After Eight Weeks in Quarantine, I Finally Gave Someone A Hug

The sun did not shine the last days in Les Baux. It rained heavy and sad and I did not walk in the fields. Jacques did not appear at my door. In bad weather, he usually stays at his other house.

Also, my allergies had been bothering me. For a week I’d been itching my eyes, no doubt making it all worse.

There were some external things happening too;  a crisis with my flat in Berlin—a very serious one that needed urgent organization from France. This giant, sudden, outer-world drama demanded my total attention, this thing over which I had zero control left me shaky.

I woke up that morning, read the news, had tea, and then cried.

Then I went on Facebook, looked at a happy video of a toddler giggling, and cried some more.

I woke up that morning, read the news, had tea, and then cried. Then I went on Facebook, looked at a happy video of a toddler giggling and cried some more.

I walked outside to go to the car, as I needed to buy allergy meds from the pharmacy, but then the engine would not start. My friend was in the middle of homeschooling the young ones and could not help.

So I walked home in the rain and sobbed.

I cringe to share it, I’m healthy and have so much going for me, but I felt so sad and pathetic and alone and defeated.

About an hour later, she texted: Sorry, it was just so hard to get the kids to do work, it had been a delicate moment, but now she was on her way to Bedoin to go shopping. Would I like to come? I would. She pulled up by the house and I got into her car and burst into tears.

I cringe to share it, I’m healthy and have so much going for me, but I felt so sad and pathetic and alone and defeated.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, and somehow the in-person empathy was such a relief, it somehow made me shatter even more. “ I can’t believe you went this long without cracking.”

I hiccupped. “Eight weeks ain’t bad, right?”

In the car I was aware of how close we were sitting—this is the first time we have dared to be in an enclosed space together. During the entire confinement, we only met twice for social distancing drinks, both times carefully outside in the cherry orchard, absolutely keeping our distance from each other.

But as of that very day, Macron had allowed for many changes—now people could gather in groups of up to 10 people, kindergartens were back in session, businesses slowly opening. People were being encouraged to have “bubbles”, small groups of folks they can see, to keep some contact for the mental health but to limit exposure to groups as much as humanly possible.

People were being encouraged to have “bubbles”, small groups of folks they can see, to keep some contact for the mental health but to limit exposure to groups as much as humanly possible.

In town, I bought my anti-allergy eye drops from the pharmacist plus a bottle of home-made gel—made specifically by the pharmacy since they’ve run out the official kind — a bottle of what looked to be almost pure rubbing alcohol.

And in Carrefourre I bought radishes, eggs, asparagus, cheese, Fromage blanc, and a fancy jar of lemon curd, imported from the UK, as a treat.

Afterward, we drove back up the hill to go home.

“So you’re in my bubble.” she declared, as we pulled back to her house. “We’ve both carefully isolated and seen no people for 8 weeks. So let’s have tea.”

And so we did.

She made a good proper English black tea with milk, and we had toast with the lemon curd. We put on Joni Mitchell and sang along. There was a wave of softness that came over me, this hushed luxury to be in the presence of even one friend, to be in someone else’s home, to drink tea out of someone else’s glasses.

My friend’s little boy and his one of his two permitted in-the-same-bubble friend’s had collected a giant bowl of wild cherries, from outside. She promised they could make a special Provencal dessert out of it. I drank the tea as the boys chatted lightly in French, paring the cherries expertly with sharp knives and my friend stirred something in a pot in the stove and Joni sang from the iPhone speakers“ I spent last night in a good hotel….” and their beautiful cat with the huge green eyes jumped up and sat on my lap and purred and I felt warm again like I’d had the social equivalent of frost-bite and the tea and my friend’s company and the hanging out in the kitchen, the boys, the cherries, the cat on my lap, all of it was like a giant warm hairdryer, thawing me out.

I’d had the social equivalent of frost-bite and the tea and my friend’s company and the hanging out in the kitchen, the boys, the cherries, the cat on my lap, all of it was like a giant warm hairdryer, thawing me out.

Eventually, it was 6 pm and we traded tea for red wine, and the duck was marinated in ginger and soy, for a delicious wok-cooked Chinese noodle dish. We ate it with hot sauce that her husband made himself…It was so hot that even smoke coming out of my nose, causing some mild table giggling. “ I love it!” I declared, my face the color of cayenne pepper. “ No, I do!” And I did.

It’s like over these eight weeks I had been getting anemic without knowing it.

And in only one afternoon and evening of togetherness put the blood back in me.

Because that’s what that tea and dinner and togetherness was: it was a blood transfusion. I slept well that night.

Before I left she said, well, we’re in each other’s bubbles so we can hug now.

And just like that, I gave my first hug to another human, no, actually, the first physical touch of any kind to another human….in eight weeks.

Remember this? My body whispered. Remember? Remember?