And it was a thrill, once again to enter the small salon where Laura does her work, and even more of a thrill to look like myself again. I feel light-headed.
To get down and across to Broome Street, I had to take the D or B train. Since I was traveling toward the end of rush hour, I wondered how jammed the subway and the stations would be.
Not at all. In fact, I figure the NYC subway system is probably the safest indoor place in the city. Everyone wore a mask, everyone spaced himself. The platform wasn’t crowded. Neither was the train — which was, as I’m sure you’ve heard, so gleaming clean, sunglasses are advised. By me.
Walking from the Grand Street station to the salon, I saw numbers of (young) people sitting around in parks, yammering, maskless. The area was, if not jumping exactly, moving around. One guy on a skateboard took a really bad spill on Allen Street but got up, okay.
Numbers of the small restaurants on the streets were open, tables on the sidewalks and streets. And, of course, no one eating and drinking was wearing a mask. Some restaurants’ interiors were open for business.
A neighbor recently suggested going out to dinner at a neighborhood restaurant with tables out on the sidewalk. I am not yet comfortable with this. I think: no mask, servers getting close enough to give us plates of food and take them away, where will I wash my hands frequently, per Dr. Rob? And I just read there might be a spike in COVID-19 from restaurants because of the physical exchange of credit cards.
Since Laura comes from an Apache reservation in Arizona, and I know reservations have been especially hard hit by COVID, I asked how her family was doing.
“So-so,” she said. That isn’t good. I was really sorry. There wasn’t much more to be discussed about this; she wanted to get on with the business of cutting off my mop. Which she managed to do even as I wore my mask.
The Lower East Side is acting as if all is OK.
It isn’t. Someday it will be but not yet.