Missing Connections

Forenote:

I’ve not written a blog post in several months due to feeling the pressure of telling my story a certain way. It wasn’t really fun for me, and so what I am deciding to do now is to take away some of that pressure by allowing myself to tell this story out of chronological order. Perhaps someday I will compile it all chronologically into a book. But for now, enjoy this new entry.

Journal excerpt dated January 10th, 2024:

As I write this, the jet engines are whirring up, and the wheels of flight TP 088 from Sao Paulo to Lisbon lift off the ground. It's 1:08 a.m. The plane shakes, and then the ride smooths out as the nose of the aircraft swoops into the air. I can feel pressure start to build in my ears. This flight was delayed by nearly 2 hours because the cabin crew got stuck in traffic on the way to the airport. But it's okay; we're on our way now. I did it. I spent 6 months in another country, and now, I am flying to Europe for the first time.

Kiana sent me a voice message today. She was excited for me but didn't want me to leave. I told her, believe me, I would stay if I could. But I wasn't legally allowed to stay in Brazil any more time. Ultimately, I am glad that outside forces are pushing me to get uncomfortable. That's a lousy habit Wilson has, getting comfortable— or maybe it's a flaw that I see comfortability that way.

Waiting for my flight to Lisbon.

Sitting at the airport waiting for this flight, I spotted a trio of friends. They looked my age. I sat there staring at them like the weird kid on the playground. I often do this, staring at people and wanting to start a conversation. I thought of asking what they were traveling to Lisbon for, but I was too shy, so I made up a story in my head of what they might be doing. I landed on 'they're in a band.' Surfer rock, I think.

I recently told myself I would start speaking up and engaging with strangers after my Christmas flights back to California. There had been two girls sitting in the row in front of me on my flight from Sao Paulo, and I had overheard a familiar conversation they were having. It was a Brazilian girl in her early 20s and an American girl who I assume was around 19. The Brazilian taught the American how to pronounce the Sao in Sao Paulo. They went back and forth several times over the course of several hours, the Brasileira slowly enunciating "Suh-AO" and the American girl replying back, "Sooow." She never did get it right. It's a nuance that is hard for Americans to hear and pronounce.

Nearly 15 years prior, on a front porch in Adel, Georgia, a young Brasileira girl tried to teach an American boy how to pronounce that word. He kept getting it wrong over and over, not knowing how it sounded any different from her. When I heard this conversation unfolding in front of me, I was transported back to that day, sitting there smoking weed out of a little bong named Desiree.

I felt that I was supposed to be there to witness that moment. I felt non-linear time. If you have read my entire blog, you know I'm weird and oddly pensive on airplanes. I felt as if they were Kiana and me in another life. I could search worldwide and find a hundred different versions of us having the same conversations. Perhaps there were threads connecting us that we would never even know existed. Again, I felt connected to complete strangers, like the Brazilian couple on my first flight to Brazil. If you need to know the reference, what are you doing? Go read the rest of the blog, bitch.

Anyway— as I listened to their exchange, I told myself I would share the story of Kiana and me and how we had the same exact experience. I wanted to say to them it made me happy to see that unfold again in front of me. And then, I didn't. My anxiety overcame the desire. I always imagine that I will approach someone, and they'll hit me with the "Talk to me again, and I'll kick your ass."

Our flight landed, and I watched as they exchanged contact information. They had become friends over the duration of the flight, and that was cool to witness either way. I stood up from my seat, filed off the plane, and bolted to my connecting flight, never having shared the story with them.

I have never had to run at an airport before, I like to look sexy and mysterious while I wait for my flight. I always expected to meet the love of my life at one, so I try to stay composed. However, when I arrived in Atlanta, I had exactly 42 minutes to go through customs, check into the country, reclaim my luggage, re-check that same luggage, get back through security, and make it to my gate.

When I got back through security, I had 10 minutes to make it from Concourse A to Concourse B. The information screen for the train said, “Arriving in 5 minutes.” Nope. I ran up the escalator and found myself in the center of the Concourse at a giant intersection. I spun around frantically in circles, looking for signs, half-reading them all, and muttering “Concourse B, Concourse B.” Over and over again under my breath. There! B, I found it. I ran toward the letter, down a set of stairs, and saw a long backrooms-like corridor that ran under the airport and connected the concourses.

I carried over 50 pounds of extra weight between my personal item and carry-on. I oompa loompa’d at breakneck speeds, my bags swung back and forth off balance. I quickly realized why there was a fucking train to this place. I was running on one of those Jetson’s style moving platforms. I was booking it. I ran by a group of middle-aged folks standing on the platform. As I ran by, one of them tossed up her finger and said, “See, that was me.” I turned back and shouted, “I’m doing my best!” without slowing down.

Suppose you have indeed been following this blog. In that case, you’re probably familiar with the absurd amount of smoking I have done in my life, and save the judgment; this is story time. However, at this point, I was self-judging. I couldn’t fucking breathe. I normally only run if my life is in danger or if I will be heavily inconvenienced if I do not run, so it had been a while. I started coughing; I was pouring sweat. I checked my phone. I don’t think I even had minutes left.

I sprinted faster and finally made it to the terminal. I checked my ticket. Of course, it would be the last fucking gate. I am not even shitting you. The corridor between the concourses had mostly been empty apart from the lady who pointed at me. But now I had to run all the way to the end of the packed Concourse. This was not very sexy.

I narrowly avoided trampling over someone’s kid and made it to the gate, panting, my lungs bleeding, nearly in tears. The last person was boarding the plane; they were just about to close the gate when I handed my passport over in my trembling, clammy hand. I sincerely made it by the skin of my teeth. I could not stop coughing by the time I got to my seat. The lady beside me shrunk into her chair and side-eyed me for a few minutes before she pulled a mask out of her bag and put it on.

She thought I had Covid. I wanted to, like, reassure her that she was going to be okay and tell her that I wasn’t sick, that I am just generally unhealthy, but when I turned my head toward her, she sort of flinched. I just put my hoodie on and decided that it probably wasn’t necessary.

I spent Christmas with my family, and a week later, upon my return to Brazil, I was waiting in line at passport control. I was anxious and squirrely as always. A pair in front of me struck up a conversation, and I stared on, wanting to play with the other kids. I am like a dog trapped behind a window, watching another dog outside. But that window was of my own making. And then— in accented English, Dutch, I think?

“Excuse me, sorry. Do you speak English?” he asked, tapping my shoulder.

I smiled, “Yeah, yeah, what’s up?”

“Sorry,” he said again, “Is this your first time here?”

Was this happening? This dude just smashed my fake window.

“No, this is my second time here; I’ve lived in Brazil for the last 5 months. I’m returning from the Christmas Holidays in California.” I told him, “What about you?”

“Yes, this is my first time. I am meeting a friend in Sao Paulo,” he told me.

We talked and talked as the line moved forward. He mentioned he was going to Ilhabela, so I warned him of the borrachudos, and he thanked me for the advice. I was happy just to talk to someone, and we kept scooting along through the guiding ropes closer and closer to Brazil. Then, in Portuguese, I heard the word “Next!” It was my turn. I looked back at my temporary friend and wished him luck on his trip. His name was Loek.

I thought to myself, “Well. That wasn’t so bad.”

I reminded my myself; don’t be afraid to reach out and seek connection, even if it is temporary or passing. People are longing for that shit; we all crave it. Yet, just before this flight to Portugal, I had not taken that lesson that I learned from Loek. I had sat staring at the trio of band kids— or whatever, they were doing. I still never asked them. What was I afraid of? I didn’t think Loek was weird for striking up a conversation. In fact, I thought he was brave because it was something that I was afraid to do.

I am reminding myself now of my accomplishments. I went to Brazil and lived there for six months, and I’m not returning home. I am flying across an ocean to start another journey. Looking at my reflection, what do I have to fear?

(I had deja vu and started to cry a bit as I wrote this.)

End of entry.

Relevant: My first moments in Lisbon.