The First Victim of a War

They say that the first casualty of war is the truth. Well, I'd say that the first casualty of isolation is personal hygiene.

Friends report that when they went to COSTCO here in Mexico City, they found that in the clothing section the only things on sale were pijamas and sweat pants. I am not surprised because I soon found that if I didn't have a video conference programed for the present day I found no reason, much less motivation, to abandon my pijamas. In fact, I have started to routinely wear the same set of pijamas for a week and changing them on Saturday mornings. Three sets of pijamas are available for the routine but it is obvious that soon they will need substitutes because, like good soldiers, fatigue and combat wounds have started to take their toll.

Another victim of my isolation is the schedule of my meals, as formerly imposed by social and professional contact. I've always had my breakfast at eight o eight-thirty in the morning, because I've always started to work, either at the office or at home, at nine. Lunch was between one and one thirty in the afternoon, and dinner at eight or eight thirty at night once I got home. I'm afraid that said routine fell mortaly wounded just seven days after having been in self-imposed quarantine.

Now I find that I'm eating cereal and having my morning tea at eleven in the morning once I've seen the morning news while in bed. I take a lunch break at three or four in the afternoon, and dinner is delayed until nine or ten at night while watching the opera transmitted by the New York Met. Oh! The consequences of that schedule is heartburn that forces me to read until two or three in the morning. But as they say that always something good is a consequence  of something bad, this has allowed me to read several books from the pile that was gathering dust on my bedside table. Once I've cleared that pile, I will start on the many half-read books lollygagging on my Kindle.

And as in any other war, the number of victims and casualties continues to rise. Exercise fell like many other heroes have fallen: without making a sound. It used to perform its duty faithfully, if minimally, before in the afternoons when I went for a walk in the neighborhood (not without a stop at the great bakery on the corner of Juan de la Barrera and Pachuca streets). Now I have an excuse to stop my walks altogether, since I am not supposed to leave my apartment. I do have a patio, which is about six meters by five meters. But walking around and around in it depresses me more than it helps me because I feel like those prisoners in a James Cagney movie who were taken out to do an hour of walking around in the "exercise yard."

To do any meaningful exercise in my patio, I would have to be dragged out of my chair like Cagney was dragged into solitary confinement after the riot he caused in "White Heat" when he was told that his mother had died:

I fear for the other brave soldiers in this battle which I am forced to wage in confinement. I am talking about the daily bath and washing dirty dishes and clothing. These two activities, odious enough during the best of times, require all my will in order to carry them out in these the worst of times.

My children, when I visit their homes, do not allow me to wash any dishes. This is not of consideration for their poor, tired dad, no. Its because they consider me the worst dish washer in the world. My youngest says that if I ever needed to work as a dish washer, even if it were in a street corner taqueria or neighborhood restaurant, I would probably be fired after just one day on the job.

I tried an innovation: filling the sink with water and soap so that by soaking the dishes they would wash themselves. The result was a horrible soup of food, soap, water, and particles of something that seemed like life that came from another planet. The result of this experiment was a pile of greasy, dirty, smelly dishes, far from the clean shiny plates I had envisioned.

Oh, well. Even the toughest guys have to submit themselves to this unavoidable task.

Robert Mitchum, the "bad boy" of the 40s y 50s movies, washing dishes.

I had to admit that I would have to revert to the "tried but true method" of using soap and a sponge to scrub the things if I wanted them clean.

Washing clothes is easier because I have help from a mechanical friend: the washing machine. But, here I face another problem, a physical problem. Better said, I have to exert myself physically much more because said washing machine is on the rooftop terrace of our building. I live on the street level apartment; the washing machine is six flights of stairs up! Therefore, I have to take the dirty clothes up, put them in the washer, wait while it fills with water, go downstairs to wait for it to do its magic, go up to hang the clothes up to dry, go down to wait for the sun to do its magic, go upstairs to take down the dry clothing. Uff, by the time I'm done, I am plum wore out.

Nevertheless, the visit to the rooftop does offer a break from the confinement and while I wait for the machine to fill up with water, I can look down at our street, which is usually empty of people. I can also look at other rooftops, many of which have been converted to indispensable spaces for families and individuals, because I can see how they are being used for social and family gatherings. Mexico City has always been a "rooftop city." Because of overcrowding few people can afford space for a garden, as one can see when you land at the International airport. It feels like the plane is going to land on someone's rooftop.

Now the Corona Virus is forcing people to use their rooftop for another purpose: vegetable gardens. I am seriously thinking for starting a garden in my patio and/or the rooftop. I've had vegetable gardens before. In France, we used to rent garden space from a retired man. For 30 euros a month to cover water usage, he gave us a large piece of his backyard to plant in. All the things we planted gave us something to eat: tomatoes, squash, potatoes, radishes, onions, cucumbers, melons, and several kinds of herbs. In fact, we grew more then we could eat so we gave a lot to our neighbors and then preserved a lot for the winter.

But, boy is it a lot of work! And then there was the continuous fight against pests. Birds loved our cherry tomatoes, especially the red ones. Rabbits chewed our squash, potatoes, carrots, and the like. You would be surprised at how many rabbits there are in an urban environment. I felt like Elmer Fudd fighting off dozens of Bugs Bunnies. The worst were the rats. They seemed to just nibble at things to make them inedible to humans. I don't know how many pests exist in rooftops. We'll see. Well, that is, if I gather up enough strength to start a "victory garden."

Tomorrow: Fighting boredom.