But in recent days, this always-busy thoroughfare, like many parts of Austin, has gone quiet and dark. It has reminded some of the days decades ago when about the only thing open was the Continental Club, the granddaddy of the local music scene where the drinks are cheap and the musicians are legendary. But like almost everything else up and down this strip, the Continental Club closed its doors indefinitely two weeks ago, doing its part to stem the spread of the novel coronavirus, the pandemic that has killed more than 9,000 Americans and upended the lives of tens of millions of others.

In Texas, nearly 7,000 people have tested positive for the coronavirus and 129 people have died — numbers that are expected to increase in the coming weeks. On Tuesday, Gov. Greg Abbott (R) issued new stepped-up guidelines to prevent the spread of the virus, ordering nonessential businesses across the state to shut down and announcing that public schools statewide would remain closed until at least May 4.

But many counties around the state have already been observing a strict shelter-at-home policy, including Travis County, where Austin is located and where there are startling signs of the coronavirus’s disruption of life as usual. Around town, many establishments, including bars and restaurants, have boarded up their windows like Gulf Coast businesses preparing for a hurricane. Only this is a storm of a different kind.

Along Sixth Street, Austin’s version of Bourbon Street, dozens of boarded-up bar windows had been colored with graffiti last week, some depicting the faces of health-care workers, others urging people to stay home so the pandemic will quickly pass.

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But with cases of covid-19, the disease caused by the coronavirus, only expected to rise in the coming weeks, some businesses nodded to what is likely to be a long interruption of life as usual. “See yall in May!” read the sign at the boarded-up Barton Springs Saloon off South Lamar Boulevard.

The effect has been disconcerting for many locals. At the Whole Foods Market on North Lamar, the chain’s flagship store, a cashier said the boarded-up businesses were depressing not just because of their appearance. “You wonder what happened to people working there,” said the woman, who spoke on the condition of anonymity because she didn’t have permission to speak to a reporter.

She considered herself one of the lucky ones, an hourly worker who still had a job, even though it was inherently more dangerous these days. Around the store, nearly all of the customers wore face masks as they wheeled their carts around, but many of the employees only had gloves for protection. She said those who were working were given a bigger employee discount than usual, 30 percent off their purchases, plus a chance to shop when the store was being restocked.

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The cashier was using her discount to buy groceries for her elderly parents “so they won’t leave the house.” A few feet away, another employee walked by with a yardstick and a roll of blue tape. He was measuring out and marking spots six feet apart on the sidewalk out front and around the store for social distancing — the new normal.

The growing uncertainty of how and when this will end has forced some businesses to make difficult choices. The Hotel San José, a mainstay on South Congress, informed its guests it was closing until May, even though owners had hoped to stay open to welcome the rare travelers still coming through.

Inside its courtyard, the scene was as quiet as it has ever been. The patio near the pool where musicians played almost nightly was quiet and empty — shuttered by rules preventing any bars or restaurants from serving seated customers. The towering oak trees were draped with flowing paper ribbons in rich hues of yellow, teal, purple and red. It was meant for celebration — the hotel’s annual South By San José concert it had planned to hold last month during the South By Southwest music and film festival.

But that had been canceled, too, because of the coronavirus. The hotel’s commemorative T-shirts were now being sold to benefit a fund for furloughed employees, of which there would now be more and for at least another month. As they shifted and rustled in the window, the ribbons had become almost a memorial to life as it was, the only sound in a courtyard that was usually teeming with activity.

At the front desk, the clerk signed out what would be one of her final guests for weeks. After this, she would go home and shelter like everyone else she knew and wait for South Congress to come alive again.