A COVID Life

Clement Messeri

From the point of view of a French student and researcher at Cal.

We were a week away from spring break when we heard a rumor: the campus will close indefinitely, all because of some virus halfway across the world. Sure, there was doubt; there is no way our seemingly well-prepared world could change so drastically in such an unforeseen way. I decided to pay closer attention once in person classes ceased. Through American and French news outlets, primarily, the wider picture was slowly being assembled. COVID-19’s extremely contagious nature and its particular fatality amongst the elderly became clearer and clearer as the days passed by and the numbers were all pointing to a single, well-known trend: exponential infection. Still, no one predicted it would change the very fabric of our lives for months—and perhaps years—to come. Country after country, continent after continent, it seemed like there was no containing the virus. First it spread to other places in Asia, still far away (although we were starting to get concerned), then it reached Western Europe and the United States, hitting much closer to home. It reached California, then the Bay Area, then Alameda County, and finally my city of Berkeley. L’étau se resserre. Even so, the number of cases were barely in the double digits, and the current administration reassured us that everything was under control. Nevertheless, I stayed in contact with the French Consulate at San Francisco and Air France, who were both talking about closing airports and greatly restricting the number of flights. Finally, I came to a decision.

I need to be by my parents’ side through this all. This was an extremely hard decision to make as I was leaving a lot behind in the United States and complicating things academically for my visa. Nonetheless, I felt it would help my parents out a great deal. And so started the journey back—the long, stressful voyage to return home. Unlike the Odyssey however, there were no cyclops and nymphs, only dreadful hours of international travels.

Much like Odysseus however, I did have to leave someone I love behind for the duration of the pandemic. Luckily, as I am writing this, I am sitting with her about to go grab some cereal bars and maybe a cookie.

My parents found a direct flight leaving SFO that Sunday—a few days out. Airports were closing across the country without warning due to staff getting infected by the virus. Sunday was the last day of confirmed flights from SFO; anything later than that was uncertain, so I was already cutting it close to the wire. As it turned out, my flight was one of the last flights to leave the tarmac, and the last one to France.

Once I made it to the airport, I was pleasantly surprised. It was not closed, in fact it was a wide open space, empty of all the worldly travelers that usually pace its terminals.

I was expecting the same to be true for my flight. Expectation which was further reinforced by my friends flying back to the US telling me that their flights were empty. However, this expectation was demolished. Along with myself, 499 other passengers filled the seats of the Boeing 777. Almost all of us were French—students, expats, retirees—returning home during the initial outbreak. This is a stark contrast to the more internationally diverse crowds I usually fly with.           

The grueling 12-hour flight was stressful enough. I wiped my seat, table and armrests clean several times with disinfectant wipes I brought with me. I didn’t dare to get up and go to the bathroom, assuming that, if the virus was anywhere on the plane, it would be in there. I did not sleep more than an hour, but I was exhausted, beat down by the circumstances. Finally, at the 11th hour, I saw the glistening white cliffs of Dover overlooking the English channel. I saw the coast of Calais smoothly jutting out into the sea. It was almost over.

Customs and border patrol went smoothly, considering the situation. People were respecting social distancing norms well enough, makeshift masks were worn.

Finally, I saw my mum who came and picked me up. She didn’t get out of the car, didn’t hug me—not until fourteen days. Fourteen strangely cozy yet unbearably disheartening days where I was mostly sequestered in my room, staying away from  door knobs, staying away from everyone. It was hard, not hugging and kissing my parents like I usually do when I come home from university. However, the last thing I wanted to do was bring the virus home and endanger my family, I was happy enough to be home safe and in one piece and that was enough for me. Now, I am in a different position. I am healthy. My family is healthy. My friends, for the most part, are healthy. Classes are still happening (albeit online). I am trying to do my part in the fight against the virus through research, social distancing, and volunteering.

This trip is now well in the past, the pandemic has died down and rose back to prominence like a phoenix over the summer. Every country is trying to stop the spread of the virus, some are doing much better than others. In the end only one  thing is certain, long gone are the days of large gatherings, the days of going to the restaurant to celebrate an event, the days of greeting people with la bise, a kiss on each cheek. When I could finally walk around my hometown, there were no lines at the boulangerie in the morning, no people sipping coffee on terraces overlooking the Seine, no crowds of people running to catch a fleeting bus at rush hour. In short, the changes caused by the Covid-19 pandemic has reached just about every staple of French culture.