A long time ago, on an overnight flight back in the days when in-flight entertainment was limited to one movie and a few random channels of music options, I wrestled with a sleepless moment in a darkened United cabin and searched for music that would help me shut my eyes for a few hours. I settled on opera, believing that songs performed in a language I did not know would help me shut out the world.
The moment was a one-off. I never actually went to an opera after that night, though I remember the music as a revelation. Baz Luhrman's La Bohème on Broadway was as close as I got to seeing a performance. But as the walls began closing in last week I purchased a download of Renee Fleming performing with the London Philharmonic. The opera crowd isn't the sort to use the term "Greatest Hits," but this album is opera's greatest hits. I play it in the car when I am alone, driving around my little town, careful to keep the windows rolled up at stoplights because I don't think RSM is ready for loud opera on the corner of Antonia and Banderas (an actual cross street).
But we're ready for something. This burg is getting twitchy. Not like down at the beach, where protesters are driving in from hours away to be heard. One such man from the town of Lancaster, 70 miles north of Huntington Beach, drove down to protest beach closures, claiming it violated his 2nd Amendment rights ("A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed"). These are the times we live in, and his vote counts as much as mine. The quarantine cabin fever is making us all a little daft, and even though I have the perfect job for a time like this, I admit to waking up blue each morning, longing for normalcy and the ability to plan the future.
In the meantime, there are moments that will define all this for my town. The seasonal creek down in the arroyo is an inch deep and 30 feet wide, but that doesn't stop entire families from trekking down the sycamore-shade trails, past the rattlesnakes and coyotes, then allowing their children to roll around in the water like it’s the Colorado. And bikes. Man, do we have bikes. I think we all knew in our hearts that everyone owns a bike, but until now the only people we saw on bikes were the roadies with their expensive carbon frames and the weekend mountain bike wolf packs. Not anymore. I literally saw a grown man riding a child's Stingray with the elevated handlebars and handle grip streamers on the trail this week. Bikes of all sizes and riders of all abilities are everywhere. It’s comical and endearing, and somehow beautiful.
But this week has been special to me for two more specific moments that will stay with me a lifetime. The first came on Wednesday, when a group of runners drove past my home in a long single file parade of cars, honking their horns to offer encouragement to coaches who have lost a track season. My next door neighbor, tipped off to the surprise, played "We Are The Champions" over the outdoor loudspeakers usually reserved for country.
And then there was last night, when my oldest son and his aircrew used their training mission to circle his helicopter over the house as Callie and I sat in the backyard. I worry about all my sons at a time like this, and to see that 60 flying overhead made me cheer. Though Dev has been a Navy pilot for several years, that was the first time I had ever seen him fly. Social distancing has never been so uplifting.
I played some opera this afternoon as I made my usual Sunday rounds (run in the park, Pavilions to shop for dinner, Selma's for a growler pour, then home). This is my new routine. Normally, I'd be blasting Springsteen but these are different times. Renee Fleming's Greatest Hits is my coronavirus jam.