Travelling Through Coronaville

I arrived at the airport in Bozeman, Montana. I check in. I go through security and the surgical metal in my right knee gets picked up by the machine. A man touches me. I’m part of a group of eighteen travelers, thirteen of which are teenagers, two of which are my daughters. I am not wearing shoes. I turn and a female TSA agent is about to touch my daughter. I rush up to make my presence known. My daughter is fourteen years old. We move on to the next indignity. I am called aside. They ask questions about my wife’s carry-on. There are a lot of things in there. Are they all mine? No, they are for five of the people in the party. 


The guard is particularly focused on a small jar of huckleberry jam. (Yes, huckleberry is a real thing and it is delicious.) It’s wrapped tight in bubble wrap and she can’t get it open. I tell her to use the scissors if she has to. She does. Sure enough, huckleberry. I videoed the violation of my privacy. I repack my bags. I am in a bad mood and I still have three planes and two more airports to go.


I’m in Denver International Airport. I’m not sure what time it is, but it feels like lunchtime. I am on the first of two layovers between me and my home in Florida. I snake through the line at the airport’s McDonald’s. I place an order and walk through a mass of people to wait for the machine to call my number. I will spend the next five or six minutes of my life listening to a nasal, artificial voice announcing,  3-6-1 please get the meal. 3-6-2 please get the meal. And so on until my number is called and I walk through the crowd again, take my food from the lady in the Plexiglas booth and walk through the crowd yet again to try to find a place to eat my McLunch.


To the right of the food court-like McDonald’s outlet is an empty space. Not empty, there are tables and chairs standing at attention, getting none. There is a barrier. You cannot sit here. Social Distancing. Go stand in the crowd with the other hungry sheep. Smell their sweat, breathe their germs. Consume their Corona. 


I almost don’t want to eat, but It will be about ten or twelve hours before I get home so not only am I eating from the Denver Airport McDonald’s; I will be eating dinner in Houston International.


I take my McBag and find a place to sit. I walk past closed shops and restaurants. I see the engines of commerce sealed tight by plastic wrap I eat and get lettuce in my hat. True Story. Don’t ask! I throw out the garbage and I wait. They call my number. Next stop: Houston. Four hour layover. Pinch me.


I take a long walk through Houston International past more closed shops and restaurants. The concourse is empty. I get to where I’m going. Empty. I passed a bar on the way and decided I needed a drink. $20 for an old-fashioned? Pass. $6 for a beer. Deal. I order on an iPad. The bartender hands me a glass and an unopened can. He is wearing a mask. Hm. How Twilight Zone. I crack open the beer and pour it into the glass. My food arrives. I eat. There are TVs above the bar. I look up. It’s tuned to cable news. 40% of restaurants in the US have closed, according to the headline. I look around and I’m not surprised.


I am returning from my vacation in Yellowstone. I visited lots of stores in the small Montana towns. Not as many as I’d visited last year. Many of them are closed. No one in Montana is freaking out about the virus. No one is attacking you for not wearing a mask. Entry into stores is not prohibited if your face is visible. These people just want to earn a living. I walk into these stores and find myself buying things I don’t want or need. All I want to do is help. I buy stickers and shirts and a souvenir or two. I bought a Christmas ornament. I had a couple of beers at a local place. I paid full retail for a book about Uncle Billy Hoffer. I even picked up snacks at convenience stores a couple of times, something I rarely do, even when travelling..


It was only in the airports that I had to go corporate. The McDonald’s and Dunkin Donuts were open. Ditto Panda Express and Wendy’s. It’s the little guy who has been crushed. The mom and pop, the small businesses that politicians profess to care so much for that have had their butts whipped by this illegal and immoral lockdown. I don’t know if it was by design, but it troubles me that while the independent businesses of the world were being decimated by social distancing and stay at home orders, Walmart and Amazon have posted record profits. Why is Target essential, but landscaping or car wash business, which are typically small, sole proprietor type operations, forced to shut down?


I think the explanation has to do with the amount of money in politics. Mom and Pop don’t have a lobbyist.  Jeff Bezos and Ronald McDonald have armies of them. I’ve been home for eight days now. I was exposed to hundreds, actually thousands of people over the last few days. I opened doors and used public bathrooms. I ate in restaurants and breathed in airplanes. No mask, no fear. Did I commit suicide? We’ll see how I’m doing in another week. I have a feeling I’ll be fine. Too bad I can’t say the same for my country.





Adolfo Jimenez is an author, poet, and blogger. He lives in Hollywood, Florida. He has published eight books, which you can find here.







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