My Brush with Covid-19 (and What I Learned from It)
By: Ondřej Procházka
Tags: France, Travel Writing, Covid Diaries, Czechia, Covid-19

Around noon on October 16, I stood on the wild and deserted stretch of beach near Cap Ferret, France, trying to take in the sunlit beauty of a place which seems to never fail to satisfy a soul yearning for feelings of peace and comfort. I had flown in from my home near Prague, Czechia, just the previous day. I had been looking forward to this moment, setting off a long-planned leisure week in Aquitaine, meant to be spent in blissful solitude.

From Cap Ferret, I intended to travel to a cabane I had known from previous visits for a lunch of shrimp and oysters — a rare treat for me— and from there, on to my destination, a gîte (a French holiday home) which I had rented at the Pyrenean foothills with a prospect of five days spent walking around the lush autumn countryside, sipping wine on the porch and catching up with my backlog of unread books and articles.

Of course, there was a pandemic to keep in mind. But I saw my little outing as an exercise in social distancing. After all, I would be alone at the place I had rented, self-catering, seeing no one. I had not wanted to get sick during my vacation, let alone to become a spreader. In the days prior to my trip, my cautiousness had gone well beyond the official recommendations. I had seen virtually no one except my closest family members and a limited number of masked colleagues. I had worn a face mask myself almost obsessively whenever outside my home.

And yet, now as I stood on the sand caressed by the retreating tide and breathed in the salty mist spreading from the Atlantic Ocean’s surf, an uneasy feeling was sinking in. I had no appetite for shrimp and oyster. In fact, I could not believe I had ever had any appetite for something so repulsive. The very idea of eating a shrimp made my stomach turn.

Contemplating whether this could be what it appeared to be, I turned away from the sea and struggled across the stretch of sand to the boardwalk leading to the parking lot where my car was parked. I did not go the cabane and I did not eat anything for lunch.

Instead, I drove for the next couple of hours straight to the supermarket at the closest city to the gîte. I bought a week’s worth of groceries, throwing in a canned cassoulet for a good measure. Considering that I was in rural France, buying ready-made meals in a supermarket felt pathetic, but I was drifting into an unknown territory for the days to come. I did a mental check on the medicine I had on me. An emergency supply of paracetamol and ibuprofen is with me on any trip and it seemed pointless to buy anything else. I stocked up on oranges, lemons, garlic, ginger and herbal tea.

The core of my diet on Days 1–3

I met my host outside the gîte at dusk, well masked and keeping my distance. I unpacked my stuff, settled in into what felt like a charming place and ate some of the cassoulet. I showered and went to bed, feeling tired.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a debilitating pain in my hips. Since my mid thirties I am no stranger to occasional hip pain, particularly after long periods of being seated. Doing away with it usually takes only a bit of exercise, but this one was different. The pain did not go away with exercise and it seemed to get worse as I moved around. Morosely, I took a pill of paracetamol and drifted off into an uneasy slumber.

The sun rode up high when I woke up. I crawled from bed feeling physically unwell. My whole body hurt, though the nasty hip pain had subsided somewhat. I had a headache and felt nauseated. It all felt like a moderately bad hangover. The Pyrenees looked beautiful from my dining area, the snow-powdered peaks of the northern ridges glistening in the sun and overlooking the lush, green landscape below. I ate my breakfast, went back to bed and slept again.

I slept for most of the Day 2. In the brief periods of wakefulness, I contemplated my predicament. I was not feeling too miserable, any influenza I ever went through had been a lot more unpleasant experience. I was not afraid of dying from this and was pretty sure I would manage. What I was afraid of was a sudden worsening of my condition. I was alone in a foreign land, hours from the nearest international airport which was served only by a bi-weekly flight back home. I had rented the gîte for a week and chances were the next guest would be moving in the next weekend. Should I need medical assistance or need to be taken to the hospital, all kinds of logistic problems would arise. So I decided to stick to common sense: no added sugar, no alcohol, lots of vitamins and herbs… and rest.

I rose from bed in the evening, feeling hungry. I ate more cassoulet, made myself a flask of herbal tea and crawled back to bed, taking another pill of paracetamol to ease on the pain in my joints. I felt lightheaded and only shakily navigated the apartment. I was not experiencing any breathing problems or cough but I carefully opened my window for the night to prevent the room from overheating. Afterwards, I crawled back to bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

When I woke up on Day 3, my cellphone said it was 10:30. I had slept for about fifteen hours straight. I rose from bed cautiously. The pain in my joints and the headache were gone and there were no trace of the dizziness I had experienced during the previous day. I felt hungry and energized by the long rest, just as a man just recovered from an illness. Did I already?

I made myself a sizable breakfast, encouraged by the apparent return of my appetite. The day outside was almost achingly beautiful. The snow-powdered ridges glistened at me invitingly against the backdrop of the azure-blue sky. It was all within a walking distance. I could imagine myself reaching those beautiful vantage points and coming back well before dark. I had almost ten hours to do it, after all.

I made a quick decision. I fixed myself two sandwiches, put on my hiking gear, filled my hydration pack with almost a gallon of water, picked my trekking poles, locked the door and walked off into the countryside.

Autumn in Pyreneen foothills

I walked a little over 30 kilometers (19 miles) throughout Day 3 on narrow country roads, on forest roads and mountain trails. I felt fatigued and and a bit winded in steep sections, but overall the walk was a pleasant experience. I enjoyed the mild autumn sun, the brief encounters with the patous (Grand Pyreneen mountain dogs) guarding their sheep flocks, and finally, the magnificent views from the ridge. I did not come back to the gîte until almost two hours after sunset.

During the course of Days 4–6, I stayed within the gîte and its garden, mostly in my bed. Overall, things were not too rough. Various symptoms came and went: I developed a mild cough and occasionally heard funny wheezing sounds while breathing. Occasionally, I experienced tinnitus (ear ringing) in strength and form previously unknown to me. I routinely slept over 12 hours a day but I never experienced the physical misery which marked Days 1–2. I sticked to my diet of lemon, ginger and herbs, steered clear from alcohol and any added sugar. I read in my bed, drank tea on the porch and occasionally strolled in the garden and enjoyed the view. I felt like I was doing ok.

On the morning of Day 7, I collected all my stuff, put my duffel bag and my backpack into the trunk of the rental car, returned the gîte keys to my lovable landlord and set off for the airport. My cough had disappeared, but the sun felt tiresome and the loss of appetite was back. I studied enough Covid-19 related literature to know that my infectiousness should be substantially diminished seven days after the symptom onset.