LOCKDOWN in La La Land
NICOLE MOWBRAY’S FIRST VISIT TO LAUREL CANYON WAS AN ESSENTIAL PANDEMIC TRIP. BUT BEING TRAPPED IN THE HOLLYWOOD HILLS IS NO POOL PARTY
WERE this a normal year, the prospect of spending two months in California during the coldest months of the British winter – December through January and into February – would seem like heaven. This, however, is not a normal year.
For two years, my husband Lewis and I have known that, at some point in the future, we’d have to decamp to Los Angeles for a couple of months. Since November 2018, we’ve been trying to have a baby via surrogacy in the US as I have a genetic heart condition. Then, the prospect of a hiatus from normal London life was thrilling: beach days, café breakfasts outside with our baby, hikes in the hills, strolls with the pram around outdoor shopping malls… But it just so happened that after more than a year of trying, the start of the global pandemic coincided with our surrogate getting
pregnant with our son. Now, at a time when we didn’t want to travel, we had to. We watched as global infections rose, the death toll spiralled and America – and Los Angeles in particular – became the centre of the pandemic.
Of course, travelling during a practically global travel ban is not simple. America’s borders have been closed to everyone aside from US citizens and green card holders (with some other limited exceptions) since March 2020. My husband and I already possessed work visas but with these not valid during the pandemic, we had to employ a lawyer in the US to make a case for us to get special visas allowing us in for the birth of our child. After two months of collating documents and an interview at the US embassy in London, our plea was successful. It was the day after the socalled ‘UK coronavirus variant’ meant that the world had begun shutting its borders to flights from Britain.
Ten days later, on New Year’s Eve, we were at Heathrow. Before even being allowed to check in, a US immigration official gave our documents the onceover. We showed the necessary negative Covid test certificates. We scanned QR codes on our phones from the state of California, promising to abide by a stay-at-home order. We signed documents agreeing to a ten-day Airbnb quarantine.
Heathrow was deserted. Restaurants and shops were closed, the airline lounge was empty. Ditto our flight with Virgin Atlantic (so clean, safe and considerate of passenger nerves), where there were about five other (masked) people in the business class cabin – all spaced out for social distancing reasons – and another 60 passengers on board total.
Eleven hours later we sat, still fully masked and visored up (we’d been in face coverings for 17 hours and counting), in the customs department at Los Angeles International airport, watching CNN broadcasting its New Year’s Eve show from a surreally empty Times Square in New York for a final check on whether we could enter the country. Thankfully, we could.
Knowing we’d have to quarantine indoors for ten days – and that we’d be staying two months – we put serious consideration into our Airbnb. We opted for a little pool house in the spacious grounds of a 1920s home in Laurel Canyon, a chi-chi district high on the hill overlooking LA that’s home to lots of celebrities – Sam Smith, Rihanna, Harry Styles and EL James were all nearby residents.
As anyone who has travelled to the US can attest, the British accent normally opens doors. Let me tell you, those days are gone thanks to the ‘UK variant’. The car hire guy told us he ‘thought they’d banned Brits already’ and, when we could leave home, people often asked us how long we’d been here, seemingly scared we could infect them with ‘our’ ultra-contagious Covid strain.
Our Airbnb hosts, who lived in a house in the grounds, were equally cautious. They met us wearing N95 masks (as were we) and we sent them our negative Covid tests before we arrived. Talks around the pool took place several metres apart – just as well, as three weeks after our arrival they informed us they’d got Covid (not from us and we didn’t catch it).
While we’re all used to ‘staying at home’ at home, it’s strange (although necessary) being in a new place for weeks and not going outside. We had food shopping sent in from Whole Foods and got everything else from Amazon. I took to doing daily ’80s aerobics workouts online while Lewis developed a circuit training routine in the garden. Social norms were a mystery too, as
The days of a British accent opening doors are gone, thanks to the ‘UK variant’
evidenced by my going – barefaced – to put the bins out within the bounds of our property and being shouted at to ‘wear a frickin’ mask!’ by a lady hiking past. We soon realised masks are worn everywhere, not just indoors – ‘wherever there’s a reasonable chance of encountering someone else’.
Nearly two weeks after we arrived, our first trip out was for a dawn hike around a nearby canyon. It felt like freedom! We also went to a favourite b beach for a dawn walk and to Santa Monica beach at sunset but were careful to avoid people.
Then, three weeks after we arrived, we began a whole new adventure (with its own self-isolation!), when our b baby Jesse made his way into the world. This time there was more noise and less sleep and while it coincided with the lifting of California’s stay-athome order, we still only left the house for a daily walk around the canyon.
Total number of meals eaten that we didn’t make? Two (a drive-thru at In-N-Out Burger and delivery pizza). C Coffee shop visits? One (drive-thru). Tan lines? Zero (initial ones pre-baby seemingly erased by a serious lack of sleep). But when we returned last week, we had everything we’d ever wanted – a healthy baby.