I went to the DMV in Laguna Hills today. My driver’s license expires on August 6, 2020, and since that is my 75th birthday I have to renew in person to get an eye exam, take the written test, and no doubt a new photo as well. I tend to take these deadlines seriously, so I’ve been trying to find out what to do for a month. It hasn’t been easy.

“The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there,” wrote L. P. Hartley in 1953. If you grew up in a foreign country, that really rings true. If the country had an American community, there would be some kind of celebration with games, rides, and picnics–maybe even band music and fireworks. Or you might be on your own, but it’s July and it’s summer and you can always celebrate that.

There was a scare at the Tehran American Dependent’s School in 1955. One of the teachers came down with polio. We children were all rushed downtown to the Army Hospital to be injected with a brand new vaccine so that we could return to school safely.

Am I the only one who saw a disconnect when the state requirement that everyone over 65 should stay at home until we have a vaccine, while almost all the epidemiologists and politicians seen on television referring to us as the “most vulnerable” were themselves well over 65? The venerable Dr. Fauci himself will turn 80 this very Christmas Eve.

Back on Day 56 I asked, “How long?” That was May 5. Fifty days ago. I’m not asking anymore. I’ve simply reset my clock for about 18 months. Instead of railing against the plans I made and the things I miss, I’ve decided to align my expectations with the timetable of the four influenza pandemics of the twentieth century. There’s no point in asking “are we there yet” 156 miles into a 550-mile journey.

We’re seeing a lot in the news about “second waves” today. Who might be having one, whether we might have one, whether we believe in them. Two news stories suggest that South Korea and Australia are having a second wave. Some reports say that we might face one in the fall. Still others say there isn’t one. This strikes me as a term badly in need of definition.

We’ve been watching Season Six of a reality series called “Alone” on Netflix. Ten people compete to see who can survive the longest on their own in the Arctic wilderness. Last night on Day 29 they were struggling with isolation and loneliness even more than from hunger. Lying awake last night I thought, the worst part is that it’s open-ended. If they knew, for example, that it would be over on Day 35 they would make that final push.