Siri in Isolation

“MOM! You have to look down!”    It’s 2008 in Washington D.C. and my son is exasperated. I have just fallen forward like a plank, walking though the crowds at Obama’s first inauguration. It is not the first time I have tumbled and won’t be the last; nonetheless I pick myself up, unharmed, perhaps relaxed by the happy exhilaration surrounding me.   In the scalding heat of Athens in August 2013 I am not so lucky. I am walking cautiously on the big marble flagstones, when, distracted by a man passing me at speed, I whip my head around -  and step into a hole, crashing to the ground. I will learn that I have broken my fibula, which means 6 weeks without putting my foot on the ground. It is the first day of our vacation there. I will spend the remainder in a wheelchair pushed by my husband, seeing Athens, Crete and Santorini from a different and unexpected perspective.   A week ago, 8 months into our self-isolation quarantine, I catch my foot on the doggie gate ...