Sunday in Coronaville reminds me of my youth.

Growing up, we always went for drives through the Connecticut countryside before dinner at The Clam Box, Manero’s Steak House or Sabia’s Open Door.

Ethel was off on Sundays and Queen E. never cooked on the weekly day of rest.

For the past 2 months my husband and my big day out is Sunday.

Yesterday, we took the VW Bug out for a spin to charge her battery (Word…count me in!)

Right after Pepperdine University in Malibu we had a flat tire.

At first we didn’t think we had the tools, but we found the jack and then improvised because AAA was a 2 hour wait.

I was a little disappointed because in seclusion I was led to believe that #WeAreInItTogether.

I scream bullshit.

The dozens of cars, 30+ cyclists and 3 Highway Patrol cars that passed never stopped to ask if we needed help.

I guess we looked liked masked marauding Corona carriers.

Anyway, my husband really can fix anything and after stopping for air to pump up the spare we were on our way.

The fog had crept in so we headed inland toward Beverly Hills.

Rodeo Drive was desolate.

No humans or Kardashian clones clogging the sidewalks.

Gucci was boarded up albeit with sky blue plywood.

Parking was readily available for the first time ever.

We drove through Bel Air and all the richie riches were sequestered behind wrought iron gates that protected manicured lawns.

Gardeners are definitely an essential industry in LaLaLand.

Looking forward to hitting the open road again next Sunday…without “flattening” the curve.