If it's not one thing
it could be clots or Covid
I am in Noyers-Sur-Serein, sitting in a wood-beamed room that may have looked nearly identical a few hundred years ago. Across the narrow cobbled road, the grocer appears to be a social meeting spot. Locals stop by with their woven baskets and net bags and leave with cheeses, baguettes, and wine. Right below my window, they chat in French I can understand.
If my plans had been approved by the great mystery of life, I would be on the fifth or sixth day of sorting out my novel-in-progress. I am not.
Yesterday, I managed to spend about four hours on the manuscript. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Right now, I’m waiting to find out if I can check in early to the Airbnb I’ve booked for the next week. Now, I’ll back right up… if I can remember details in the blur of the trail behind me.
I’ve written about the magical week at Molino del Rey in Andalusia, our fascinating trip to Ronda, flamenco, and a bit about Duende. When the week was done, we parted the way people part when they don’t really want to because what they’ve just shared is rich and deep, intimate and profound, with promises to keep in touch, let’s do it again, etc.
Esana and I then headed to Malaga to put our feet in the sea while waiting for our train to Seville.
That evening, our friend, Sulochani arrived in Seville from Rimini, and we spent three divine days exploring the cathedral, wandering the warren of narrow streets in the Jewish quarter our Airbnb neighbourhood.
There, we attended a flamenco show where the song of a woman continues to linger. The fire and passion, rage, grief, longing, and celebration in this art have captivated me beyond any expectation. I don’t pretend to understand, but I am viscerally and emotionally moved—more profoundly by some.
We took a hop-on-hop-off tour around the city to get a feel for what it had to offer, which was a good idea since it is a large city with many delights and layers. The highlight for me was the Plaza d’Espagna where a flamenco company was putting on an exhibition in the square.
The streets were filled with women in variations of traditional flamenco dress.
We caught a train (wrong word – we booked online with the required documentation, then stood in the terminal waiting to find out which platform was ours, then in a line to pass through security, then another line to have our tickets scanned, and then, finally, to our seats in the car at the end of the track.)
After a pleasant two-hour journey, we arrived in Granada. Wow, what a different vibe! In Seville, the layers of Moorish and Christian influence and history were evident in the architecture, but in Granada, the contrast was even more striking. The gypsy population is unmistakable as is the Islamic, whereas in other places we visited, the Christian aspects seemed to have trumped (ie: crosses replacing minarets). Since Islam prohibits idolatry, there are no bleeding Jesuses in the Alhambra but gorgeously preserved engraved calligraphy, and of course, the verdant flowering gardens. It was very hot and had been for some time so throughout the city the wisteria and jacarandas had mostly bloomed, dried, and fallen. The stones were littered with delicate purple flowers.
As we walked and walked and walked in the hot, hot sun, I noticed that my swollen feet were continuing to swell and not relieved by feet up the wall, ice, or rest. A few years ago, I had a blood clot in my leg that caused a similar reaction, so when we returned to Malaga, I decided to have it checked out. It took a while for me to register what the lovely doctors were telling me in that clinic. After taking my blood, it was decided that I likely did have blood clots and would have to be admitted to hospital to await an ultrasound (which was to take almost four days to happen!) Just like that, the cards with my plans written on them got blown into the air.
Esana and Sulo brought my bags and stayed with me into the evening. They went out and brought back delicious artichokes and pastry and sparkling water. They returned in the morning before having to fly back to Canada and Italy, my flight to Paris having left at 7:30 that morning. Sulo promised to return in a few days if I had to stay for any length of time.
Cancellations, refunds, insurance claims, CT scan, more blood, remarkably good hospital food (see salmon, warm fresh crusty rolls, pots of decent coffee, fresh fruit, yoghurt, cod, [maybe], vegetables in olive oil, etc.), truly beautiful women coming in throughout the day, “Hola!” they greeted me all cheery and sweet – to take my temp, blood pressure, inject anti-coagulants into my belly, make my bed, bring fresh towels, take out the garbage, etc. etc. Until three days later, they wheeled me down to have a Doppler scan of my legs.
When I’d had a clot before, my doctor had wheeled his ultrasound right into his office’s exam room and zipped it up my leg right to the spot, prescribed me blood thinners, and showed me the door. This technician scanned my legs top to bottom, side to side, back to front, spending so much time in certain spots, particularly at the back of my knee, that I was sure my legs were filled with clumps of immovable blood. I pause here because as all this is happening or not happening, my mind is on a freaking carnival ride—I’ll never fly again, no more international retreats, I’m gonna die, better get some full-length compression stockings, what if Blue Cross doesn’t pay (I’d given the hospital a $3,000 Euro deposit to be refunded once my insurance came through.) Maybe I can take a ship back to Canada. (If I don’t die first), etc. etc. But also during this time I was keenly aware of my privilege, that on account of circumstance, it was possible for me to find first-class medical help, that I was safe, had enough to eat, etc. etc.
Another uneventful evening passed with beautiful women checking in on me every so often. I slept a lot—between bouts of gazing down into the busy Malaga streets and reading Isabel Allende’s, A Long Petal of the Sea, and found myself vaguely surprised at how easily and frequently I drifted into sleep. I had a lingering low-pain-type headache for almost three days and I coughed quite a bit (Later, it will be clear why I mention this.) Coughing isn’t unusual for me—I have a cough that comes and goes—a reminder of my younger, even more foolish days of smoking, so I didn’t think much of it.
The next morning, the gorgeous thirty-something doctor with thick, dark eyelashes and a mane of shimmering black hair, announced that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me—not a clot to be found. All systems go. The nurses told me I was a 10 patient. I laughed with my translator, Amanda, that was because I hadn’t been sick. I thanked them all with my heart for taking such good care of me, booked a flight to Paris for that afternoon, and checked right in.
Amanda called a taxi and brought me out into the sunny street to wait. Liberation. She urged the driver to hurry as I didn’t have much time. Here’s where it takes another kookie turn.
On the way through Malaga traffic to the airport, I checked my flight just to be sure, and saw, to my shock, that I had in fact booked the flight for the following day. Okay. I paid the driver thirty euros and went in to see if I could get on the flight that was leaving shortly. I was given a number to call but the call wouldn’t go through no matter how many country codes I tried. So after sitting for a few minutes sweating over what to do, I thought, okay, now I know where I’m leaving from, maybe I just need to slow the hell down and book a room in Malaga. Again, very aware of the ease of my privilege—that I had a phone, a PayPal balance, and an Airbnb account—just like that, I rented a room a block away from the railway station. And having been in Malaga, it was nice to know how to use the metro and train station to get to and from the airport easily. I was on it.
The room was simple, comfortable, safe, and clean. And handy. After checking in, I strolled on my unswollen feet down to the water and along the esplanade until I found a nice open-air restaurant to have a salad and a cerveza. Although I was tempted to go to the centre, to the port, I also recognized my fatigue and decided to spend a quiet evening in my room where I transcribed the last of my novel’s scenes that were generated from prompts at the retreat.
I’d purchased some fruit, a pastry, and yoghurt the night before, so I made some coffee and enjoyed a quiet morning in my room. I didn’t want to rush. Airport check-in: easy; flight, smooth (except that I couldn’t clear my ears once we landed), and then… Paris. I’d booked a taxi to meet me and had sent a request to a driver at a company called BlaBla Car, a rideshare platform, to take me right to La Porte Peinte to begin my residency, only a few days late. The problem was that the driver wasn’t answering me, so after the taxi met me and we were on our way to Clignancourt where that driver had listed as his departure point, I realized that I had no assurance he would meet me. I requested a few other possibilities and waited while the poor taxi driver kept asking me where I wanted to go as he navigated Paris traffic. All the while, I was also in contact with Michelle at La Porte Peinte, asking to be picked up in Nitry or Tonnerre or wherever I thought I might end up. Finally, I thought, never mind, I’ll just get an Airbnb near Bercy, the train station where I’d catch a train to Tonnerre in the morning and be met by Michelle’s driver. So the taxi driver left me at the foot of l'Arc de Triomphe, saying it would be faster and cheaper for me to take the metro straight to Bercy for two euros. I paid him the sixty-odd euros I owed him and went to sit on a bench to try to find a room for the night. After a couple of refusals on account of it was already almost seven in the evening, one very small unit sent an invitation. But right at the same moment, another of the BlaBla Car drivers said he could take me to Nitry, only ten kilometres from Noyers-Sur-Surein, my final destination. I messaged Michelle and she said that my arrival would be too late (around 10:00) but she would try to get me a taxi. I vacillated between trying to catch a taxi to the rendezvous point with my new driver, Pierre-Yves, and taking the metro, as suggested. With my heavy backpack and super-large purse, I stood in the warm Paris air with cars swirling by on the wide streets, everyone looking as though they knew where they were going and how to get there, and waited to see if I could flag a cab. Then I told myself, Don’t be a coward, you took the metro all over Paris, negotiated its levels and signs when you were twenty-four without Google Maps or a cell phone, you can do it now. So I descended into the cool metro and went this way and that way, trying to decipher the maps and align the destination I’d been given to what I could make out. It took a few wrong turns and consulting Google Maps while the battery bar on my phone shrank bit by bit, but I finally got on the right train and after a lot of back and forth was able to meet Pierre-Yves and head out of town.
He was on his way to Dijon, a four-hour drive for him, but after realizing that my final destination was only ten kilometres off the highway, he agreed to take me to the door. What a lovely young man, only a few months older than my son, Ben. He was originally from Reunion Island and was a champion swimmer. We spent a very pleasant two and a half hours switching back and forth from French to English—we had about the same level of competency in each other’s language.
Michelle had booked a late-night taxi, which evidently was a huge ask since no one likes to drive at night on account of the wildlife. I think she was a little (maybe a lot) miffed when I said she could cancel it.
Once we left the highway, it became clear why people didn’t like to drive these roads at night. They are narrow, unlit, and shoulderless, and we did see a deer running alongside the car.
But at 10:30 on Thursday, May 4th, I arrived safely—only four days late—to a quiet town and a pleasant but somewhat nonplussed Michelle, who showed me to my room, gave me a brief introduction, and after a short, amiable conversation complete with my profuse apologies for being such a pain in the ass, left me to my devices.
The next morning, after Michelle guided me through the remarkable art-filled space and introduced me to some shops in the tiny town, I went to my atelier on the top floor and settled in to begin my project. That evening, all the artists were to meet in the big kitchen to share a drink before heading out for karaoke and hot dogs (I know, right?). There I finally met Marija, the choreographer I’d been in contact with and whose short videos online had captivated me. We had a brief conversation about process and how dance, painting, and writing, often shared a similar evolution. I opened the bottle of Olivier Boussard’s Pinot Noir I’d purchased and poured a glass.
Before I could drink, Michelle asked me if I’d tested for Covid before I came and I said that I hadn’t, that aside from some mild congestion likely due to the flight and stress, I had no symptoms. She brought me a test straight away and I retired to my room.
Well, as they say, FML. I tested positive.
Now you know why I mentioned my “symptoms” earlier.
Isolated now. I had to move to an Airbnb for the week so as not to infect the other artists, of which there are eight others in residence.
It is now May 7, a week after I was to begin my residency. Michelle has offered to extend my stay at La Porte Peinte once I’m clear. I messaged everyone I’d been in contact with to let them know I had Covid. The driver, Sulo, Esana, and the hospital staff. Not one of them has exhibited any symptoms.
I’ve made a little headway on my novel today, and I am in a gorgeous little apartment in the centre of town. Michelle has been bringing me groceries and leaving them at my door. It’s a winding, kinda stressful path I’ve taken to get here, but when all things are considered, I cannot complain. People have been kind, generous, and understanding, and although I’m still testing positive, I feel well and energetic, my feet aren’t swollen, and yesterday I took a long, long walk on a promenade that wraps around the river.
So now, back to the task at hand. I am supported in ways I never imagined, and grateful beyond words for all I’ve received.
Apparently, I’m supposed to be writing a novel.
You are a trouper. Be well and get home safely.
Cheers, Lynn
Wow, Deepam. Instead of writing the novel, you were living one!