No time to celebrate but feeling hopeful is allowed

Warren Singh-Bartlett On May 1, my compound's pedestrian gate finally reopened. Landing 12 days before the borders closed to foreigners after a long, masked flight, I was eventually deposited in front of my designated quarantine hotel after an odyssey that involved much waiting, many temperature checks, serial swabbing, transiting to the pandemic processing center and finally, registration by hotel employees dressed like extras from a television hospital drama. When I relayed my experience the following morning to overseas friends, few of whom had, at that point, experienced the virus control innovations which we were all to become so intimate with, I fielded expressions of shock and solidarity, as well as cautious enquiries as to the state of my mental health. Back then, most of my compatriots still thought of COVID-19 as an Asian problem, even though Italy and France were already being ravaged, but it seemed obvious that the 34 kilometers of water between Dover and Calais weren't going to keep this virus at bay. Soon, it became my turn to check on friends, offer solace and positivity, and to talk tactfully about my new adventures in a way that didn't remind anyone they weren't having any themselves.