Vignettes from Traveling to Brazil

Boarding the plane in Houston, I shared a two-person row with a dark-haired girl also in her 20s. I got up for her to take the window seat. Sitting down, she said, "I'm glad you're not a fat, smelly man with a bald spot." I paused before saying, "Well, I guess I'm glad you're not either." We then exchanged no words for the duration of the 10-hour flight until we were about to land. After that we talked non-stop until we parted at the baggage carousel.

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It was hot when we landed in Rio de Janeiro. Very hot. I think I took a few people out as I struggled to maneuver my baggage up to the second floor to check in for my last flight. Sweat poured down my face at the counter and I felt amused at myself. The stewardess went through several questions in Portuguese to the tune of, "Are there knives in your bag?" ending with, "Are you pregnant?" and a hand gesture showing a baby bump. I shook my head, wondering how that might change things if I were pregnant.

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Going through security again was a breeze. I wasn't directed to remove either my shoes, my laptops or all my various liquids in 3 ounce bottles. I was deeply appreciative of this perk.

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In the terminal I had four hours to spare and an utter lack of energy. As a result I nibbled on a pão de queijo (cheese bread) and sipped on a bottle with Emergen-C for as long as possible while listening to every single Moth podcast I had on my iPhone, staring unabashadly at everyone and everything and occasionally, taking out my photo for a quick picture.

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Boarding procedures were different too. There were announcements, mainly in Portuguese, about the flight but they were broadcast at such a low volume that I had to strain to hear them. I saw people lining up in front of the gate so I figured I better join them. Without much fanfare (or announcing) we proceeded through a hallway to get our tickets scanned. On the flight they said, "If you're not going to Porto Alegre, please get off the plane."

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Nearing Porto Alegre the pilot began making frequent announcements in Portuguese about a severe rainstorm over the airport. No one translated. We circled aimlessly through the clouds and I stared at the verdant landscape.

 

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It was a brace-yourself kind of landing. I noticed as we cleared the gate, a row of delapidated shanties on the other side of the landing strip.

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Once I pushed through the crowd and pulled my bags off the conveyer belt, hitting a man's shin in the process (he kindly -- also probably to avoid getting hit again -- helped me put them on my cart), I walked out into the sea of people waiting for arriving passengers. I put on my glasses and scanned the sea trying to find the sweet person picking me up.

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Leaving the airport, V.'s husband pointed out a man on the side of the road. Someone was cradling his head. He looked dead. A motorcycle lay nearby. "They don't realize how dangerous it is," said V.'s husband. Maybe I was just overwhelmed, but I felt more curiosity than anything else.

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And then I met A., the wonderful woman who is kindly hosting me for my first week and her lovely dog and looked at the view outside my bedroom window. "People were kind to me when I first came to the United States," says A., "So I want to be sure to do that too." I couldn't be more grateful.