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Another day, another coronavirus-related restriction. President Macron announced last night that a curfew will go into effect in certain cities in France— including my Lyon adorée— from Saturday until at least the next 4-6 weeks. The curfew is set for 9 p.m. and comes with a 135 euro fine for rule-breakers.

This comes after several weeks of gradual rule-tightening. When September began it was announced that we had to wear masks on the streets throughout Lyon. A few weeks later it was announced that bars would have to close at 10 p.m. Then last Saturday all bars, cafés, and coffee shops were shut down in general. But the coronavirus cases kept on rising nonetheless.

Ostensibly the curfew was decided upon to prevent people from going to soirées, parties, gatherings, etc. at each other’s houses. Which makes sense, considering that transmission probably isn’t happening as much in public— where everyone wears masks and uses hand sanitizer— as it is around dining room tables and in living rooms.

Ramifications

Nevertheless, the curfew is a bit of an affront to French culture. The French stay out later than Americans. Dinner starts around 8 or 9 or 10. It’s normal to go out dancing until 5 a.m. here, when even in my college town back home bars closed (unfortunately) at 2 a.m.

On any given weeknight you can walk through Lyon’s center and see restaurants and bars overflowing with people, tables spilling out into squares, and terraces filled with Lyonnaise chatting, smoking, sipping drinks. So to close bars was a big enough deal already, but now to take away the option of soirées, of dinner parties that linger past midnight, of never-ending aperitifs? That’s difficile, to say the least.

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On a personal note, I’m an au pair, which means I finish work at 8:30 during the week. And since the closure of cafés make after-school coffees a thing of the past, I suppose my only chance at a social life will be during daylight hours on weekends.

Of course, I prefer a curfew over the kind of draconian lockdown we had last spring. However part of me wonders to what extent this is all worth it. I mean, it’s one thing to say “we’re sacrificing the economy for the sake of this health crisis.” But the economy isn’t some lofty societal construct. It’s peoples’ livelihoods. Everyone who owns or works at a restaurant or bar or café will struggle to pay rent and buy food and provide for their families. Maybe some will have to give up on dreams they’ve had for years. It’s enough to break your heart into a hundred different pieces.

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Obviously I don’t prefer that hospitals overflow again and deaths increase. And I’m not sure there is a better method than the curfew to manage the rising cases in France. All I’m saying is that it sucks. I don’t envy the choices government officials have to make right now.

But at least parks and boutiques and schools remain open. I can still go running in the forested trails along the river, and window shop, and go about my day without having to explain to my host kids that it’s a bad idea to play soccer in the apartment. It’s good to remember to look for silver linings and bright sides. Because though I’ve always been a positive person, this pandemic certainly makes positivity harder.