The pandemic struck while I was on contract working in India. As borders all over the world began to close, I had to decide whether to return home to NYC---which was rapidly becoming the epicenter for the western hemisphere---or to seek safe harbor somewhere else. Watching the infection rate curves, there was only one country still accepting Americans which seemed to be over the hump. South Korea.
I didn't know anyone in Korea, save for a former co-worker of my sister's who I doubted would remember me, and I didn't speak a word of the language. But in Korea I could go to a restaurant and not worry about being responsible for human death. That is, if I make it through quarantine.
So that's how I found myself in this tiny room in a quarantine hotel. It's like jail if all the guards were extremely service-oriented. You are imprisoned ever so politely. “Is it okay if I order a pizza?” I ask the receptionist. “No, sir. We humbly allow you only eat the meal we provide sir, and only at the meal time. I am so sorry to you sir, my deep apologize.”There’s a plastic tarp in front of the door to my room; that’s where they leave food for me and where I leave garbage for them. They replace the tarp four times a day. I watch them from the peephole in the door.
If you lean in close to peer through that little circle, you can see what my neck feels like.
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