From Jenna Orkin
New York City

   Coronavirus hasn't changed my social life that much. Most days, I attend at least one zoom group with like-minded souls who are interested in foreign languages but not interested enough to enroll in a class; we just "converse" for an hour, gaily stumbling over our thoughts, filling in each other's failing vocabularies, in the touchingly naive belief that the blind can lead the blind towards eventual enlightenment. Actually, we're not really that naive and believe it or not, we do become more "fluent" in our particular brand of Spanglish or Chinglish or whatever it happens to be.  And sometimes we're graced by the presence of a native speaker to whose expertise we appeal with all due reverence.
   This is actually a more conducive set-up than the marathons that used to take place every week, with a hundred polyglot hopefuls jammed into a bar shouting over each other. One guy who subsequently came down with Covid-19 believes he got it at the last one, which was held in February. 

   Don't get me wrong; I loved those meet-ups of which the zoom groups are a direct outgrowth. It's just that the zoom groups have proved a pleasant surprise.

   So that accounts for my human interaction during the day. Then at night, I talk to my best friend, as I've been doing for over twenty years.

   Today I came across the following line in an article in the New Yorker about social distancing: "I’ve talked through doors, across yards of asphalt, over a maple limb downed by a storm." And for the first time, I realized I haven't spoken to anyone in person since March 13, the last day, with the exception of one foray into Central Park, that I went out. Unless you count shouting, "Thank you," through the door to the delivery guy from Fairway or Fresh Direct.

   I've been thinking about the salespeople I used to see at Whole Foods: X, who was so polite, she seems to have been groomed by an abuser. Y, who, unbelievably, enjoyed his job, once astonished me by addressing a customer in Japanese. When I asked him how he came to know the language, he explained he had picked it up from Saturday morning Manga cartoons.

   Have they managed to maintain their health these last two months? Will I ever find out?  

   These questions quickly lead down a dangerous road: Will I be able to travel to see my son at Christmas? How about the one after that? Will my nieces ever return to New York? Their father, my brother, came with them the last time, for the first time in five years. How fateful that visit seems now.
   And what about the nephew I only met once when he was five — he was supposed to come to the States from England this year. 

   It's all impossible to imagine, and leads to other questions, darker still.

   Ah well... Tomorrow, Italian.