Visions of a Crisis

The first time I cried was Saturday, March 21. It was a beautiful morning, and I was sitting at my window, staring at the sun-kissed Andes Mountains around Quito. But I couldn’t hear cars honking on my normally bustling street. There were no car alarms, either. The furniture store next door wasn’t blasting reggaeton music as usual. No man was yelling “Aguacates!” as he tried to sell fresh avocados to passersby. And there was no smell of melted cheese from the pizzeria downstairs.

I had woken up to the eighth day of my self-imposed coronavirus lockdown. I had not yet opened my computer to the chaos online, and the uncomfortable stillness sank deep into my skin. For the first time, my body had the chance to feel the weight of what was happening — personally, regionally, and globally.

Ecuador confirmed its first case of coronavirus at the end of February. It was just a single case, in the coastal city of Guayaquil, of a woman who had just returned from Spain...