We are, and will be, in quarantine
It must be day ten of the quarantine, now. It's sunny, warm, and the fresh air, alive, gusts in trough the open windows. The house breathes with it. It enjoys it's new set of lungs, away for the whole of winter.
The city is an uncomfortable enviroment to be in, specially during a quarantine. There's no garden, no orchard or field were to watch the time pass by, but a solid pile-up of cement and paint, carefully sprinkled with windows, here and there, as a subtle mean to remind you of the world, resting affar in the distance.
But we do what we can with what we have, and so life has no other choice but to proceed.
And what exactly do we have? Let's see:
A whole set of walls and a roof, perfectly designed to shelter us from the everlasting rain and our humid galician cold. We might be entering spring, but nights are still in need for a coat, and will be until June, at least.
No more, no less, than six windows, were to lay down our elbows and watch the world go by.
A view of the street and neighbour's life on starboard, and a view of the woods unfolding under the blue (now) sky on larboard.
Two sofas.
One television.
Kitchen floor with excellent potential for indoor sports.
God Allmighty WiFi
A flatmate with which to laugh (or argue if necessary).
Speakers. Huge speakers with which to drive the neighborhood up the walls.
Books, books, books.
Days unroll themselves peacefully under Santiago's skies, and to the living room swiftly fly in the voices of people carrying on their to-does and their should-bes; as well as the look and absent minded watching of every other person in the neighborhood. A big house, just that, this street has become, with it's own particular well organized chaotic ongoing, as if it were a body with each and every duty assigned to one specific organ or group of cells. A big beehive, in which the bees come out to dance not when they have found honey, but when they bring back the shopping for that old ladie that can't really move.
There's even a timetable to follow! In the morning the street wakes up to the construction builders who are not still really taken under consideration in this State of Alarm. At noon, my front neighbour wakes up; he spends his nights working in his van. I think I can actually hear him bellow cheerfully to somebody from behind his curtains with the radio on the background. If I go up to my living room window he will probably engage on a banal conversation with me, until we're both tired or another person shows up, carrying grocery bags (on of the few excuses to tread the asphalt these days!) and joining our loud and gleeful exchange of ordinary events. Yes, communication, normally loud in Galicia and the rest of Spain (probably the whole Mediterranean and Atlantic area), now becomes even louder, and it is not strange to hear people hollering from window to window, from their front door to the third floor at the end of the street. Of course, that also provides great entertaining these days.
In the afternoon, the poor fumbling allowed during quarantine even comes down, to almost non-existing. The street rests, windows open and curtains drawn; most of people are probably enjoying a very spaniard custom that goes by the name siesta (allow me to say that in this region we speak Galician and it is called sesta.). And if the city was already empty, now is even emptier. Such emptiness crawls back to our tiny lively quarters from the vast six-lane avenues, now desserted and breathless, just entertained with the vigilant pace of the army soldiers in charge of its well followed void. The only thing left to do on these slow, dumbing hours, is to read looking towards the woods and the fields bathed in sunlight.
Life starts erupting again in the evening. People come out to the balcony to talk; climb down to the street to help the neighbour (always with gloves or leaving at least a meter in between); blast the news on TV; and, at eight, grant a big round of applause on their windowsill to every worker that's poring the sweat of his forehead these troubled days to bring back normality. Doctors, nurses, cashiers, drivers, those in factories and at the countryside, all are saluted from our resigned confinement.
Alas, another day travels.
The city is an uncomfortable enviroment to be in, specially during a quarantine. There's no garden, no orchard or field were to watch the time pass by, but a solid pile-up of cement and paint, carefully sprinkled with windows, here and there, as a subtle mean to remind you of the world, resting affar in the distance.
But we do what we can with what we have, and so life has no other choice but to proceed.
And what exactly do we have? Let's see:
A whole set of walls and a roof, perfectly designed to shelter us from the everlasting rain and our humid galician cold. We might be entering spring, but nights are still in need for a coat, and will be until June, at least.
No more, no less, than six windows, were to lay down our elbows and watch the world go by.
A view of the street and neighbour's life on starboard, and a view of the woods unfolding under the blue (now) sky on larboard.
Two sofas.
One television.
Kitchen floor with excellent potential for indoor sports.
God Allmighty WiFi
A flatmate with which to laugh (or argue if necessary).
Speakers. Huge speakers with which to drive the neighborhood up the walls.
Books, books, books.
Days unroll themselves peacefully under Santiago's skies, and to the living room swiftly fly in the voices of people carrying on their to-does and their should-bes; as well as the look and absent minded watching of every other person in the neighborhood. A big house, just that, this street has become, with it's own particular well organized chaotic ongoing, as if it were a body with each and every duty assigned to one specific organ or group of cells. A big beehive, in which the bees come out to dance not when they have found honey, but when they bring back the shopping for that old ladie that can't really move.
There's even a timetable to follow! In the morning the street wakes up to the construction builders who are not still really taken under consideration in this State of Alarm. At noon, my front neighbour wakes up; he spends his nights working in his van. I think I can actually hear him bellow cheerfully to somebody from behind his curtains with the radio on the background. If I go up to my living room window he will probably engage on a banal conversation with me, until we're both tired or another person shows up, carrying grocery bags (on of the few excuses to tread the asphalt these days!) and joining our loud and gleeful exchange of ordinary events. Yes, communication, normally loud in Galicia and the rest of Spain (probably the whole Mediterranean and Atlantic area), now becomes even louder, and it is not strange to hear people hollering from window to window, from their front door to the third floor at the end of the street. Of course, that also provides great entertaining these days.
In the afternoon, the poor fumbling allowed during quarantine even comes down, to almost non-existing. The street rests, windows open and curtains drawn; most of people are probably enjoying a very spaniard custom that goes by the name siesta (allow me to say that in this region we speak Galician and it is called sesta.). And if the city was already empty, now is even emptier. Such emptiness crawls back to our tiny lively quarters from the vast six-lane avenues, now desserted and breathless, just entertained with the vigilant pace of the army soldiers in charge of its well followed void. The only thing left to do on these slow, dumbing hours, is to read looking towards the woods and the fields bathed in sunlight.
Life starts erupting again in the evening. People come out to the balcony to talk; climb down to the street to help the neighbour (always with gloves or leaving at least a meter in between); blast the news on TV; and, at eight, grant a big round of applause on their windowsill to every worker that's poring the sweat of his forehead these troubled days to bring back normality. Doctors, nurses, cashiers, drivers, those in factories and at the countryside, all are saluted from our resigned confinement.
Alas, another day travels.
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