Shelter in Place, San Francisco, February 4, 2021
I can’t help but wonder, as I pass an iconic San Francisco apartment building in my neighborhood, what it must be like to see the world from windows that curve and hang above the street. Perched high enough to see beyond their neighbors, I imagine the inhabitants have a splendid view so different than my closed-in vista on the street.
I was reminded the other day when we ventured downtown for the first time in a year (wow, the very first time!) what a limited view I have of the pandemic from the confines of my neighborhood. Here, they’ve closed off long blocks so that people can jog, and ride their bikes, and walk their babies spread out and unthreatened by traffic. Here, people talk on the phone to colleagues and friends as they hold meetings and make deals even as they power walk. Here, everybody wears masks as they stop in front of the coffee shop, or wait on the sidewalk for their turn at the butcher’s counter or their take-out Thai. Here, the only clatter on the street comes from masked teenagers practicing their skateboard moves and children chattering at their nannies as they toddle down the street. Here, the scene seems a planner’s view of a futuristic, idyllic city. Downtown, by contrast, looked apocalyptic - a dirty, lonely ghost town, its shops and restaurants boarded up, its only visible inhabitants sprawled in nearly every doorway trying to catch some sleep.
I’m not only pulled up short by the visual reality check this week. I’m also more aware of the suffering that is accumulating with people I know and love, people out of sight but rarely out of mind: a friend tells me they’re running out of money after not having any work for ten long months; another worries about going into the hospital for life-saving surgery; a teacher talks of the inability to get vaccinated even as he is being sent back to the classroom; and death from this disease has now leapt from the pages of the news and reached within the ripples of my life.
It’s complicated, of course. I cannot really know whether the windows above me really have welcome sunlight and a lovely view; I cannot guess whether its inhabitants are suffering or - like me - just skating by. But I feel infinitely lucky, after all, as I stand here looking up, to have such a safe refuge to go home to, and a smaller garden view.