Life in the Time of Corona: Jasmin Baier

7 April 2020
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2019–20 Austrian Fulbright student Jasmin Baier shares her experience deciding whether to stay in the US or return to Austria.

 

The story shared here is Jasmin's particular experience, written in her own words.

On 8 March, barely a month ago, I felt like the happiest person on earth. This semester, I finally settled in, felt like I had a great group of friends, and wasn't so overwhelmed by academics anymore. I was excited about my master's thesis and was preparing to move to Washington, DC, for a summer internship that I could only dream of a year earlier. 

On 9 March, the first shock: my contact at the summer internship emailed me that they could not sign my work authorization request at this time due to increased uncertainty around COVID-19. I was bummed, but my friends encouraged me to send out some more applications to possibly stay at the university and do research instead. I pulled myself up and sent out several emails as well as applications, but soon received the same response from all of them: "Sorry, we are currently freezing all hiring processes." I knew I had a deadline to hand in the work authorization request just two weeks later and still had some hope that maybe I could push the deadline, or maybe I could convince my original internship to sign the request even with the prospect of canceling the internship later. I noticed that I was trying everything to hold on to the illusion of a perfect spring and summer, while everywhere around me things just crumbled. Every new day brought new bad news. I was confident that I wanted to stay in the US—I loved it there, and even with the university closed, I still had some friends who were also staying. I asked myself three times whether I wanted to return, and every time the answer was no. But then I was asked a fourth time when Austria organized a repatriation flight and informed us that if we were interested in returning, we should take this opportunity now. The gravity of this action, together with the embassy's voice in my ear ("we recommend that you return to Austria as soon as possible") had me thinking again—and, frankly, panicking. All of the sudden I felt alone and desperate, saw my priorities shift, and was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of unknowns. 

I started calling people and organizations frantically, trying to understand my options and risks. In an effort to reclaim some sanity, I took out a piece of paper and started writing down the pros and cons of staying with the title "should I stay or should I go." (I then tried to lighten my mood with the song of the same name by The Clash. It sort of worked, for a minute.) The problem was that all of the entries said "maybe," and it all really depended on how the future would turn out—which clearly wasn't something anyone could tell me. Maybe I could go to Washington, DC, by June, and maybe I would be able to figure out my work authorization last minute. Maybe there would still be some sort of commencement festivity I could be part of, and maybe I could still spend some time with my friends, even if we needed to stay six feet apart. And then, on Sunday, 22 March, I was hit with three more messages that completely threw me out of balance:

 

  • My insurance informed me that they would not cover hospitalization due to a pandemic. I guess I had ASPE, but the constant narrative about this being "secondary" and "limited" made it seem less secure nonetheless.
  • My dorm told me that I had to move out that same day, and while they provided me with a different room, it still meant I only had a few hours to pack up—and then I already had everything packed...
  • The Austrian embassy emailed that it was unsure if there would be another repatriation flight after 23 March.
I took out a piece of paper and started writing down the pros and cons of staying... The problem was that all of the entries said "maybe."

On Monday, 23 March, classes started (on Zoom), and I noticed myself putting them on silent, as I was looking up ways to rent a car or catch a flight to DC in order to get to the repatriation flight in time. I called the embassy, and they told me that they couldn't guarantee me a seat until I signed up, but by the time they would tell me I couldn't have reached DC in time anymore. I then called the travel agency I had originally booked my flight to the US with and asked whether I could just change my flight from May to right now. I could—but I was required to use Lufthansa or United, for which there were only a few seats left, as Lufthansa was also slowly ramping down and canceling almost all flights to Munich and Frankfurt. There was one last seat left to Frankfurt.

Here it was, I had to decide right then and there. I woke up at 4 a.m. both Monday and Tuesday to make calls as soon as offices opened in Europe; I was tired and confused. All of a sudden, I had the strong feeling that I really wanted to stay, I didn't want to give up, I didn't want to leave my friends, and I didn't want to leave New Haven, Connecticut—a place I really love, a place that feels like a second home. But it was rationally... stupid to stay. I had friends at Yale New Haven Hospital who told me they were already overwhelmed, and even though I am not "in the risk category," I asked myself whether I should really risk becoming ill within a health system I didn't really trust and with limited insurance. The probability of me needing hospitalization was/is ridiculously low, but what would I regret more: risking my health, or losing a couple of months in the US? Except for being closer to some friends and to the closed library that I enjoyed studying at so much, I had no (rational) reason to stay.

I said goodbye to whomever I could still manage to reach, I stayed up all night to finish re-packing and organizing and I woke up again at 5 a.m., as I still hadn't received a final confirmation that I could get that last seat. 6:30 a.m., a new email: flight booked, departing 3 p.m., from Newark Airport. I knew that in order to catch that flight I had to get the train at 8 a.m. Time to go. I woke up my roommate, who agreed to drive me to the train station. We talked about the weather and whether I would be able to sell my furniture and the bike I had bought just five weeks earlier. We were both wearing masks. In New York City I realized that the airport express busses weren’t running on normal schedule, nor were trains and busses. I ran to the subway to catch the next train to Newark and heard an electrician (also wearing a mask, as was almost everyone else) say to me "welcome back," thinking that I was already at my final destination. I wish, I thought to myself. 

As I was boarding, I noticed that it was time for class. Why not, I thought and connected to Zoom. A comment from the professor about "people Zooming in from all across the globe—and apparently from an airplane," and then back to econometrics. It was oddly comforting, and extremely saddening. When I had to put my phone in flight mode, I started regretting my decision. Why did I leave? Why did I give up? I already started missing everyone I left behind and kept thinking I could have just stayed put and at least enjoyed some last days/weeks on the beautiful campus when things calmed down. But it was too late. During the layover in Washington, DC, (how ironic) I spent my last quarters on an "Annie's Pretzel" and was somewhat disconcerted by all the German around me. They checked our passports twice, reminding us that German borders were closed and that this was the last flight from Washington, DC, to Frankfurt "for quite a while." On the screens displaying all upcoming departures, approximately half the rows showed an orange blinking "canceled." 

I ran to the subway to catch the next train to Newark and heard an electrician (also wearing a mask, as was almost everyone else) say to me "welcome back," thinking that I was already at my final destination. I wish, I thought to myself. 

On board we were reminded to wash our hands and to practice social distancing as much as we could. The crew warned us that they would continue to remind us several times. The mood on board was tense and got even tenser when all of the sudden they found a carry-on luggage without an owner. The message was clear and the tone annoyed, if not desperate: "If we cannot find the owner of this luggage we all need to leave the airplane and will lose our spot for departure." The four minutes it took the owner to understand they were talking about him felt like forever (although a part of me thought maybe this means I can stay after all). A flight attendant then came by to tell us (in English, with a German accent) to "please turn all Handies [sic] on flight mode now" and handed out sprays of sanitizer. It was time for takeoff. Seven hours later we landed in Frankfurt, and most people started clapping—a rare happening in planes these days. The airport was empty, and the police at border control were nice. They wanted to see my train ticket from Frankfurt to Linz, but other than that asked no questions. There I was, the last step, five hours on an (empty) ICE to Linz. They didn't even check my ticket. My sister was waiting for me at the train station in Linz. I was back where I grew up. It felt… foreign.

I most certainly know that I am extremely privileged. I was able to return to a beautiful home, in a country with a government that cares, and a family welcoming me with my favorite dinner. I am losing a few months and an internship experience, but I can go back to the US as a tourist whenever I want and without worrying about visa issues. Many of my classmates aren't as fortunate—some weren't even allowed to return to the country they had citizenship in, and others knew if they left now, they would likely not be able to make use of their "OPT", their one chance to find a job in the US, something toward which a lot of them had worked hard for much of their lives. Or take Kenya, the country I will most likely start my first "real" job in this fall. It is clear that (once again) people living in poverty are hit much harder than any of us can imagine. When remote work isn't possible and both protective gear and soap/sanitizer are in more extreme shortage than in Europe or the US, there is no way to escape. In a way, this situation has proven to me that the line of work I have chosen is more important than ever before, as tendencies of racism and "national individualism" hinder global solidarity and jeopardize peaceful collaboration in times of crisis. I am still extremely sad about having left, having lost five months of personal growth, having missed the chance to say goodbye to most of my friends and classmates, having completed my experience without the "pomp and circumstance" I was hoping for. But this is not about me—this is about understanding in all sincerity what is happening, mitigating the negative consequences ahead of us, and seeing the opportunities arising in a time of upheaval. Times of deep crisis are also times of transformation. I am ready to do my part in ensuring that it is a (net) positive one. 

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PS: Since I had my class schedule already internalized, I decided to just not change the clocks on my laptop and my phone. So instead of fighting my jet-lag, I basically still live on US time since it's much easier to coordinate classes and club meetings if I'm awake during US evenings. Now I know what it must be like to live in Northern Scandinavia: these days the sunset is at around 2 p.m. for me. :)

 

Are you a Fulbright Austria program participant who would like to share how the coronavirus pandemic has affected you? Please contact us.