Life in the time of Covid
An update. What happened? We opened a restaurant, it turned three this past October. It changed everything, but not as much as Covid.
The children have grown ! Big Sister has finished her second year of University, living away at the bottom of the other island, studying Botany and Marine Science. She picked apples early this summer, thinning bushy trees in Nelson until her skin blew up and her eyes swelled shut, a reaction to one of the fungicides.
Her eyes have healed and so has most of her skin. Smallest Person and I flew down to see her as soon as the border opened, a small plane, a terrifying landing.
“Lol, there was turbulence and Mum questioned life.”
We hugged and cried in the arrivals lounge. Much too long, over six months apart. Stupid Covid. Luminous eyes, green, framed by dark lashes, she has freckles and a head of dark ringlets. A pair of chunky sandals, sun-kissed arms. She gave up cricket after high-school, satisfied with her last season when her team won another national tournament. She took four wickets in the final game. How she skipped and danced across the pitch !
I thought I would miss it more than I do.
But she is happy, and so am I.
Smallest Person is now the tallest person in the house after Stuart. She towers above Big Sister and I — we are in awe of how she did that, grew so high and long. Her hair is straight and bright raspberry red, a reaction to another lockdown. We dyed it together, her and I, in the upstairs bathroom. I was sad to see her natural colour go, but happy to help.
The colour makes her blue eyes pop. She is lushly beautiful. Sometimes we play scrabble together on the floor in the lounge.
“Just let me live my life !” But I know that feeling and we laughed.
She, half-pretending to rage against me. We’ve been extra kind to each other. The pandemic has made it imperative.
We were allowed to open the restaurant in lockdown, but just a crack.
One of the large tables was carried across the doorway to block the front entrance, the contact-less point of exchange for takeaways and ‘finish at home’ meal kits.
It was something to do, not enough to save the restaurant, but it kept us busy and in contact with each other, something that became more and more important as the lonely weeks passed by. We tried to make it cheery. We played old jazz standards, swing tunes, 80s pop hits. Kept fresh flowers by the door every week. We lit candles on empty tables at night. Our team suppers were a highlight, we ordered in from our favourite places and laid steaming plastic containers of food along the kitchen bench.
Cracked open bottles of beer, good wine, ourselves.
The restaurant became our private oasis.
Now it is open again, public. We’ve had three weeks trading before taking a short break for Christmas. Hungry and thirsty, exhausted Aucklanders emerged from isolation in early December and sought out their favourite eating and watering spots. The city was alive again ! I am so proud of it — Tamaki Makaurau — all those vaccination passports at the ready. Only a few dissenters.
We went from zero diners to full-blown party season in a matter of days. Exhilarating, but alarming and distressing too. Watching people do normal things, that are now risky, ‘against the rules’ of this disease. People standing around at close quarters, unmasked, hugging and drinking together. I didn’t know it at the time but I held my breath behind my mask, jaw tight.
Days and nights, not breathing properly.
I went to bed after work and had my first panic attack in 9 years. The shock of emerging from isolation and into the noisy crush of dinner service too much.
We have a dog now, she has just turned one. A large, good-humoured cross-breed requiring two walks a day. In exchange for all this walking she gives us unconditional love and hilarity.
The bubble of love has expanded.
Cat continues, displeased.
It’s stupefyingly hot here. Our bedroom is at the top of this old 1970s split-level house of ours. It’s like trying to dress inside an oven, I tell myself to do it quickly and get out but the heat slows everything down and my face sweats, limbs heavy. Eventually I emerge from the room as if drugged.
We are okay, we are good.
Some things are awful, other things just fine.
Some days none of us can concentrate on much.
The restaurant is open again, we try to build back what we lost, one booking, one dish, one drink at a time.
We hope everything will be okay.
I am trying to lighten up and cast off the seriousness and intensity of the past few months. It got bad enough for our business that it’s hard to feel optimistic again. Most people don’t understand how bad, and I understand that it’s not my place to tell them. Besides, it wears away at us all, the uncertainty.
But a worried restaurant host is no fun at all, so I’m working on it.
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