I wake up determined to safeguard a little bit of morning space without checking email or online news. This margin helps keep me grounded at the best of times, let alone when the energy in so many interactions is panicked. It doesn’t last long: I have a message from a friend and team member who is stuck in Morocco. That is, she could have raced for the border at Ceuta to attempt to get back into Spain within a small window of time; equally she could have tried to get a flight from Morocco to the United States, where she has citizenship. But instead, she decided to ride out the lock-down in Morocco, staying with good friends there and using the time to practice her Dirija.
Tim decides to draw a bit of cash. It’s not that much - we’re aware that if everyone empties their accounts the banks are fried - but we don’t usually keep any cash to hand and it seems sensible to have some. I go in the opposite direction, heading to the supermarket and kind of dreading the mayhem that seems likely. A week or so ago we bought some extra ‘long life’ groceries, like rice and beans, just to increase the amount of time we can get by without shopping. We need dog food and it would be great to have a few extra staples.
I hate grocery shopping at the best of times, and this is far from the best of times. I park a block away from the store because there are cars everywhere, even though I am arriving in the first 5 minutes of the store being open. I think to myself how smart I was to wear my running shoes, and feel as though I am part of one of those ‘supermarket dash’ events. This makes me smile, and I decide to continue smiling at people - everyone is pretty freaked out and me smiling at them can’t make it any worse. In fact, I end up having more friendly supportive chitchat with these Spanish neighbours than I’ve had in a long time, and that has to be a good thing.
There’s been a fresh delivery of toilet rolls and I put some in my trolley. I feel like a stereotype as I do so, and add some bottles of wine to make myself feel more normal. I am conscious of resisting the tide of panic that has people cramming their trolleys with enough meat to fill a freezer, along with multi-packs of coke. I’ll stick to my rice and beans approach, I think (apart from the fact that it would be weird for a vegetarian to suddenly start buying meat, rice and beans are also easier to store and pack more nutritional punch). By the time I make it to the check out, I’ve been standing in line for a while, every so often exchanging texts with Tim who lets me know he has bought eggs and chocolate elsewhere. His idea of essentials, I guess.
The girls are just getting out of bed when Tim and I return home, converging from our different outings. We eat breakfast and fill the girls in on latest developments, paying attention to the way Manu responds since she has been unsettled by all the Corona-talk at school. She was especially concerned for her grandparents back in England, afraid that their advanced age would consign them to Covid-19 fatality. I had both grandmothers send her messages assuring her of their robust state of health, and that seemed to soothe her fears for now.
Instead of the numbers of predicted fatalities, we talk about what schooling from home will be like. Manu explains to us the online platform they’ll be using, and that they will follow the regular timetable. This seems a bit of shame to me, since she will complete the work much faster on her own than in the classroom. But I am sure it has something to do with maintaining a state of normality for the kids, and keeping them busy while their parents work. I make a mental note to check her timetable and add in our own family rhythms as well as music practices and some physical activities. Manu will miss playing football with her friends and, not for the first time, I am grateful for the outdoor space we have at home for her to kick a ball and run around.
Our Sabbath meal friends message us saying they want to take advantage of being able to drive out to walking trails. Did we want to go with them? Tim and I had just walked the dogs around our usual 30 minute loop, but it’s a no-brainer. We tell the girls to get ready and within 10 minutes are heading out the door again. It’s funny how grateful we are to be able to drive wherever we want, when faced with restrictions that come into play soon.
We all meet at the fuel station 5 minutes from our house. One family fills their tank, while the others wait. Payment is through the out-of-hours bank teller-style window, since the shop is locked. And when Tim buys a sack of firewood, he has to wait while someone comes out - unlocking and then re-locking the entrance - to give him access to the woodstore, now also locked.
Eventually we get underway, driving just a short distance to an off-road trail. We pass a woman who always has her roadside fruit and veggie stand set up at a particular location, and I wonder what it will mean for her livelihood if she is not allowed to sell there.
The walk is great, the kids and dogs lively and wonderfully distracting from our somber mood. They discuss ways around the restrictions on movement, agreeing to text one another to shop for essentials at the same store at the same time, so they can meet up. Hey, whatever gets the teenagers doing errands sounds good to me. We take a few photos, we talk about sharing Sabbath meals via Skype, we don’t hug. It feels weird.
Dropping the kids at home, Tim and I head out to look at a leather armchair I saw on Facebook Marketplace. It feels kind of illicit, although it is still perfectly legal to be driving around at this point. Tim has wanted a leather armchair for his birthday, which is coming up on 28 March. It’s a milestone - his 50th - and by this point I am aware that the guys’ weekend I had planned, with his brothers and some mates flying in from England, will have to be cancelled. I’m hoping the chair is a winner and that at least he will be able to have the gift he hoped for. Whether it is or not, he won’t forget this year’s birthday in a hurry.
We check out the chair while subtly keeping our distance from the Scottish guy who’s selling it. He’s a chatterbox and doesn’t seem to notice or, if he does, is suitably agreeable to our sensible precautions. The chair is great and we get it into the back of the vehicle. The prospect of the 50th birthday being a total anti-climax is averted and I find myself relieved and happy at Tim’s old-age armchair excitement. As we drive home, I wonder when we’ll next drive this road and watch in puzzlement to see that the cable car from Benalmadena up to the birds of prey tourist attraction on the top of the hill is still running. These days seem full of contradictions.
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