The writer at a house party of seven two months after lockdown in Madrid. Spain saw one of the strictest lockdowns, with over 27,000 people losing their lives
Kevin Lobo
We played music every day with a Bluetooth speaker for our neighbours for close to eight weeks during the lockdown in Madrid. It was glorious. While the world flooded with news of death and sickness in Spain, we saw waves of love and hope outside our balcony. Some of our neighbours would crack open a window to let the music stream in. Others were more effusive. They would join us, dancing with abandon, like they were a few drinks down at a party. This was at noon every afternoon, so inebriation was most probably not a motivation, but you never know.
We-d like to think we made some people happy. It was our only sense of community during the lockdown. During our darkest times, when 900 people were dying every day in the country, it was this six-song playlist that helped us out of our collective anxiety.
My partner and I have had to be more cautious than others. You see, I have bronchitis, and I come in the high risk category for the COVID-19 virus. So trips to the market were reduced to once in 10 days. And when we did go, they were shamelessly short. No chit-chat, in and out trips, with bags and backs drooping heavily under the weight of daily items.
Over 8,500 people have died in Madrid due to the infection, and the lockdown was one of the most stringent in the world.
When it was announced that Madrid can go for a walk after two months of being cooped up at home, people ran out. On the first day of the un-lockdown, pictures emerged of streets crowded with people.
Like a Madrid version of Dadar station. I wasn-t one of them. The very thought of being in the slipstream of someone running with the virus made me nervous.
But confidence to co-exist with the rest of the world has been returning slowly. I have gone for a couple of walks, but not nearly as much as I should.
My biggest test was a couple of weekends ago. I was invited to a house party and the thought of meeting friends for the first time in months put a skip in my step.
After a couple of steps though the dread of dying on a ventilator with no one to sit next to my bed would return.
If being in the slipstream of a runner made me nervous, being in a house with seven people without social distancing gave me palpitations.
How does one socialise anyway in a post-COVID world? Do you you do the customary Spanish greeting - a kiss on each cheek? Do you wear masks inside the house? My partner was nervous for me as well, and we decided that masks at home were too silly, but kisses were out of bounds. We set off confidently. Not by metro, like we usually would have, because we were being confident not foolish. We decided to walk bravely about five kilometres to my friend-s place.
Kevin Lobo
With the sun beating down on us, we walked along the Madrid Rio promenade. Sweaty and spent, we reached the residence and were immediately aware of the imaginary bubbles of distance that separated us. We air kissed a few feet away from each other, and did an awkward hand movement that was a combination of a pat on the back and a royal wave from the balcony of a palace. We smiled at each other like on a first date. Knowing that you want to be around each other right now, but not sure whether you will feel the same in 10 minutes.
We were second to arrive in a party of seven, so the house was still comfortably empty. But with every bell that rang, came the same mix of excitement and fear. The awkwardness of knowing that we cannot hello each other like we usually do, the excitement of seeing familiar faces again and to feel a connection with other people outside of Zoom and Skype calls.
It took me almost 15 minutes to get my first beer. Very unlike me. It took me even longer to ask for a refill after I chugged the first glass for confidence. For my first social challenge, I was up against a conversation with a friend-s boyfriend, who owns a restaurant. We had a lot to talk about in these semi-post-lockdown times. It-s amazing how aware you can be of little things. I noticed his nose was red, like a beacon of the virus. I noticed a little spittle that flew from his mouth when he spoke passionately about his business. He had a tissue in his hand. It was drenched. He told us later, much later, he had spring allergies.
When we started the conversation, he was behind the threshold between the kitchen and the balcony. We were in the balcony with our backs towards the railing. During our 45-minute conversation, he trespassed across the threshold. We tried to match his step, in an excruciatingly slow waltz, but our efforts were in vain. He was less than half a metre from our faces.
Then the door bell rang, and the last of the seven arrived. My closest friend entered and decided social distancing was not for him. He hugged everyone, and then everyone hugged everyone else. They did the Spanish greeting. My partner and I exchanged glances, and when he approached to hug us, I was glad that my partner took the lead in telling him that we don-t do that anymore. A couple of awkward elbow taps later, we realised that we had suddenly strayed from the herd. We had become the bison calf that was going to be consumed by our new social rules.
I decided it was time to let go. The food was exquisite. It was communal like a lot of Mediterranean food. Dips - the bane of social distancing. I observed very closely for a while for double dipping and eventually gave up. The night progressed with lots of alcohol. At some point in a fit of love, I hugged a friend. In complete horror, we looked at each other. Then everyone laughed. I was mocked. We returned home buzzed on alcohol and the experience of meeting each other again. I have another invite this weekend. I feel more confident. My first house party in months makes me realise that everyone is probably going to get the virus if they are social. I just hope the vaccine comes out before.
The writer is a journalist, cultural manager and an English teacher
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