The surreal nature of what's happening all around us is unsettling. I feel unbalanced, disoriented, untethered. A sense of vertigo pervades, as if living in a world of magical realism conjured by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and lifted from the pages of his as yet unpublished novel, Love in the Time of Corona Virus. It’s as if an unexpected tragedy has suddenly disrupted our lives, but the communion that we seek in times of crisis, the touching, hugging, and holding, has been severed and the prognosis is uncertain.
It's a beautiful spring day here, the warmth of the sun has coaxed out a profusion of new life, but it is eerily quiet. The familiar hum of traffic has disappeared, the clatter of caballo hooves no longer echoes down the cobblestone streets, even the prayerful murmur of the funeral cortege that once slouched past our home on the final leg of its journey has gone silent. It’s as if the needle has been lifted from the grooves of the ever-spinning circle of our lives and the music of the spheres has suddenly gone silent. The roosters still call out their morning prayers, and the bird songs that were once drowned out by chainsaws and leaf blowers are now the only thing that mark the slow passing of the hours, save for the endless drip of the kitchen faucet.
We jump up and run to the window to see what all the commotion is about if a single truck rumbles down the street. We’re all on edge, silently sitting as if in a waiting room. We get up occasionally to get a cup of coffee, to stretch that knee that always gets cramped up when we sit too long, and then go back to waiting, fearful that when the nurse finally hangs up the phone and comes over from behind her desk the news will not be good.
The world we once embraced has now been relegated to a bygone era, consigned to a museum, and the small signs on each marble pedestal that once announced the frailty of the past have now been applied to each other, and the once courteous admonition has been replaced with a shout; “Do Not Touch!”
Ajijic, Mexico is the place that we've chosen to call home, but the exuberant hugs and exaggerated kisses that were once the morning ritual even for next-door neighbors, were abruptly replaced by air-kisses and elbow bumps a few weeks ago, then supplanted by a six foot Mexican stand-off and a wary nod, and have now devolved to a mere phone call, or worse; a text message. Our self-imposed isolation provides way too much time to notice how many surfaces our fingers touch each day, and too much thought to devising new ways of using our elbows.
Our president is seemingly in denial. He's running around kissing babies and hugging anyone who can't move out of the way fast enough. The government's stated expectation is that the pandemic will be mild and not peak in Mexico until August, and although I disagree with both the timing and the prognosis, we're prepared to hold our breath and slide beneath the surface of the lake for the duration. Most Mexicans live closer to the edge than in the United States, and "sick days" is a concept that hasn't quite made its way south of the border, so most will continue to work even if they feel ill because they have no other way to feed their families. It's a disaster in the making and the hair on the back of my neck bristles with the realization that this is indeed the calm before the storm and the distance between us and our loved ones is frightening. In the event of an emergency the 14-day quarantine upon crossing borders highlights the stark reality of the decisions that we’ve made.
But rather than simply sit at home contemplating the existential ramifications of social distancing and endlessly washing my hands like a melancholic Lady Macbeth, I’ve tossed out January’s resolutions and replaced them with a list of other equally unrealistic opportunities in hopes of filling the void. But predictably I've allowed less demanding distractions to infringe on my good intentions – the Spanish books, scattered like waterlilies across the dining room table are still unread, the flamengo guitar still rests quietly against the chair - but the house is now sparkling, the car is blindingly clean, the closets are organized, and the garden has never looked better, and every time I look at the dog she runs away, fearful that I'm going to give her another bath. And this is only week two.
It seems not so long ago, with the failure of Lehman Brothers and a few others, that we all sucked it up, licked our wounds, adjusted to the reality of a "new economy", and reluctantly stepped into a different world somewhat confident that the worst was behind us, but blissfully unaware that absolutely no consideration was being given to the certainty of another disruption. So here we are, reaping the rewards of our own inattention.
Leadership in our little corner of the world is in denial along with much of the electorate. Like the current US president, we’ve tried ignorance and that hasn’t worked. We’ve tried yelling, and screaming, and complaining, we’ve tried pointing fingers and undermining each other, and that hasn’t worked. Given the apparent fate of Bernie Sanders, as well as the declining approval ratings of Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, it appears as though radical change may be too abrupt for the current electorate. But enormous change is coming at us faster than a hornet in a rage. Perhaps it’s time for a new, more cooperative approach, perhaps something less confrontational. Maybe we could start by simply sharing the toilet paper.
We are grateful for the friendship we’ve shared these many years, and in these uncertain times, frightened at the possibility of its loss. Thank you for embracing us in your lives. Yours is a friendship that we will look forward to sharing once again in the not too distant future. In person.
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Bill Sheehan
March 2020 - Ajijic, Mexico