Waging a lonely war on foreign soil

Lockdown means different things in different countries, and it is particularly unnerving in the world’s most iconic cities, write Liv Monaghan in Paris and Liam Hamill in New York

IT happened so quickly. It seems like yesterday I was watching videos of the people in Wuhan calling to each other from their balconies, never for a second believing that this would ever be my situation. But now it is.

Except I don’t have a balcony, and my window is at the back of my block, looking onto the narrow courtyard of the famous La Femis film studios and school — now empty. So, at 8pm when the rest of Paris opens their windows onto the street to applaud the health professionals, I can hear the rapturous encouragement but I see no one and I clap into the dark.

I live alone, in a small studio with limited light, and since midday on March 17 we have been under a police-enforced lockdown. On the previous evening, following a day of sunshine that lured droves of people into parks and to the banks of the Seine, President Emmanuel Macron delivered a foreboding speech. What else could he do? After the enforced closure of the cafes, bars and restaurants, just hours before, it seemed we just weren’t capable of keeping away from each other. “We are at war,” Macron repeated again and again. A lonely war.

Under this lockdown, I can leave my studio of 22 square metres for a choice of one of the following each day: essential shopping; a trip to a doctor or pharmacy; a brief stint of physical exercise near my home; or for work, with proof from an employer that it isn’t possible to do that work from home. When we leave, we must carry a certificate of why we are outside our home. I have been police-checked many times to make sure I’m obeying orders, and thousands have been fined, for either being too far from home, exercising in pairs or leaving home without the required papers. I don’t like jogging but I leave my home in improvised sports gear. I never prepared for this; this is not who I am. Before midday on March 17, I witnessed scores of Parisians racing for trains and taxis, frantically loading up cars with cats, children, suitcases, musical instruments — you name it. They were getting the hell out of here.

Not only did this exacerbate the feeling of quiet panic already palpable, there was a horrible feeling of being left behind.

We had been told to only make essential journeys, yet all these people were fleeing; expats who proudly express their love for Paris on a daily basis were soon announcing on social media that they were safely back in their home countries.

I get it. Did I want to join them? Sometimes, yes; selfishly, because let’s be frank here, that is what travel at this time is.

The first days I wavered between chest-tightening anxiety and moments of calm, my reasons for being in Paris having evaporated — I’m a singer; I depend on the vibrant Parisian social scene and the tourists that lap it up. My work is gone. My inspiration was in the clatter of coffee cups, the wild encounters, the glorious choice of culture and the soft, kissing embraces between friends on the street.

I live in Montmartre, which is on every tourist’s bucket-list. And now when I go for my controlled exercise, I have the Sacre Coeur to myself. I stand in front of it and I wonder at it, I listen to the birds singing and then I turn to look over the great expanse of this city I’ve lived in for many years and which has shown me so much love; and it is calm, and clear.

I might be physically alone but I do have an invisible network. I’m distantly helping elderly neighbours; other neighbours are helping me. They’re leaving care packages with candles and tea at my door.

And maybe I am prepared for this because I have my music; that other great communicator of love across distance. And so for now, clapping, or striking a triangle, my last gift from a now very distant colleague, alone into a dark courtyard, feels somewhat okay.

www.livmonaghanmusic.com