Lockdown Log—Day 4

Wherein I’m Still Resisting Reality

With gyms closed, I realized I needed a way to burn off the anxiety from being cooped up with no clear end date. I decided to go for a run, something I hadn’t done in years. The desolate streets outside my apartment were like a scene from an apocalyptic movie. I gingerly peeked around the corner for signs of police then set off, navigating my way up and down Eixample. Ok, I thought, this will do this for the foreseeable future. I mean, they can’t expect us to simply not leave our homes, right? That’s obviously not what they mean.

Suddenly, I spotted a policeman patrolling on motorcycle, headed directly towards me. My heart pounded as he pulled up in front of me, blocking my way. Not aggressively, but purposefully. We locked eyes and he shook his head. “A la casa,” he said, simply (to your house). “Si, ahora mismo,” I replied. Hmm, apparently these guys really mean business. So much for those daily runs.

Later in the day, a friend from the US called to inform me that the State Department was about to issue a statement that all Americans abroad needed to return home as they were closing the borders. If I was considering coming back, she said, now was the time.

Could that be correct, I wondered? As a US citizen wouldn’t I be able to return anytime I wanted? It didn’t make sense and I was rattled.

A steady stream of expats I knew had already announced they were pulling up stakes and heading home. With their kids’ schools closed indefinitely and uncertainty about how long the lockdowns would last, they decided it didn’t make sense to stay.

Of course, I also had to consider the possibility of leaving. The idea of being isolated in my flat—even for a few weeks—seemed torturous, especially having arrived just four months earlier. What was the point being here if I would be stuck in my apartment for days on end?

But I had cut my ties so cleanly that returning to the US would mean starting from scratch there. I had given up my apartment, furniture, job and car to move to Spain and I’d spent more than a year orchestrating it. Conceding defeat now would mean it was all for nothing. Where would I live and what would I do?

What’s more, I most likely wouldn’t be able to return to Barcelona for months— all while paying rent on an apartment I wasn’t using. It might also jeopardize my visa, which stipulated I spend at least half the year in Spain.

Unless things deteriorated quickly, I decided, it didn’t make sense. Besides, my denial was telling me that this would likely last only a few weeks anyway. I could handle that. Wasn’t my dream worth giving it more time?

Jaume was annoyingly even-handed when I raised the topic with him. “It’s a hard decision,” he said. “You have to do what you think is best.”

“Well, would you prefer it if I stay?”

“Yes, of course, but you have to do what’s best for you and if you’re here alone without your family, this will be hard.”

But I have you, I thought to myself.

We had planned to see each other the next evening, but it had quickly become clear the lockdown was much more serious than we originally wanted to believe. News reports said Spain was close behind Italy topping the number of Covid deaths in Europe and Sanchez appeared regularly on tv reiterating the rules. The Catalan prime minister had his own guidelines for this region, which were invariably stricter.

When I spoke to Jaume, he had just dropped off his son at his ex-wife’s house when the police stopped him. “The roads are closed,” they told him. They eventually let him pass when he explained he was bringing his son home, but he was chastened. “I took a risk today,” he said, “and I won’t do it again.”

Catalans follow the rules, he explained. Known for its efficiency and considered the economic engine of Spain, Catalunya’s law-abiding mindset is a point of pride.

Jaume wondered aloud when he would next be able to see his children, and I immediately felt a twinge of shame that I had been so cavalier about the restrictions. “I hope we can see each other soon,” he said. “But we should follow the rules.” Given we weren’t allowed to take the metro, how we would manage to meet at all was unclear. The thought of going weeks without seeing him was sinking in.

That evening, we traded texts for an hour, sharing selfies and photos from our past. He sent me a photo of glistening tortilla flecked with caramelized onions that he had just made. “If I ever see you again, you’ll have to make that for me,” I said.

“If you ever see me again? WTF?” Among many other expressions I taught him, WTF was one of his favorites. “Of course I’ll be seeing you again. I promise soon!”

Not if Sanchez has anything to do with it, I thought. But my sense of foreboding was soothed at least for the moment.