A Day in the Life of the COVID-19 French Quarter
Frank Perez in his French Quarter home. photo by Jeffrey Holmes
March 2020The diary of a French Quarter writer details the neighborhood's new norm.
– by Frank Perez
Saturday, March 21, 2020
4:48 am
I wake up without the benefit of an alarm. This is not new to me. Early morning is my writing time. Usually, I have a writing goal each day to reach before the day starts (calls, texts, emails, appointments, meetings, errands, etc.). I am relieved that my days will never start for the foreseeable future. The solitude and lack of interruptions give me time to really make progress on my latest book--a biography of the recently departed Stewart Butler. This opportunity mitigates some of the financial stress. Rupee, an elderly Chihuahua we rescued in 2018, accompanies me to the kitchen and watches me brew the coffee. He’s wagging his tail because he knows breakfast is next. Chris is still sleeping.
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6:41 am
I step out onto my balcony to survey the infant day. The restaurant across the street is boarded up, which reminds me that hurricane season is not far away. The sun is peeking over the Mississippi River two blocks away. The streets are desolate—no drunken tourists trying to find their car, no bums or crusties sleeping on the sidewalk, nobody on the way to Café du Monde, no one walking her dog, nothing. But wait—just as I begin to water the plants, I spot an affable neighborhood derelict (for lack of a better word), drunkenly singing into a pint of whiskey as if it were a microphone. He is dancing in the middle of Royal Street. This comforts me.
10:15 am
Time for the daily trip to Rouses, a part of my routine that has in no way been affected by the current crisis. On the way I see Sue, my favorite server from Café Amelie, riding her bike. At Rouses I am greeted by Sylvia, who is wiping down the door with a sanitary wipe. I collect the vegetables for dinner (shrimp stir-fry). Mandy smiles enthusiastically as she checks me out. Exiting the store is easier than usual as there are no people congregated on the corner to listen to Doreen play her clarinet. Doreen and her clarinet have taken the day off.
12:15 pm
I receive a text from my friend Ben, an Episcopal deacon who lives a few blocks away, asking if I know anyone who is hungry. Ben is making dozens of brown bag lunches and delivering them around the Quarter to anyone in need. He assures me that he wears gloves and a mask while preparing the meals. I’m hungry now and heat up spaghetti leftovers from yesterday.
Ben Noble handing out meals to the homeless in Jackson Square. photo by Ellis Anderson
1 pm
Back to writing.
3 pm
Tired of writing. I watch the news for a while but it’s too depressing. Start prepping dinner.
5:32 pm
An alarming text comes in. A friend who lives Uptown has the virus. He admonishes me to stay home as much as possible. This is not a problem. Dinner.
6:12 pm
My neighbors across the street, musicians, begin an impromptu performance. It’s just two instruments, a guitar and a trumpet, but they’re really good. Other neighbors come out on their balconies. The spirit is convivial. I think of Italy.
Frank on his third-floor balcony. photo by Ellis Anderson
7:30 pm
Movie time. I watched Contagion yesterday. Tonight is Outbreak. I’m not trying to torture myself. I just have a dark sense of humor. The last time I went on a cruise I sat by the pool and flipped through a coffee table book about the Titanic and the first time I flew after 9/11, I read the 9/11 Commission Report on the flight.
I fall asleep.
Not a bad day. Like everyone else, I have no choice but to adjust to “the new normal.” I do look forward to the return of “the old normal,” but in the meantime, here we are. The bars are shuttered, and the restaurants are closed. Street performers and artists are on sabbatical. Spring-breakers are nowhere to be found. The sidewalks are clear of ghost tours. Not a mule-drawn carriage in sight. Jackson Square is empty. The Quarter rests.
But the locals remain, some pensive.
