A Virus

  08-29-22 Monday

I landed at JFK after my economical flight on Azores Airlines. I had a second-floor apartment reserved via Airbnb in Brooklyn so it only remained to get there. It took three subways to deposit me on a street corner in SW Brooklyn, the middle class Bay Ridge neighborhood that was somewhat familiar to me. My best friend from high school had moved there in 1967 and we spent some pleasant afternoons playing stickball thereabouts. 

I exhibited my usual lousy navigational skills, hefting my heavy backpack in the wrong direction until a local set me right. I found I was to share a 1950-s era flat with two women. They greeted me cheerfully even at the late hour I arrived, near 10 pm on a Friday night.. I got a tour of the facilities, a shared kitchen, a bathroom crowded with their toiletries, and my spartan room — bed, dresser, closet, TV. The next morning I got my clothes cleaned at the local laundromat, had some NY pizza, got a new SIM card for my phone, and in the evening bought myself a Carvel ice cream.  When I first got my driver’s license my mom would send me out at night to fetch Carvel at least once a week, but this was my first taste of that soft delight since 1967.

I still had three days remaining in Brooklyn. I figured to visit the Met, but the rest of my touristic endeavors were still vaguely ahead. 

Sunday morning I awoke ready for some adventures. It took me perhaps two minutes to realize life wasn’t going to work out as I had planned. I knew immediately that I had Covid from my cough and sore throat. In less than a half hour I was feeling truly miserable. My dominant thought was, how am I going to explain this to my hosts, and will they immediately evict me (and where will I sleep tonight if they do?). There was no alternative. I had to email them with the glum announcement. I don’t remember how it all played out but the result was that I was going to quarantine myself in my room while the disease worked its way through my system. I had three days of rental time remaining. What would happen if the virus persisted beyond that date? 

Compounding my discomfort was the knowledge of how I contracted this malady. I googled the incubation period of Covid and confirmed my theory. It had been five days (the average incubation period) since I jostled my way through the waiting area at Lisbon Airport on my way to the Azores. In this odd pandemic world the inconsistent rules made transmission of bodily fluids easy. In Europe the airlines required masking on the plane. But in the waiting areas no such ordinances applied. Arrogantly I assumed my vaccinations made me invulnerable so I did what 90% of the passengers did, I crowded cheek to cheek in a small staging area before boarding the plane. We stood there for nearly a half hour before they funneled us through a small aperture to the plane. I had read that Covid was rampant in Europe but I cared not at all — I was four times vaccinated. 

Now in my Brooklyn asylum I was to endure the hard lesson. With a simple mask I could have protected myself. Instead I was afflicted, guilt-ridden (what if I got my hosts sick?), very uncomfortable, and about to waste money and time that could have been fun. And the looming crisis was still there — what if I was still sick when it came time to leave this place?

There was one remaining hope. What if I didn’t have Covid, was suffering from the common cold? All my financial problems would disappear in an instant. I resolved to get tested. Fortunately there was a clinic a few blocks from my abode that offered testing. When my hosts left for work I wearily arose and donned whatever basic clothes I could get into easily.

Bay Ridge is one of those inviting, unabridged city neighborhoods that feel like home even for the transitory visitor. Every religion and seemingly every ethnicity is represented: Muslim neighborhood associations next to places selling gyros, chain pharmacies next to midsize grocery stores, TMobile contiguous with a filipino restaurant. Third Avenue stretched for miles with every block populated by an endless variety of businesses. My clinic was literally a corner store. I wore a mask but still felt uneasy about bringing my germs into their building. The process was easy, a short wait, then a sojourn to the examination room where a shy south asian woman swabbed my nose. All seemed good until the nurse informed me that I could not be retested for ten days.  If, as I assumed would be the case, I tested positive I’d be marooned in New York for a third of a month (or, more properly, for around a thousand dollars in rent). 

“We’ll text you the results tomorrow morning,” I was told. 

My next google search was, 'how long after Covid can you travel on an airplane?’  The answer was, ten days after the onset of symptoms. That alleviated some of my angst; now I was stuck for eight more days instead of ten, a small boon. IF I tested positive. (which, of course, I did.)

I phoned Spirit Airlines. They agreed I could not travel and graciously credited me the cost of the fare. I got on Expedia and arranged a new trip eight days hence leaving from Newark. 

The money I was going to waste, confined to a hotel room presumably, galled me. And what hotel would admit an infected person? Would I end up sleeping on a park bench for five nights? All these questions added to the vexing sickness. On my second day lying there in my bed I felt bad enough to briefly wonder if I might die 3,000 miles from home. Afterall my symptoms were getting worse. If I extrapolated what was happening I could see myself headed for a pine box. 

The hours went by slowly as you can imagine. It was only on the third day that things took a turn for the better. My cough subsided, my throat was less sore, I seemed to be on the upswing.  My rental expired on Thursday at noon. 

I woke up on Thursday morning feeling weak but past the worst of the disease. Now I had to confront my next problem. I told my hosts of my predicament. They researched some local hotels for me but otherwise did what any reasonable person would do, endure a dangerous guest only until their Airbnb obligation ended, whence they would be rid of me and my threat. My conscience allowed me to assume I’d be non-infectious by the time I had to leave this place so I searched for accommodations. I found the lowest possible rent, a fleabag Motel 6 across the street from Newark Airport, $99/night. I was about to spend six hundred bucks sitting in a motel room doing nothing.

One final hurdle remained. My new phone was linked to a new email address. I had to arrange an Uber ride, which meant remembering my password (which I did not remember) and linking that to my bank account (I didn’t remember my bank account password, either). By the time I was required to leave the apartment — noon — I still had no assured way to get to Newark. I was too sick to manage the subway/bus route, I needed Uber. Sprawled on the steps to my apartment building I managed to navigate through the various websites to secure a ride. In 45 minutes I was at my Motel 6. 

There could hardly be a more unwelcoming residence than Newark’s Motel 6. The building stood astride a fast-moving highway. To slow down enough to enter the parking lot took courage as speeding trucks tailgated the Uber car. The place was well populated, not full but nearly so. Various nefarious looking folks lounged on the second floor landings or on the steps linking the two floors of the place. But all this was, thankfully, irrelevant to me. I pulled the curtains shut on my room and lay myself on one of the two beds. Except for forays to local restaurants and groceries I spent the next six days on that bed. By my second day I was thoroughly over my ailment and feeling normal. Only the bleak landscape outside my room caused me any discomfort. . 

Spirit Airlines managed to bookend my trip with one last indignity. After arriving at Oakland Airport late Sunday night they decided that the luggage gatherers were due a lunch break. Therefore about sixty passengers on the last flight of the evening — us — waited an hour for our bags. That late at night there was no supervisor to complain to. It was past midnight before I stood on my porch searching for my house keys. I was home.