Ten hours into my journey back to Philadelphia, I catch a foul smell ventilating back to me, lighting a fire up my olfactory bulbs. It is akin to a rotting cabbage. No. A bucket of dirty socks soaking in rainwater. A rotting cabbage in a bucket of dirty socks soaking in rainwater used to put out the flames of burning rubber. Nausea and a headache waft over me.
I would do anything to take back time, if only a couple of hours to my serene morning in Madrid. I had woken up to our window cracked open an inch, carrying in crisp, fresh air, and dimmed chatter from our neighbors discussing the spread of the virus into their homes and their hearts, speculating that it was brought in by the gringos next door. We made one last round down the checkered aisles of El Parque Retiro towards the peacock house tucked in the back corner behind the blue Hydrangea bushes. It was easy to practice the six-feet-apart rule here in this palace of wanted solitude, surrounded only by the beautiful cobalt blue and fluorescent green feathers lifting in unison. The growls of our stomach grew louder as we followed the mixed aroma of paella, recently roasted coffee beans, and fried churros around the corner for our last real meal in the next thirty hours.
I close my eyes for a moment to remember these distant memories of crisp morning air and freshly ground coffee beans, but they are not enough to overcome my awful sensory experience. In a pandemic you are allowed to point your finger at anyone or anything but yourself. So, I ask A sitting next to me, “Did you forget to take a shower before we left?,” knowing well that he is someone who cares a lot about his hygiene; the kind who would opt to brush his teeth after every meal if he could.
“No. I showered.”
A looks back at his phone and starts to mumble about all the reckless college students partying in Florida. I try to think about something other than a “flattened curve” or a crowded beach with waves crashing on its shore, followed by a stronger and more unseasoned second wave.
A shoves the phone in my face. “These spring breakers are going to kill us all,” he says. So are we. Our viral baggage is getting heavier with each airport we inhabit.
“Well, I certainly showered this morning,” I try to put up a fight. A does not pick up on my cranky cadence. His attention is seized by COVID-19 related news sprinkled with lost updates from Bernie and Biden’s campaigns. When did our upcoming presidential election become a distraction from our more immediate crisis?
I need to feel something familiar. I reach out for A’s hand before I catch myself. Physical contact feels taboo. “I’m going to get some coffee. I’ll be back,” I jolt from our shiny, fake-leathered black seats glistening with either Lysol or sweat (God, please let it be Lysol) at the boarding gates before A could even offer to join me. The airport is not crowded with its normal hustle and bustle. Its outgoing foreign residents–the spring breakers and European travelers, probably on their gap years— are replaced with scatterings of bleary-eyed nomads displaced from their vacation rentals after President Trump’s travel ban imbroglio. All of us come from different walks of life, but we are united in our confusion and anger towards an invisible, insurmountable threat.
The closest person to me now is at least twenty feet away, yet, the inescapable smell persisted. It is coming from under my own mask; my blue paper mask, drenched in guilt and germs. I probably should not have eaten that soggy tuna sandwich a couple hours earlier. Priced at €7, the sandwich was a good deal for airport “Grab-n-go” food. I needed to save money after I gambled, and lost, $600 in airplane fare. I cancelled my flight from Madrid to Rome when Italy became the epicenter for COVID-19, then cancelled my flight from Madrid to Barcelona when Spain claimed the title. “The Blob” is growing and chasing me out.
Maybe I should have brushed more thoroughly in anticipation of our long journey. I had lacked this forethinking since the beginning of this trip when I insisted we go on it at all against everyone’s warnings.
I walk back to the seat next to A, feeling guilty for doubting him earlier but also unapologetic. Twenty hours later, I arrive in Philadelphia. I let out a sigh of relief at the sight of Rittenhouse Square Park, its benches gathering dust and the bronze statue of a lion crushing a serpent, erect without an audience. Are we the lion or are we the serpent? I finally brush my teeth when I get to my apartment, marking the end of my journey and the beginning of a new one.
Likhitha Kolla is an MS1 at the Perelman School of Medicine. Likhitha can be reached by email at [email protected].
