Coronavirus

It began, amazingly enough, with an IKEA wardrobe.

I love this wardrobe. Truly, I do. It’s a work of art. It’s a delight to look at. It’s my thing. It’s aspirational: the IKEA Pax series is a favorite of fashion bloggers and Pinterest dreamers. With big mirrored doors and custom interiors, it’s a dream to behold. At 93 inches high and just 14 inches deep (yes, I’ve memorized the dimensions) it was the perfect solution for my tiny studio apartment. It’s like Hermione’s handbag—it holds more than it should. Stacks of papers, sweaters, a jewelry tray, a sock drawer, a basket of miscellaneous items. It’s mounted to the wall, all high and mighty, at the top, almost to the ceiling.

And on Friday, March 6, that top mount snapped right out of the wall, tipping all of my things onto the floor in neat little piles.

Needless to say, I was shattered, too. Grieving the loss of my beloved storage solution and pulling the pieces apart with a screwdriver, I scrolled through West Elm dressers and wiped paint dust from the floor.

Who would have thought that in a few short days, this would be the least of my problems—even, dare I say it, a blessing?

As I was picking apart mounting bolts and IKEA pieces, the first whispers of Coronavirus had already entered New York City. It was the beginning of real grief, real heartbreak, real loss—the kind that makes me cringe when I remember how sad I was for a minute over a piece of furniture. (Okay, more than a minute.) Only a few weeks later, everything else fell apart.

With more than a few loved ones in the high-risk category, a few days later I had to get out. On impulse, I rented a car. The plan was simple: fill it with stuff and drive it all the way to Maine.

I’ve lived in New York for a decade, since I was 16, and driving isn’t one of my strong points. My well-meaning friends and family wondered: “Are you sure?”

They didn’t think I could do it. All the more reason for me to try.

When we first picked up the car—thank goodness my friend came along—I couldn’t get it to start. It was a 2020 Ford Escape, and has a fancy little circle instead of a gear shift. What do I do with this? Things did not look promising.

We switched places and I tagged along down the West Side Highway in the passenger seat. Must figure it out later.

After a brief struggle to find a parking spot in the West Village, we abandoned our worries and split a bottle of wine at Bar Veloce, where the world seemed just as it should be again—all twinkly lights outside the windows and warm clinks and calm voices.

The next day was a blur. Filling the car with all the things that had fallen out of the wardrobe, a van overturned on the West Side Highway at the Javits Center, which was still just the Javits Center and not a makeshift hospital yet, a coffee shop in Connecticut, an anxious glance as I tried to change lanes.

But somewhere along 95 North, among frantic Massachusetts drivers and big, intimidating trucks, I fell in love. With none other than the 2020 Ford Escape. I started to notice things—like the helpful little indicator light when it’s safe to change lanes. The coffee icon on the dash when it thought I could use a break. It coordinated brilliantly with my iPhone. It listened. It cared about me. It held my possessions. A Pax wardrobe on wheels. It got me to Maine, in one piece, entirely unscathed.

I’m overwhelmed by just how fortunate I am. How gut-wrenchingly unfair it is that I left everyone behind to deal with the nightmarish realities of a global pandemic. If it were my choice, I’d send that car back to rescue the whole city, one by one. Just like it rescued me.