晚上开始with “Hallelujah.” One singer stepped on the karaoke stage, against a backdrop of glittering stars and skyscrapers, and began a poignant rendition of Leonard Cohen’s song about love and loss.

He was a stranger but felt like a brother to everyone gathered atFesta Wine & Cocktail Loungein San Francisco’s Japantown, which reopened not long before California loosened COVID-19 restrictions.

The moment felt sacred and fitting: a miracle, a marvel, and the only possible way to celebrate the end of our long months of separation. We softly sang along with full hearts; grateful we had endured, grateful to be here.

Singing — and singing along — changed during the pandemic. Remember when a choir practice outside of Seattle became a deadly super-spreader event? Duringlockdown in Italy, people used to sing from their balconies and windows in the evenings to lift community spirits. Likewise, in the spring of last year, my卡拉OK书俱乐部— a group of Asian American authors who discuss novels over dinner and then go out to sing — attempted to belt ballads over videoconferencing. But every time we tried to sing along to what was playing, the time lag put us out of sync with each other.

As soon as we could plan a trip to Festa — which reopened at reduced capacity, requiring proof of vaccination for entry — a friend snagged reservations. The bar is serving up to 20 guests with reservations each night until the end of June. Other safety precautions include Plexiglas panels on the stage and around the bar, along with disposable microphone covers that look like teeny weeny shower caps.

But there are still two kinds of karaoke singers: those who can sing and those … who can’t. The former might have starred in their church choir or high school musical theater; the latter — of which I fall into — specialize in songs you can shout or talk your way through.

通常，我们的团队选择与私人房间的场地，让我们自己迷彩。但是，每个人都在那天晚上分享舞台就像眩晕一样，就像我们多年来一直在唱歌一样支持。对于我的第一首歌，我选择了Bonnie Tyler的“心脏总食”，我最喜欢释放浮雕情绪。当我完成后，我觉得好像我经过马拉松，汗水和胜利。好像我撕掉了我的声带，撕掉了我的心，我的声音嘶哑。

I settled back into my seat and listened to a crooner who treated us with a rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “L-O-V-E.”

“Welcome back to the real world,” he pattered during a musical break.

我们的呐喊和欢呼欢呼，虽然我的一部分仍然犹豫不决，让我担心我们在下次灾难之前在一个平静的地方。“大流行是现实世界吗？”我问了一个朋友。“这是梦想？”

Possibly — probably. But for the moment, we were tucked inside a music box. The songs everyone chose helped ease my gloominess: Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car,” Coldplay’s “Viva la Vida,” Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” Pat Benatar’s “We Belong,” Abba’s “Knowing Me, Knowing You,” and Oasis’ “Wonderwall” — oldies, as well as the sweet spot of songs from the 1990s and early 2000s, our formative years of teen and young adulthood, when we never felt more intensely, more passionately.

“They’re exactly our age,” a friend said, based on the songs selected — ones that appealed to young Gen Xers and older Millennials.

Another friend marveled that we were singing and swaying to music we ourselves hadn’t put on a playlist. Until then, I hadn’t realized how much I missed that serendipity and delight.

A friendly vocalist stopped by our table. “Are you celebrating anything?”

“Life!” we said, in unison.

He grinned. “So are we. We’re all vaccinated!”

Hallelujah, hallelujah.