Essay on lock down in English
(500 words)
Answers
hope this help you alot
❤❤❤Have a nice day❤❤❤
Answer:
Early this morning, I was jogging around the perimeter of the Buttes Chaumont, a now-closed park near my house, when I saw a man on a bicycle. He sailed down the empty rue de Crimée, chest thrust forward, arms open. I recognized that sensation of freedom.
A woman on the other side of the street was dragging a shopping cart. On top of it rested a bunch of multicolored tulips. “Excuse me,” I shouted to her from across the street, “where did you get those?”
“At the Lidl,” she said, referring to a nearby supermarket chain. “Hurry up.” We shared a grin and went on our way.
As I write this, it’s only day eight of confinement here in Paris. I keep thinking about the essay the Italian author Francesca Melandri wrote for the French daily Libération last week: “I am writing from Italy, and therefore from your future. We are now where you will be in a few days …”
Melandri was writing to the French, but her words could be applied to any country. Last Friday, the number of people with COVID-19 in France was estimated at 12,000-plus people; exactly two weeks ago, I remember remarking to my husband that the poor Italians now had more than 10,000 cases.
It was barely 10 days ago when I was getting ready for a trip to London to visit one of my sons, who teaches in a state school. When I got to the British capital, I heard several people saying that one had to “take it on the chin.” How do you take a virus on the chin?
The week before, I had been in Brussels to report on the last book fair held before all events were canceled. Was I, and everyone else there, oblivious? Irresponsible? Perhaps. But such a surreal situation as the COVID-19 is hard to accept, until one does.
Last week it felt rude to widely circumvent someone on the pavement. Today it doesn’t.
I’ve noticed that everyone on the street has their little routines. I wear latex gloves outside, and when I come inside, I take off my shoes, surgically wash my latex gloves, clean my phone and keys with rubbing alcohol, and wash the fruit and vegetables I’ve brought back, sometimes with soap. Some friends do less; others do more. My neighbor from the third floor—who is leaving her apartment temporarily to move in with her elderly mother—said she put her shoes in a plastic bag outside her door.
My own elderly mother has Alzheimer’s and is in a home on the Left Bank. I used to go visit her every Saturday but with the new restrictions, I’m not allowed to anymore. I’m thankful she isn’t aware of time and hope that she won’t notice that weeks will go by, although I suspect she will.
My friend and neighbor on my same floor is barely leaving her flat. She is convinced she might be carrying the virus after spending four days of meetings with someone from Mulhouse, in eastern France, one of the epicenters of the outbreak. I do some shopping for her and drop food on her doormat. We have started chatting from our windows, feeling very Neapolitan. She says she has never been as busy as now—she’s the technical project manager for a platform that supplies e-books to booksellers and libraries.
Every morning I wake up thinking how surreal the situation is. By the end of the day, I am telling my neighbor over text message that I’ve gotten used to it. It’s like the movie Groundhog Day, she types back.
For the past five evenings, Parisians have been going to their windows at 8 p.m. to bang on pots and cheer on medical staff. It’s a nice, and growing ritual to thank and encourage them.
I like to check in on my friends who live alone—we all suspect we’ll be confined longer than the 15 days that were announced a week ago by President Macron. The other day, I walked downhill and across the giant Place de la République. Usually packed with people playing soccer, skateboarding, swing dancing and holding political demonstrations, it was deserted. From there, I made my way to the rue de Turbigo to see a friend. We spoke, me from the street, she from her second-floor balcony, until my neck began to ache from looking up.
I realized as I power-walked home that I had not followed the instructions that went into effect starting midday last Tuesday to stay within 500 meters of your home and could have received a fine of €135 ($150). I did have the form that we are now required to have any time we go out, downloaded from the interior ministry website, on which we declare on our honor that we’re only out for certain activities, mainly to buy food, go to the pharmacy or exercise.
My husband is originally from Lebanon, and we have many Lebanese friends. One called a few days ago, reminding me that during their 15-year civil war they would stay inside for months at a time, dashing outside for provisions when there was a lull in fighting. They often had no water or electricity. What he could confirm, he said, was that there was always an end to a period of confinement.
Explanation: