Author: Katheryn Heyman
The medieval square outside our apartment in Ronda was always quiet, but last Saturday morning even the birds seemed silent. I’d thought I’d misunderstood when the only woman in the square said: “You are right to go. You must. Spain is closing.” The whole country? My Spanish must have got worse.
For over a year, the British author Jill Dawson and I had planned a retreat for a group of writers we’d been mentoring, a retreat to focus on creative resilience, hopeful imagination, the skills of making something from nothing. The things we artists have to offer the world.
After leading retreats in Bali, this was to be our first in Spain, and we were deliriously excited. When the coronavirus first hit I watched the news carefully, checking the government travel site daily. I’d planned to take an extra few days ahead of the retreat with my husband to walk and acclimatise. As we heard of the virus spreading in Italy, I checked the site again. “Level 1: exercise normal safety precautions.” Richard considered cancelling. I shook my head: “Everyone’s booked their flights. The warning is normal. We’re not cancelling the retreat, so I’m going with or without you.”
We spent four days hiking in the spring air of the Sierra de Grazalema, vultures gliding far overhead. Everything seemed possible. And then on Friday morning: “Level 3: reconsider your need to travel.” In less than an hour everything had changed. We booked the first flights that would get us home.
I’d heard correctly: the entire country was closing, doors slamming like a wave behind us as we drove to Malaga airport. Waiting nervously for check-in, we reviewed the news. A flight on its way to Spain was turned back. The Spanish passengers on that flight were now, presumably, stranded in London. We huddled in a corner, hands in pockets, focusing on the cancellations listed on the departure board.
In the queue, a toddler was licking a metal pole. His father glanced down and chuckled affectionately. To a person, we all shuffled away, averting our eyes, disconnecting. It’s uncomfortable, moving through the world like this. On board another toddler – this one with a mother travelling alone – turned on his seat to sing, inviting praise. Normally I’d engage, offer the parent a moment’s pause. But mindful now of everyone’s risk, I kept my eyes on my book.
The air stewards, at work since dawn, remained calm. Everyone was buckled up, ready – we hoped– for take-off, when a new group of passengers boarded, flustered, without boarding passes. Trying to keep our sticky breath to ourselves, we waited, everything strangely quiet. A series of historical events played in my mind, moments when everything changed rapidly. I wondered if now would be a good time to re-establish my old belief in interventionist prayer.
I’ve been on many delayed flights with angry passengers demanding that the flight move, that people take action, dammit. This time someone shouted thank you to the crew, and it echoed along the seats like a song. The pilot emerged from the cockpit.
“Folks, we are doing our best to get you home. In Paris this morning we didn’t think we would get here. But we’re here now and we’ll get you to London as soon as we can.” Applause rippled through the cabin. Against the stories of antisocial hoarding, the quiet courtesy of my fellow travellers gave me hope.
Two days of moving in a contained bubble, avoiding contact, standing away from people, was unnatural, impossible. Social distancing will never be my key strength. At dinner in the Gatwick airport hotel, desperate for connection, we struck up a safe-distance conversation with Jade and Liz, smart, energetic women about to holiday in Egypt. Richard cleared his throat: “Flights may be grounded.”
“You might get stuck overseas like we nearly did,” I added. The women insisted. They’d got the kids sorted, meals in the freezer. A bit of sun, just what the doctor ordered. I was terrified for them and told them so, but they were going. When Liz, in a natural moment of connection, put her hand on my wrist, I recoiled and reached for my hand sanitiser.
In the morning a pilot stepped into the lift with us. We asked him how his company was doing. “All our flights are grounded,” he said. “I’m just off to rescue some passengers.” I thought of Liz and Jade and asked where he was due to fly. “Egypt,” he replied.
It’s true everything has changed, more rapidly than we could have imagined. But these things do remain: resilience, imagination, hope. The things we’ve always called on to find solutions to the impossible.
We arrived home to a kitchen full of groceries left by a dear friend, a series of text messages from neighbours, doorstep gifts of eggs and chocolate. In the end, we are each other. Not individuals, travelling through the world in isolated bubbles, but community.
This is how we will make it through these next months and years: together. Courteously, calmly, at a slightly greater physical distance, but with continuing gratitude and, whenever we can, with applause.
