My mother-in-law has not left her home since Friday the 13th (no joke). Paying close attention to the news throughout early March, she decided to self-isolate in her apartment a few days before lockdown.

Weeks ago she and my son and I made an elaborate plan: I would fly from the US to Paris in late February to visit my son, who was studying there, and then I would come ahead to San Sebastian to see my mother-in-law and do some work on our fixer-upper apartment here in San Sebastian. It was a rare opportunity to visit outside of summer, when we can’t ever seem to get anything fixed because half the city is on holiday.

The best part of the plan was that on March 14th, my son would hop the train from Paris to the French town of Hendaye, and then take the local train to San Sebastian, and Sunday, the 15th, we had three tickets–good seats too–to go see Real Sociedad, the local soccer team. My mother-in-law even had the food planned out–Spanish Omelette sandwiches for her and me, and some fancy chorizo for my son. We’d be picnicking at halftime, maybe even with a bottle of cider.

Oh well. We all know what happened instead. My son arrived on the 14th, squeaking into Spain right as Trump announced Europeans could not travel to the US, and a few days before Spain closed its borders to foreigners. My son and I decided that rather than risk traveling while Spain was in the peak of its epidemic, shuttering ourselves in on a plane with contagious people, and arriving to the US, which had no plan at all, we would stay put in our flat in a neighborhood called Intxaurrondo.

Our lives have not been upended terribly, as I already work from home, his classes have all moved on-line, and our apartment is big enough that the only place we have to intersect is the kitchen or the bathroom. He’s solved the time overlap problem by sleeping in until 4 PM most days.

The irony of course, is that he came to see his grandma, who he usually sees only a few weeks once a year or every two years, and here he is, only a mile away, and can’t go see her.

Meanwhile, his grandma, known as Amona, has been plotting to cook up a storm for him. She gets her food Tuesdays and Fridays from her 8th floor neighbors in the building next door–across the balcony, mind you. When they realized she was alone at home, they offered to shop for her, so she’s been collecting bits and pieces of things to cook for him when we get released.

Last week, though, she decided it was time. And so did my son. It was time for her famous croquetas, which she has been feeding him since he was old enough to eat solids. Like most grandmas here, and worldwide, probably, feeding your grandchildren their favorite foods is one of the top pleasures of being a grandma.

Amona’s croquetas are legendary. Crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside. Better than any bar in town. Worth risking a fine, possibly arrest for.

So, we plotted. I loaded up my son with a box of Tylenol and a story. His grandmother needed some medicine. We called her and repeated the story, just in case he got stopped by the police. Which he and I had been, a few days before, just for walking to the store together.

While all this lockdown may seem harsh, I am actually all for it. Because social distancing only works if everyone does it.

But now I felt a little hypocritical. After railing all week about all the Madrileños and Donostiarras racing to their cars to escape to the country for lockdown, I wasn’t really any better, sending my son off for a luxury item. Croquetas hardly count as essential.

On the other hand, my mother-in-law had been inside, on her own, for 12 days. She was keeping her spirits up, but really wanted my son to have these croquetas.

So off he went, walking the back way through a park, at 4 PM, when everyone is inside finishing lunch anyway. He made it to her apartment and waved at her from across the hall. And returned safely.

That night, my son devoured about 20 croquetas, and that day, my mother-in-law was able to see and chat with her grandson for the first time in nine months. When I spoke with her, I could hear in her voice how seeing him and passing him the homemade food had lifted her spirits. She’s used to living alone, but not being able to socialize all those days can’t be easy.

It wasn’t the feast of the afternoon soccer game we’d planned, but in a crisis, it’s the small victories that count.

And that night, we had two.

Diana Friedman

Escape from Intxaurrondo I: Capricho