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| One Bright Thing | One Bright Thing |
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| Times Insider explains who we are and what we do, and delivers behind-the-scenes insights into how our journalism comes together. | Times Insider explains who we are and what we do, and delivers behind-the-scenes insights into how our journalism comes together. |
| An unlikely interaction with a stranger. A friendship revived. A musical discovery. A scream fest. As the pandemic rages on, we can all use a lift, no matter how fleeting, especially if it makes us feel connected. Or just makes us feel, period. With that in mind, several veteran writers across our (virtual) newsroom shared something that stood out for them in response to this question: In these dark days, what’s one bright thing? | An unlikely interaction with a stranger. A friendship revived. A musical discovery. A scream fest. As the pandemic rages on, we can all use a lift, no matter how fleeting, especially if it makes us feel connected. Or just makes us feel, period. With that in mind, several veteran writers across our (virtual) newsroom shared something that stood out for them in response to this question: In these dark days, what’s one bright thing? |
| John Branch, Sports reporter | John Branch, Sports reporter |
| It’s my heightened senses, especially at night. The stars are brighter than ever, the Big Dipper tipped as if pouring out unfamiliar stars looking to be noticed. The ambient sound in my suburban neighborhood now comes from inside my ears, as if the world’s a seashell. Gone is the soft hum of faraway traffic or the sporadic rumble of neighborhood cars coming home; absent are the barking dogs, since their owners are always near. In their places are critters rustling in the ivy, light rain dripping into the gutters, late-night whispers of my teenage daughter to a friend’s screen across town. The smell of smoke from the chimney of one next-door neighbor, and the pungent musk of fresh bark delivered in a pile to the other, send silent signals that they are OK. Yesterday, in the front yard, I noticed a spot of grass riffling amid the calm sea of blades. It was an unseen mole, chewing on roots. I am numbed to the outside world, but a quarantined superhero of the senses. | It’s my heightened senses, especially at night. The stars are brighter than ever, the Big Dipper tipped as if pouring out unfamiliar stars looking to be noticed. The ambient sound in my suburban neighborhood now comes from inside my ears, as if the world’s a seashell. Gone is the soft hum of faraway traffic or the sporadic rumble of neighborhood cars coming home; absent are the barking dogs, since their owners are always near. In their places are critters rustling in the ivy, light rain dripping into the gutters, late-night whispers of my teenage daughter to a friend’s screen across town. The smell of smoke from the chimney of one next-door neighbor, and the pungent musk of fresh bark delivered in a pile to the other, send silent signals that they are OK. Yesterday, in the front yard, I noticed a spot of grass riffling amid the calm sea of blades. It was an unseen mole, chewing on roots. I am numbed to the outside world, but a quarantined superhero of the senses. |
| Sarah Lyall, writer-at-large | Sarah Lyall, writer-at-large |
| For the last month or so, I’ve been talking regularly to six colleagues via a group text we set up as a stave-off-the-loneliness measure. We’re all over the place physically (and sometimes mentally), but we check in with each other every day. We share news and gossip and stray clips that we’ve heard and read and seen. We calm each other down when things feel overwhelming. Our running conversational thread is full of advice, hellos, tears, support, dry remarks and bracing commentary, on topics ranging from the most serious (friends who are gravely ill) to the most frivolous (one of the group’s — OK, Ginia Bellafante’s — unaccountable middle-of-the-night panic purchase of an expensive brass coffee-table giraffe). The other day we had a (non-Covid-related) health scare at my house, and the great outpouring of sympathy and kindness and practical help that flowed in over my phone late into the night and through the next day — I will never forget it. (All is well now.) With everything going on, our little group is such a small thing, but it feels like a big thing. It feels like a lifeline. It feels like love. | For the last month or so, I’ve been talking regularly to six colleagues via a group text we set up as a stave-off-the-loneliness measure. We’re all over the place physically (and sometimes mentally), but we check in with each other every day. We share news and gossip and stray clips that we’ve heard and read and seen. We calm each other down when things feel overwhelming. Our running conversational thread is full of advice, hellos, tears, support, dry remarks and bracing commentary, on topics ranging from the most serious (friends who are gravely ill) to the most frivolous (one of the group’s — OK, Ginia Bellafante’s — unaccountable middle-of-the-night panic purchase of an expensive brass coffee-table giraffe). The other day we had a (non-Covid-related) health scare at my house, and the great outpouring of sympathy and kindness and practical help that flowed in over my phone late into the night and through the next day — I will never forget it. (All is well now.) With everything going on, our little group is such a small thing, but it feels like a big thing. It feels like a lifeline. It feels like love. |
| Manny Fernandez, Houston bureau chief | Manny Fernandez, Houston bureau chief |
| I’m sure I had better things to do than eavesdrop on my daughter’s Zoom session with her second-grade class. She had to sit on two pillows on the chair to get her face on the screen, and even then her classmates mostly had a nice view of her forehead. | I’m sure I had better things to do than eavesdrop on my daughter’s Zoom session with her second-grade class. She had to sit on two pillows on the chair to get her face on the screen, and even then her classmates mostly had a nice view of her forehead. |
| Mrs. Burdick told the class she wanted to play a game. She would say a word, and then everyone had to find an object that began with the last letter of that word. The first word was “pen” — the children bolted from their chairs stacked with pillows looking for things that began with the letter N. | Mrs. Burdick told the class she wanted to play a game. She would say a word, and then everyone had to find an object that began with the last letter of that word. The first word was “pen” — the children bolted from their chairs stacked with pillows looking for things that began with the letter N. |
| My daughter tore through rooms. The clock ticked. On the split-screen, another student displayed a notebook. Hurry! My daughter kept saying the word “number” out loud, so she opened a stack of Uno cards and held up a blue 4. | My daughter tore through rooms. The clock ticked. On the split-screen, another student displayed a notebook. Hurry! My daughter kept saying the word “number” out loud, so she opened a stack of Uno cards and held up a blue 4. |
| Mrs. Burdick had everyone’s attention now, including my fifth-grade son and certain adults who were “working” off-camera. There was a K — my wife helped my daughter find a crumpled-up kite — and there was a Y, and then another N. Around the stay-at-home houses of Houston, 6-, 7- and 8-year-olds raced around snatching up keys, yellow folders, yogurt cups, Nutella containers. | Mrs. Burdick had everyone’s attention now, including my fifth-grade son and certain adults who were “working” off-camera. There was a K — my wife helped my daughter find a crumpled-up kite — and there was a Y, and then another N. Around the stay-at-home houses of Houston, 6-, 7- and 8-year-olds raced around snatching up keys, yellow folders, yogurt cups, Nutella containers. |
| “It felt like a really short recess, but indoors,” my daughter said later, during an interview conducted in all seriousness over mac and cheese. | “It felt like a really short recess, but indoors,” my daughter said later, during an interview conducted in all seriousness over mac and cheese. |
| Things fall apart. Second grade carries on. | Things fall apart. Second grade carries on. |
| Dan Barry, domestic correspondent and columnist | Dan Barry, domestic correspondent and columnist |
| I had a question to consider, so I took another walk. I did a few loops around my corner of town, taking care to keep a good distance from my neighbors, just as they had requested long before the pandemic. | I had a question to consider, so I took another walk. I did a few loops around my corner of town, taking care to keep a good distance from my neighbors, just as they had requested long before the pandemic. |
| As I walked, I admired again the poetry of John Prine coursing through my earbuds (“naked as the eyes of a clown”) and hoped that listening would somehow help him to recover from the virus; it wouldn’t. I noticed the different patterns — rabbits and shamrocks and crescents — on the shutters of the old houses I passed. I read the chalk scribblings of children on the sidewalks, including one that said: | As I walked, I admired again the poetry of John Prine coursing through my earbuds (“naked as the eyes of a clown”) and hoped that listening would somehow help him to recover from the virus; it wouldn’t. I noticed the different patterns — rabbits and shamrocks and crescents — on the shutters of the old houses I passed. I read the chalk scribblings of children on the sidewalks, including one that said: |
| “This Just Sux.” | “This Just Sux.” |
| The blunt message made me smile. Maybe it was the unvarnished candor of the very young. Or maybe the promise of renewal that I gleaned in the three springtime colors used to write those colorful words. Once home, I realized I had forgotten the question I had taken a walk to consider. Which told me that some things are still good, that not everything sux. | The blunt message made me smile. Maybe it was the unvarnished candor of the very young. Or maybe the promise of renewal that I gleaned in the three springtime colors used to write those colorful words. Once home, I realized I had forgotten the question I had taken a walk to consider. Which told me that some things are still good, that not everything sux. |
| Wesley Morris, critic-at-large | Wesley Morris, critic-at-large |
| Right outside my apartment are trees. No news there. They line the block — they line lots of residential blocks in New York City. Apparently, however, I’ve been too absent these many years to notice the one tree that’s erupted in white flowers every April. I paid it my first attention only last week. Now, just about every day, I stand there and do something like meditate before it. (“Something like” because I’m probably holding a bowl of oatmeal or peeling an orange, murmuring amazement.) A friend told me I have about a week before I’m just looking at a regular tree. That’s fine. I’m home now with nowhere to go, feeling lucky to be a regular tree myself. | Right outside my apartment are trees. No news there. They line the block — they line lots of residential blocks in New York City. Apparently, however, I’ve been too absent these many years to notice the one tree that’s erupted in white flowers every April. I paid it my first attention only last week. Now, just about every day, I stand there and do something like meditate before it. (“Something like” because I’m probably holding a bowl of oatmeal or peeling an orange, murmuring amazement.) A friend told me I have about a week before I’m just looking at a regular tree. That’s fine. I’m home now with nowhere to go, feeling lucky to be a regular tree myself. |
| Motoko Rich, Tokyo bureau chief | Motoko Rich, Tokyo bureau chief |
| The idea was staring us in the face. We had finished off a package of dark chocolate Kit Kats and I was about to throw it away. Nestle Japan had recently changed the packaging from plastic to paper, and it was printed with a suggestion that we cut out a square panel and fold it into a paper crane. | The idea was staring us in the face. We had finished off a package of dark chocolate Kit Kats and I was about to throw it away. Nestle Japan had recently changed the packaging from plastic to paper, and it was printed with a suggestion that we cut out a square panel and fold it into a paper crane. |
| It had been years since I had actually folded an orizuru — as they are known in Japanese — and the packaging paper was rather bulky. But my 15-year-old daughter had a package of tiny 2 inch by 2 inch origami papers, and her fingers are nimble. Within minutes, she had finished a perfectly formed miniature crane. | It had been years since I had actually folded an orizuru — as they are known in Japanese — and the packaging paper was rather bulky. But my 15-year-old daughter had a package of tiny 2 inch by 2 inch origami papers, and her fingers are nimble. Within minutes, she had finished a perfectly formed miniature crane. |
| I suggested we make it a nightly habit — folding a crane or two, aiming for 1,000. In Japan, families and friends sometimes fold a thousand cranes — senbazuru — to give to someone who is ill, to wish them a speedy recovery. My mother folded 1,000 cranes for my husband’s and my wedding, for luck. Maybe by the time we get to 1,000, there will be a coronavirus vaccine. | I suggested we make it a nightly habit — folding a crane or two, aiming for 1,000. In Japan, families and friends sometimes fold a thousand cranes — senbazuru — to give to someone who is ill, to wish them a speedy recovery. My mother folded 1,000 cranes for my husband’s and my wedding, for luck. Maybe by the time we get to 1,000, there will be a coronavirus vaccine. |
| We’ve been going only for a few nights so far. Sometimes I still have to ask my 13-year-old son to remind me what step comes next. My edges are not always crisp as I would like. The folds are slightly off kilter. My cranes are not nearly as graceful as my daughter’s. We place our finished birds on a cherry wood tray carved by my mother, who is far away, under lockdown with my father in California. It is calming, this act of folding together. | We’ve been going only for a few nights so far. Sometimes I still have to ask my 13-year-old son to remind me what step comes next. My edges are not always crisp as I would like. The folds are slightly off kilter. My cranes are not nearly as graceful as my daughter’s. We place our finished birds on a cherry wood tray carved by my mother, who is far away, under lockdown with my father in California. It is calming, this act of folding together. |
| Taffy Brodesser-Akner, Times Magazine staff writer | Taffy Brodesser-Akner, Times Magazine staff writer |
| I’ve seen some beautiful things: People coming together, the healthy checking on the sick, the able grocery shopping for the stricken, applause for medical workers, but the thing that has stayed with me the most was two weeks ago, when the bat mitzvah of my dear friends’ daughter, Rose, was canceled. The synagogue was shut and her grandparents and family (and us) couldn’t get on a plane from New York to see her. A few of the women who are part of the women-only theater group that mounts a musical every year each recorded, synchronized and edited the extremely melodic introduction to the ceremony of calling her up to the Torah. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and just like that, the story of a girl’s canceled bat mitzvah became the story of how much everyone loved her and went out of their way to show it that weekend. | I’ve seen some beautiful things: People coming together, the healthy checking on the sick, the able grocery shopping for the stricken, applause for medical workers, but the thing that has stayed with me the most was two weeks ago, when the bat mitzvah of my dear friends’ daughter, Rose, was canceled. The synagogue was shut and her grandparents and family (and us) couldn’t get on a plane from New York to see her. A few of the women who are part of the women-only theater group that mounts a musical every year each recorded, synchronized and edited the extremely melodic introduction to the ceremony of calling her up to the Torah. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and just like that, the story of a girl’s canceled bat mitzvah became the story of how much everyone loved her and went out of their way to show it that weekend. |
| Dionne Searcey, politics reporter | Dionne Searcey, politics reporter |
| Our neighbor started feeling sick recently and we began checking in by text to make sure all is OK. In the course of conversations, we realized she and her partner didn’t have a thermometer in the house. None is in stock in any of the pharmacies near us. In my own house, we have three thermometers. All of them are old — one I bought in Guinea when I was covering the end of an Ebola outbreak — and all offer questionably accurate readings. I delivered the devices nonetheless in a bag to her front porch. About a week later as she was feeling better, some members of my family started feeling sick. She and her partner cleaned the thermometers with Clorox wipes and delivered them to our porch. The tenderness of thermometer-swapping with the neighbors in a time of hoarding is definitely one unexpected outcome of this pandemic. | Our neighbor started feeling sick recently and we began checking in by text to make sure all is OK. In the course of conversations, we realized she and her partner didn’t have a thermometer in the house. None is in stock in any of the pharmacies near us. In my own house, we have three thermometers. All of them are old — one I bought in Guinea when I was covering the end of an Ebola outbreak — and all offer questionably accurate readings. I delivered the devices nonetheless in a bag to her front porch. About a week later as she was feeling better, some members of my family started feeling sick. She and her partner cleaned the thermometers with Clorox wipes and delivered them to our porch. The tenderness of thermometer-swapping with the neighbors in a time of hoarding is definitely one unexpected outcome of this pandemic. |
| Nikole Hannah-Jones, Times Magazine staff writer | Nikole Hannah-Jones, Times Magazine staff writer |
| “Wait, you answered?” That’s what my friend Leesha said when she called me on a Saturday and I actually picked up. I hate talking on the phone. Phone conversations feel so imposing, useless except to briefly convey information. I count the minutes to when I can make an excuse to get off the line. Loved ones know: If you want to reach me, text, don’t call. | “Wait, you answered?” That’s what my friend Leesha said when she called me on a Saturday and I actually picked up. I hate talking on the phone. Phone conversations feel so imposing, useless except to briefly convey information. I count the minutes to when I can make an excuse to get off the line. Loved ones know: If you want to reach me, text, don’t call. |
| And, yet, this forced retreat has found me spending hours on the phone. Voluntarily! I am calling my mom, my girlfriend in Chicago, my niece in Iowa, my best friend in Brooklyn. Phone calls have become the portal to the human connecting I am missing in a way that texts and even FaceTime simply are not. With all the technology at our fingertips, it’s been the meandering intimacy of a loved one’s voice in my ear that has nourished stale relationships back to vibrancy. Imagine that. | And, yet, this forced retreat has found me spending hours on the phone. Voluntarily! I am calling my mom, my girlfriend in Chicago, my niece in Iowa, my best friend in Brooklyn. Phone calls have become the portal to the human connecting I am missing in a way that texts and even FaceTime simply are not. With all the technology at our fingertips, it’s been the meandering intimacy of a loved one’s voice in my ear that has nourished stale relationships back to vibrancy. Imagine that. |
| James Barron, Metro reporter and columnist | James Barron, Metro reporter and columnist |
| I’m probably going to get in trouble at home for not saying something about celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary, which was two weeks ago, but I’m going to go with Ravel’s “Boléro.” Who likes that piece? It’s so relentlessly repetitive, it’s annoying. The first time Ravel picked out the melody on the piano, he asked, “Don’t you think this theme has an insistent quality?” Exactly. It only gets bigger. Louder. More and more bombastic. The faster it’s played, the sooner it’s over — and there was a backstage contretemps in 1930 when Arturo Toscanini hit the accelerator (Ravel preferred a slower tempo). | I’m probably going to get in trouble at home for not saying something about celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary, which was two weeks ago, but I’m going to go with Ravel’s “Boléro.” Who likes that piece? It’s so relentlessly repetitive, it’s annoying. The first time Ravel picked out the melody on the piano, he asked, “Don’t you think this theme has an insistent quality?” Exactly. It only gets bigger. Louder. More and more bombastic. The faster it’s played, the sooner it’s over — and there was a backstage contretemps in 1930 when Arturo Toscanini hit the accelerator (Ravel preferred a slower tempo). |
| And yet: What captivated me was a performance of “Boléro” by the National Orchestra of France that I came across on YouTube. The musicians played together from wherever they were — their living rooms, their kitchens, their bedrooms. One violinist appeared to be outdoors. The whole thing was a wonderful demonstration of how an orchestra does what it does. The video started with three players. The screen divided to four, then five, then nine when the harpist came in. Eventually 48 were in the grid on the screen, though more must have been playing. The idea that they had to play “Boléro” that way broke my heart. Other orchestras have done similar performances online. But this one changed my mind about the piece — and showed that despite our isolated, locked-down lives, it’s still possible to do something in concert. Literally. | And yet: What captivated me was a performance of “Boléro” by the National Orchestra of France that I came across on YouTube. The musicians played together from wherever they were — their living rooms, their kitchens, their bedrooms. One violinist appeared to be outdoors. The whole thing was a wonderful demonstration of how an orchestra does what it does. The video started with three players. The screen divided to four, then five, then nine when the harpist came in. Eventually 48 were in the grid on the screen, though more must have been playing. The idea that they had to play “Boléro” that way broke my heart. Other orchestras have done similar performances online. But this one changed my mind about the piece — and showed that despite our isolated, locked-down lives, it’s still possible to do something in concert. Literally. |
| Lauretta Charlton, editor, Race/Related team | Lauretta Charlton, editor, Race/Related team |
| When I learned that a friend was sick and at home with Covid-19, I sent her a handwritten note in the mail. I didn’t know if she would ever read it. There was a chance her symptoms would get worse and she would be hospitalized. What I did know was that my note wishing her well, letting her know that I was thinking about her, praying for her, would be delivered. In times like these, it becomes clear very quickly what is essential. Friendship is one of them, but also things like the United States Postal Service. My friend is one of the lucky ones. She has recovered. She read my note. She was grateful. And so am I. | When I learned that a friend was sick and at home with Covid-19, I sent her a handwritten note in the mail. I didn’t know if she would ever read it. There was a chance her symptoms would get worse and she would be hospitalized. What I did know was that my note wishing her well, letting her know that I was thinking about her, praying for her, would be delivered. In times like these, it becomes clear very quickly what is essential. Friendship is one of them, but also things like the United States Postal Service. My friend is one of the lucky ones. She has recovered. She read my note. She was grateful. And so am I. |
| Michael Wilson, reporter and columnist | Michael Wilson, reporter and columnist |
| We came upon them last week, looking for something new to do in our corner of Prospect Park, and they probably have a name and a reason for being, but our sons, ages 10 and 7, just call them the Mud Hills. Cooped-up days of kitchen-table math class and closed-door work calls now end at these hills, a dozen or so mounds pounded hard as moonscape, where the boys, my wife and I play the made-up-on-the-spot “Hunter and Hunted,” sometimes straight, sometimes “Zombie Version.” We chase and flee and leap around, and while clearly overthinking dirt, I’m almost tearfully grateful to this little spot and how it nudges the rest aside with its own breathless urgency. | We came upon them last week, looking for something new to do in our corner of Prospect Park, and they probably have a name and a reason for being, but our sons, ages 10 and 7, just call them the Mud Hills. Cooped-up days of kitchen-table math class and closed-door work calls now end at these hills, a dozen or so mounds pounded hard as moonscape, where the boys, my wife and I play the made-up-on-the-spot “Hunter and Hunted,” sometimes straight, sometimes “Zombie Version.” We chase and flee and leap around, and while clearly overthinking dirt, I’m almost tearfully grateful to this little spot and how it nudges the rest aside with its own breathless urgency. |
| Updated September 1, 2020 | |
| Ellen Barry, New England bureau chief | Ellen Barry, New England bureau chief |
| I stopped taking baths in my late 20s, on the premise that my time was valuable. Showers were the style of the adult I wanted to be, brisk and efficient. I looked for ways to ratchet up their efficiency, like drinking coffee concurrently, learning to ignore the taste of soap. These days, after days spent making phone calls to suffering people, I find myself once again in the bath, staring at the ceiling, letting time slide by. In the bath, I have wetly paged through a book about Putin’s K.G.B. cronies and a book about zombies, leaving them stiff and ruffled. My daughter peers in at me incredulously; I have used up all her bath bombs and moved on to Epsom salts, archaic and medicinal. If she challenges my claim to the bathroom, I do not respond, but instead remove myself, serenely, below the surface of the water. | I stopped taking baths in my late 20s, on the premise that my time was valuable. Showers were the style of the adult I wanted to be, brisk and efficient. I looked for ways to ratchet up their efficiency, like drinking coffee concurrently, learning to ignore the taste of soap. These days, after days spent making phone calls to suffering people, I find myself once again in the bath, staring at the ceiling, letting time slide by. In the bath, I have wetly paged through a book about Putin’s K.G.B. cronies and a book about zombies, leaving them stiff and ruffled. My daughter peers in at me incredulously; I have used up all her bath bombs and moved on to Epsom salts, archaic and medicinal. If she challenges my claim to the bathroom, I do not respond, but instead remove myself, serenely, below the surface of the water. |
| John Schwartz, climate reporter | John Schwartz, climate reporter |
| Weirdly enough, what lifts me is the supermarket line. Waiting in a long queue of people to enter a New Jersey supermarket sounds grimly Soviet, I know, but it’s also a moment of community, one that says we’re all in this together. It also breaks down social walls. As my wife and I creep along, properly spaced, we strike up conversations with strangers, or just exchange knowing, “Waddaya gonna do?” smiles. For us, there’s also the astonishing fact of somehow having become old enough to take advantage of senior shopping hours, a fact that tickles my mother to pieces. And then we get in and luxuriate in the peaceful feeling of wandering through a place that would normally be packed, but because of restricted entry, feels like a shopper’s prairie. | Weirdly enough, what lifts me is the supermarket line. Waiting in a long queue of people to enter a New Jersey supermarket sounds grimly Soviet, I know, but it’s also a moment of community, one that says we’re all in this together. It also breaks down social walls. As my wife and I creep along, properly spaced, we strike up conversations with strangers, or just exchange knowing, “Waddaya gonna do?” smiles. For us, there’s also the astonishing fact of somehow having become old enough to take advantage of senior shopping hours, a fact that tickles my mother to pieces. And then we get in and luxuriate in the peaceful feeling of wandering through a place that would normally be packed, but because of restricted entry, feels like a shopper’s prairie. |
| Sometimes, there’s even toilet paper. | Sometimes, there’s even toilet paper. |
| Donald G. McNeil Jr., science reporter | Donald G. McNeil Jr., science reporter |
| I’m finally getting some sleep. I’ve barely been able to sleep since late January, when I saw how rapidly case counts rose in Wuhan as soon as the Chinese developed tests. It was clear that the disease was going pandemic, and it was clear that it killed. Since then, I’ve had nightmares like Cassandra did of Troy burning, and all I could do was get out of bed and write. Now it’s done — the virus is everywhere, tens of thousands of us are going to die, the economy has collapsed, we’re trapped in lockdown and China is the world’s only functioning superpower. There’s nothing left to warn against. Everyone — almost everyone — understands. | I’m finally getting some sleep. I’ve barely been able to sleep since late January, when I saw how rapidly case counts rose in Wuhan as soon as the Chinese developed tests. It was clear that the disease was going pandemic, and it was clear that it killed. Since then, I’ve had nightmares like Cassandra did of Troy burning, and all I could do was get out of bed and write. Now it’s done — the virus is everywhere, tens of thousands of us are going to die, the economy has collapsed, we’re trapped in lockdown and China is the world’s only functioning superpower. There’s nothing left to warn against. Everyone — almost everyone — understands. |
| Marc Stein, sports reporter | Marc Stein, sports reporter |
| Since I was a kid, I have always found refuge through an uber-nerdy, please-don’t-judge-me diversion: I like to clean out the garage. On Friday, we posted the first hopeful story I can remember writing since the basketball world changed forever on March 11 when the N.B.A. suspended its season: exploring how Taiwan has managed to establish itself as the only country in the world that continues to stage professional basketball games in the midst of this horrible pandemic. Then on Saturday, I cleaned out my garage and listened to 1980s music while looking at old “toys” — all part of a much-needed escape from my home office. It made me, at least for a few hours, feel young and (my kind of) normal again. | Since I was a kid, I have always found refuge through an uber-nerdy, please-don’t-judge-me diversion: I like to clean out the garage. On Friday, we posted the first hopeful story I can remember writing since the basketball world changed forever on March 11 when the N.B.A. suspended its season: exploring how Taiwan has managed to establish itself as the only country in the world that continues to stage professional basketball games in the midst of this horrible pandemic. Then on Saturday, I cleaned out my garage and listened to 1980s music while looking at old “toys” — all part of a much-needed escape from my home office. It made me, at least for a few hours, feel young and (my kind of) normal again. |
| Nellie Bowles, domestic correspondent | Nellie Bowles, domestic correspondent |
| The extent of my ineptitude in the kitchen cannot be overstated, and the food I’ve gotten used to is both sad and bizarre. Most days for lunch, I eat a raw block of cold tempeh. One of my New Year’s resolutions was to start cooking, and I made a list of three meals to perfect by the end of 2020: green curry, baked ziti and boeuf bourguignon. Three months in, I hadn’t turned on the stove. | The extent of my ineptitude in the kitchen cannot be overstated, and the food I’ve gotten used to is both sad and bizarre. Most days for lunch, I eat a raw block of cold tempeh. One of my New Year’s resolutions was to start cooking, and I made a list of three meals to perfect by the end of 2020: green curry, baked ziti and boeuf bourguignon. Three months in, I hadn’t turned on the stove. |
| And then coronavirus came. It is, by all accounts, a nightmare. But I’ve finally started doing that cooking. Maybe I’m just staving off boredom. But I like to tell myself that this is my way of showing love. I can’t take my girlfriend out for a date. But I can cook for her. | And then coronavirus came. It is, by all accounts, a nightmare. But I’ve finally started doing that cooking. Maybe I’m just staving off boredom. But I like to tell myself that this is my way of showing love. I can’t take my girlfriend out for a date. But I can cook for her. |
| It’s been rough. One of the first days, I managed to burn my face after microwaving a bowl of soup. But recently, I finally decided to try that boeuf. I seared and stirred, browned and baked. I used the stove top and the oven, emerging victorious with all 10 fingers and both eyes. It was no one’s favorite boeuf. But it was mine. | It’s been rough. One of the first days, I managed to burn my face after microwaving a bowl of soup. But recently, I finally decided to try that boeuf. I seared and stirred, browned and baked. I used the stove top and the oven, emerging victorious with all 10 fingers and both eyes. It was no one’s favorite boeuf. But it was mine. |
| Katherine Rosman, features reporter | Katherine Rosman, features reporter |
| South Detroit doesn’t exist, as the seven of us well know. We are friends all, sisters some, having grown up together in Michigan and now living different lives in three different states. Last week, we got together over a Zoom video conference organized by my older sister, Lizzie, to sing “Don’t Stop Believin’,” the Journey anthem that includes the ridiculous lyric about the city boy born and raised in a neighborhood of Detroit that isn’t. | South Detroit doesn’t exist, as the seven of us well know. We are friends all, sisters some, having grown up together in Michigan and now living different lives in three different states. Last week, we got together over a Zoom video conference organized by my older sister, Lizzie, to sing “Don’t Stop Believin’,” the Journey anthem that includes the ridiculous lyric about the city boy born and raised in a neighborhood of Detroit that isn’t. |
| That was the sole purpose of the get-together, to belt out that song off-key and at the top of our lungs. It was cathartic, it was funny, it was energizing. Then we each returned to the new realities of our homes, families and jobs, clinging to the boost that being unfiltered with your friends can give and which goes on and on and on and on. | That was the sole purpose of the get-together, to belt out that song off-key and at the top of our lungs. It was cathartic, it was funny, it was energizing. Then we each returned to the new realities of our homes, families and jobs, clinging to the boost that being unfiltered with your friends can give and which goes on and on and on and on. |
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