I’m headed back to Brazil! Someday! Maybe! It might happen! And until it does, I am mostly happy being in A/C at this bar with stellar wi-fi and Ranch dressing. And having a hotel room to myself for the third time in my life. With TWO BEDS, which is nearly enough to contain the explosion of my belongings as I scramble through two carry-ons and three bags each weighing 70 lbs to try and find the Rainbow Chip frosting I searched high and low for, so that I may open it and eat my feelings. My delicious, multi-colored feelings. By the way – LOVE the outpour of support from Facebook re: finding Rainbow Chip frosting. You guys are the best.
So anyway, what has happened is this:
I had stayed up most of the night, reveling in my last steady-hot temperature shower, cuddling my dog against her will, charging all devices, weighing my luggage over and over and readjusting the cans of salsa to get it right. I figured I wanted to be super tired the next day, so I could sleep on the plane. My flights were from San Jose to Phoenix to New York to Rio. A lovely thirty something hours across four time zones. But worth it to finally get back to my beach and friends and being productive.
Sophia and the baby dropped me off with a vaguely emotional farewell this morning. Which means Kizzy was standing at the wheel, pretending to drive, as I leaned into the car and shouted “Come here and kiss me! I’m trying to have a moment!” Then I kicked it in the airport and texted my accountability friends to keep me from purchasing stupid souvenirs I don’t need. Airport shopping is like my Achilles heel. Remember that time I came home with four neon Jesus statues?
So I’m in PHX, waiting to board at 11:30am. Slight delay, they say. Weather at JFK. The delay gets bigger, and bigger, and I realize I will definitely miss my flight to Rio. I head to the desk and as I’m chatting with the woman there, she receives a message. She looks me in the eye and says “don’t move. I want to help you.” Which seems pretty dramatic. But then she got on the intercom and announced that the flight had been delayed until 8:30pm. The lobby muttered a collective curse word (it was pretty phenomenal, actually) and then rushed the desk, where I was sitting pretty as the first in line. I made besties with helpy lady – talking about her daughter about to enter sixth grade, and living in Brazil, and the importance of frosting. But in the end all my charm counted for nothing because the best she could do was send me to United to fly out the next day to Houston and then Rio. She did score me hotel and food vouchers, and we hugged when I left. I never met a stranger.
I had to walk across the face of the freaking sun and back to check into United, then my luggage was nowhere to be found because Betsy had put it somewhere clever and neglected to tell Carla. Rigamarole. But it’s always entertaining in an airport – I saw quadruplet boys that were about three years old, in matching outfits, being herded with some difficulty by their bonneted mother, and then a teenager be reunited with her friends after a 90-day stint in rehab, complete with signs and a boombox.
I took the shuttle to the hotel, where the driver asked me way too many questions, including “what’s your ethnicity? I bet I can guess.” I zombie-talked my way through registration and then zombie-walked up to my room, with the two beds and the balcony. I drew the curtains closed and plugged in my mouthguard and napped so hard for thirty minutes that I legitimately did not know my name or location when I woke up.
And now I sit alone in the restaurant, easily the hottest woman here, listening to the only other patrons, two well-on-their-way-to-drunk men, say things like “of COURSE you should be able to go to Africa and shoot a lion. You’re an American.” “I LOVE RED LOBSTER, TOO!” “But if you put your Oreo on a fork and submerge it into the milk, your body temperature won’t affect the coldness of the milk.”
Man, I already saw that on Facebook today, I know you didn’t invent that.
I think I am ready to be back in Brazil. I have had a fantastic and whirlwind 39 days at “home.” I say “home” because I slept at my parents’ I think 11 nights. But all those misadventures I will save for another post. I miss Brazil. I miss the beach, where I always feel so much peace. I miss my friends, I miss my kids. I miss having a routine and feeling productive and a reason to shave my legs. Which is mostly so kids don’t say things like “Miss! Your legs is spiky!”
Wish me luck arriving to my happy place within the next two days – the hammock, happy hour, and good friends.