City & County 09: Coronavirus Cities Dispatch #1
Coronavirus cities: The day to day of life during a pandemic
Dispatch One: 11 March - 24 March, 2020.
Somerville and surrounding cities, 1852. Source
Greetings from Somerville, Massachusetts: a city infected with Coronavirus, although at the moment nowhere near as badly as other cities in the United States and elsewhere. This is an occasional newsletter from Alan Wiig, typically containing photos and bits of writing about walking, hiking, travel, and these days, about life within a pandemic. If you enjoy this, you can subscribe (or unsubscribe) at the bottom of this email.
Walking has taken on a distinctly different meaning in the past weeks, and for the foreseeable future. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts issued a Stay at Home order beginning March 24 at noon, two weeks after my last day of in-person teaching at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. We’ve been living under a self-imposed self isolation for two weeks already in an effort to stay uninfected, limiting shopping to once a week, cooking at home, heading out to central Massachusetts on the weekends to hike (although that will stop now with the Stay at Home order, and because last weekend there were just too many people out in the woods to feel comfortably with social distancing). Multiple walks a day, always at odd hours. We are not sure what do do once spring fully arrives and even more of our neighbors will be out and about again, but will probably get up even earlier and get out at dawn, which will be easier once the temperatures are above freezing overnight.
What follows is a photo-diary of the last two weeks, an attempt to record everyday life under Coronavirus. The photos are all taken with my older iPhone, notes composed on the phone’s note-taking app then transferred over to this Buttondown newsletter platform. The first entry was written on the Red Line subway as I left UMass Boston for the last time. Other than driving out the Turnpike to the west to go hike twice, I have not been across the Charles River into Boston for two weeks now; I have no idea when I’ll next do so. Campus is closed; even if I needed to, I cannot get into my office. Like everyone, the spaces I pass through have reduced down to my immediate neighborhood, tracing the same steps day to day. In a way, the way winter is lingering has made it easier to cope: once spring actively arrives, bringing mild weather, I imagine that maintaining the seriousness of social distancing will become that much more difficult mentally and physically (and all the more important as well).
These entries are lightly edited in order to maintain the immediacy of my thoughts. We live in superlative times, unimaginable a few months ago. It is not worth ascribing adjectives to this experience: there is no way to compare it to the past, just as, unfortunately, there is no way to know just how bad it will get. As an attempt to manage, I try to focus on each day as a way to not be too stressed out about what comes next. No one knows, we are all in this together, we are all working hard to stay well.
11 March. Wednesday. The public life of the city about to face a pandemic: empty sidewalks, social distancing in the subway station while waiting for the next train. Fewer masks that I would expect, but maybe people have used up their stock already.
Two new cases in Somerville announced with a phone call, text, and email through the community alert system. A confusing announcement from UMass Boston around noon that following spring break, we would teach online for at least two weeks. Then around 4:30, announcement that classes were cancelled as of that minute and would not resumed until after spring break. My students were excited that spring break started early, but I don’t think they fully realize that they may be stuck at home for the coming weeks, and that taking classes online will be a challenge to their patience and that the community of learning together is worth a lot more than two extra days off.
On the subway from JFK-UMass at 6:22pm, only eight passengers in the entire car, evenly distributed throughout. Typically the car would have more like 30-40.
Sunny day, mild and brisk but not cold. I guess life goes on, but seems much much more disrupted today even than on Monday.
Thinking about the infrastructure of a city under pandemic and possible quarantine. Obviously the public health services are (or will soon be) at capacity, and transportation seems significantly under capacity. Airports seem deserted. But what about other municipal utilities? Home Internet and telecom and cellular are probably ramping way up in use, but offices are empty with workers telecommuting. Libraries might be less-occupied but this is certainly the time to read a book or five. Bottled water is selling out for no good reason. The city’s water supply will keep flowing. Same for electricity. The news says to stock up on non-perishable foods in case you have to self-quarantine, but it is unclear to me what this means for accessing the grocery, and the delivery of groceries to stores more generally. If disruption is a possibility, it has not happened yet.
Downtown Crossing Station and the train car has filled up somewhat, but still far below typical, late-rush hour capacity of almost-full.
12 March. Thursday. 9am. Out on a walk before starting work: a commute of sorts. A typically-backed up intersection is empty. Pedestrians are sparse in the neighborhood as well. I am slowly coming to the realization that this way of living - social distancing, de-facto self quarantine, pacing about the house, sitting at the computer, going on walks around the neighborhood, is not going to change for a while.
1pm. Motorcycle on Beacon Street blasting Louis Armstrong’s version of What a Wonderful World:
I see trees of green, red roses too I see them bloom for me and you And I think to myself what a wonderful world I see skies of blue and clouds of white The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night And I think to myself what a wonderful world
A small gesture given to the neighborhood, a song to remind us of something other than coronavirus.
13 March. Friday. Overcast, cold, rain squalls turning to showers throughout the early morning. Some birdsong audible outside the window. Decision made to avoid the gym for at least two weeks. I still feel, without any real rationale, that we have a 50/50 chance of contracting the virus. But if avoiding the gym allows us to not get sick and thus be able to keep going outside on walks-runs-hikes in the woods, then that is a worthwhile trade-off.
At 10am, a half-hour walk to Prospect Hill, the highest point around. Very few pedestrians passed on the walk, less than ten. The views from the hill were obscured by rain and low clouds, but leaves on trees and shrubbery keep pushing out. Blooms opening on a plum tree - first I’ve seen this year. Daffodils, snowdrops, and some mini-irises all opening. Tulips should bud in the next few days.
14 March. Saturday. The general absence of traffic means birdsong is much more audible. Trees about to leaf out all over the city. One magnolia, protected between two houses, with blooms starting to open.
15 March. Sunday. Hike in Worcester County on the Mid-State Trail, our favorite out and back from the Barre Falls Dam. Self-isolation in the woods. Cold, winter not quite over. Great to get outside but a lingering sense of guilt for enjoying myself.
March 16. Monday. Final preparations for self quarantine. Our local grocery picked bare at 8am opening, but then a delivery arrived and we were able to purchase most everything on our list. Still can’t wrap my head around the fact that we are at the start of two weeks to several months of social distancing and self isolation. This feeling is amplified by the pandemic being a literal world-changing event that we are experiencing through news and social media, looking out our windows at that world passing by.
Another cold day where Somerville returns to late winter after flip-flopping to early spring last week; a walk around the neighborhood at sunset just to get out of the house for a few minutes. Daffodils opening into yellow bursts, some trees starting to leaf out, a second marigold about to open outside the parochial school on Webster Ave. The city seems on pause, for an unknown length of time. The mayor declared a state of emergency today, ordering all cafes, restaurants, gyms, social clubs, etc. closed, in addition to the already-shut libraries and city offices. Parks are open but playgrounds are not. In our local park at the tail end of the walk, a dad played one-on-two basketball with his sons, a few people were out running, some dogs in their play area, but no skateboarders in the skatepark. The city isn’t silent, but seems close to it.
Every day I wonder if this is still Day Zero, or if it’s now Day 3 of 14, or 3 of 60. The uncertainty is crippling, driving my stress and inability to focus on anything substantive or productive.
17 March. Tuesday. Snowfall from low, dark clouds, but also saw the first flowering tree in the area.
There is a small pleasure in seeing familiar strangers out and about in the neighborhood. This morning it was the man in the yellow puffer jacket walking his two little dogs. Then, around the corner from this budding tree, a faded red 8 1/2” x 11” paper demanding UTOPIA NOW. While it feels like dystopia now, I appreciate the reminder that these troubled days must necessarily also be a time of rupture and change… hopefully beyond bailing out the airlines and banks and oil industry.
18 March. Wednesday. Ran over towards Medford on streets I haven’t been on since last fall when training for a half marathon. My thoughts wandered to what comes next, after this pandemic recedes. In the near future I assume self isolation will roll back, but I doubt social distancing will. Hand shakes as greetings, hugs among friends may fade. Walking six feet apart - of course where this is possible - will stay in peoples minds, as will the desire to form lines with gaps between individuals. Norms around density in social gatherings, the design of bars and cafes and other places of public life may change, as will, as relevant to my work, classrooms and spaces of education.
19 March. Thursday. A +/- 8 mile social distancing walk in the rain from Somerville through to the far side of Cambridge, to and around Fresh Pond, the city’s historic and current water supply. Very few people out and about, except songbirds, geese, and, apparently coyotes (but only after dark). Then, an afternoon spent preparing to return to teaching, after spending the last week ignoring avoiding this looming reality.
Hilles Library, Harvard
20 March. Friday. After a cold and rainy morning, the sun came out briefly. First day of spring. Starting to worry about supply chains holding up when logistics workers start getting sick, as well as grocery store workers. These people are at the front line of keeping the country (and the world) together, for whatever that means. A warm afternoon and we took a walk up Prospect Hill. Many many people out, not that many of them practicing proper social isolation, which is frustrating and scary. Another day spent preparing to shift to online teaching, with mixed results: no matter how much I will try to be ready, the process won’t work as expected, or function as well as intended.
21 March. Saturday. Spring equinox and another hike in central Mass. I’d like to keep doing these social distance hikes every weekend for as long as we can. On the drive home, R. pointed out a magnolia almost in bloom in Inman Square as we drove through at sunset. Seeing the straightforward beauty of the tree in bloom spiraled me into despair, and I started crying. So much is lost and still spring comes.
22 March. Sunday. Officially spring but feels like winter still. Bright sunshine slanting into the apartment, the cat moving from sunbeam to sunbeam throughout the afternoon. A quiet day preparing to get back to teaching, online for the rest of the term.
23 March. Monday. Stay at Home order by the Governor, to begin tomorrow noon, for at least two weeks.
24 March. Tuesday. Three hours into the Stay at Home order and, from my back deck, the city seems extra quiet. As I write, a small hawk landed in the neighbor’s tree and started screeching. The lack of traffic noise amplified the hoarse sharpness of the bird’s call.
An abrupt end to this newsletter, I know. Stay well, everyone, and get out of your house, just keep a six foot distance from others!