Crossing borders...
The last day at the truck stop I was not sad to leave, or excited which is a weird state to be. Rafael and I sat under the entrance over-hang in the hot sun, staring back and forth at the open Uber app. It was 1.5 hours until my plane was going to take off and no driver. So a gentle level of worry started to creep in. But there was no place I had to be, just not in this country, which I suppose added to the weird indifference of belonging and being. My meditation was interrupted by one of the gas attendants yelling at us,
“You wanna ride?”
He motioned for us to follow him to the back. Over the past week at the truck stop, all of the employees of the massive place had gotten to know us pretty well. If not through conversation, then through witnessing our every move, from our first waking hours creeping out from the dark trailer and into the sunlight, stumbling over to the hot water dispenser to make morning coffee, to knowing each time I went to the bathroom every day by forced procession through the entirety of the dining room. They saw our trailer shake if we were having sex, or saw me cry after devastating phone conversations. So we soon found ourselves in one of the very young attendants 92 Toyota Camry-esque cars and zipping down the highway.
Now here is where it all could have ended folks. This 18 minute ride to the airport was a mili-second away from being our last ride. Rafael was nice enough to come with. I think he wanted a break from the truck stop too. He would be spending a lot more time there waiting for the car engine to be fixed, but my time in Brazil was over until I could return at the end of December. Brazilian Visa had maxed so I needed to leave. Montevideo is the closest major city, and so with the purchase of a $150 plane ticket and an Airbnb booked in the city center at $11/night, I was off…just barely. As our driver nervously accelerated down the highway we were nearing a toll station. Instead of proceeding forward at 60 mph, he veered a hard left into the median between the southbound lanes and our northbound traveling lanes. A giant collective inhalation sucked what seemed all the air out of the car. What was he thinking? There was a small break in the giant cement medians that he must know well. There was no visibility as the nose of our tiny car gently rolled forward into speeding oncoming traffic. The driver waited, as if to say a prayer and know that once he started accelerating into the nearest lane, which would be the fast lane, there would be only a fraction of a second to see if an oncoming car would strike us.
His foot hit the pedal and my brain didn’t have enough time to process fear before the speeding black vehicle came into view aiming straight at our tiny car that was struggling to straighten out. Another gasp into the thin air and the tightening of fingernails against his warm upholstery. Our car jerked left towards the cement medium and then their car swerved into the opposite direction and into the other oncoming cars. We all perspired simultaneously. Whew we are alive, we all thought and no one said. As if not to offend our guest driver, we didn’t say a single thing. The conversation drifted instead onto the causal “Where are you from where are you going.” banter.
The second we stepped out of the vehicle and onto the airport tarmac Rafael and I looked at each other with the same wide-eyed yearning to express what we just went through together. It was one last gasp of collective experience that bonded us. Our bond at that point had grown pretty shakey. We clung to this as if it would make saying goodbye less awkward.
“I can’t believe we made it out of that.” I exhaled with disbelief.
I also couldn’t believe that I was in the International Airport about to hop on a flight from one country to the next alone as if it wasn’t anything. My heart tried to grasp onto the gigantic reality that on any other Sunday in Eugene Oregon, getting onto an international flight alone is a big deal; but it seemed as though the situation and the moment were exhausted. Like a heaving oak tree after an ice storm with half its branches cracked off, a new dusting of snow will not phase the tree. Instead, it will wear the flakes like a dress it has worn many times before. It will stand and feel lighter since the heaviest of loads has past and this new sparkling reality will soon pass too.
I got onto my flight and was surprisingly boosted up to business class. I was served unlimited sparkling water, coca-cola and free snacks for the quick 1.5-hour jaunt across border lines. I couldn’t find the right song to listen to and I couldn’t sleep, generally my two favorite things about flying. Instead each song I listened to reminded me of some point in my relationship with my ex, which I now was viewing with an entirely different lens. The information that had been divulged to me hadn’t fully processed and created new dimensions and new timelines that had been kept secret from me. I wanted to take out a microscope and re-examine conversations we had, but also found my mind resisting in self-preservation. The foundation of our relationship had been constructed on the lie that we were only dating each other. I had the opportunity to speak with the other woman who he was dating at the same time and how he held her hostage and the police were called when she tried to escape after learning the truth about me.
I wondered if I had known about that instance how different the last years of my life would be. How now I would not be crippled by the debt he put on my credit cards that lowered my credit score, and how every time I get an alert from Airbnb, or bank, or phone, or credit card I am paranoid it is him, doing something. Constant fear amplified by the knowledge his response is, was always- its my fault. There were other stories from other women, and each one crept into my mind and tested the waters on whether or not my body would physically allow the thought to enter fully. I cried and blew my nose onto my shirtsleeve after going through two tiny napkins. I didn’t want the flight attendant to see my face and the waterfalls that were my eyes, so I hesitated to ask for more. Maybe this was all coming out now because I felt safe enough to let it out. Maybe I had reached max emotional capacity and this was now just overflowing. I was upset that I had been in that relationship for almost three years, and I was upset that I found myself unhappy again. But there was no more energy in my body to tear apart the two realities or pain. They existed simultaneously in a grey murky water that filled my heart, each time that I wanted to learn more about why I was feeling the way I was, I would have to enter that water, knee deep and walk around. It hurt. It was scary, and now I was alone.
Arriving into the crisp stark whit Montevideo airport was like a fresh start, with some hiccups. I couldn’t find an uber so I took a cab and was 200 pesos short in cab fare. We drove around looking for ATMs but each one was broke or closed. Finally more exhausted than ever, I got the cash and was dropped off on a desolate looking street. My Airbnb host was unresponsive so I waited outside the gate to her building patiently, hunger gnawing at my insides. The protein cookie that I only reserved for moments like this because otherwise, it was entirely gross, was the perfect food to fill the gap that was stealing my sanity. I knew nothing about Montevideo and whether it was safe, so I nervously scanned the street for information. Since it was Sunday everything was closed and just a handful of people would meander by with infrequency. At this point I half cared and half didn’t. After 45 minutes past and my cell phone was at 7%, I really cared. I messaged Rafael who was still in Brazil at the truck stop. He tried messaging the Airbnb host to no avail, so he tried to find cheap hostels within walking distance.
Soon I was lugging my backpack and carry on down the narrow streets and broken sidewalks to a hostel 15 minutes south. I puffed up my body to seem bigger and put Google map directions in my headphones so I could be led without checking my device. I was chasing the sunset and had no idea what kind of neighborhood this was. After a mild inspection of each passerby for a trace of identity, I couldn’t wash a judgment over the people and the place and was entirely too exhausted in trying. By the time I entered the hostel doors with relief I was covered in sweat and the hunger pangs had returned with fervor. I internally grumbled at all of the familiarities of a hostel, the token guitar, hip music, artsy murals, welcome signs, and knit dream catcher. I didn’t like being mixed in with 10 people to a room, co-ed shower facilities, and constant conversation. That reality was living at the co-working space in Rio, and that would come all too soon. But I couldn’t care anymore; I relaxed into submission of the state of things.
The gentleman who helped at the front desk seemed high which irritated me more. Or maybe it was just an illusion coming from my own frustrations. I heard him drop Portuguese words intermixed with the Spanish we were speaking and then once he saw my shirt it clicked.
“Your shirt oh wow. Thank you for that.” he said in Portuguese
I looked down totally forgetting anything I was wearing, or saying at that point. The plain white tee read in bold print “Lute como una garota”, and apparently spoke volumes to him. It literally translates to “Fight like a girl” but was symbolic of the fight against Bolsonaro who was openly misogynistic as in once telling a female candidate, “Your so ugly you are not even rapeable”. Yup, that is Brazil’s new president. I had purchased it the week before at a street fair in Porto Alegre. It turned out over half the people working and staying at the hostel were Brazilian and reeling from the week’s election results. Before long I was wrapped into a conversation about Brazilian politics and the work I am apart of in Rio at Favela Experience. People had so many questions and the laughter and insight and curiosity was like food itself; nourishing, comforting, warm. I ate baguettes smothered in gruyere and drank fresh squeezed orange juice and spoke with a gentleman doing what I wanted to be doing this whole time- cycling South America. Another young woman was on holidays from Sao Paulo by herself, another from Spain in a bit of a mid-life crisis turned, I don’t want to return to work ever again, moment. Everyone spanned ages making me not feel isolated in my assumption that hostels were for 19-year-old backpackers. I soon forgot my ex, the stories, the grey, the worry, and the darkness. People were the light.
I think one of the most challenging parts of traveling is this lack of community. My heart yearns for community. In Eugene, my job was building and celebrating community, and I would say my strongest asset and deepest desire is to cultivate community. But on the road, those deep-running ties are hard to come by. But I guess easily made. That night I found new friends and who knows if we will talk again, but they fed me what I needed. I didn’t feel so alone in trudging the murky waters. Instead I was dazzled that what I thought was best for me that night, entire isolation, was switched around so radically I found myself being hugged by strangers. Really hugged by God.
God you are miraculous.
