My First Outbreak

The coronavirus pandemic may be the biggest outbreak I've been through—but it's not my first.



I'm now forced to recall growing up in Syracuse, New York at a time when wearing sanitary gloves at a restaurant or in a commercial kitchen wasn't required and certainly wasn't common.

And, apparently, neither was washing hands properly.

My parents, sister, and I rarely ever went out to eat at a restaurant—but there was a streak when it seemed like every time we dined out, we got exposed to hepatitis A.

The July 12, 1987 issue of The New York Times reported that Onondaga County—the Central New York county where Syracuse is located—had been besieged by hepatitis after the virus had already broken out in two neighboring counties.

Within one month, six workers at five restaurants had been diagnosed—bringing the total to 54 cases, compared to only 8 during the same time period the year prior.

Now, unlike COVID-19, hepatitis A is generally not deadly. But like the coronavirus, the hepatitis virus can spread by fecal shedding—which means a food handler who pooped and didn't properly wash their hands could infect an entire restaurant.

It happened at a Pizza Hut near Syracuse University. I'm not sure we'd gone to that one.

But it also happened at a Wendy's. And I do remember being forced to eat there as a kid.

And it also happened at Perkins in DeWitt. We could've been exposed there, but I don't remember exactly.

My parents might know. But I haven't talked to them since 2007.

One was definitely at the restaurant at the Ramada Inn in Salina—just outside of Syracuse, near the bank where my dad worked. Back then, the Ramada Inn was a pretty nice place, so we'd gone there for Easter Sunday 1988.

So did 1400 others, who also got exposed.

The outbreak was so bad at one point that Channel 9 interrupted a primetime episode of Perfect Strangers to run a 30-minute special on it.

I remember hearing the news reports warning patrons who drank a beverage with ice in it or ate from the salad bar (i.e. uncooked vegetables, as high heat generally kills the virus). We always qualified. And that meant we had to line up alongside 10,000 other people within the course of a month to go in for our gamma globulin shots, which was supposed to prevent the hep A infection from taking hold.

God, I remember that shot. I don't remember how many of them I got, but there were more than one. And they hurt like a mother.

They were embarrassing to get, too. They shot it into your butt cheek. And for a 12-year-old girl, pulling your pants down in front of anyone was just torture.

Hep A can be pretty contagious—and for the same reasons that the novel coronavirus is. It manifests in symptoms that masquerade as something else.

When it starts out, you might just think you have the flu. With hep A, you don't know yet that your liver is under attack. With COVID-19, you don't yet know that your lungs are in the crosshairs.

The gamma globulin only protects you if you get it within 14 days of exposure. Sometimes the restaurant wouldn't find out about the infected worker and report it in time to get all the exposed people to peel off their pants and expose their fannies for a shot.

As a result of the health crisis, the county enacted new legislation that required food handlers to wear plastic, disposable gloves. It's not that they're any better at protecting us from a virus than a good scrub with soap and water. It's just that the county government couldn't count on the fact that anyone handling food would actually wash their hands properly.

So there was a run on gloves. Restaurant suppliers reported selling 200,000 or 300,000 gloves in just one day.

Still, only 95% of county restaurants actually complied. Some thought it would hurt their business and complained that wearing gloves made it harder to work.

Not surprisingly, when the outbreak was declared "over" in November 1988, and rules were relaxed, more hep A outbreaks followed. And the glove rule was reinstated in 1990 and made permanent in 1992 (though it didn't become a New York State law until 1997).

You couldn't have bake sales at church anymore. You couldn't bring cupcakes for your classmates' birthdays. You just didn't know who was pooping, wiping, and cooking without washing in between.

After I moved out of Syracuse for college in 1993 and then permanently in 1997, I never again had to be told that I'd been exposed to hep A. That's even though food service workers on campus were clearly not wearing gloves (because they didn't have to in neighboring Madison County). That's even after eating countless slices of unsanitary pizza at 5 a.m. in New York City.

I never thought I'd have to think about sanitary gloves again. But now I find myself eyeing gloved workers who handle food and then money and credit cards and POS touch screens and then food again.

And I'm just hoping they change their gloves after going to the bathroom.

There's a lot about this "new normal" that I hope becomes permanent. Is it too much to ask for people to wash their hands properly and wear gloves?

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Coronavirus Casualty: Rose Parade Canceled for First Time Since 1945

When I wrote about the 2020 Rose Parade in January, I dared hope for a good year. I was desperate for the start of a good decade.

By the end of that month—when I first started taking news of the novel coronavirus seriously, months before anybody else seemed to—my hopes faded.

But as the year has fallen apart progressively in its first half, I think I still don't quite grasp how bad it is—or how bad it's going to get.

Because in March, I was prepared for a couple of months of closures and shutdowns. As May gave way to June, though, I'd pretty much radically accepted that the entirety of the year 2020 was canceled.

I wasn't, however, prepared for anything in the year 2021 to be canceled.

Now that next year has already gotten it first big cancelation—the Rose Parade—I'm starting to think that that two-month forfeiture of plans, recreation, traditions, and activities will be more like two years.

Or maybe even more.



I know it's just a parade.



But it's one of the few traditions I've managed to establish here in California, where I'm largely on my own on holidays.



New Year's Day—or the day or two afterwards—has been one of the few times that I've had a plan when others haven't.



Every other holiday, I'm bereft of anything to do, while everything is closed and everybody else has plans.



Without the Rose Parade marking the new year, I'm afraid that January 1, 2021 will be no different than March 11—the day the World Health Organization declared the coronavirus an official pandemic—or March 17, May 25, June 21, July 4, and so on.



They've all been just another day...



...each one following getting worse than the one before.



My hope for this year is long gone. But I'd held onto some hope for next year—until the Rose Parade got canceled, for the first time since we skipped three years (1942-3 and 1945) during World War II.

That's gone now—now that I realize we are at war.

But this coming year, we don't even get a "token parade" like they did in 1944, just months before the WWII Battle of Normandy.

I guess it's better that I know what to expect—or not to expect—sooner rather than later. There have been so many insecurities and uncertainties since March, the unsurety has been maddening.

No news may be good news, but I'd rather get the bad news now—rather than hold onto false hope.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: Ushering In a Hopeful New Decade, Rose Parade Style

Heading Into Chapter Three of the Coronavirus Pandemic (Orange Alert Edition)

Well, that didn't take long.

Los Angeles bars had been allowed to open for just two weeks before they were ordered to shutter again for at least three weeks.

Indoor dining is also once again verboten.

Our infection rate and hospitalizations are surging like never before. But it's not a "second wave."

We're still in the first wave. And it's getting worse.

The mayor says we're on "Orange Alert," presumably one step (or a few sneezes) away from Red Alert.

DEFCON 2.

Officials are once again telling us to stay home except for essential travel, like to go to work or get supplies. I now dread every trip I have to make to Petsmart or Target to get items I can't get for home delivery (or need more quickly than that). Even curbside pickup stresses me out.

I didn't write much during Chapter Two of the coronavirus pandemic, for two reasons.

First, it only lasted about 20 days.

Second, not much changed for me during those 20 days. In fact, the more that other people began to emerge from isolation, I found myself roaming less and hunkering down more.

Sure, I ate a few meals inside, sitting down at a real table, where someone brought me food to eat on an actual plate.

I wonder if I should regret some of those visits. I wonder what I'll regret as this thing progresses.

I do my best. Not everybody does.

My in-person social interactions have been minimal. I haven't taken a cab, rideshare, or public transportation. I dyed my own hair and gave myself a pedicure. Despite having worsened my clenching habit and given myself a toothache and possibly a case of TMJ, I'm waiting to go to the dentist or an ENT.

I've been touched by another human being exactly three times since March 14, all in the month of June.

I remember each of those tiny and incidental touches vividly.

I think it's going to be a long time before I can get a massage, something that for me is less an indulgence and more of a medical necessity.

If I have to keep my saliva to myself for the foreseeable future, I may die a born-again virgin.

And I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that at some point, I'm probably going to get sick, no matter what I do.

It feels like I'm merely delaying the inevitable. It's hard not to think it might just be better to get it over with now.

Then again, my worst fear would be getting sick and giving it to my cat. And since that's a very real possibility, I'll keep trying my best to stay healthy, at least for him.

If I got sick, there'd be nobody to take care of me.

Worse yet, if I got sick, there'd be nobody to take care of him.

I'm not bored. I'm the opposite of bored.

I'm certifiably overstimulated. Just like I always am.

I've got too much work to do, writing to do, thinking to do. I can no longer distract myself, much less escape myself.

I am facing every thing, every day. Past, present, and future. Remembered and misremembered. Dreamed and hallucinated. Imagined and wished for.

Assessing threats. Wondering when the boat we're all in together is going to sink. Planning my escape route.

I might run out of my prescriptions. The pharmacy might run out of them, too.

But it's not all bad.

On the contrary, getting a three-month reprieve from my "regular" life meant I could actually afford to get my taxes done and buy the designer eyeglass frames I'd spotted at the optician's office back in January.

I got to color my roots bright pink, the way I'd been trying to convince my hairdresser to do for a couple of years now. (And it didn't turn out to be a disaster, though that would've been OK because who do I have to impress right now?)

With my more sedentary lifestyle, a toe I injured back in 2015 is finally getting the chance to heal. I'd forgotten what it felt like for it not to hurt.

Maybe there are some other parts of me that can get patched up while I'm in hiding.

Related Posts:
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Heading Into Chapter Two of the Coronavirus Pandemic

I know the coronavirus pandemic isn't over yet. But it kind of feels over. People are acting like it's over.



At first, it was characterized by a precious emptiness—at least on the freeways.



Though never on the sidewalks—at least, not in my neighborhood.



With everything canceled, I felt I tremendous amount of freedom from my own schedule—finally liberated to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, as long as it didn't involve the indoors or other people.



It felt like the month of March would never end, even as the calendar indicated that we'd already passed into April, May, June.



Back before things started opening up again, I was just fine with what may have looked desolate to other people. The world was my oyster.



It felt much like my early days first visiting Southern California, when I'd just drive around to look at stuff. I'd just go exploring to see what I could find.



Sometimes during the shutdown, which restricted travel to essential purposes only, it was essential for me to get out of my apartment, get out of my own head, and get in the car—even if it was to indulge a certain morbid curiosity to document a SoCal I'd never seen before and hopefully would never see again.



The physical distance from people made me feel emotionally closer to both my friends and strangers. Radio DJs kept telling me, "We're in this together." And I believed them. That made me feel better.



I knew there were people who didn't know me who'd be looking out for me if something were to happen.



But I was going to try to make sure I didn't wind up in their care.



I masked up—but not to protect others. I selfishly wore a mask to protect myself.



And I still do.



I might still, even after the mask requirements are loosened.



I'm writing about the COVID-19 health crisis now because with trails and dining rooms beginning to reopen, the first chapter of it has ended (though there are more chapters to come).



I'm glad to see that car hop service will continue at some places. I was having a good time eating in my car.



In fact, my car is pretty much the only place I've felt any sense of safety since this all started—since January, when I first caught wind of a "novel virus" that was on its way to California (though it had probably arrived before then).



While the majority of Southern California was shut down, I'd go anywhere—as long as I could stay in my car.



I used the pandemic as an opportunity to live out my American Graffiti dreams and reclaim some portion of the 1950s that I was born 15 years too late to enjoy.



It was also an excuse to indulge in my donut obsession—especially a roadside donut tunnel I could drive through.



Behind the wheel, I felt invincible. Even curly fries couldn't hurt me.



And if everyone else was staying safe by staying inside, wasn't it the perfect excuse for me to go out and explore—blissfully alone?



At the first suggestion of "opening back up," I felt sad. I loved my little solo dates with Los Angeles, those get-to-know-you moments that usually only occur at the beginning of a relationship.

Nine years in, I realized there was still more to learn about LA—and about myself—and about myself in LA.

I'd feel better about the loosening of the restrictions if that meant the coronavirus were gone or that people weren't getting sick or dying. But that's not the case.

The virus hasn't gone away. And neither has the risk.

We've just normalized the risk.

And it seems that most people are willing to sacrifice their own health—and the health of their customers—in order to stay in business.

But the more other people go out, the more I stay in.

They say another "wave" of infections is coming in the fall, with cooler weather and the start of cold and flu season.

I'm hoping to get a few safe activities in before then, maybe a day or two off and even a hotel stay or a dip in the pool.

But I'm bracing myself for what's to come.

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Pandemic Amusements: In the Swimming Pool

Since the beginning of the coronavirus pandemic and subsequent shut-down, I've been craving certain things.

Some of those craving I've been able to satisfy—like for donuts and onion rings.

Others have proven more elusive—like how my skin craves for human touch.

But since March—or, at least since it stopped raining and started to really heat up—I've been dying to go swimming.

With public swimming pools shut down for months, and unnecessary travel deemed too risky, I've been beached in my apartment with no laps to swim.

And to make matters worse, when the public pools did reopen, I found out that my local West Hollywood Park facility was being demolished—and its replacement wouldn't open until September 2021.

I didn't feel comfortable enough to swim indoors at the Beverly Hills High "swim gym." My other top choice would've been the Annenberg Community Beach House—but that, too, is closed for the year.

I could travel farther afield to try a new lap adventure (stay tuned for dispatches from the "Hey Rookie" pool, formerly part of Ft. Macarthur in San Pedro), but everything is just so uncertain.

I needed a nice, wet dose of familiarity. Especially during a time when even the most mundane activities seem dangerous.

         

So that brought me back to the Culver City Municipal Pool, a.k.a. "The Plunge," in Veterans Memorial Park.

Originally dedicated in 1949, it surpasses my other "regular" swimming spots in its Olympic size and quality of its locker room, though we swimmers don't currently have access to the later.

But nevermind, I told myself. I'd arrive with my bathing suit already on, wearing a top layer that could easily be stripped off and tossed aside. I'd line my car seat with towels for when I'd have to drive home soaking wet.

It's a little nerve-wracking returning to any routine these days—but for the last several months, I kept arguing that outdoor pools would be safe, given the open air and all that chlorine.

Parasites, bacteria, and fungi thrive in wet environments. Viruses prefer dry air. And so far, this novel coronavirus doesn't seem to survive chlorinated water.



So, last Wednesday I set my alarm for 7 a.m. and logged into the website to reserve my spot. As a non-resident, I wouldn't have first choice over my time slot—but I didn't have a problem getting one on the first day that the Culver City Plunge would reopen.

I was actually particularly excited about swimming under the current health restrictions—because that meant that I'd get a lap lane all to myself.

I hate sharing a lane, especially if we have to "circle swim." Every time someone comes up behind me—because invariably they're a faster, stronger swimmer than I am—it feels like I'm being chased by a shark.

It really stresses me out. Especially when they're swimming like they're training for the Olympics—and I'm just trying to survive 20 minutes of a modified doggie paddle alternated with a backstroke.

But today, under the new rules, I had a full 45 minutes of a whole lane all to myself. And it was glorious.

It seemed that every time I flipped over to stroke backwards, I'd get to watch a plane either taking off from or landing at LAX.

I peered at those commercial jets as they sliced through my blue-sky view, interspersed with the iridescence of chlorinated water droplets on the inside of my black aviator sunglasses (which have altogether replaced goggles in my swimming gear).

I could feel the ripples of water scraping against the gooseflesh of my legs as they kicked back and forth. It was as though I could feel each drop individually.

I could feel the waves seeping into my scalp, too—through my swim cap and the hair that I'd piled atop in a tight bun.

I wasn't sure I'd use the entire 45-minute slot—I rarely swim more than, say, a half hour—but I relished in the unshaded sunshine, the 80+-degree weather, and the quietude of my fellow lap swimmers who were making the most of their time in their own lanes, sparing not a moment for frivolous chit-chat.

And of course there was no section of the pool reserved for "recreation swim"—a.k.a. kids and families.

We can't really recreate right now. We've got to get down to business—in and out, no lingering, no funny business, keep it moving.

I was so happy with my pandemic swim today that as soon as I got home, I logged on to reserve another slot as soon as I could.

Of course, it's completely booked for the next two weeks.

But if I set my alarm early again this week, I might be able to snag a spot in a water aerobics class next week.

I'm sure the craving will be back by then.

And maybe at some point soon, I'll be brave enough to try another outdoor pool somewhere new.

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Peaking Poppies In a Pandemic

We had a mini superbloom in the Antelope Valley this spring—a late bloom boom that managed to stay incredibly intact because of the coronavirus "safer at home" guidance.



Maybe I should've stayed home. Maybe I would've been "safer" there. But after weeks of having my calendar curtailed, I realized there was something that COVID-19 hadn't canceled—and that I missed very much.



Nature had continued—and, in fact, thrived—without us.



I just wanted to see it in person—not on a live webcam from the Antelope Valley California Poppy Reserve's website, not from aerial photos or satellite images from space.



So, not knowing exactly where to go—where I could go, where I'd be allowed to go—I just drove to Lancaster, California in the direction of the state natural reserve, hoping to see a sign somewhere in the distance.



And, like last year, the Antelope Valley really delivered. I just drove with the orange straight ahead, which formed an artificial horizon in the foothills to help with wayfinding wayfarers.



The navigation was spot-on, it turned out—because I ended up on a dirt road with a stripe of orange cutting straight across it.



I was surrounded on both sides by the California poppy, the namesake of the poppy reserve that was closed due to COVID-19 but usually can be found in abundance outside the state park (in fact sometimes more so).



They were in full bloom on that April afternoon—a day in April I probably would've been trekking around the poppy fields anyway, had we not been advised to stay at home to stop the spread of the coronavirus.



I felt a little guilty for disobeying orders and maybe setting a bad example—but I also felt that my disobedience had been vindicated by the fact that this year's poppy bloom was different than any others I'd ever seen before.



It wasn't just the orange poppies, but also purple owl's cover and yellow fiddlenecks, goldfields, and monolopia...



...set against the backdrop of blue and white pointillism that only becomes clearer, the closer you get.



For a long time, mine was the only car on that dirt road—until perhaps my presence alerted another carload to the scene and solitude.

I drove out shortly after their arrival, once I'd gotten my fill.

But I didn't join the groups alongside the paved road that were also breaking quarantine. I didn't need people yet.

I just needed to bear witness to life going on without me—even from a distance, even from just the dirt road.

The flowers were pristine from not being trampled by the masses. And I wasn't going to be the one to trample them.

I wasn't going to tell anybody, either—not until they were already long gone.

Next wildflower season, maybe the world will be somewhat "back to normal." But this year, it kind of felt like I got to keep the wildflowers as my own little secret.

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Pandemic Amusements: At the Drive-In, On a Former Cornfield

It didn't matter that Paramount Drive-In isn't as exciting as Mission Tiki Drive-In.



Located in the City of Paramount, home of the Zamboni, it's a lot closer to where I live in the LA area. And it seemed less crowded, at least upon my early arrival.



Besides, I don't have to choose right now. I want to hit them all. Even the ones in San Diego, San Luis Obispo, and Barstow. And Vegas, too.



I'd been kicking myself for not going to any drive-in movies for the first 9 years I lived in California—but in the case of Paramount, I get a little bit of a break. Movie screenings had ceased between 1992 to 2014 (though the swap meet operated continuously since 1955) and the theatre was closed for the first two months of the pandemic shutdown.



Opened in 1947, Paramount Drive-In Theatres was originally known as the Roadium—a brand that has recently been revived in Torrance, with drive-in movies and an open-air market.



Back then, that area was "Clearwater Township"—named after the seasonal lake that would form when fed by nearby artesian wells—but was rechristened "Paramount" in 1948. It was all dairy farms and chicken coops until the 1970s.



Amazingly, the entire site—built upon an old cornfield—remained intact enough for the drive-in to reopen in 2014, with digital projection and FM transmission for sound.



It's been a two-screener since the 1970s—and at least since its grand reopening six years ago, one screen is devoted to family-friendly programming (with each main attraction showing twice for an early and late screening).



This new venture is the brainchild of Glenn Bianchi of Bianchi Theatres—son of Joseph Bianchi, a WWII penicillin peddler who came out west to become the original proprietor of Roadium. Born in Compton, the younger Bianchi used to work in the snack bar as a teenager and eventually got promoted to manager.



The concessions stand still serves popcorn and hot dogs—but instead of malted milkshakes and Cherry Cokes, there are agua frescas and churros.



While the twin theatre's 45 acres should accommodate 800 cars, the pandemic requires keeping a space open between every parked vehicle. And their lightsaber-wielding ushers/security guards enforce the policy, thankfully.



But even with the capacity restricted, Paramount Drive-In has reported selling "double" the number of tickets it would any other year—any other year not in a pandemic, that is.

For some, it's just something to do. It almost doesn't matter what the movie is. And that's a good thing, considering how Hollywood has hit the brakes on its big summer releases.

But the little guys—the indies, the low-budget horror flicks—are thriving at the drive-in. And lucky for me, I like to watch a good scary movie in the dark while sipping soda nervously through a straw.

After years of feeling like I had to go to the movies by myself if I wanted to go to the movies at all, now I prefer solo adventures at the cinema. I don't want to leave my car or congregate with anyone else.

It's a perfect night out, with minimal risk of contamination and maximum entertainment.

Related Posts:
A Tropical Escape In a Time of Adversity: Mission Tiki Drive-In

Heading Into Chapter Two of the Coronavirus Pandemic

Heading Into Chapter Three of the Coronavirus Pandemic (Orange Alert Edition)
Photo Essay: Paramount Iceland, Home of the Zamboni