I learned about coronavirus in late January, the week before I flew to Los Angeles to visit Lizzy and cover an award show I didn’t end up attending. Before I left, Maria and I discussed the merits of wearing a mask on the flight, but by the time I decided I wanted one, the Williamsburg Duane Reade was sold out. So was the mom-and-pop place near my apartment. Almost two months before the president declared a national emergency, and already no masks. As a result, the trip to LA had an eerie, last-hurrah quality, like everything else I did between January and March.
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