Two months ago, I called my grandma to tell her I’d be in Beijing for the Winter Olympics. She was thrilled.
But I explained that even though we’d be in the same city, I wouldn’t be able to see her. I’d be in a strict bubble, separate from the rest of China’s population. My grandma said not to worry. Just focus on your work, she said.
I lived in Beijing before taking up a posting in Tokyo early in the pandemic. When I left, I wasn’t sure when I’d see my grandma again. China’s borders have been virtually closed for two years because of Covid, and the government has accepted limited visas for journalists.
The Winter Olympics offered a rare chance for me to return to the country.
Yet within the Olympic closed loop, it’s as if I’m traversing the city in a glass box, unable to experience the Beijing I know. Hotels and venues are surrounded by temporary walls and security, workers in hazmat suits wait tables or take my Covid test.
So when I noticed a bridge near my hotel that allowed Beijing residents to look down into the closed loop, within the temporary walls, I saw a window of opportunity to see my grandma. I dropped a location pin to my relatives, and told them that unfortunately, this was the closest we could get.
Still, my grandma was delighted, arriving 20 minutes early in her nicest winter coat. I yelled Happy New Year in Mandarin as loud as I could, as she’s hard of hearing, and jumped up and down. She took off her mask and smiled broadly, her face crinkling at the edges.
Our meeting was emblematic of the isolation the world has dealt with since the pandemic began.
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