Going Home | Brazil
I reached down the sheets to scratch a bite from a mosquito. It had somehow gotten me right in the middle of the arch on the sole of my foot. So annoying; it was one of those elusive bites where you can never quite find where the itch is centered. I sat up in the bed cross-legged, digging into it. I looked around at the walls. The room was lit hazy gray from the morning light that managed to slip through the trees outside the shutter. Several surfboards were mounted on racks. There was a workbench with a few tools and one of my bags on top of it. The rest of my bags were open with their belongings strewn across the floor.
Morning time in Ilhabela, March 2023.
I knew I should get my things together, but a wash of reluctance had me frozen. I didn't want to pack. I didn't want to leave. Of course, this is a normal feeling at the end of any vacation, but I couldn't resign myself to the fact that this would be just a tiny excursion from my real life, something I would reflect on and milk the idea of for years to come. "That one time I went to Brazil..."
I'd previously experienced an incredibly regimented life in the military, which I never wanted. My high school yearbook quote is a fucking Beatles lyric. I had been smoking weed since fourteen. After high school, I dreamed of backpacking in India and then going to California for university. The military was not on my radar. I was an emotionally sensitive and soft-hearted kid who cried on my way home from MEPS the first time. In retrospect, it was my first panic attack. After trading six years of my youth, I felt that much of what made me who I was had been taken, twisted, and fucked up. Perhaps this desire to flee was a rebellion against those years I felt I’d lost.
Looking to the coming days, the reality was that I had a flight back to my job, back to school, back to my responsibilities. But it didn't feel like staring down a dark hole because I knew I would be back in Brazil. I'd flip-flopped in my head throughout the previous days over the reality of leaving the States and coming back here. Now, I'd made up my mind, and on the ride back to São Paulo, I looked over what I needed to do to make it happen. I would sell my car, rent my house, change my major, quit my job, and find a new apartment in São Paulo. I gave myself six months.
The trip back seemed quicker than it did on the way to Ilhabela, but that is how it often is. The knowledge that something will soon end compresses and warps the space and time in front of you. As before, tall buildings rose around us, and I was reminded of the sheer size of this city.
I’m going to live here.
I had one more evening, and I wanted to see the nightlife, so that was the plan. We freshened up quickly after arriving and went to grab dinner. It was the opening night for a burger joint that Felipe's friend owned. The place was called Fatz; the decor was like Stranger Things meets South America and the burger was really good. It could give a few U.S. chains a run for their money.
Fatz Delicias dining room, São Paulo.
They also served alcohol as most places do in Brazil, and there was an outdoor area with a DJ, so half the people treated the place like a bar. A fascinating business concept: burger bar nightclub.
We finished our meal, grabbed some beers, and stepped out front. A large crowd poured into the street from Fatz. Cars passing by would graze your calves as they waded through the sea of people drinking and smoking and moving like water in and out of each other.
As we mingled with other bargoers, two men sprinted past us on foot, and a squad of police cars sped by with sirens blaring. They caught them at the end of the block. I looked at Kiana.
"Are we in, like? Danger?" I squinted.
She shrugged, "São Paulo." she said, and laughed.
"That doesn't—" my voice trailed off, and I shook my head.
I turned my head back down the block and watched the flickering lights bounce off the edifices of apartments and storefronts. I took a sip of my beer and directed my attention to a conversation that had began to develop in front of me. Felipe was introducing Kiana to some friends of his. I couldn’t understand it all, but I'd learned enough that I got the gist of it. Basic introductions. And that we had just arrived from Ilhabela, I took the cue.
"Tudo bem! Prazer." as we went in to kiss each other's cheek, "Sou Wilson."
I felt proud of myself. It was a simple introduction, but I could imagine being fluent someday. I could picture myself back here actually chatting with people, not just staring into the conversation and smiling. I am still looking forward to the day when Kiana and I sit down and have an entire discussion in Portuguese without even realizing it.
We spent some time filling up on cheap beer before we decided to head to a nearby club. The Pinheiros District is famous for its nightlife in São Paulo and throughout Brazil. We didn't exactly go to the premier club in the city for the evening, but it was nearby and a decent spot. It was called Meow and it was cat themed.
Cat painting inside Meow nightclub, São Paulo.
If there is one thing to know about me, it is that if there is a line, I rarely want to go. I am an intimate person, and I would much rather have drinks and hang out all night on an empty patio listening to music than to wait in line at a club. But I am also not much of a complainer; I will enjoy the experience. Meow did have a line, but reaching the front of it took only half an hour. The bouncer handed me a pink plastic card. I had no idea what it was.
"Felipe! What is this?" I was searching for clarification.
"The ticket to all your dreams!" he shouted, dancing back and forth doing jazz fingers. Then he moseyed on through the door's threshold, wrapped up in loud pulsing music.
"What the fuck does that mean?!" I’d tried yelling back at him but he was gone. I directed my attention to the blonde girl, "Kiana, what is this?"
"It's a payment card; you need it to buy drinks and to leave! Don't lose it or they’ll charge you a fine!" she explained over the beat coming from inside.
I rolled my eyes. "Felipe, how was that helpful?" I sighed under my breath.
Once we got inside, we grabbed a few Heineken and went to the dance floor, where there was this tall bleach-blonde guy bouncing in the crowd. For a few minutes, he bobbed by Felipe, with his chest tapping Felipe's shoulder. I saw them talk momentarily, and then Felipe spoke to Kiana. They were all looking at me. I stared back at them, all I could hear was loud techno music as I swayed a bit and took sips from my beer. I leaned into Kiana.
"What's happening!?" I shouted into her ear.
"That guy is gay, and he was hitting on Felipe!" she shouted back.
"Oh, that's funny!" I responded.
"Yeah, so he told him you're gay!" she raised her eyebrows at me.
Another quiet sigh to myself. The guy and I exchanged glances; I wasn't really attracted to him. I left the dancing circle to get another beer and find the smoking area. Kiana followed me, and we ended up outside near the exit in a little alleyway. Some girl who spoke English with an American accent started talking to us. She then told us she was Brazilian. I was surprised, and asked her why she had a perfect American accent.
Now, generally, I am a very open-minded person and always willing to learn. But this girl was a bitch.
She went off on a tangent about how entitled I am to think the American accent is perfect English. I informed her that I never said American English is the ideal form of English. I just meant that her dialect was indistinguishable from that of an American. She then said that her parents were American English speakers and taught English in Brazil, to which I said, "So, you know you have an American accent."
She then went off on another rant that people from the U.S. aren't the only Americans and that we are entitled for that as well. I agreed that we're not the only people on the American continent and that many Americans are entitled. However, it's just the demonym, the only one we have in English— as she well knew. We don't call ourselves United Statesians because that's a lot of syllables and annoying to say. That's as deep as it goes. Our country has the stupidest fucking name ever, it's an entire sentence. We just say what is easiest.
"Do you call yourself an American," I asked her?
"No, I am Brazilian," she said.
"Okay." And some minor side-eye is where I left it at.
I get not being a super fan of the United States, I am not either. Still, this girl sabotaged an entire chance to meet someone and have a positive experience. She already had disdain and preconceived notions about me based off of where I was from. I decided that wasn't going to be me out in the world. I wanted to enter every interaction without an expectation of who that person was. I was going to ask them about and learn their perspective. This is how I wanted to approach Brazil. With that, I actually do say that I am “Estados Unidense” instead of “Americano” when I am speaking Portuguese as it is a cultural sensitivity.
I decided to run to the restroom and avoid more unnecessary confrontation with this girl. In the bathroom was a single stall with the door ripped off and adjacent to that, a metal trough that was slightly angled to one end so that all the piss would run down into a funnel. I am a notoriously shy pee-er, so I was happy the place was empty however it was still incredibly loud as the music was still blaring in from the dance floor. The empty metal paper towel holder mounted to the wall rattled with the bass. I closed my eyes and tried to go quickly. The second my stream started, the door burst open with a loud bang that almost made me immediately cut it off.
I managed to keep going and sighed a bit of relief. Then I noticed a shadow in my periphery. I turned my cheek ever so slightly to the right, and there was the beach-blonde guy from the dance floor. I was between him and the wall, and he was making eye contact with my dick. I shouldered into the corner away from him and looked at him with crazy eyes. I cut it off and zipped it up.
"Can I help you?" I interrogated.
In a thick Scandanavian accent he loudly posed the question: "How're j'ou feeling bahd wiv j'ou pahnts on right now!?"
I was still wedged between him and the wall next to the trough toilet, and I knew he was going for a pickup line. At least I think so anyways, like, "I wish we could take off these clothes right now." Sort of thing. The translation was just a little rough. I sidestepped my way to the sink to wash my hands.
"Uh, sorry, dude, I don't understand," I croaked out, pointing to my ears.
He reached over, grabbed the top of my head, plugged my ear with his thumb to block out background noise, and repeated himself loudly over the thumb, "How're j'ou feeling bahd wiv j'ou pahnts on right now!!?"
He does this three more times as more people file into the bathroom; there are five people in this cramped space right now; I am trying to wash my hands and leave. This Norwegian keeps grabbing my head and yelling the same thing into my ear. I keep saying I don't understand because I hope he will leave me alone. After the final "HAYFBWYPORN," he just looked at me and shrugged with his hands up, looking like that Zac Efron meme. He walked backward from the bathroom. I stood there frozen staring at the door for a second and then at the other guys who had just witnessed that interaction unfold. I then realized he never even went to the bathroom.
Did he only come in here to do that?
The Zac Efron Meme.
I finally washed my hands and went to find my friends. We had a few more drinks, but the rest of the night was uneventful. I eventually needed to get home because I was flying out the next day.
The following morning, it was rainy and overcast. I woke up early and double-checked that I had packed everything. I sniffed back tears as we drove out of the city's center toward the airport.
Burnt, bruised, and teary eyed. Leaving Brazil, March 2023.
On the drive, Felipe asked me, "Why do you want to come here? Isn't it supposed to be better there?"
I had never thought about it from his perspective. He had been wondering why on Earth I would want to leave the U.S. I was feeling a million different things. I felt sad thinking about leaving home and my friends. But looking forward, I had tunnel vision; I was being pulled to go on this journey, whether I had a reasonable explanation for it or not. Call it wanderlust, call it destiny, call it a manic episode if you want. Two months prior, I'd been lying in a hospital bed, confronted by my own mortality, and in the last week, I felt more alive than I had in years.
"Because I want to," was the only answer I had, and it was the only one I needed.
It is pure euphoria to make a decision using your heart and knowing that it's what you want, not a choice based upon limitations you put upon yourself or imposed upon you by the world. There were no other voices in my head telling me what was practical and rational. I felt happiness that I longed for and I wanted to chase that. I wanted to learn more from new perspectives, and I wanted to get to know myself better.
I said goodbye to Kiana with a hug. She reminded me to keep my mind focused on getting back, and that she would see me soon. I watched as she and Felipe pulled away, leaving me at the airport departures terminal. I stared out at the gray sky.
Looking out from the departures terminal.
After a silent moment, I walked over to a woman and asked her for a cigarette in broken Portuguese. She understood me and handed me what I’d asked for. I thanked her. Walking away, a wash of joy warmed my face. Taking in a deep breath I lit my prize. Then I sat down on a bench, pulled out my journal, and started writing.
