Member-only story
Turning 60 in the Time of Coronavirus
I had a plan. Right after spring break, I would load up my Acura with a precisely-packed travel backpack, the dog, and road snacks. I’d hit I-25 and head north to visit family in the Pacific Northwest, pawn the dog off on someone who really loved me, and catch the first flight I could out of Sea-Tac.
I had planned a big year — because turning sixty seemed like a turning point in my own life. I wanted to be gone for six weeks, finally getting the opportunity to backpack through Europe — forty years later than most people I know, but…that’s okay. My knees still work. I don’t mind the ambiance of “youth” hostels. I could stop and spend time with my older siblings on the East Coast, who aren’t getting any younger. Then I’d come home to celebrate my first full year of living in New Mexico with my new group of friends, with stories to tell of my exciting solo European travels — the suave Italian who bought me a glass of Prosecco. The rugged Norwegian I met trekking…
But, things didn’t quite work out that way. Even though we could see it coming a long way off, Covid-19 seemed to hit with astounding speed and ferocity. International travel quickly became an unlikely prospect — any sipping of Prosecco in the early-spring sunshine would have to be done alone on my townhouse patio in Albuquerque. Maybe the dog would join me.
