Coming back to Toronto feels a little like smacking my face on the pavement. I had the impression that going on this trip would expel all feelings of restlessness in Toronto. I am a little worried that the trip has made me even MORE restless in Toronto.

When I told my Mother last year that I had bought tickets to Brazil, she rolled her eyes and asked me when I would stop taking these types of trips. They make her anxious and inspire a myriad of passive-aggressive/dramatic remarks. One afternoon after getting back from Colombia, she offered us coffee by saying:

“We have coffee from Colombia that someone risked their life to get.”

And in a group chat with my family while traveling in Colombia:

Me: I’m going to the city centre today.

My Dad: Make sure you hold onto your purse!

My Mom: Make sure you hold onto your life!

And then last year:

‘Where are you going next? Syria?” 

I should maybe mention that getting digs on each other is my family’s love language. My Mother usually shoots from the hip in her cool, calm, Scandinavian way. She’s like 15% joking.

Leaving Brazil was literally harder than expected. The Uber driver had already taken 45 minutes longer than expected when he turned onto a winding road. It was the kind of road that clearly wasn’t meant for casual driving, let alone airport drop offs. Feeling anxious, I chalked it up to a short-cut. Somehow I found it within myself to explain away the spiking obstacles my driver had to navigate around like he was taking his drivers ed test on an American TV Show or maybe more accurately: in a post-apocalyptic world. We then casually drove up to a military base, because of course, my flight is in only leaving in an hour and a half.

The driver asked a man with a very big gun a question, then turned back to me and asked another question. I caught one word: embarque: boarding.

‘Terminal três!’  I say in my most gringo, white girl accent. He tilts his head, confused.

‘Terminal três!’ I try again, but this time in my most offensive, trying-to-sound-Portuguese accent.

Still no movement.

Surely he doesn’t think that I would like to board my plane at these military grounds. He can’t be that dumb?

I check the time, trying to will it to stand still. My stomach drops as I see that I have an hour and 20 minutes left until my flight leaves. I start frantically pointing to my wrist ‘Três! Três! Três!….uhhh…Terminal! No time!’. 

He seems to reluctantly start the car up and reverse.

‘Terminal três?’ 

‘SIM!’

As we drive along the highway, I start to wonder about his memory.

A sign for Terminal 1 appears. He casually says:

‘Terminal um?’

I say excitedly:  ‘Terminal três!’

‘Ahhhh’

A little further down the road we see a sign for Terminal 2:

‘Terminal dois?’

‘Não! Terminal três!’

‘Ahhhh’

When we finally see a sign for Terminal 3 and  he predictably asks:

‘Terminal três?’

I want to say: are you kidding me?! There are no other terminals, AND besides that, I have only reinforced this information about 16 times. But what is the point? He would never understand me anyway.

But then I sit here today thinking, maybe he wasn’t asking where I wanted to board, but if I wanted to board at all. If it wasn’t for the fact that my Mother felt so anxious about me being in Brazil, I would have stayed much longer. I would have loved to travel down to Florianopolis like so many others did after São Paulo. I miss the mountains, the ocean and most of all, my freedom. It’s certainly not the first time I have misinterpreted a question while in Brazil.

A nice thought, isn’t it? But this time there is no question. He is just dumb.

Self-soothing brought to you today by:

Claude Debussy – Clair de Lune