These In-Between Times

Since June 19th, Schuylkill County has entered the green phase. Restaurants and bars are open—to 50% capacity. If you’ve planned a wedding, a big party, the green phase is your green light—if no more than 250 guests are involved.

In France, since June 15th, restaurants and cafés have reopened as long as a distance of one meter is respected between tables (in pre-corona times, in Parisian restaurants, it was not uncommon to rub elbows with diners at the next table). There are no paper menus, though, and servers must wear masks.

On June 22nd, French theaters reopened, along with casinos and vacation centers. On July 11th, sports fans will be able return to stadiums. France’s national stadium, Stade de France, can hold over 81,000 spectators but will be limited to a maximum crowd of 5,000 until further notice.

On June 22nd, the number of known cases of covid-19 in Pennsylvania was 86,024; the number of deaths, 6,472. On that same date in France, there were 160,377 recorded cases and 29,640 deaths. In the world, cases are on the rise.

In both Pennsylvania and France, a timid “return to normal” is underway. But after months of quarantine, “normal” feels like a shoe that doesn’t fit, and nobody’s feeling sure-footed these days.

In mid-May, watching the French evening news, I was surprised to see the state capitol building in Harrisburg. Anti-lockdown protesters were out in force to contest the measures put in place by Governor Tom Wolf. I saw lots of angry people and even some floats, one proclaiming that Jesus was on the side of protestors fighting for “liberty.”

In France and, I imagine, even in Pennsylvania, few have that kind of faith. Without a vaccine, we’re condemned to living with an invisible enemy; and common sense dictates that it’s best to play it safe. The Golden Rule as well. Not only must I protect myself; I must look out for others—because that’s what I’d like them to do for me.

The Golden Rule has come under attack in our individualistic times. What I want may not be what you want. In my village in France, there are people who scoff at the virus and consider our long confinement a government conspiracy. These are the people who greet their friends with a kiss on both cheeks and refuse to wear masks except where one is required: in hospitals, public transportation, or a doctor’s waiting room.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you? Some of those same villagers who doubt the existence of covid-19 want me to kiss them when we meet! Instead, I take a precautionary step back. This they interpret as a betrayal of friendship. In my mind, I’m being a good friend by protecting both myself and them.

In France, in pre-corona times, nothing was more natural than greeting others with a peck on each cheek. In the past, at social gatherings, I watched people circle a room to bestow kisses on the cheeks of every guest, even on the ones of total strangers. Poised between horror and admiration, I looked on. This is one French custom I’ve never mastered.

For the moment, the French feel bereft. They miss their kissing ritual. They need to touch. Avoid kissing! Avoid touching! We hear it all day long on radio and TV. It’s for our own good, public service announcements tell us, just like masks, handwashing, and sneezing or coughing into a raised elbow. But the French are not Americans. “Hi.” “Bye.” Those casual American greetings just don’t do it for them.

Every year on June 21st, since 1981—next year the 40th anniversary, the French celebrate “la Fête de la musique.” This year it was more virtual than real. In the past, there were giant concerts, all free, and bals populaires, street dances, with every kind of music under the sun. This year, there could be no more than ten dancers on the dance floor at any one time.

As for the impromptu concerts on street corners that used to make this night the noisiest of the year, amateur musicians were invited to stay home and celebrate on-line, following the example of electronic music pioneer Jean-Michel Jarre. At 9:30 in the evening French time, on June 21st, he presented a virtual concert “Seuls ensemble,” Alone Together, to fans around the world.

When will it again become possible to spill into the streets, celebrate cheek to cheek, hip to hip, as we dance the night away? Who wants to? Surely, the young, who are being deprived of the rituals of youth. In France, discothèques and clubs remain closed until September and even then, there will be strict rules to respect.

Yesterday, on the other side of a high stone wall that separates my garden from a neighbor’s, I could hear—and smell—celebration, the volleying of a birdie, an animated game of badminton, friends calling out, encouraging each other, the smell of meat on the grill. My neighbor has a big garden, you could almost call it a park. I was listening to an “in-between times” celebration, outside but in a confined space, among friends, on a perfect summer day.

Watch any toddler. It’s not easy to learn to walk. Nor is it easy to break in a new pair of shoes. Myself, I’m having a hard time learning to make my way in this post-quarantine world. I’m not ready to greet with a kiss. Even though cinemas are open, I won’t buy a ticket and go inside. I don’t even feel like going out to eat, one of my great pleasures in life.

A book, a glass of wine, and thou, to do a riff on the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Add a walk through the woods, a nice homemade meal, I’d feel more than satisfied with that.

But “that” is not enough. We need people, crowds, gatherings in stadiums, auditoriums, music, concerts we share in the flesh. We need to feel the excitement, share the goosebumps. We need patience. Now is not the time.

These in-between times represent a disturbing challenge we all have to meet as we cautiously advance into a future unknown, as we remain at all times mindful of the welfare of all.