Month: May 2020

My question for everyone is, "What are you doing?" Because I so want this answered by all my friends, I will answer it myself. 

In a way, I'm wondering if I've already died of corona virus and gone to heaven. I am well, my family is healthy, I'm working remotely with my awesome colleagues in Muscat from the coast of California. 

But please do let me complain about my life during Authorized Departure as I go hiking in Big Sur. 

But while I am really enjoying this Viking stove, and the luxury of having a puppy, and walking two blocks to Ludmilla's house, I feel nothing but anxiety about the future. How can my kids go back to student housing/dorms? California state universities are going to be online fall semester. Camille doesn't even want to go back. But there are no jobs! This is the perfect time to go to school, except what's the point of doing school online? Why am I living so far from my family?

I miss Peter. How can I even begin? I love our life together in Muscat. Driving to work, seeing him in his "coffee lab," deciding if we are making dinner or getting gas station shwarma, taking care of Bea together. No one is more fun to live life with than Peter. 

But, should I move back to the U.S. and live somewhere where kids can sit out the virus and finish school? Will future us say, gee that was a dumb time to go to school, or gee, that was brilliant, going to school then. Being a half a world away from college-age kids, is hard enough. Having the world be turned upside-down makes it even harder. 

My thought for today is to try not not treat this time–waffles with blueberries and huckleberry syrup, goldfinches in the water fountain in the garden, the crows patrolling the street, the walk to Asimolar Beach in perfect weather with one of my best friends–as a burden. Or to be afraid. Win in your dreams, says Atsya. 

How are you faring?

I'm somehow in Pacific Grove, California. Totally randomly, the place I rented is a three-minute walk from my sister-in-law Ludmilla's. We lucked into a fire place, windows that look out onto a water fountain that attracts finches, hummingbirds and a stellar jay, and a ten minute walk to Asilomar beach. Today, after a Mother's Day lunch of barbecued hamburgers with homemade buns, the kids have retreated to their bedrooms. The puppy has gone from chewing on a deer antler, to wrestling with a shoe, to sleeping on my lap.

Peter, as essential personnel at the embassy in Muscat, won't leave unless the Ambassador does. He's one of the few going into the embassy to work, as everyone else is, like me, on mandatory telework. Back in March when Covid19 was first a thing, during our morning commute, I'd report to Peter the day's statistics. When we reached 8000 cases worldwide, Peter said, "It'll be ten thousand by the end of the week," and he was right. Today's number is over four million. I miss Peter and his predictions, and not being with him every day is the one thing I don't love about this situation. I mean that and people's loved-ones dying. 

I feel bad admitting it, but I'm enjoying being forced to stay home. I never liked leaving the house anyway! So, at the risk of sounding grossly over-privileged, I thought everyone would discover the pleasures of staying home, throwing in a load of laundry between phone calls, checking the birds in the water fountain while writing emails. I feel like I've been given permission to live exactly how I like, to sign in to the computer in the morning with a puppy on my lap, go for a lunch-time run, work on a project, check the mailbox in my slippers, then respond to emails. In the evenings watch Schitt's Creek with Camille, or draw the Matillija poppies Ludmilla brought over. I live in my Allbird wool slippers. Stefan, sheepskin-muled feet propped on the coffee table, complains about an art history class on zoom. On the weekends, I put on real shoes and go for hike, to Big Sur, or yesterday to Garland Ranch in Carmel Valley. Life is fine, and I'm not sure I want to go back to the beforetimes. 

But after a couple months of only being able to go to the grocery store or for walks, and then being forced to wear masks, (like that's a hard thing,) Americans are bored and angry and want everything to reopen. If I weren't working, maybe I'd feel differently. 

The first thing I hear in the morning are the pair of crows that live on our street. I'm seeing spring in California for the first time in fourteen years. I'm in the same time zone as my mom, which makes phone calls so much easier. This was the first mother's day with both my kids in at least seven years. I walk around the yard in my slippers, trimming the cala lillies, wrapping the budding rose plant around the trellis, collecting mint for tea. Camille loudly thumps down the stairs like she always did and picks up the puppy and demands for him to tell her why he's so cute. 

When I was five my Aunt Edie got married in Las Vegas. We all stayed in a hotel, and then, after a few days my parents announced that we were going "home." What home? I thought we'd moved to the hotel. "I don't want to leave!" I said, "I like this place with the baby pool and the walk-to breakfast!" Story of my life.

Coronalife. Bottom photo, my friend Gina doing her thing–getting me out of the house.