The rollback of France’ lockdown proceeds according to a traffic light system of green and red zones. As implied, the health crisis is less intense in green zones. Pretty much everything can re-open except eating establishments, cinemas, theatres and other entertainment venues. Strasbourg is in the Grand Est region; one of the worst afflicted in the country; coloured a bright Code Red. The lifting of restrictions are supposedly less generous. In addition, individual municipalities still have a margin of discretion. Despite libraries technically being permitted to open as of 11 May - the official first day of déconfinement - the local prefecture insist they remain closed until further notice. I’m disappointed but hardly surprised. In its pre-COVID19 existence, the central library - the André Malraux Médiathèque - welcomed hundreds, if not thousands, of visitors per day. It is wishful thinking that this could resume in the current climate.
Returning to the spacious and luminous Médiathèque was nevertheless one of the aspects of post-lockdown life to which I have been most looking forward. My response to the easing back of restrictions has otherwise been apprehensive. Whilst speaking to a friend a few days before déconfinement, I wonder out loud if the Rivetoile shopping centre will re-open; yet another potential (surprising) concession. Either way she is reluctant to visit, she says, intending to maintain a similar level of caution even as prohibitions gradually lift. We both feel a level of unease. A part of me wouldn’t mind a lockdown extension. I acknowledge how twisted that sounds, with so many people needing to return to work. With so many women and children stuck at home, at the mercy of their abusers. Yet my concern for those worst affected in confinement doesn't wholly mitigate my overall trepidation about the hereafter. I come across a brief psychological breakdown that well articulates my ambivalence. A mental health expert tentatively compares lockdown to a prisoner approaching the end of their sentence. As distressing as incarceration is, there is a comfort in its familiarity. By contrast, the outside world is now a frightening unknown.
According to the same programme, this hesitancy is widespread. You wouldn’t know it from footage of customers in France and neighbouring Belgium forming snake-like queues outside department stores. I express my incredulity to my next door neighbour when our paths cross one morning. She can understand the eagerness of shoppers. She too needs to buy season-appropriate clothes for her infant children, hitherto having had to rely on ordering online.
The thought of resuming activity seems to have distracted much of the city, if not the country. I realise that balconies and windows fall silent at 8pm. A few scatterings of applause in the early days of déconfinement, eventually petering out altogether. The efforts of healthcare personnel and others who've kept essential services going aren't in the forefront of the collective consciousness as much.
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| Post-lockdown blues (Image courtesy of Elle.fr) |
When 11 May eventually rolls round, I have no intention of venturing out. I will slowly adapt to any new routine. I want to take the lessons learned during lockdown forward into whatever my ‘new normal’ will be. I don’t have to go full throttle every single day.
The following morning however, I avail myself of the newly re-opened outdoor markets for fresh fruit and herbs. Changes are immediately noticeable. Public transport is running close to regular capacity. There are large, obtrusive red and white stickers everywhere designating where we can and cannot sit. More significantly, masks are mandatory on all transport networks. We are warned of impromptu inspections and heavy fines. To my relief, some custom-made fancy face-wear from Japan, courtesy of sis (via mum in the UK), arrives just before the 11 May deadline.
Later that week the local authorities provide each resident with a complimentary mask. Aforementioned friend also offers to drop some off, just in case. I’m grateful for these small but meaningful interventions.
The market is sparsely laid out. Only food stalls are allowed to set up. Physical distancing measures are still in place. It’s all a bit surreal if that still means anything in these quasi-dystopian times.
To my pleasant surprise, I bump into André; one of the security guards formerly of the Malraux Médiathèque. With work at the central library now indefinitely on hold, he hustles a living elsewhere. He’s still in touch with his old colleagues. Rumour has it that the Médiathèque won’t re-open until September, much to my slack-jawed dismay.
My journey continues into the city centre; partly for practical reasons as well as to see how much has changed. The most obvious difference is the increase in road traffic. There are also more rough sleepers around. I note some familiar faces amongst them. It's as if, post-Lockdown, they've been turfed back out on to the streets en masse. Homelessness doesn't cease to be a problem. It should not once again become acceptable in the 'new normal'.
The Rivetoile shopping centre is busier but not jam-packed. That day however, only hair and beauty salons, opticians and, ahem, Vaping shops are open for business. Hairdressers appear to be doing especially good business. Understandably, we've missed professional grooming.
I stop off at a new butchers/bakers/grocery that launched mid-lockdown. I am quietly impressed by the range, cleanliness and professionalism compared to what came before. The numerous customers around now seem less concerned about physical distancing.
I’ll observe something similar as the week progresses. I step out a few days later for the main weekly shop. Whilst several shutters remain down, I note the doors of many a café, restaurant and clothes retailer are open. This isn't consistent with the prudence required in a Red Zone. For now at least, they are mostly empty.
I make an unplanned stop at a café; one of my old haunts. The young proprietor sports a beard (as do several Caucasian man of all ages these days, I gather). It’s been that long. I thought you weren’t allowed to open? I ask. (Or rather gabble, my lack of regular French conversation still taking its toll.) It’s just for takeaways, he responds.
There has always been the odd eatery which remained open for this purpose. I wonder why so many chose to resume this side of business now and not before. If, as one restaurateur friend informed me, it wasn’t sufficient to cover the overheads with takeaway orders during lockdown, that won’t necessarily have changed. Since proprietors have been patient this long, surely it’s better to wait until the rates of death and infection are lower still. Maybe they'd say I'm being naive.
I am even warier to see all shops re-opened at the Rivetoile; subject to mask-wearing and a squirt of disinfectant at the main entrance. The public are clearly exercising a degree of restraint. Foot traffic is far lower than pre-pandemic. For all my reservations, I decide to book an appointment at my usual beauty salon. My sensitive skin needs looking after. I have a knot at the nape of my neck which could do with a massage.
The staff are kitted out with masks and gloves. The hand sanitiser provided is to be applied by all customers. Facials are suspended until further notice. Service is stripped back to waxes and massages. I take advantage of what’s available. I still can’t shake the feeling that even this purely aesthetic appointment might not be wise.
If I’m conflicted over a more rapid déconfinement than I envisaged, there is one aspect about which I’m unequivocally pleased. Non-essential travel of less than 100 km is now permitted without a permission slip. I am no longer confined to my immediate locality for exercise.
The following morning however, I avail myself of the newly re-opened outdoor markets for fresh fruit and herbs. Changes are immediately noticeable. Public transport is running close to regular capacity. There are large, obtrusive red and white stickers everywhere designating where we can and cannot sit. More significantly, masks are mandatory on all transport networks. We are warned of impromptu inspections and heavy fines. To my relief, some custom-made fancy face-wear from Japan, courtesy of sis (via mum in the UK), arrives just before the 11 May deadline.
Later that week the local authorities provide each resident with a complimentary mask. Aforementioned friend also offers to drop some off, just in case. I’m grateful for these small but meaningful interventions.
The market is sparsely laid out. Only food stalls are allowed to set up. Physical distancing measures are still in place. It’s all a bit surreal if that still means anything in these quasi-dystopian times.
To my pleasant surprise, I bump into André; one of the security guards formerly of the Malraux Médiathèque. With work at the central library now indefinitely on hold, he hustles a living elsewhere. He’s still in touch with his old colleagues. Rumour has it that the Médiathèque won’t re-open until September, much to my slack-jawed dismay.
My journey continues into the city centre; partly for practical reasons as well as to see how much has changed. The most obvious difference is the increase in road traffic. There are also more rough sleepers around. I note some familiar faces amongst them. It's as if, post-Lockdown, they've been turfed back out on to the streets en masse. Homelessness doesn't cease to be a problem. It should not once again become acceptable in the 'new normal'.
The Rivetoile shopping centre is busier but not jam-packed. That day however, only hair and beauty salons, opticians and, ahem, Vaping shops are open for business. Hairdressers appear to be doing especially good business. Understandably, we've missed professional grooming.
I stop off at a new butchers/bakers/grocery that launched mid-lockdown. I am quietly impressed by the range, cleanliness and professionalism compared to what came before. The numerous customers around now seem less concerned about physical distancing.
I’ll observe something similar as the week progresses. I step out a few days later for the main weekly shop. Whilst several shutters remain down, I note the doors of many a café, restaurant and clothes retailer are open. This isn't consistent with the prudence required in a Red Zone. For now at least, they are mostly empty.
I make an unplanned stop at a café; one of my old haunts. The young proprietor sports a beard (as do several Caucasian man of all ages these days, I gather). It’s been that long. I thought you weren’t allowed to open? I ask. (Or rather gabble, my lack of regular French conversation still taking its toll.) It’s just for takeaways, he responds.
There has always been the odd eatery which remained open for this purpose. I wonder why so many chose to resume this side of business now and not before. If, as one restaurateur friend informed me, it wasn’t sufficient to cover the overheads with takeaway orders during lockdown, that won’t necessarily have changed. Since proprietors have been patient this long, surely it’s better to wait until the rates of death and infection are lower still. Maybe they'd say I'm being naive.
I am even warier to see all shops re-opened at the Rivetoile; subject to mask-wearing and a squirt of disinfectant at the main entrance. The public are clearly exercising a degree of restraint. Foot traffic is far lower than pre-pandemic. For all my reservations, I decide to book an appointment at my usual beauty salon. My sensitive skin needs looking after. I have a knot at the nape of my neck which could do with a massage.
The staff are kitted out with masks and gloves. The hand sanitiser provided is to be applied by all customers. Facials are suspended until further notice. Service is stripped back to waxes and massages. I take advantage of what’s available. I still can’t shake the feeling that even this purely aesthetic appointment might not be wise.
If I’m conflicted over a more rapid déconfinement than I envisaged, there is one aspect about which I’m unequivocally pleased. Non-essential travel of less than 100 km is now permitted without a permission slip. I am no longer confined to my immediate locality for exercise.
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| Strasbourg Central Train Station |
I use it as an excuse to put on some make-up and head to the Neudorf area; a stone’s throw from the (still closed) German border. An overcast morning has made way for a clear and mild spring day. Perhaps it's too fine a day. Groups of revellers assemble on the forecourt of the empty Malraux Médiathèque to profit from the sun. In the shadow of a possible second viral wave, what would usually be a cheery scene is rather ominous. Hmm.
I’ve been hankering to spend a few serene moments in St Aloysius church, not having returned since mum’s Christmas visit. Michelle, a friend from HRGS choir, lives in the vicinity. I'll stop by unannounced for a chin-wag from a safe distance.
En route, a woman compliments my decorative mask. If the ubiquity of this protective measure is unnerving, the more imaginative varieties makes the situation a little lighter.
I am slightly indignant to find St Aloysius isn’t completely empty. As if I’m the only one with a right to quiet time in sacred spaces.
I’ve been hankering to spend a few serene moments in St Aloysius church, not having returned since mum’s Christmas visit. Michelle, a friend from HRGS choir, lives in the vicinity. I'll stop by unannounced for a chin-wag from a safe distance.
En route, a woman compliments my decorative mask. If the ubiquity of this protective measure is unnerving, the more imaginative varieties makes the situation a little lighter.
I am slightly indignant to find St Aloysius isn’t completely empty. As if I’m the only one with a right to quiet time in sacred spaces.
I am distracted by the creakiness of my pew and the muttering of a woman who can’t seem to read in silence. I steal away to a tranquil adjacent prayer room.
My trip to Michelle’s doesn’t go to plan. Not that there really was one.
No-one is home. Even circumspect Michelle is making the most of this new found freedom. I leave a message on her landline. I mention an important update to share. It’ll have to wait until next time.
My trip to Michelle’s doesn’t go to plan. Not that there really was one.
No-one is home. Even circumspect Michelle is making the most of this new found freedom. I leave a message on her landline. I mention an important update to share. It’ll have to wait until next time.
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