I’ve never loved numbers. Give me a thesis to argue or a poem to deconstruct. Easy. But a math problem — with its fixed rules and single solution to solve for? It used to take hours of sitting at the kitchen table with my dad — while he scribbled equations on napkins and forced me to repeat the steps back to him — before anything would click in my brain. Learning math in a classroom was like trying to absorb Spanish from watching a telenovela. I needed a conversation partner.
So, imagine my dismay when, 18 months into this pandemic, I found myself trying to work through one giant COVID calculus problem. I had bought a cheap-ish plane ticket to Paris, somewhat on a whim, a month earlier. I thought I’d go by myself, meet up with friends who are living in Europe, eat croissants, and stroll through Christmas markets. I had traveled to Barcelona in September, and the Itch to escape again was strong.
Then came omicron.
The three-day testing window for returning to the U.S. was shortened to 24 hours. France would also require a negative test within 48 hours of arrival and was moved to the CDC’s “Do not travel” list. Nightclubs in Paris shut down. The countries where my friends would be entering France from began proposing stricter travel restrictions. A triple-vaxxed friend became infected with the virus. Suddenly, the possibility of testing positive for COVID and having to quarantine for ten days in Paris seemed very real. I pictured myself trapped alone in a 100-square-foot single hostel room on Christmas day while a maid slipped me baguettes through a window. Landing myself on “Locked Up Abroad” has, after all, always been my biggest fear.
I wanted someone to tell me what to do, to hold my hand and help me to solve for x. But this risk assessment, like so many assessments we’ve all had to make during these past two years, was once again left up to painstaking personal calculations. The U.S. government wasn’t telling me not to go, it was just sort of advising against it.
I had already requested the vacation time off from work. My bag was packed. Masks bought. Plans made. I knew which bookstores I wanted to visit and which parts of the Seine I wanted to picnic beside. Because I bought them at a discounted rate, both my flight and hotel room were nonrefundable.
I started doing the math: If I don’t go, that’s $1,000 down the drain. But what if I go, and get COVID? That’s at least 100 euro per night for 10 nights. And then I’d need a new ticket home. My family will be in Portland by then. How much is a flight to Oregon? How much does a rapid COVID test cost? $75? If my flight’s delayed I’ll have to get another one at the airport. $125 at Newark, really? If I get it at 11 a.m. EST on Wednesday, and I arrive 10 a.m. CET on Friday, is that within 48 hours? What happens after 10 days, anyway? What if I still don’t test negative? I’ll need a “document of recovery.” What the hell is that?
I DM’ed an influencer on Instagram who I saw was also planning to leave for Paris the same day as me. She responded, saying she wasn’t considering getting sick “even a possibility.”
But it was a possibility. Cases were rising rapidly among the vaccinated, especially among young people. The risks were still relatively low, but the consequences (locked up abroad!) high.
In the end, it wasn’t data or number crunching that helped me to decide. I listened — literally — to my gut, which had been in knots for a week. The sheer exhaustion and anxiety at the thought of traveling across an ocean simply outweighed my yearning for adventure and novelty.
My airline would let me switch my ticket as long as I flew somewhere before December 31st. Overwhelmed with decision fatigue, I chose the path of least resistance: a visit to my friends’ new home in Boston (known famously as the Paris of the East Coast).
I muted the influencer on Instagram but couldn’t help myself from checking her stories throughout my weekend in Massachusetts. I had a great time visiting my friends and their sweet dog Moose, but there is a particular kind of sadness that comes with watching someone else live out the trip you had planned for yourself.
I also know that having to cancel my silly little Paris trip pales in comparison to the sacrifices others have made during this pandemic. But I’m angry for all of us. I’m angry that — two years later — we still can’t just hop on a plane, or walk in a restaurant, or send kids to school without having to do the math first. And for some, they’re solving for life or death.
On my flight back to Philly, I was feeling especially depressed about my decision. You could be in Paris, my brain kept taunting. Then, as soon as we landed, the woman next to me was frantic on the phone with CVS. They hadn’t sent her COVID test results back, and her international flight was leaving in an hour. “You can probably get one at the airport,” I offered gently. But she was too hysterical to listen.
I exhaled. Maybe my own calculus had been correct. À bientôt, Paris.