Escape from New York, in the time of the COVID-19 Pandemic
I’m sitting at a cast-iron table. Paint flakes peeled off by the weather flicker in the breeze. The bright green and red plants next to it sit complacently in their pots. A bee buzzes undisturbed and sits on a geranium. It stands still for a second, then takes flight, free to fly over to its next flower.
It is a setting for harmony and peacefulness, beautifully lit by the warm morning sunlight. In this little corner of the world, where birds chirp happily and time stops, the global COVID-19 pandemic raging outside feels distant and surreal. So does my hasty escape from New York, the city where I left behind the lifelong dream that I’d recently made into a reality.
As I sit here, in this little Eden, I wonder about what is happening outside. How rare is it that from Seoul to Teheran, from Milan to New York, everyone is facing similar hardships? At this moment when we are asked to distance ourselves from others, have we ever felt closer?
I sit, looking into my empty espresso cup as if the grains at the bottom were tea leaves that could show me my future. I’m thinking about the events of the past month, that drove me away from the city I’d fantasized about living in for years. I’m thinking about the decisions that led me to a place I’d never imagined calling home: Terni, Umbria, in the heart of Italy. I lived most of my life in this country, have traveled it north and south, but I’d never been here before. The circumstances and fleeing New York led me to find refuge in this town.
One month ago, I was sitting at a grey table, a different one. I was in the newsroom of my school at 219 W 40th street. Outside a layer of grey pollution hovered in the air, obscuring the rays of sunlight, cars honked loudly as they tried to disentangle themselves from the congested streets of midtown Manhattan. This was the place I now called home, with a room full of faces I’d become familiar with over the past seven months.
In that room, I was animatedly discussing with my friends about how absurd it seemed to me that no precautions were being taken in the United States. I couldn’t stop thinking of the “blitzkrieg” tactic with which COVID-19 invaded Italy. The distrusting part of me was certain that the delay in finding cases in New York was due to a lack of testing rather than a lack of cases in the city.
On March 9th, with 9,172 confirmed cases, according to the Health Ministry, Italy’s numbers were threateningly increasing by 20% per day. In the meantime, United States official tallies confirmed only 645. Of those, 102 were in New York City, most of which were associated with foreign causes. I felt that the surge in cases in Italy, South Korea, or Iran, as a result of unfortunate events, naivete in being so transparent and extensive testing. In the U.S. they weren’t retracing the origin of cases that weren’t related to foreign roots, and media like the New York Times tracked them as “unknown”. A couple of weeks later, again the New York Times would publish an interesting article titled “How the virus got out”. It provided evidence of how in early January travelers left Wuhan in thousands and flew to cities around the world, mentioning in particular that an average 900 people traveled to New York per month from the heart of the outbreak. To our obliviousness the virus had been out and about in the city for a while. I wondered if my boyfriend Francesco’s ten-day fever and strong cough at the end of January in New York might have been related.
March 9th was a Monday. As I packed my things to walk out of class late in the afternoon, I got a text from my life-long friend Giorgia. It said that Italian Prime Minister, Giuseppe Conte, had just announced that they’d officially put the whole of Italy on lockdown. I let myself fall on a couch in the corridor of my school. I couldn’t believe what was taking place in my home, while no one around me seemed worried, not in the least.
Lockdown meant no one would be able to leave their homes for quite some time without a permit and a valid reason for leaving. It affected my mom and dad, my brother, and all of my friends. Never in my brief lifetime had my country faced such a grave moment.
At that moment, when I felt the warm tears lining my cheeks, disbelief and sorrow turned into the need for action, and my mind began racing to figure out what I could do to help. Was it best for me to stay, in New York, and put all my efforts into journalism and publishing accurate information about what was happening abroad? Or would it be better if I were closer to my family? Wordlessly showing them my support with a comforting embrace.
Leaving New York meant putting on hold my planned year-and-a-half away, not knowing when I’d be allowed back to complete my master’s degree. This plan had been eight years in the making. I had dreamt of moving to New York since I can remember. At the age of 18 I’d created a plan for how to turn this fantasy into a reality. I pictured myself studying journalism in New York City. I could see myself as I scribbled notes in a notebook on a park bench in Washington Square Park, with squirrels racing up and down tree trunks. Sipping a Starbucks latte as I ran to catch the subway. Cliché images of a city I’d been to but never had called mine.
By then I wasn’t ready to live across the ocean from my family, in such a tough city. I also lacked the experience, expertise, or point of view that could really make my voice as a journalist stand out. It took two university degrees and two years into my professional career in marketing to decide to leave it all to go back to that dream of mine.
However, are you ever really ready to leave the life you’ve built behind and hop across the Atlantic Ocean into the unknown? Milan was where I’d found my independence and built my home: friends who’d become my extended family, the streets I could walk along with my eyes closed, the favorite cafés and bars for drinks, the job I’d become quite good at and where I was soon going to get promoted. New York instead, felt like an untamed jungle I had to cross through alone. I knew no one there, I didn’t have an apartment and I was going to dare myself to do something I had never done before. Talk about getting out of your comfort zone!
Only seven months after having taken this leap, when I was finally getting used to this new normal, I was faced with having to choose whether or not the sensible thing to do was cut the dream short. Leaving was something I could decide and plan, but I had no idea of when I’d be able to come back. I was flustered by having to make this choice; neither emotional nor rational thinking helped provide a solution. It came to terms with the fact this was a zero-sum game, in which gaining something meant losing something else. I pushed myself to soak up my sorrow and truly grasp how lucky I was. My family and friends were safe, I was healthy, well-fed, and could pay for the roof over my head.
Days went by, cases increased in New York, and slowly bars, restaurants, and stores closed their doors. Toilet paper shortages seemed a prophetic indicator of local unease. My weekly escapes to museums, a benefit acquired thanks to my student status, were abruptly interrupted, like MoMA, MET, Whitney, and the others shuttered their doors to the public. Even the places I religiously headed to habitually as my refuge, those places of inspiration and comfort, couldn’t welcome me anymore. However, as I went around covering nose and mouth with my blue pashmina scarf and wrapped my hands in see-through plastic gloves, people looked at me suspiciously. They seemed to distrust the girl who protected herself from the invisible evil. Or maybe I just brought their minds back to an unpleasant thought.
As the media kept focusing on Italy, as the western-world country that appeared to have been hit the worst by Covid-19, my situation in New York started turning sour. Late one night my boyfriend Francesco and I walked into the building I’d been calling home for the past few months, a nice residential complex on 79th street, in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I was casually chatting with Francesco as we waited for the elevator when an elderly blonde lady walked in towards us with her dog wagging behind. She froze and listened to us speak, the cracks on her wrinkled forehead emphasized as she furrowed her brows to scrutinize us. “Do you live here?” she asked. I gently told her I did and had been for a while. “You’re definitely European, so you shouldn’t be here,” she spat out and left to take the service elevator instead of sharing the lift with us. I’d never been directly discriminated against because of my nationality and felt so deeply insulted by what she’d said that I spent the night thinking over how I should’ve responded. I wasn’t even welcome in my own home.
Our window for deciding what to do was nearly up. Calling the Italian Consulate in New York and other official channels, we heard great uncertainty about whether flights would still be available in the following weeks. We might end up stuck in New York, not knowing when we’d be able to head home.
As coffee gurgled out of the moka pot one morning, filling the air with its pungent aroma, I look at Francesco. We both knew, that no matter how hard it was, it was time to leave. That same day we bought our one-way direct flight to Rome and began packing our bags.
A couple of days later I had emptied my home, leaving behind a set of winter clothes to come back to, hopefully in September. Finding this apartment had taken me over 4 months, many desperate moments, and a lot of moving around, so I had no intention of letting go of it. Luckily, I managed to figure out an arrangement with the owner, 50% off for a couple of months in exchange for her using the space while I wasn’t there.
On March 22nd we called our UBER XL car to fit our ten bags in the trunk, waved a sorrowful goodbye to New York’s skyline from the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, and headed towards JFK Airport.
We arrived early at the airport, expecting long lines and lengthy-time for controls. But at Terminal One all flights had been canceled. There was nothing beyond the two daily flights to Rome that the Italian Foreign Ministry kept most likely to repatriate its citizens. Once our luggage was off, all ten items checked in, we headed towards controls. Behind the kind lady who marked my flight ticket with a highlighter, the infinite line of blue retractable line dividers was empty. You could see all the way to the end, to the yellow sign that directed us towards departures, to the body scanners where the few passengers present lined up to prove they weren’t traveling with dangerous items. Above the electronic destination board ominously showed a list of canceled flights, to Paris, Milan, London, and Casablanca. Rome the last man standing.
I knew flying would be a stressful experience in the middle of a pandemic, but I expected airports to have set in place cautionary systems to protect both staff and passengers. Nevertheless, no one at JFK seemed the least concerned with ensuring social distancing, protecting passengers or themselves with facemasks or gloves, touching people and their luggage, inside and out. In the overwhelming confusion of bags and stuff, I’d forgotten the second computer Francesco had stashed in my trolley. After waiting for over ten minutes, in the middle of the only busy corner in the airport, security opened my trolley and started touching all they could to retrieve the laptop, very visibly sitting at the top. I guessed they were probably unaware of how surfaces and objects are potentially dangerous carriers of the Covid-19 virus, so I made a mental note to avoid opening my luggage for at least 72 hours. By then the danger was very real as New York City had already counted 23,260 confirmed cases and 205 deaths.
In the desolated airport, lavish leather Yves Saint Laurent bags stood in their glossy windows, and the dazzling lights of Michael Kors soothingly called passersby to it, but no one dared cross their thresholds. Francesco and I opted to eat something at Soy & Sake, one of the few food options available with the restriction on restaurants. Sitting at the counter, on the red metal stools we satiated our appetites sharing warm shrimp siu mai and pork belly baos and topped it all off with a bowl of tasty shoyu ramen. We drained it all down with an Asahi beer, to calm our nerves and reinvigorate our spirits before the flight.
Soon it was time to board. I noticed that even though all passengers had received an email about the mask requirement on board, many didn’t have one and waited to receive the white piece of cloth from airline staff. Even though not everyone had their masks on we were asked to line up for boarding, pushed to a side in a disorderly manner that didn’t allow us to keep a safe distance. As we stood there, the first sign of Italy’s lockdown manifested itself in the form we were all handed. It was titled “Self-Declaration to Enter into the Italian Territory” and cited the decree from March 17th regarding what people must do when they enter the country. This included 14 days of isolation and sanitary surveillance, which we’d prepared for on arrival. Our plan was to avoid all contacts with any other person and especially with our parents, who are older and considered more at risk than us.
We settled down in our drab economy class seats; the forest green colors of the LCD screen welcomed us aboard the Alitalia flight. As we waited for take-off, we fastened our seatbelts and ensured our masks were safely on. Around us everyone wore a mask. A young girl, with long wavy golden hair, sat next to me. She was speaking with her mother on Facetime, and with her strong Tuscan accent she loudly voiced her concerns about how cramped we all were on the plane. A flight attendant scolded a curly-haired man a few seats in front of me who was keeping his mask around his neck rather than covering nose and mouth. Francesco and I held each other’s glove-wrapped hands as the airplane taxied on the runway.
I never got up during the eight-hour flight, never went to the restroom, never stretched my legs. I sat sleepless with my eyes closed. My restless time onboard only interrupted by the stale ravioli for dinner and the partially frozen strawberry croissant for breakfast.
At 6:20 am CET we landed in Rome. As the aircraft’s wheels touched down and began braking, I was pervaded by a feeling of relief at the idea of being in Italy. Ironically, even though the media felt differently, here I felt I was finally safe.
We all rushed out of the aircraft as quickly as possible to regain some space between each other and sprinted towards passport control. We waited in line, keeping a safe one-meter distance from those in front and behind us. Contrary to Italian customs, airport personnel had efficiently organized the line and travelers dutifully followed the pattern. Policemen verified our self-declarations and papers twice, while the scanners above discreetly informed them of our temperatures. They stamped and sealed our papers with a signature.
We were then free to go. But free wasn’t the right word to describe our status. We could only head to the location we’d declared. This location would have to host us for the next two weeks, and we weren’t allowed out. Not to buy food, stretch our legs, or any other conceivable reason. If we didn’t comply, we’d risk a fine of about $500 and potentially incarceration.
We walked out at arrivals. No one hugged, no one ran to meet their loved ones. Everyone cautiously reunited, smiling at each other 6 feet apart. The first thing we did was head to the airport café for a cappuccino, the first real cappuccino in months. I relished the taste of the rich, creamy milk foam that blended with the strong espresso.
From the Roman airport our plan was to drive one-hour in-land towards Terni, the local administrative center of the region of Umbria. In the late 19th-century steel mills were introduced in the city, transforming it into a key industrial hub for the country. Still today it is nicknamed “the Steel City” or “the Italian Manchester”. We’d decided to head to Terni because the house that used to belong to Francesco’s grandparents’ house was the only place for us to avoid contact with our families for over 14 days. We were really concerned that we might have contracted something either in New York or on the flight home.
We drove on the deserted highway, honking at the flocks of birds who’d been using the empty road to rest. Around me I recognized the iconic silhouettes of Italian landscapes. The tall and fleecy stone pines on either side of the road, petite fortresses perched on hilltops, with only the recurring tunnels interrupting the view once in a while.
I didn’t know what to expect from the city I was moving to for the next few weeks. As we neared our destination Francesco grew more and more anxious by the lack of life around us, while I was both calmed and excited by the familiar-looking sights around me.
We finally arrived at our destination. The motorized gate sluggishly stirred before us, unveiling the quaint garden behind. The uncultivated grass had grown high around the terracotta amphoras and the only sound audible was the agitated chirping of the birds hiding in the trees.
Escaping New York had led me here. My life was now in limbo. I had nothing but time to contemplate the options that lay ahead. I’d gone home but still wasn’t really home. I was closer to my family but still couldn’t be with my family. I had left behind a life I’d struggled to get to. Now I was back home but wasn’t truly back. I was in this temporary passageway, a bridge between my life before and after COVID-19. Here I only had time to reconsider my life’s choices and, in this undefined place where life didn’t progress.
I sit here, wondering if this acquired ability to meditate is only a matter of regaining power over time, rather than always running to keep up with it. I am in this place where time stands still, where nature moves in harmony with the wind and where the day is delimited by the rise and fall of the sun. As I sit here, my thoughts travel to all the other thousands of individuals just like me who are thinking of losses faced, choices made, and possibilities before them. I don’t know when this will end when we’ll be free again to live our lives carelessly and impulsively — not limited by the fear of interacting with others.
When that time comes, I hope I’ll remember to smile at the stranger on the bus. To always hug my best friend as if I don’t know when we’ll meet again. To go to that show, that concert, that restaurant I’d heard of. To go out even if it’s late, even if I’m tired. To meet people, talk to them and learn about their lives. To savor every step of every trip I ever take. To relish moments in the open air. To be conscious of my choices and become an example of what I say I believe in.
The future ahead can take on many different, uncontrollable directions. But remind yourself you always have the power to choose how to live each day.
