Wash your hands, before and after eating…
And now all the time.
Before our departure, Ula and I had put a lot of effort into supplying ourselves with all the basic necessities for the trip back. First and foremost, food and water, so we wouldn’t need to stop anywhere along the way. We tried to get some disinfectants, but alas more diligent consumers than ourselves had already cleaned up the local stores of anything that could be used for that purpose. Plan was simple, stop nowhere and avoid contact with anyone if possible.
Of course it wasn’t possible.
Already at the first road toll, I’d had to pay with cash. The toll lady was handing me the change and… that was that…
I stopped to wash my hands at the next gas station… once… then once more.
While I frenetically scrubbed, through the open toilet doors I noticed I was being watched by an old guy with a whale belly flopping over his belt. I imagine that my observing acquaintance probably thinks I am insane or something. Though as soon as I finished my scrubbing, the guy got up from his table and washed his hands right after me. New earthly trends.
Then an unexpected twist.
On the shelf of the gas station shop I found wet wipes for disinfection. Relived and radiant with happiness I bought some (a few packs). Now we could continue our journey without any worries.
However…
Once you have wipes on you, suddenly you feel the need to disinfect yourself whenever you have the chance. Whatever you touch outside of the car, brings this encroaching feel of contamination.
The fact that we had to stop for Ula to buy some Turkish delight did not help either. We pulled up at a mini market along the way. All the shop workers had masks and gloves on. We found the Turkish delight, the nice lady at the till punched it for us, beep, beep… and then the nice till lady started coughing like a horse, with all the rasping and all…
We left the exact amount of money, no change, and removed ourselves as fast as we could from the market. Wipes being the first thing we grabbed when we went back into the car.
I was becoming more and more stressed, tripping more and more, convinced I was going to catch this piece of virus crap and infect everyone at home. Slowly I became manic, wiping my hands, the steering wheel, knobs, over and over again…
Ula noticed me freaking out and tried to help:
- You know this is one of those situations where you think you can always do the thing better, but you should actually know when to stop. – he said
This called me to my senses somewhat.
But not for long. After I’d dropped Ula at the airport, At the first road toll, I was welcomed by a nice lady with a full face mask, one of those worn from car body shops. I released, in a manner of a high-altitude airdrop, five marks into her hand, and resumed disinfection.
As the trip was approaching its end, I was wiping my hands, the insides of the car, everything was glued down with that disinfectant crap. At the last gas station, I was tanking up the petrol and the lpg and while I was waiting I grabbed the wipes packaging and started mechanically reading the ingredients. I’m reading it…something, something… no alcohol…
How is this possible?
I look at the name of the product: something, something… antiseptic.
Well how then?
I read further down…
Aha, they are disinfecting ones… but they don’t contain alcohol… which is the exactly the thing you need to get rid of this pandemic crap.
Alcohol tissues apparently are out of fashion these days, they irritate skin or whatever… I guess.
….
Well fuck it…