Traveling Stories

DALLAS BOUND...

There was an ocean of the thickest and fluffiest clouds underneath us as we glided through the endless sky away from the Will Roger's Airport. I have been an airplane passenger since before I was six, but the turbulence...it gets me every time. To my right and a few isles up, there was a pair of sisters (if they weren't sisters they had found their doppelganger) who were lifting their hands and praying as the airplane climbed deeper into the vastness of blue. The sister I could see clearly looked utterly mortified. When I was younger, and I would get scared enough, my older sister would hold my hand and she would smile at me and say "I love the turbulence! It's my favorite part! It's just like a huge roller coaster!" I found out later that she was lying to me because she knew it would make me feel safe. Now, let me clarify; this is the only lying I personally find acceptable - mostly because it's cute.

As the turbulence rattles the plane, our bodies bob like rubber ducks in a pond. Except that we are not in a pond, we are thousands of miles up in the air where we could plunge to our deaths at any moment. The sisters gaze out the window like they saw that creature from the Twilight Zone perching on the wing. The stricken look of terror on the girl's face is not helping me relax. I grip the arm rest with my left hand and wait for the next turbulence dip to become a free-fall drop and my stomach to shoot up into my throat. I start wishing my sister were here to hold my hand. I was tempted to reach out and hold the guy's hand sitting next to me. Then I remembered he was a very, very tall, large Native American man with a raspy voice and a northern personality. Maybe I'll hold his hand if the turbulence gets bad enough. After all, I offered him gum and he accepted, so technically we are BFFs now.

The plane dipped more violently this time and my knuckles were growing irritated at the amount of air pockets this pilot was chasing around. Then the clouds began to chop at the bottom of the aircraft, which pushed the girl with the raised hands and rosy cheeks to the verge of tears (bless her heart, she was making the ugly cry face - and it wasn't pretty). She lifted her right hand and covered her heart with her left hand. I was starting to feel really anxious when Sitting Bull turned to me and pointed at Rosy Cheeks with his thumb and mouthed "she's really scared!" I nodded and giggled in agreement as I looked back out at the menacing clouds. "I used to jump out of planes", he said, reeling my attention back in. "Oh? Was that scary?" I asked enviously. "Well, the first couple of times I jumped, I was high on acid." Apparently that was his "drink" of choice. "Woooow....?" I said, encouraging him to please keep talking. "Yeah, the first three times I jumped I was strung out. The fourth time I jumped I was straight, and I did not have the chemical courage influence in my blood. When I realized what I was doing, I thought, well actually I yelled WHAT THE F*** AM I DOOOOOOING?" (Except his story contained no censorship stars). I laughed and asked him if he liked it. "Yeah, the minute I hit the ground, I wanted to be back up in that plane." His nonchalant demeanor was beginning to ease my nerves. He continued to tell me about his fears of mice and rabbits and I couldn't help but laugh at how cliché the whole scene was. Big ole Sitting Bull afraid of the little rabbits in his garden. The turbulence seemed less evil. We were only flying through a thunderstorm. I've weathered worse storms than this; ones that lasted a lot longer, too.

SAO PAULO BOUND...

My boots clicked against the smooth airport floor like the seconds hand on a clock. My flight had arrived an hour later than scheduled. Sitting Bull had hurried off the plane to catch his connecting flight to Omaha because he was trying to make it to a restaurant before it closed. They served the best catfish he had ever had. You know what they say "One man's trash..." I was chanting a prayer in hopes that my flight to Brasil was also late as I arrived at the sky tram. A Middle Eastern man smiled at me, and I smiled back. Apparently this is airport lingo for "let's visit". I don't dislike friendliness, actually I love interacting with new people. But I haven't flown in a year and half, and I haven't flown by myself in over three years. It's kind of like when you start dating after you have been in a serious relationship. Have the rules changed? Can I behave the way I used to, or will that give the wrong idea? Anyways....I appreciated the distraction from my anxiety. For some reason, I felt much less productive standing on a tram then walking. After the conversation had died down, I avoided his overly friendly eye contact by staring out the window.

Dallas was soaking wet and the gray hue covered the view from the tram like a giant mosquito net. This kind of weather makes me reminisce, which is not always a good thing. I carry a lot of memories with me in my "airport pocket". Mr. Muhammad over there reminded me that we had two stops left until we reached our destination. I nodded and continued to stuff the memories back into their pocket as we arrived at Gate D. My friend wished me good luck and I started off towards my gate. I went the wrong way at first and then again a second time. Finally, by the time I had established myself as a total idiot, I found the way I was supposed to go. I ran down the escalator and made it to the bottom with a short prayer; "thank you God that my mother's generous genetic gift of endearing clumsiness did not show its embarrassing face right then."

I ran up to gate D35 and the people sat patiently waiting to board. Phew! My eyes gazed past a young blonde guy as I was walking towards the counter to make sure this wasn't a whole new flight (You know, with my luck it would be). The sight of the boy sparked a memory in my head and I shifted my eyes back to him. He was smiling back at me, too. Rafael. My thoughts took me back to an old bus we rode to and from school. That's where I first learned how to braid; my friend used some leather strands that had shredded off the chair in front of us to teach me. My sister once threw an apple core out the window of that bus and made it into the window of a car beside us. Anyways, Rafael was one of the cute little kids that rode our bus. However, he was no longer a small child, and when I noticed his facial hair, I felt like it stole the years of my youth and reminded me of my age. He now went to school in Canada and was about to graduate. "What did you study?" he asked. Ahhhh, great, I thought. I love that question. I love explaining those years; the same years that were stolen from me when I noticed his facial hair.

The plane was surprisingly empty. The woman on the end of my row had jewelry on her forehead and she looked like she had just stepped off Aladdin’s carpet. We had the whole five seat row to ourselves. I was excited about having that much space because my body hurt every time I switched positions from all the moving I did the day before. I moved out of my apartment into storage for possibly the 63rd time since I moved to the US 9 years ago. When I laid my keys on the counter of my apartment and closed the door, I was officially, once again, homeless. I wondered, is it normal that I feel more comfortable when I am homeless? Okay, well I know normal is a generous word, but...at least...is it sane?

Jasmine hung up her phone as we started taking off the runway and the huge grin she had been fashioning was still lingering on her face. She's probably in love. I really hope he looks like Aladdin, I giggled at my own joke (I am finding I do that quite a bit). At dinner she ordered two bottles of vodka and tomato juice to make a Bloody Mary. The Disney princess Jasmine I knew would never drink two bottles of vodka with dinner. She would drink rum. I picked a movie and waited the 11 minutes it was going to take for the next showing to start. I wonder if her Aladdin loves her back. Probably. She stretched out across the row with her blanket and pillow. She slept peacefully most of the night. I, however, did not.

I stepped off the plane into the Brasilian sun. Something I have been waiting to do for almost two years now. People spoke Portuguese around me and I was so confused at first. It didn't take me long to adjust, and I felt a whole different personality begin to exude from inside me. Customs, waiting on my bags and immigration were all pretty easy on me. When I walked into the main part of the airport, one of the girls walking out close to me broke into a quick jog when she saw her love waiting for her. They had reunited. They must have spent a long time apart because he could not take his eyes off her and she couldn't take her lips off his. "That's beautiful, really, but do they HAVE to do that here in public? So unkosher. Just rubbing everyone's nose in their happy little love." the lady next to me said as she saw the scene I was watching. Okay, fine. So there was no lady standing next to me. I actually thought that. I just didn't want to sound bitter. Because I'm not. Really....I'm not....

I patiently stood in line to get my ticket for my final destination; home. Once again my mind began to wander as I waited. Now that I think about it, that glimpse back into my high school life had shot inadequacy through my body and insecurity into my heart. I looked around to see if anyone noticed I was standing in the "cheap flight" line. Why should I feel embarrassed to be in this line? Because my parents down own Volvo. And I'm fat. I looked out to the streets of Sao Paulo and for a second I could feel how it felt to be 16 again. It doesn't matter, I shook the thought away. I would soon be taking my first sip of Brasilian cafe com leite and enjoying my first cheese bread. I headed towards my favorite coffee shop in the airport and was delightfully surprised as I walked around. I forgot how alive this country was. I forgot how beautifully simple the lifestyle was and how much love was eminent. Oh yeah, and I forgot how extremely handsome Brasilian guys can be. Okay, I hadn't forgotten, but I was reminded...quite a bit.

The coffee tasted just as I remembered. The coffee shop clinks and bangs as the people work through the aromatic steam and busy away at people's orders. There is hardly any room to stand. Brasilians have no concept of personal space. It always catches me off guard how close people stand to me when I am here. I know a lot of people in the US that are really uncomfortable with it. I can understand why, but it doesn't bother me at all. It actually reminds me that I am surrounded by life, and that there is a rich amount of humanity in this world that goes overlooked. I found a spot at the bar, and took in my environment. This is a scene that Starbucks could never ever capture; even if they tried. The couple next to me is fervently discussing this girl and how false she is; "I just can-not believe it," the woman said, "I cannot believe she was being so fake to me!!" The man responded "I know, its incredible how false people can be sometimes". I smiled to myself and realized that when it comes to humanity not that much changes across the oceans.

I was writing in my journal and sipping my coffee, feeling extremely cultured when a I realized a man was standing behind me. He was standing far too close, even for a Brasilian. I turned around and a man, who was obviously physically handicapped, grunted something undecipherable and handed me a little packet. It contained a tiny little address book and a small pen. There was a note taped to the package that read "I am deaf. I work as a salesman of a variety of things, I would be very grateful if you collaborated with R$3 (equivalent to $1.50) Thank you." I didn't need a telephone and address book. I had just packed like 87 pens when I moved my stuff. Plus, I knew they would be hoarded to the next 16 places I moved. I looked at the man. The struggles of his life, he wears on his face like a mask. A mask he was born into; a mask of the unfairness of life; a mask of constant rejection; a mask of inferiority; and a mask of deep sadness. A mask that surely haunts him, and stabs at him every time he realizes he will never hear music, the ocean, wind or a baby cry. I had just been writing in my journal about how blessed I was to be born into a life that was full of opportunity and resources. So I began fishing in my bag for the money. I laid the R$3 on the bar top and smiled at the man as he took the money and walked off. I watched him leave and thought to myself I should have tried communicating with him, maybe show him some love, but I just fed him money. It was at that very moment I realized that part of me has been sucked into the Western mindset as I heard myself think, "Who has the time for that anyways? I was having coffee."