown

It's been about 8 years since I last wrote a blog entry. A careful observer will see why. I have become a full-blown professional writer, published 7 novels, mini-series and an audio book while raising both hell and two kids. I have not had the time.

Now I feel the urge to write again, and one can easily see why currently I might have a bit of time on my hands. Our world changed in a matter of a weekend, and no-one know yet how profoundly, how permanently, and plain old HOW.

The world got sick.

I live in a small South-western France medieval village, in which I had found a refuge from the modern world. Its thick, redstone fortifications, close neighborhood social connections and oozy cheeses protect me from all harm. With just a minor hiccup. The coronavirus didn't know that it wasn't invited to the party.

I am the vice-chair of the Country Homes association. I play the organ at the local Catholic church. I am a choir master for two different choirs and a jam master for the legendary Villecomtal Wednesday Evening Jam Session. With my husband, I invite people over to eat at least twice a week. We have noisy, wild costume parties (our New Year parties have become legendary). I am what you might call a socially active person, delighted that I have managed to make friends with the French at last (there is a desperate blog posting here somewhere on the subject of trying to socialize with the Parisians. Country folk is a different can of worms altogether, so I've noticed).

And then. All of a sudden, that which had kept me active, alive and cheery, had turned into something that might take my life. The numerous, crowded, close-knit evening meals and jam sessions and choir practices and masses and garage sales and village balls... a death trap? Could one believe it?

The villagers didn't. At first, the cafés were as crowded as ever, if not more. Boisterous farmers announced with booming voices: they were going to enjoy their apéros and card games no matter what. They had lived through worse, (which is probably true). I agreed.

Even on the morning when the quarantine was announced.

I got up and went to my favourite café, the one where one gets an easy smile and a loud exchange of rumors. "Sorry, love, we can't sell you a coffee", the bar matron whispered. "But if you want to take it to go, and you bring your own mug..." I ran back up the alley to my kitchen, brought back a mug, and got my coffee. "But you can't stay and drink it here", she warned, waving a nervous finger. Someone had seen a police drive by. A fine had been set to 135 euros, and I for one was not willing to pay that much for a cup of coffee. "We'll see you in a couple of days!" she exclaimed, hopefully. "I'm sure we can organize a hidden jam session somewhere! In a basement or something!"

In a few days, when the jam session time came, everyone was so freaked out that the thought was silently buried. I heard my neigbor Didier play a few notes of his lonely trombone. That was it. And when the news of burial coffins running out at Bergamo, Italy, actually not that far away, the villagers started to get paranoid.

This is where we are now. My usual easons for being happy are pretty much extinguished. My kids are dying to sneak out just for the smallest of walks. My husband of 20 years, the best bass player in the world and my oldest friend, whom I love dearly, is starting to get on my nerves.

And this is just Day 5.

Viruses shake things. Heads, for one, and crowns, too. Crowns and heads wearing them have fallen because of viruses; crowns have been bestowed upon new heads because of them. And this one is appropriately called Corona. The Crown.

The Crown. It's also the name of my favorite Netflix series, and I'm always eagerly awaiting a new episode thereof.

I'm less thrilled to see the next episode of this.