Balconies are a peculiar dilemma.
When inside, you cast a glance outside and see two armchairs flanking a table; what an inviting sight. But if the weather is not right, then that balcony remains solely an inaccessible temptation. Too cloudy? You’ll get cold. Too sunny? You’ll get hot. Either way, you’ll end up forcing yourself to enjoy the pleasance of a sit outside, while you shiver or you sweat.
All this is beside the point, actually. And the point is that for the past few days, we’ve been blessed with beautiful balcony weather – the kind of weather that makes sitting outside as effortless and non-deliberate as possible.
And with the balcony naturally comes people-watching. Yes, even in the age of COVID-19.
* * *
A red minivan pulls up right underneath our second-floor platform, situating itself diagonally across three different parking spots. With all the spots empty, parking like that is indeed a hidden guilty pleasure, a deep fantasy fulfilled, a luxury even – but also a reason to lose one’s cool in the case of a person with OCD. I ignore it. A couple steps out of the car, approaches two bystanders, and… greets them with a hug. Not a light, quick, half-thought hug, no; a full-on, deliberate, hug-and-hold-for-five-seconds kind of hug. To confess, I didn’t believe my eyes. Yes, I was in shock, and that is what this virus has brought us to: an otherwise natural and heartwarming gesture turned into a trigger for alarm.
I follow the couple with my peripheral vision as they sit back into the car. I don’t see their faces, covered by the roof of the car, but I do see their torsos, arms, and hands. The driver pulls out what looks like an aerosol can and… starts spraying it all over himself: crisscrossing his shirt, and then going on to his upper arms, his hands, and, possibly, his face. The passenger doesn’t resort to this cleansing ritual, instead sufficing herself with what appears to be hand sanitizer. Purged and having achieved peace of mind, they drive off.
* * *
While we have lunch, two ladies start walking across the parking lot dividing my building with the Hampton’s Inn across. I double-take and can feel Aida’s stinging glare burn a hole in the back of my head as I’ve turned back to check them out. “Whatcha looking at?”, she asks casually, if playfully. I cannot conceal my shock; in fact, I’m amused by my own reaction. The two ladies making their way up to Colorado Street are walking with barely two feet between them… and with no masks on. Who would have thought that this would be a sight worth marveling at… ever?
They, the two ladies, stop near a tree by the bench next to the entrance of the inn. One of them, the one in the white shorts (oops) leans against the tree with her back and hands, facing her friend. She’s posing for a photo, waiting for her friend (the one wearing Adidas slippers with socks) to take a shot. Open up Google, search for “tree”, and take the mathematical average of all the images that appear on the first page of the search results. You have now seen the tree in front of which our momentary stranger was posing.
They see me watching and giggle, probably unaware of the true reason for my interest. I look back at my plate, maybe with a mildly reddened face. I make a concerted effort to focus on chewing my chicken rather than coming across as a creep. I don’t notice them leaving.
* * *
The sun I do not see, but the sky tells me that it is about to set. From between the window of my neighbor and the corner of the Hampton’s Inn across, I see the façade of the Americana facing Colorado Street. Behind and beyond the roof of the façade, I can make out the tip of the American flag waving against the wind on top of the Masonic Building. The outside lamps of some of the units of the Americana are already on. And one of the balconies on the third floor has a lone occupant who just stepped out, in a blue t-shirt, seemingly on a mission to make some kind of repair. I can see his gray hair and the round silhouette of his torso from the distance, but the most my sight can decipher is that he is trying to bend a plastic pole.
Is he looking in my direction? You will be amazed to know that even before you can make out the facial features, the white of the eyes even, of a person standing several hundred feet away, you can know if this other person is making eye contact with you. I had tried this theory many times while walking, but never on a cross-balcony communication level. I look intently at his direction, and he seems to have stopped. I wave my hand; he seems to be still – I wonder if he wonders if I’m waving at him. I show a thumbs-up; no response. I start waving both hands energetically, smiling broadly, alternating between waves and thumbs-up gestures. He seems to stop for a moment, then continue bending the pole, and then stop again. Aida is following this apparently one-sided correspondence in bemusement; probably, she also worries about my mental health, but decides to keep that thought to herself. She lets out a high-pitched sound, not a “puk” or a “pom”, but something in between. The man continues his pre-wired cycle of stopping all movement, working on his pole, and then stopping once more. After a few more windshield-wipes of my arms, I give in.
Maybe we didn’t make eye contact. Or maybe we did, but one of us did not acknowledge it. Maybe because one of us was too optimistic, or the other too pessimistic.
Kind of like the weather that keeps us indoors.
Chronicles 