Lockdown Log—Day 10

Brief Human Contact Achieved

When I awoke, my body was still sore from my new exercise regimen running stairs. But I had a social engagement today and was eager to get moving. I was meeting Maria for a food-shopping date in Gracia. The rules stipulated we were to stay in our respective neighborhoods for groceries, but I was determined to venture out into the sunshine for the 25-minute walk.

I strapped on my mask, required indoors and out, and slung my shopping bag over my shoulder to signal my intentions to any police I might encounter. A wave of relief washed over me as I exited the stifling confines of my apartment on to the streets, empty except for the occasional shopper loaded up with groceries. I felt a pang of guilt knowing I had no urgent need for food, let alone in an entirely different neighborhood. But I also knew I wouldn’t survive lockdown without human contact. I was going rogue, come what may.

Maria and I met at a small Gracia bakery known for its bread, brioche, brownies—brownies!— and cinnamon buns. Unlike other parts of Europe, high-quality baked goods, chocolate ones in particular, are hard to come by in Spain. They make a mean cheesecake and excel in custard-based desserts like flan and crème Catalan, but cookies and croissants, not so much. The ones I did find were typically all texture, no taste, as if run through some sort of diabolical device designed to remove all the rich cocoa taste. Another typical dessert technique here is to insert great gobs of Nutella or hunks of Oreos into cookies and call it a day, a sad, saccharine shortcut that locals appear to love.

But this bakery was the real deal, signaled by the heady scent of fresh bread, warm butter, and caramelized sugar hanging in the air. Maria loaded up a large bag of goodies for her and her 15-year-old daughter, while I limited myself to a brownie and a loaf of seeded bread. After all, I needed an excuse for a return trip in a few days.

Next stop was the grocery store, where we were instructed to pull on plastic gloves for picking up produce and pay with credit cards to avoid handling cash.

How was it possible, I wondered, that the US, where there was no official lockdown yet, struggled to keep products on the shelves when Barcelona stores were brimming with food?

We took our time, lingering in the aisles and trading updates at the cheese counter, in an attempt to extend our precious outing. When we exited, we took a quick turn around Gracia’s quiet old streets before heading home. There were police everywhere, patrolling block by block, in cars and on foot. But thankfully, I made it back without incident.

After Spanish class that night, I pulled up a chair next to the window and frittered away an hour staring at the deserted streets below, looking for something, anything to grab my attention as I moodily pondered my predicament. I felt like an abandoned puppy at an animal shelter with nothing left to do than peer out from my cage.

Assignments from my sole client were scarce, and the prospects of finding additional work now seemed dim. Jaume was facing the same problem, as the courts closed and clients chose to stay home rather than seek legal help. A fear that I might be forced to leave Spain if I couldn’t start making steady money grew with each passing week. But the thought of enduring this lockdown alone with nothing to do was equally distressing.

Every two weeks the Spanish government would reevaluate the situation and announce next steps. But all reports indicated the lockdown would continue for at least a month, maybe more.

Covid cases were exploding as the epidemic swept the world. Around me, everyone spoke as if they were hunkering down for the long haul. And there was a new development: People were starting to shy away from leaving the house at all, so overwhelming was their fear of getting sick. One person in the house became the designated dog walker or grocery shopper.

As for me, I stubbornly held out hope that easygoing, fun-loving Spain would soon throw in the towel and lift the lockdown. “Ya esta, enough with this nonsense! Time for cold cervezas at the bar!” I had to believe this to keep my terror at bay.

While camped out at my window, I heard a clattering noise echo around the block. At that moment, Jaume texted: “Make noise outside your window!” It was, he explained, a Catalan protest against the former King of Spain, Juan Carlos I. Investigators discovered he had a secret Swiss bank account containing 100 million euros earned from commissions on shady business deals, money he used to finance his lavish lifestyle. “No one can leave their homes, so we are banging on cans to protest!” he told me. Even in the midst of Covid, Catalans were able to focus their energy on fighting the Spanish monarchy. At least we got a little excitement out of the evening.