This morning I left the house with the intention of trying to mail a letter. Even in normal times in Spain, this is not the easiest of tasks. First, you have to find the post office, of which there seem to be less each year. Each location has slightly different hours, so once you select a destination, you have to arrive on time to be on line before it starts to close.
Anyway, on Day 8 of lockdown, all of this felt like an insurmountable task. I would have to either go all the way downtown on the bus, or walk a mile to another neighborhood, neither option very attractive.
On top of this, before I leave the house now, I have defense arsenal I have to pack up. The battle metaphor is a bit overdone, but it does make sense. Inside your house you are safe. Step outside and you are confronting a virus that you can’t see or hear, a virus that wants more than anything to invade your body and replicate with no thought to how that might make you feel. Outside, you are on your own. Your neighbor or relative is not going to help you like in battle; in fact, if infected, they will probably infect you.
But this letter needed to be mailed, so, like packing up for battle I reveiwed my checklist:
- Hands washed?
- Tissues for door handles?
- Money?
- Hand Sanitizer
- Keys?
- Inhaler? (Mostly for allergies, but just in case the virus attacked me)
Everything tucked in pockets and bag, I headed out, careful not to touch the bannisters or light switches in my building hallway.
Just when I was about to reach the front door, I realized:
The letter!
So back upstairs I went, balancing carefully to keep my hands off everything, using my left hand for my keys in the door–now officially the “dirty” hand for this outing-and grabbing the letter with my right.
I’d decided a bus ride and one mile walk risk was too much exposure, so I thought I might leave the letter with my news agent. Surely the mail carrier was bringing mail to him and could take one letter on the way out?
No, he said, pointing to a yellow mailbox across the street.
Were the mail carriers even picking up the mail?
He didn’t know, so I wandered around with this letter, which had to be mailed in order to keep a business in another country from deducting copious amounts of money from my account every month.
No solution in sight, I did the only reasonable thing: I purchased a big baguette, two bags of Mr. Corn, spicy potato chips and some gooey pastry. (As my friend Fiona says, you can still have great abs under all that fat; we’ll see how that pans out after a many weeks of daily planks counterbalanced by daily inputs of 2500 calories+).
On my way home, dejected, I looked up and across the plaza and saw something I had NEVER seen in all my days here:
A woman wearing a bright yellow vest that said Correos.
Shocking this was because the mail carriers here generally go incognito. They walk around in street clothes, chat together as they ride the bus, smoke while delivering the mail. No spiffy uniforms, no neat little electric delivery trucks, no fancy hats. The only way they can be recognized is by the carts they trail around with them.
So I crossed the plaza, trying to maintain a meter from everyone else while chasing down this woman, already walking at brisk pace. As I closed in, one obstacle remained:
The big line outside the pharmacy.
Lines, or queues, as they are called in Europe, are a funny thing, a topic to be saved for another post. Suffice it to say that in San Sebastian, there are some lines you cut only at risk of severe bodily harm by cane and umbrella from an elder (that would be the bus line), and other lines that would make an anarchist proud (that would be certain bars).
Having to learn stand in line, a meter apart, may very well be what Spaniards will need trauma therapy most from when this is all over.
Anyway, my mail carrier was escaping and the quickest route was–you guessed it–right across the front of the pharmacy line.
I put my head down so as to not breathe on anyone or inhale anyone’s droplets, made a wide circle toward the front of the line–I wasn’t even close when the woman in front shouted–hey, the back of the line is there. I nodded and tucked my head in further, hoping she wouldn’t whack me with her purse, and made a motion to indicate I was not stealing her space. Once within striking distance, I then basically assaulted the mail carrier. As much as you can assault someone from six feet away.
Hey, hey, I shouted, waving the letter. Can you take this for me?
She looked at me like I was an alien (a look to which I am very accustomed, given my accent and tendency to make up vocabulary when the right word eludes me).
I waved the letter. It has a stamp.
We took a step toward each other, arms outstretched. I don’t think we kept a meter apart, but it was close.
She looked at the address, the stamp, and hallelujah, nodded. I think she might have even smiled.
I didn’t see her put the letter in the cart, but to spout another cliche, hope springs eternal. Only my bank account will tell.
From there it was back home, the process of packing and carrying all done in reverse.
Opening the front door with dirty hand and keys, kicking the door shut, balancing up the stairs touching nothing, opening my door with dirty keys and elbow, slipping off shoes, throwing keys in a Tupperware, lifting the faucet with my sleeve, washing, washing, washing my hands.
After that, I hung my outside jacket on a chair, letting it quarantine for 24 hours, threw the grocery bag in the washing machine, and then, because we have all gone completely insane, washed the outside of my hand sanitizer bottle just in case I touched something and then touched the bottle when I sanitized outside.
Finally, the last step, one that helps me feel that I will weather this. Because although we are all feeling sad and worried and uncertain about so many things, there is one sure way we can all feel wealthy in these troubled times:
Money Laundering!!!
