By Maddie Wharton
I packed for this lockdown the way I pack for a camping trip. Composing a long mental list of all the things I’d need to enjoy my environment, pass the time, and of course survive. I’m not talking about overloading my cart at Costco, doomsday style. In fact, I didn’t do much physical packing at all - I didn’t quite get the chance. I prepared emotionally. A sort of spiritual loading, if you will. I conjured up everything I could imagine to keep my mental health afloat. A deck of cards, a puzzle, a bottle of wine - or two. Books, e-books, audiobooks, coloring books, books about books. I began filling my journal, experimenting with guided meditation, and religiously watching Cheryl Strayed interviews.
As an introvert, I was secretly thrilled to have this time alone. As a self-proclaimed philosopher of sorts, I was eager to dig into my own psyche to the point of discomfort. As a human being, I was nervous. As much as the thought of psycho-analysis and self-reflection for hours on end excited me, I knew all too well how much we, as people, depend on human interaction and companionship. I knew all the books in the world wouldn’t change this fact.
But as one does when faced with a long road ahead, I started walking. I read page after page, lost infinite rounds of solitaire, and colored until the pencils were dull. I tried to give myself grace as I attempted yoga with immense restless energy. I even literally started walking, climbing the stairs in my building. I did everything I could possibly imagine someone could do alone, before I became desperate for interaction. It was then that I FaceTimed every person I’ve known since third grade, responded to all the comments I’ve ever received on social media, and barged into my living room on St. Patrick’s Day with a pitcher of green beer, forcing my roommates to celebrate with me.
While those of us stuck in this apartment can agree that having each other is keeping us sane, we can also admit it’s not enough. I miss unfamiliar faces. I miss bobbing and weaving between slow walkers on crowded sidewalks. I miss eavesdropping into cinematic dialogue among children reenacting Frozen in the park. On a normal day, the value of these ordinary occurrences can be easily overlooked. Now they feel like prized-possessions I’ve carelessly lost.
So how do we do it? How do we satisfy that innate human desire to connect with one another? In Madrid, we dance. We cheer, and we sing, and we dance. Every night when the clock strikes eight, Madrileños emerge from their flats in the fresh dusk glow and raise their hand in applause. A standing ovation rings loud and clear from north to south. We whistle and cry out, thanking the heroes in the hospitals tending to our fallen. We praise the clerks in our neighborhood grocery stores who never imagined they’d be among the last at work when the world began to crumble. We take the time to acknowledge the city maintenance crew, dressed in hazmat suits, attempting to wash away our greatest threat. We cheer wildly like our team is winning, because in a way, it is.
This goes on as the minutes pass. The clapping echoes wane as the music begins. On Calle Gaztambide, this is when the real party starts. Tusa by Karol G and Nicki Minaj blares from the speakers a few windows below us as it does every night to signal the musical kick-off. The pre-teen girls down and to the right of us shriek with excitement and lead us in what has become our collective prayer, “pero si le ponen la canción…” In unison, we sing out. Our quiet, sleeping street comes to life. A middle-aged man dances and confidently shouts incorrect lyrics, college students raise their ridiculously large gin and tonics swaying to the rhythm, a mother hoists her baby up to the window, bouncing him on beat. At the sight of the baby, the congregation roars - he’s a crowd favorite. We continue in this way, requesting songs, singing the ones we know, dancing to the ones we don’t, until the energy coolly fades. We rock until our cups are empty and our hearts are full. With a restored sense of humanity, we withdraw back into our quarantine quarters, exchanging our daily bid farewell “hasta mañana!”
This right here, this collective celebration, this explosion of life, this is what gives me hope. This is what wakes me up in the morning and settles me to sleep at night. It’s not all the grandiose gestures and donations that keep my faith, but the simple act of being human with other humans. This is the light in the dark. This is the necessity not on my packing list. Although it’s not something I could assemble on my own, it’s certainly something I couldn’t live without.
Comments