Just as I was about to go to Paris last night on a long-planned vacation, President Trump announced a travel ban between the United States and Europe for the next 30 days. His myopic attempt to curtail the spread of coronavirus was made worse by his referral to Covid-19 as a “foreign virus” rather than a global pandemic as declared by the World Health Organization. It was another painful example of xenophobic leadership — not to mention a move that totally ruined my travel plans.

At the time of Trump’s speech, my Air France flight from New York to Paris was scheduled to depart as usual. But Italy had a countrywide lockdown, and Germany was on the brink of doing the same. I feared France was next.

All signs, and my Jewish mother, told me to postpone as the day progressed. As a 38-year-old Brooklyn freelance writer and Democrat, spending $500 to go to Paris with my best friend was a big deal. Having survived a jarring break-up, I thought this would be my respite. With Covid-19 on the backburner, I'd prepped supplies for the germ-fueled flight: disinfectant wipes, face mask, latex gloves, vitamin C and zinc supplements. Yet surmounting pandemic paranoia made my French escape sound worse than my heartache.

Many airlines leaned into this government-mandated travel restriction. Air France’s website is offering the lenient policy allowing any rebooking to be made before May 31st to be waived of change fees. Upset, I didn’t know if this real-life Contagion would be behind us by Memorial Day.

I realize how near-sighted it was for me to complain about postponing my trip of leisure when the number of people sick and dying was sweeping the globe. While younger people are less at risk, my parents, in their 70’s and newly retired, were visiting the Left Bank for six weeks. If they were stranded abroad for an extra month without enough medication, complications could become dire.

This week, France’s Culture Minister, Franck Riester, tested positive for the Covid-19 virus. Today the French President, Emmanuel Macron, addressed the nation and said that schools would close until further notice, calling Covid-19 France’s “worst health crisis in a century”. French people, like Americans, have already been urged to work from home, avoid crowded spaces, and refrain from the traditional double-kiss greeting.

While in Paris, I appreciate the solitude amongst the masses: sitting alone at a café channeling my inner Gertrude Stein, smoking (a vice I reserve for Paris) — but eating a rationed baguette holed up in an Airbnb while the city goes under quarantine doesn’t have the same je ne sais quoi about it.

EU commission spokesperson criticises Trump travel ban

Parisian friends tell me the local temperature is split: one buddy claims business as usual. Another warns of impending border closing and potential two-week quarantine upon return. A chef in the city informed me that much of his business depends on travellers and they’re feeling the hit. Yesterday, another colleague in the fashion world trend-forecasted this situation, giving me word to try and get my parents home before Friday. Our joie de vivre is being hit with a heavy dose of reality.

Trump’s message had a predictable response: panic. Incessant calls to my parents woke them up at three in the morning in France. I urged them to come home three weeks early and they are getting on a flight this afternoon. Charles de Gaulle is flooding with crowds of travellers trying to do the same. Stateside, masked guards are taking people’s temperatures upon arrival.

Staying local and riding the MTA in New York doesn’t seem to be a sanitary alternative, but it feels safer to be near home base. Hunkering down with forced social disengagement and a home-cooked meal (if the supermarket shelves remain stocked) and spring-cleaning my closet could be a better mode of self-care than my planned girls’ trip away. I’ll have to tell myself that.

Hopefully, as warmer weather nears, the virus will die off and Paris will accept my travel voucher. Avoiding what would’ve been airport purgatory, my suitcase remains packed in my living room, making me part of the Covid-19 zeitgeist. If we don’t enter lockdown in New York City, find me unapologetically wearing a beret and eating steak frites at the local French restaurant.