Early Thursday morning last week, I left my neighborhood for the first time since the pandemic. I needed to send an international package and, while being out and about, replenish my pantry. The trip was planned down to the shopping bags that I carried with me.
There are a few small post offices in our neighborhood. But there are usually long lines of customers, crowded in limited spaces. So, I opted to go to the main office in Midtown where there would be possibilities of maintaining distance from people. I chose to be there when the door opened.
At 6:30 AM, subway cars were nearly empty. Everyone, masked and gloved, took his/her corner. No one spoke. No one was playing with cell phone. Before we got to Midtown where more riders would get on the train, I gave up my seat and found myself a corner to keep distance from others. At Port Authority, one person, annoyed by someone sitting down next to him, jumped up and shouted angrily.
A few minutes before 7:00, without the rush-hour crowd, public announcements echoed inside Penn Station. Above the ground, a few people, all with heads down, crossed street nervously. Giant digital advertisements, unaffectedly, cheered on.
The door at the post office just opened. Other than the security guard, there was only one other person waiting for the service. I usually visit the James A. Farley station[1] during holiday season, dropping off greeting cards, gift packages. . . mostly because of the longer retail hours. I am used to seeing the great reception hall decked with holiday ornaments and packed with people, hustling in order to cross off another item on their to-do list. On this particular morning, the sterilized empty space had the appearance of an elegant lady without makeup and accessories, struggling to maintain her dignity and beauty. It took the lone clerk, unfamiliar with the workstation, over fifteen minutes to process my package. I didn’t complain.
I then turned to Whole Foods at Columbus Circle, where senior shoppers (sixty and above) could enter an hour before regular store hour. The policy was meant to allow elderly people to shop when the store was cleaned and freshly stocked. It was the first time that I benefitted by my “senior” status.
Home of many designer shops and high-end restaurants, Time Warner Building at Columbus Circle has been voted one of the favorite public spaces in New York multiple times.[2] Shopping at Whole Foods there was my pastime. Yet, it had been weeks since my last visit.
I arrived at 7:45. The glass exterior of the building glimmered under the morning light. Yet, it had traded its radiance with iciness. Other than two side doors, all the entrances were either locked or blocked off. Whole Foods was the only store still in operation. A security guard was directing shoppers into two lines: a shorter line for seniors and a much longer one for “general population.” The store was practicing crowd control, allowing five people in at a time. I looked at the younger people wondering how long they had been waiting out there.
Like many stores, Whole Foods had shortened their hours to allow enough time to restock. Although there seemed to be plenty of vegetables and fruits on the stands, the quality of the produce was not the same. Beans were out of stock. Ration signs posted around the dairy section. Prices for seafood, poultry and meat all went up substantially. Sushi and pizza bars closed. Self-served salad-and-hot-food sections emptied out. Without the cheerful shoppers, the space was lifeless.
Once in a while, shoppers were reminded to not linger at the store: “. . . to be considerate of other shoppers waiting outside.” I quickly picked up items on my list and went to checkout area. During “normal times,” there would have been over ten lines of shoppers wrapped around, fighting to get to the shortest line. But I hardly waited. The cashier pointed at my reusable bags and told me that I would have to bag the items myself. I did so, and thanked her for being there.
Walking toward the subway station, I turned around to look at Time Warner Center. The “general population” line had extended and wrapped around the corner of the street. For a split second, I thought that I was looking at an image of a relief line during the Great Depression, in color. The stylistic surrounding only made it more surreal. The distance between people might have been different; the despair, the same.
I didn’t take a photo. It was an image that I would not be able to erase from my memory. It was an image that I would not want the world to see.
It will be a very long time before I leave my neighborhood willingly again. The pressure and the sadness that I felt were too much to bear.
[1] James_A._Farley_Building_Wiki
[2] The_shops_at_Columbus_Circle