Fantasy Island

Here come the Vaccines. More or less. Rollouts, mutations, government bungling, speculation on post-vax transmissions, but also surprising immunization success rates in some places. All of which means we’re just starting to think about what’s next.

But after Brexit, the US Election, start of COVID etc. I’m done with the millions of armchair experts trying to out-clever each other. And the barrage of commentary by meme-lords the world over that follows. 

Because all that ends up happening, is whatever happens. And how it actually feels and works… ? We’ll know when we get there. So no predictions from me. Just some Captain’s Log notes, Stardate 2021.

I decamped from Berlin to Gran Canaria just over a month ago. And I know… boo-hoo, you’re on an island. Fair enough. But take this as someone reporting back from a recon mission into semi-normal life. I thought it would be Fantasy Island. 

Getting here, the first flight and airport were zombie apocalypse empty. But the connection was through a crowded Lisbon International. I had a mild panic attack from suddenly being around so many people. It was terrifying. And magnetic. Like a fire to warm myself by, but that I thought might burn me alive. I wanted to go home but instead, ate my feelings which were disguised egg tarts. On the connecting flight, me and the stranger next to me leaned away from each other, not out of politeness. Even though we’d both tested negative in the previous 72 hours, it was still, “Welcome Aboard Anxiety Airlines.”

Arriving here on the island and staying with friends, our first hugs were awkward. Willing. But cautious. Having actual conversations with other people in real life felt like being in a play. My ability to read body language was really rusty. I’d be fully in a conversation, then a thousand miles away, silently watching it from space.

At the first restaurant we went to, I kept waiting for the cops to arrive. It didn’t seem possible that we could sit down, take off our masks, and eat food together. When the waiter bumped my shoulder, I nearly jumped out of my chair. I lingered in the bathroom for a while, because it felt safe. Washing my hands, and wondering if I should wash my shirt where he’d touched it.

We went to the beach. I cried. Then we drank in a bar. Way too much. When I woke up the next day, I felt awful. Too much, of so much, after so long. My body and mind were overloaded. And then the guilt set in. “You don’t deserve to be here,” my Lower-Self chastized, “think of all your friends.” I felt like I’d stolen rations.

All I wanted was to be alone. And quiet. And alone. It took weeks for these kinds of feelings to pass. They only come once a day now.

I miss people in real life in Berlin, all over the States, and my home town of Sydney. But weirdly, there’s a similar ache for my Para-social friends -  celebrities, TV characters and influencers. In our isolationism, para-social connections have spiked on all measures. The attraction? It’s a one-way fantastical relationship that won’t let us down, unlike real life. 

My pre-internet Gen-X view of the world had para-socials way lower on the totem pole. People who stan celebrities, I’d want to ask, “Are you taking your meds? You know this person isn’t your friend, right?” But now I miss some influencers and TV characters like I miss my real friends. Because I only see everyone I know through a screen now.

Workwise, I’m doing my fifth job with people I’ve never met. Overseas agencies are now hiring freelancers from all over. It doesn’t matter anymore. No one’s anywhere and everyone is everywhere. I have jet lag for cities I’m not in. Fuck knows when I’ll see an office again.

As for sex, it’s like the 90s all over again. When was your last test? Are you having sex with other people? When was the last time? But there’s no condom for COVID. You can get it from your flatmate. There’s a lot of immediate disinterest and sometimes hostility for asking about COVID behaviors on the apps. Hate mail in three languages. And I get it. I don’t want to think about it either. 

But you also find others, like me, who are trying to date a little, get a sense of the person, and use their instincts. Still, it feels like driving without a seatbelt. I’m too scared. I’m glad Bumble’s IPO did well. But what is dating even going to look like now? 

I bought a Kindle. 

This wasn’t how I pictured it. I’m completely out of practice at being normal. Normal is scary. And empty. 80% of the island is closed. Streets, hotels, and malls are echo chambers. It’s eerie. But with sun.

A few months ago, I was salivating over the idea of being in a club with my friends, high, hugging each other shirtless at 4am. Kissing a total stranger at a street festival. Returning to my contact improv dance sessions in Berlin. Concerts! New cities!

But just dipping my toe in the normal pond here has me realizing Fantasy Island was exactly that. A fantasy. When normal happens again, I don’t know what it will look like, or how long before we’ll actually enjoy doing it.

2020 was alone, together. 2021 is bit less alone, bit more together. But I think this is going to take a while. Sorry, that was a fucking prediction.