"It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!"

I have just returned from Europe where more people believe in the Great Pumpkin than in the ability of their government to curb the pandemic.

Truth is nobody has the foggiest idea on what to do next. And it’s starting to show. They are acting like Third World countries.

When we arrived in London the most libertarian of all of Europe’s great cities it felt like being on top of the Matterhorn breathing in all that fine Alpine air. (London could soon cease to be a great European city, but that is a story for another day probably entitled “Good grief, Charlie Brown!”)

We could not believe our luck.

People walking all around us, mitt or without masks albeit a lot of social distancing, shops opened, yummy food delivered at our door in perfect sanitary condition, fantastic Press full of wisdom or juicy gossip, hairdressers and restaurants working with Perspex partitions and every few meters a sanitizing station; life almost as we knew it.

The feeling of being both safe and free, bliss.

Then things start to go south, literally. We tried to go to France but Boris had imposed quarantine on those returning from les vacances*. Macron in a fit of pique resorted to tit-for-tat politics and said “Messieurs les anglais, vous avez tiré les premiers*! Now eat your hearts* out!”! and did la meme chose. So France is out and we stay in the perfide Albion* for another fortnight. Then BJ imposes “the rule of six”; no more than six people in one place, indoors or out except when doing sports, or demonstrating. Universities open, but at some point many go back to lockdown again with the result of students holding signs on dorm windows that read: SEND BEER.

Pubs remain opened but only until a certain hour so the young’uns spill unto the sidewalks where they get properly smashed, snog and exchange all sorts of bodily fluids which result in a spike of Corona in certain cities that are sent back to lockdown.

Weddings go from no weddings to weddings with 50 guests to weddings with 30 guests to 15 guests where in this end-of-the-world atmosphere all, including the guests, especially the guests, are probably shagging to their hearts content.

In this confused state of affairs we opted for Belgium my husband’s plat pays* beautifully sung by Jacques Brel. Prior to boarding the Eurostar we downloaded the mandatory Passenger Locator Form -PLF is the new acronym to remember; it will rule our lives in the future. St. Pancras Station usually bustling hub was eerily empty with everyone sitting miles apart. Four people travelled in our coach, including us. Arriving at Bruxelles-Midi no one to asked for the PLF so we tear it up and bin it. Our French family drives from Paris to Brussels for the day.

Restaurants are opened; the air is nippy so fortunately we can eat inside. A few days later we start planning our return to Argentina; another kettle of fish. First we need to fill the Argentine PLF and that is a Catch-22 process. After several tries my husband’s is done. It’s my turn. I enter my name. “Name is invalid. Enter another name.” I look at my passport; look up at the screen in amazement: that definitely-old-fashioned name is the only one I’ve got. Make several more and ever more anguished tries. Call the Argentine Consulate. It is closed because of a holiday (what else is new?) but I get a person saying to call next day and request a Certificate of Residence “the Dutch may not be able to read the ID. They don’t speak Spanish”. Whuzzamatter! Even a Chinese can read it! Next day I am told to make a prior appointment and transfer 40 euros. Can I send postal money order? No. Wire from abroad? No. Ok. I drop the idea. Two days later they call: “Certificate is ready. Bring cash”. Too late, I’ll wing it.

In the meantime I have filled a no-hassle “Dutch Health Declaration”. Before boarding they tell us that form is no good and proceed to give us another identical form to fill. (Whuzzamatter!)

Schipol airport is just sad. Empty concourses empty shops empty cafes. A few passengers wandering like lost kids out late on Halloween night.

Recently the French have imposed a 9 pm curfew but allow restaurants to stay open; the Belgians have closed restaurants but curfew starts only at midnight: the result is nobody eats out.

The Brits have imposed a ban on two households meeting. Madrid is closed and Italy follows close by.

This year you stand a better chance of sighting the Great Pumpkin than seeing the end of the pandemic.

NOTES:

*les vacances= holidays, sacred to the French, much less for the rest of the world.

*Messieurs les anglais, vous avez tire les premiers! = A play on words said at the start of the battle of Fontenoy (1745) when the French invited the English to open fire by saying: “Messieurs les anglais, tirez les premiers!

*Hearts out” = in this case: merde!

*Perfide Albion = Perfidious Albion a derogatory phrase used in Europe to badmouth the Brits

*plat pays = alludes to Belgium, the flat country. Jacques Brel composed “Le Plat Pays” in 1964.