There is a widespread custom in times of plague that has persisted over the centuries. To avoid contagion, many leave the city and escape into the country. The Italian writer, Giovanni Boccaccio, lived through the Black Death as it ravaged the city of Florence in 1348. The experience inspired him to write “The Decameron”, a story of seven men and three women who escaped the disease by fleeing to a villa outside the city. His introduction vividly describes the effects of the epidemic on his city.
“Others again held a still more cruel opinion, which they thought would keep them safe. They said that the only medicine against the plague-stricken was to go directly away from them. Men and women, convinced of this and caring about nothing but themselves, abandoned their own city, their own houses, their dwellings, their relatives, their property, and went abroad or at least to the country round Florence, as if God's wrath in punishing men's wickedness with this plague would not follow them, but strike only those who remained within the walls of the city…”
And so in Times of Coronavirus, and following the time-honored (though harshly criticized) tradition of many others before us, my husband and I took the decision to leave Granada and travel to a village two hours and various worlds away, where it was possible to at least pretend that the pandemic did not exist.
Alhama de Almería is a town of about 3,500 inhabitants. It is so small that in a 30-minute stroll, one has seen everything there is to see. Anyone interested in painting the town red (or even a pale shade of pink) is out of luck. There is zero nightlife of any sort. In any case, this hardly matters because practically all discotheques, cocktail lounges, and nightclubs in Spain have closed anyway.
The government has even announced its intention to shut down the houses of prostitution, given the difficulty of tracing clients in the case of an outbreak. Apparently, few men wish to admit that they are obliged to pay someone to have sex with them. So a number of itches will not be scratched until the pandemic recedes.
Alhama de Almería, however, is a paragon of sobriety. It is so tranquil and boring that the coronavirus has not even bothered to visit it. The town is renowned for three things:
1. It is the birthplace of Nicolás Salmerón, university professor and president of the First (though short-lived) Republic (1873-1874), who wisely abandoned power when he realized that Spain (and Spaniards) were impossible to govern.
2. It is the site of the Balneario de San Nicolas, a natural hot springs that has been around since the times of the Romans and Arabs, and, quite miraculously, has not closed down because of the coronavirus.
3. Since the pandemic began, there has been only one recorded case of Covid-19 in the whole town.
So, given these specifications, we decided to visit the spa there, especially since the hotel has implemented the new draconian protocols to keep all guests and employees disinfected and reasonably safe in these difficult times. Nevertheless, coping with Covid-19 in the New Normal is a somewhat daunting experience.
When we entered the building, there was hand sanitizer and a temperature machine. After registering at the desk, we were given an antibodies test for coronavirus (results in 15 minutes). Not surprisingly, the test came out negative. Of course, masks have to be worn all of the time except when one is actually in the spa water, eating a meal, or in one’s own room. The capacity of all public rooms in the hotel is strictly limited. Elevators can only be used by one person at a time. In the dining room, tables are two meters apart, and buffets have disappeared forever. The server must bring all food to the tables.
This is all rather different from the last time we were here five months ago. We had visited the town in February just before the world went to pieces. At that time, the hotel was filled with almost 100 people, mostly groups of retirees who joyfully took part in card games, domino tournaments, sing-a-longs, and memory workshops. The spa was bustling with (mostly ancient) life, but still filled with a great deal of conversation, gaiety, and laughter.
Now in August, the hallways are empty; there are only about ten guests in the hotel. The hotel bar is closed. Everyone keeps their distance, and people only talk with each other from afar. This morning at breakfast, I interpreted for an English family, who did not know how to tell the server that they wanted to eat fried eggs and bacon (an alien type of breakfast). However, everyone used masks and social distance, which transformed the exchange into a kind of show.
After breakfast, I asked the receptionist behind her plexi-glass shield if she knew what had happened to the former guests. She told me that many had died during the first wave. Those that survived are now afraid to leave their homes.
And so, the hotel is now a very solitary place, quite different from the way that it used to be. However, if one looks close enough, one can see the people or at least their ghosts in the lobby, dining hall, and chapel. Indeed, the spirits are everywhere: Don José, who used to tell everyone endless stories about his childhood during the Spanish Civil War, Doña Encarnación, who would begin to swear like a legionnaire when she did not win at cards, or Señor Liñán, who was prone to drink a few too many glasses of wine in the evening. These and many others amicably haunt the corridors now. Many are not aware of their presence, but they are sadly visible to those of us who take the time to look and remember.
