Desculpe, acabou

It was four days ago now that I woke up in a panic in the king-sized bed I’ve been staying in at my father’s house. After many months of more telling people I was going than actually planning it, my flight to São Paolo Brasil was in 18 hours. My hands shook and my stomach had made room for my heart that had dropped from under the breast plate. And then I had breakfast.

I am actually surprised how that feeling didn’t hit me again on Tuesday morning, the actual day of the flight. But I was busy dealing with paying off final debts and catching the plane to actually think about where that plane was taking me. At the airport it was just unconsciously placing one foot in front of the other, taking the shoes off the foot, placing it in a bin, and then one foot in front of the other.

I flew AeroMexico, an airline I’d heard nothing about, except that it was about one grand cheaper than any other. So I expected something below southwest. But it was great. It had a free bar. No joke. Never been on a plane with a free bar before. I finished Yiddish Policeman’s Union on that flight and tried to sleep.

I arrived in Mexico City feeling sick. I’d started feeling sick in Chicago, actually, but being in Mexico City immediately meant that I’d been infected with swine flu. I walked back and forth through the terminals. The Mexico City Airport could easily be mistaken for one in America if not for all the Mexicans. Chilis, starbucks, etc. I ate dinner at a Chili’s watching Nadal face off against some dude. Nadal lost the first set after falling behind four games to one. I don’t know how the match ended up, but I left with the feeling that his opponent was eventually going to wear down and missing these ridiculous angles he’s found so far.

They deliver me a burger and a corona. Christina Aguilera’s ‘Dirty’ is playing in the background. There is lettuce and tomato on the burger. Being a responsible traveler, I scrape the lettuce and tomato off the bun. I probably did not get all the lettuce, but my body usually respects me when I don’t act willfully naïve. And so was here. No food poisoning. When it came time for the check it appeared the waiters were done with me. There was no food on my table, no drink. I was sitting, looking around at them for about 30 minutes. The table next to me who had ordered as I finished was now getting their check. I wondered to myself whether this is what it’s like to be a Mexican in America, but then he came over and we quickly sealed the deal. 180 pesos, I have no idea how much that is.

At 23:45, my flight from Mexico City to São Paolo took off. The plane was huge, where we each had our own tv’s with a remote in our arm rest. At this point I was feeling fairly sick and could barely open up my eyes. Ana told me to make friends on this flight so that they might help me when I get there. But everyone was either speaking Spanish, or looked like losers, and I wasn’t about to get off to a bad start in Brazil. Being an overnight plane, I spent all my time trying to sleep. My arm had accidentally hit the remote and the movie Australia was playing on my TV. At 10 a.m., with my throat at its worst, they served breakfast. I ate the fruit slowly, enjoying its coolness on my swollen, hot esophagus. I opened up the dish they served and it was enchiladas. Spicy enchiladas at that. And why I decided to eat them I do not know. Any good that the fruit did, I ruined with these. Then I drank coffee to destroy any comfort I once had.
And we arrived.
It was raining.
I had not filled out any of the forms for lack of pen. When we get to customs, I had 4 forms to fill out, and rustled a pen out of my back pack. At one point it asks for a phone number to be reached, so I pull out the phone that Ana had given me, loaded with minutes, and turned it on. As soon as I turned it on I’m bombarded with phone calls.

At this point my plan was to take the shuttle bus to the bus station (rodoviaria a tiete) and take a bus to Indaiatuba. Phone rings again, I’m filling out the forms – caller ID ‘Ana’s mom’. Hello! “Hello Ben this is Ana’s mom. My son Carlos is coming to pick you up.” “That’s great” (filling out forms) “You can call him, do you have a pen” I grab a pen and paper Okay! “His number is 87564534(not really his number), do you speak any Portugues?” Sorry, no “That’s okay, do you speak Spanish” Sorry No “That’s okay, you can call him and say Alo! Eu Ben” Eu Ben “Ehuh Ben” Ehuh Ben “(indiscernible) essentially for five minutes in the middle of the crowded table I’m saying EOU BEN over and over.

I walk through customs, change some Reals, and call Ana. She tells me her brother is picking me up and should have a sign with my name on it. I walk through the arrivals and don’t see him. I walk to the door and then text him. “Hi this is ben. I’m by the flores” I saw the word flores. Apparently he took that to mean I was standing with flowers. After walking back around I see him standing and looking with the sign and we shake hands.

After being prefaced that Carlos knows very little English, he knew quite enough to converse. I was once again embarrassed to be the only one unable to communicate. We step into his little Fiat and off off we go to the highways of Sao Paolo. Sao Paolo is just massive, with no organization, just sprawl. Four story buildings and housing units just everywhere. I realized I made the correct decision, as I was going to stay there originally. I wouldn’t have been able to find shit. While you are driving, motorcyclists just weave between you speeding through. A policia comes from behind, and there is no shoulder, so cars make enough room as the police speeds through, honks, and has a policeman hanging out the window waving his arms to move over and giving devil stairs.

Carlos points to the left. “This is one of our mighty rivers, the Cheetah.” He gives a look I can understand. “it’s very polluted,” I say. “Yes, very polluted, very disgusting.” The river runs through the middle of the city, is brown with trash just riddled throughout. Me and Carlos speak about music. I say the Brazilian bands I know: Os Mutantes, Gilberto Gil, Seu Jorge, Jorge Ben, the Diplo Favela remixes. He goes through how he likes Led Zeppelin and Metallica. Apparently Seu Jorge lived on the streets. He describes the band we are listening to, I’ve already forgotten their name, but they were quite good.

Past Sao Paolo we go, where the hillsides stop being Favelas and start being hillsides. Carlos points out the Eucalyptus trees. We travel on. He’s coming to America next year, thinking about Los Angeles or California in general. He points out the Wet n Wild he used to work at. He tries to describe something I figured meant detour, but in fact essentially means we are going off roading to Indaiatuba. I thought the roads were just fucked up.

The driving was admirable. There are so many potholes on this road its like driving on the moon, and you just have to pick the best one, and he’s still zooming through. It was beautiful; the road was Georgia clay red, surrounded by that hung over the road creating a canopy. A fruit stand abandoned with the colorful, rotting fruits just laying in piles being eaten by strays. We come up to a part where water covers 6/7s of the road across, Carlos picks the left side, we dip into about 3 feet of water. “Wash,” Carlos says. We pass dozens of farms growing fruit. We eventually make our way onto paved road, and here we were in Indaiatuba. We circle around a soccer stadium and he pulls in to a drive way. We open a gate and the door to the home is open, as are all other doors in the home. Everything stays open and just outside the door are some plants, grass, waterfalls, fish ponds. We make plans for tomorrow that will ultimately not come true, and I say goodbye to Carlos. Ana’s mom shows me around and tells me to make myself comfortable. She has to leave for the hospital.

I take the bed and fall asleep for 7 hours. Busy day.