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.
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