The Straya Virus

Why, in his life of frequent travel, had he never recognized the beauty of flight. The improbability of it. The sound of the engines faded, the airplane receding into blue until it was folded into silence and became a far-distant dot in the sky. 

Emily St. John Mandel, Station Eleven

 

Empty entrance halls. Deserted hallways. An eerie and all-encompassing silence wrapping around me. Closed storefronts. Frozen mannequins looking longingly out of darkened store windows. Huggable (don’t hug!) koalas behind black plastic fences. Mimosas at the barred bar a distant memory. The squeaking noise of luggage wheels on the vinyl floor.  Hushed voices of desperate strangers in the same boat (plane?) as me. Stale breath behind my flimsy mask. Sweaty hands in plastic gloves. Trying hard not to cough. Nervous cough. Suspicious looks from passersby. Don’t trust anyone. Not even yourself.

I like a good dystopian story. They’re my favourite actually. The Road. Station Eleven. Handmaid’s Tale. Can’t even count the times I’ve watched The Day after tomorrow. And not just because of Jake G. It’s my favourite genre. Well, it used to be. Because lately I feel like I’m in a movie. The wrong one.

How did I get here? When did all this start? That silly post on FB about March having 300 days… it does feel like it. Only a month ago, I was sitting on my green wooden bench in Newport Beach, Australia, overlooking the ocean. Now I’m in quarantine in Toronto, Canada, staring at a blue plastic tarp. 

“Wait, what happened?”, a friend of mine messages, having missed the last scoop. Not talking for a few weeks can make a big difference these days. “Everything is always keep changing.” A quote I read the other day.  Makes no sense, but a lot of sense to me. What happened in between the green wooden bench and the blue plastic tarp? 

Corona happened. Canada closing its borders. Australia too. Students being pulled out of class to leave for the airport immediately. Classes cancelled. Moving off-campus, on-line. Distant. Remote. Virtual. Call it what you want. 

Mild symptoms. My head hurting. Can’t breath. Self-isolation. Tasmania closing its borders. Easter trip cancelled. Times when that still mattered. Corona testing. Stick up your nose. Pain in the ass. Negative. Alone. Alone. Alone. Last plane home. Booked. Doubts. Regrets. Worries. Green wooden bench.

Goodbye school. Goodbye friends. Goodbye beach. When saying goodbye is not allowed. Last hug. Last long black. Lasts that last forever. Nothing lasts forever. Beauty and terror. No feeling is final. Rilke.

The rain I had asked for – it is here. Pounding on the metal roof of my little blue house. No breathtaking sunrise. No kookaburra laugh. Serves me right. Last morning in paradise. Downpour in Downunder. “Sydney is crying from the sky!”, a friend messages me. Yes, and so am I. 

A year packed in three heavy suitcases. One heavy heart. Leaving on a jet plane. When every cheesy song suddenly makes sense. Feeling awkward at the airport. How do you say goodbye from a 2 metre distance? You don’t. 

Security guards in yellow vests, blocking the entrance to the terminal. Passport? Yes. Fever? No. You’re good to go. A familiar glance at the flight monitores. All departing flights fitting on one screen. Air Canada 34 to Vancouver. The ticketing hall a silent tomb. Passport? Yes. Fever? No. Three heavy suitcases. A sinking feeling. You’re good to go. 

Security check. Wiping luggage containers. Wiping bags. Wiping hands. Wiping. Wiping. Wiping. Did you know, the right thumb gets cleaned the least when washing hands. I just thought I’d throw that in there. Corona Trivia. 

Walking. Waiting. Wiping. Boarding. Seating. Wiping. Wiping tables. Wiping arm rests. Wiping tears. Shit, I don’t have any wipes. A shy offer from my across-the-aisle neighbour. Mixed with a small dose of suspicion. Kindness in the times of Corona. 

A long silent flight – not even the kids are making a sound. Silenced by masks, interrupted only by stale cucumber sandwiches being thrown at you from a safe distance. Followed by bottled water. Twice. Not much else happens.

Arrival in Canada. When even the plane doesn’t seem to be able to make up its mind. Should I stay or should I go? Greeted not by flowers and balloons, but by signs ordering you to self-isolate. I’m happy to oblige.

Have you ever been picked up at the airport and you can’t even hug your own family? Heave  those 3 heavy suitcases into the trunk of your own car yourself. Wave at your kids from a 2 metre distance and drive home on your own? Have you ever sat behind a blue plastic tarp, that divides the kitchen into half, having dinner by yourself, hearing whispers behind your own personal Berlin Wall? I hear my green wooden bench got taped off. Beaches are closed. In Germany they are dismantling park benches all together, someone tells me. Some measures yield strange blossoms. Corona Spring.

Little joys do sprout, even when  – or maybe because of – being in quarantine. Books and bonbons. Flowers delivered. My Quarantine Countdown Calendar (the best!). The delicious meals my kids serve (no, seriously, they definitely have learned to cook this year). Teaching kids in Toronto in the morning. Teaching kids in Sydney at night. A baby being born to a friend. An adopted child coming home for the first time. Packages mailed (albeit returned to sender due to Corona Stop). Messages. Pictures. Skyping. Zooming. Talking. Toasting. Story time online. A sunny patch in my backyard. At least my knee is healing.

Corona virus sucks. I’m not gonna lie. So does self-isolation. Don’t kid yourself. But this too shall pass. They say, life will never be the same. Maybe. But the Straya virus is stronger and I’m looking forward to the cure! Cheers!