Pisces 27° (March 17)

Paris, Day Fifty Four of, well, Fifty Four. I cannot tell you how bummed I am. And how tired. We woke and spoke around four fifteen and then I probably fell back around five-thirty for just half an hour. I have to dump out my entire pot of celeriac soup, along with the roasted chicken, potatoes and brussel sprouts I made last night for supper. I am packing as much as I can of the rest of the provisions but we have two heavy suitcases and a giant carry bag each that weigh tons. We both take baths to calm down. My body is in revolt and I can’t tell if I’m dealing with a pull or if I’m having a panic attack or worse. We have to get a car and we have to get to the train. We put the biggest cranky pack we can into play. What I didn’t mention yesterday was that amid all the chaos and the packing S. had contacted our friend Jo who had offered her house in London so S. texted her and said, well I think we need to take you up on this. The house is sitting empty but we will meet the housekeeper who apparently is going to get some food in as well. We turn off France Musique, which has been on constantly these past fifty-four days, and say goodbye to the flat and send our bags down the tiny lift, three trips in all. Uber said it will take about eighteen minutes to get a car and though we ask for a van they keep sending cars. And we call the driver and he says no his car is too small and we keep trying meanwhile I get the number for Dom’s taxi from Nan and we call them too. There is nobody on the street but for the rare passer by on a bike, wearing a mask. Finally an Uber big enough shows up and we cancel the taxi and head to Gare du Nord. On the way we see queues of spaced apart people lining down whole blocks to get into a local Monoprix. Maybe we are doing the right thing after all. How would we ever be able to function here? I wonder. We get dropped a the station and go through the ticket and baggage and passport check. I don’t want to say anything but I feel really odd—hoping it’s just nerves and fatigue. There are no concessions open, let alone the first class lounge. We just sit and squirt gel into our hands. And it’s time to board and there are a lot of people here but much to our surprise our car only has two other guys in it. One of them wants to chat but we are shutting that down, the other is an older English fellow trying to get back to Norway where he lives with his wife but that country has closed up shop, too, apparently. I’m haunted by the images driving to the station actually, it was amongst the most grimmest images I’ve ever laid eyeballs on. S just read that you have to have a sort of written declaration on your person if you’re outside anywhere.

I forgot to say that yesterday after shopping we saw the doors to La Fronde were open and Yuan and Vanessa and some other folk were in there cleaning out. I suppose that was why the trash area this morning was so disgusting smelling of fish. Anyway we told them that we were staying another month so I will have to find them and write them. Not that they care, exactly. Also tonight was the night that we were meant to have Yvan (not to be confused with Yuan) for diner. I was so looking forward to that, but it obviously wasn’t meant to be at this juncture. Amid all of this our book is being optioned and we are now contracted as consultants on TV show based upon it. That’s pretty exciting, no? Especially, since it’s the book we call the “other sister”. Anyway, we got to St. Pancras and there was no queue for taxis and the young driver was cool and smart and engaging and it was an easy ride to Kensington where our friends, who aren’t here, have a house and have so generously offered it to us until we figure out next steps. I feel a bit iffy but why wouldn’t I after all this travel in any case. And last night was just awful. Anyway when we get to the address, the housekeeper is here and she gives us instructions on what’s what and where. There is a swimming pool in the basement or rather the basement is a swimming pool. I’m blown away not by the luxury because it is an understated, though perfectly appointed place—I’m blown away by the kindness and the gratitude I feel for my friends. Words cannot express. We venture out in hopes of finding food and first come across a Waitrose which we enter and exit in easy measure. There was zero on the shelves. We see people carrying Whole Foods bags so we keep walking in that direction and find the place at Barclay Circle (or something like that) it is filled with shoppers buying multiples of everything and is pretty picked over but we manage to get some salad fixins and some pasta and sauce for tonight. People are all in masks and here we go again. After Italy and France now we are doing this a third time. We are in touch with our friends by text and let them know we are just going to make some food and crash tonight. I feel truly blessed.

And we did just that: Took a little swim. Bath time. Then put on jammies and slippers and made some nice spaghetti with sauce right of the jar. This is not a time for me to be an authentic Italian. Watching the news—Boris is doing updates at five o’clock each day apparently. They are not mandating business shutter their doors. And why not? Because then these businesses would be eligible for insurance money. Instead they are recommending to consumers not to go to places of businesses, which will cause shops and restaurants and hotels and such to close, but these places wouldn’t get any insurance money because it would have been there decision to close. So sleazy and so obvious it makes me sick: Boris et al protecting the insurers over the public and their welfare. Makes me want to throw things. And yet Boris is at least intelligent enough to pretend he cares unlike the mandarin blob in the White House. Good golly what a world. We need some intervention action and we do not it pretty damn quick. Never have we lived through such a scary time, all wrapped up in an already scary time these past three and a half years. I need some good news and I need some fast. So much for it being St. Patrick’s Day. I used to love this day growing up. My mother and grandmother would make Irish Soda Bread. We always had home made corned beef and cabbage. It was actually a thing. When I was old enough to play hookie I would go to New York City for the day and drink green beer. I don’t know how it is my parents let me do that. And so weird that bars would serve a fifteen or sixteen year old. Oh, I dunno folks. I know it was un-PC to have the opposite of helicopter parents. But it sure was fun and formative, having to fend for yourself. The way people raise their kids now—please don’t get me started. It is weird that they haven’t closed schools here. There is some scuttlebutt about kinds not getting sick from this. Not that they don’t get it I guess, they just remain basically asymptomatic. At least that is the spin. It is possible this thing mutates, gets stronger and kills us all.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree pointof the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go!
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