Mexiko: I got up late, went to the market, by this time the quesadilla vendors were dismantling their stalls.
I remember exactly where I was when I first heard about the virus in Wuhan. Likewise, I remember not taking it seriously.
Slow days in a hostel in San Cristobal, Mexico. In the mornings I went to the market to shop for breakfast, usually by this time the quesadilla vendors were dismantling their stalls. It was approaching noon. At the bakery, I put the bread on a silver tray with tongs. At the market, I bought fresh mangoes, tomatoes and avocados. The hallway flooded with light on the way to my frosty room. It was February and two wool blankets were needed at night that week.
We were two Germans among the hostel guests, short conversations in the kitchen or in the hallway, as if we were closer just because we shared the same native language. I was embarrassed. But after a cold night, it felt good. Her name was Bettina, Bianca or Christina.
In the kitchen, I washed the dishes briefly and just as badly as they had been washed before. In the kitchen Christina, Martina or Doris told about the new virus. We laughed at the exaggerated headlines, after all, it was just the flu. And Germany was so far away, even though I would be flying back in a week. Her dog was black and squeezed between my legs in the kitchen.
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