Beneath a gray-sky morning, the nearly 4 million people of Washington and its Northern Virginia suburbs woke up Friday in communities where, for the first time in 60 days, they were not ordered to stay home — though many did anyway.
The escalators at the Georgia Avenue-Petworth Metro station were barren at 7:30 a.m. Carlos Mejia, 23, was among the few people waiting to ride. A carpet cleaner and repair contractor, he was headed to a rare assignment. Most of his orders have dried up, and he understood why.
“It’s a bit too early to be lifting restrictions,” Mejia said. “I’m not going out or doing anything.”
As Friday approached, no one knew for sure how the region would react. Those who argued to delay the reopening feared that the loosened prohibitions might lead to the same sort of unnerving scenes on beaches and boardwalks that unfolded across the country over Memorial Day weekend.
But here, the coronavirus remains a pervasive threat. On Thursday, the District, Maryland and Virginia reported 101 virus-related deaths, among the highest single-day counts in the past two weeks.
By Friday morning, the region’s total number of infections had eclipsed 100,000.
Still, with the number of hospitalizations stabilizing, the community spread slowing and testing capabilities expanding, the region’s leaders decided they could wait no longer to offer their residents and unraveling economies a measure of relief.
Washington restaurants can now serve visitors at tables carefully spaced out along sidewalks, and barbers in masks may trim bushy masses of overgrown hair. In Northern Virginia, shops can allow people to venture inside as long as the venues stay below half their capacity. But two of Maryland’s hardest-hit communities, Montgomery and Prince George’s counties, have elected to hold off until next week.
As lunchtime approached, customer-starved restaurants with outdoor tables anxiously waited to see if anyone would sit in them.
Along a restaurant-heavy stretch of Connecticut Avenue, just a single spot was occupied, by a couple sipping IPAs. On the patio at the posh Palm Tysons Corner in Virginia, white tablecloths draped six wrought-iron tables. After one patron decided to move, a masked server swooped in with a bottle of sanitizing spray balanced on a cocktail tray. He removed the tablecloth, then sprayed and wiped down all surfaces before clearing glassware and plates.
“I’ve been in this business 20 years,” said Erik Larson, a manager at the Palm. “Never seen anything like this.”
Outside the popular Lauriol Plaza restaurant near Adams Morgan, 20 or so people were sipping margaritas and eating quesadillas when three regulars walked by and told the waitress in Spanish that they hoped to see her soon.
“We don’t need to be the first people to eat out,” one of the men said.
As cautious, even tense, as Washington felt for much of the day, at least one woman saw the city’s progress as cause to rejoice — loudly.
Swaying as she held a bullhorn aloft, the woman blared a song from the musical “Rent” outside the Cleveland Park Library. Nearby, a librarian nodded her head along with “Seasons of Love,” as she stretched strips of blue tape on the sidewalk to mark proper social distancing for patrons picking up books.
“It’s time now, to sing out, though the story never ends,” the song crackled over the speaker. “Let’s celebrate.”
Harriet Tregoning and Geoff Anderson were no less eager to embrace their new freedoms. The night before, they scouted out the tennis courts at Banneker Community Center near Howard University — none of which had nets. Undeterred, the husband and wife returned Friday morning with a rope, hand towels and binder clips to create their own net.
“I don’t think most people,” Tregoning said, “are as desperate as us.”
Outside Bravado, a hair salon on Capitol Hill, Alisa Obradovac was enduring a different sort of desperation. As she waited to see her first client in two-and-a-half months, she began to cry behind her black face mask.
She was scared that one of the clients would infect her. She was scared that her few appointments could cost her the unemployment benefits she spent more than a month calling to get.
Twenty years ago, Obradovac, 45, fled war in Bosnia for the United States, where she’s worked as a hairdresser ever since. When the pandemic arrived, she had $2,000 saved. That’s gone now. Obradovac put $8,000 on a credit card to cover her son’s college tuition and paid her rent late.
“I don’t even know why D.C. opened up,” she said. “We can’t make the money we used to make. They should really wait.”
At a barbershop on P Street NW three miles away, Serge Ngogang had no desire to keep waiting. He had already seen six clients Friday morning when his phone rang again.
“Morning, sir,” he said. “Yes, we are. Almost booked. Let me send you the website.”
For Ngogang, a 46-year-old father of three who lives in Silver Spring and has owned the shop for the past decade, this first step came just in time.
“If in the next two months I’m not able to cover what I lost in the last three months, I will have to turn the business over to the owner of the building,” explained Ngogang, who said he was rejected for a small-business loan. “That’s how affected I am.”
Across the Potomac River in Alexandria’s Old Town, the shift in atmosphere was unmistakable.
“We need to make life as normal as we possibly can,” said Kathy Schumacher, who had been browsing the sale racks at Comfort One Shoes. Cradling a box of Ecco sandals, Schumacher said it was time for Virginia’s economy to reopen.
She understood that brought danger with it, but with a husband in the Army, she wasn’t afraid of the risk.
“Our country was founded on risk,” she said, and to get through the coronavirus pandemic, “we may need some of that spirit.”
Jesse Maas, who has three children and was furloughed at the start of the quarantine, felt much the same way. The director of operations at Fish Market and neighboring Pop’s Ice Old Fashioned Cream oversaw his staff as they set up outdoor tables at least six feet apart, with extra space around the entrances to both establishments.
“My honest opinion — I’ll probably get in trouble for saying this — I would open 100 percent,” Maas said of allowing customers to dine indoors and out. If people don’t feel safe, he suggested they stay home.
Just before 11 a.m. at Potomac Mills in Woodbridge, a crowd of about 30 people tired of staying home waited for security guards to welcome them into the mall.
“Oh, it’s been so long!” said a masked young woman, jumping up and down as the doors were about to open.
Once inside, though, the enthusiasm quickly fizzled. Nothing felt the same.
The chairs and benches were gone, and the ride-on spaceships were cocooned in plastic wrap. The playground was closed, as were the fitting rooms, forcing people to take their purchases home to try them on.
At 5 p.m., Happy Hour arrived at Whiskey Charlie on the Wharf in Southwest Washington, but the only person admiring the stunning rooftop view was the bartender. Kyle Kauffman, 47, straightened the glasses of sliced lemons and alcohol-soaked cherries, waiting for customers.
“On a day like today, they should have been here already,” said Kauffman, who’d suddenly begun to wonder if, without many tips, he would make even less than he did on unemployment.
At 5:15, a woman in a summery blue dress arrived on the rooftop.
“Hey there!” Kauffman said. “First one back!”
He served her a plastic cup of sauvignon blanc.
Komi Akpalo had also hoped to have a drink at a bar on Friday night. It had been a rough couple of months for the 29-year-old, who lost his job as a flight attendant. At last, Akpalo thought to himself, he would get to enjoy a night out.
But when he brought up the idea of an outdoor dinner reservation to his longtime partner, Rachel Miner, 29, she balked.
From her makeshift home office Thursday evening, Miner told him she felt a responsibility to her neighbors and the medical community to continue to quarantine. If she stayed in, she argued, Akpalo would have to as well.
“His risk is my risk,” Miner said, and eventually, Akpalo relented.
For their Friday night dinner, the couple decided, they would eat more leftover lamb.
Justin Jouvenal, Justin George, Samantha Schmidt, Emily Davies, Gene Wang, Paul Schwartzman, Jessica Contrera, Lauren Lumpkin, Petula Dvorak, Paul Duggan, Marissa J. Lang, Joe Heim, Jenna Portnoy and Justin Wm. Moyer contributed to this report.
