Back to where it all started

On the eve of my return to the Beloved Country, I’ve been thinking a great deal about the last 5 years of my life.

Over five years ago, I started to plan for my first trip to Brazil. Though I had dabbled in international vacations (London, Paris, Mexico, Canada), my time in São Paulo would be far from anything I had ever envisioned. I remember that flight well–one of my first plane rides on my own and the longest by far of my life.  I felt as if I was leaving for the weekend and as if it were for the rest of my life.

I didn’t know any Portuguese or anyone at all in Brazil for that matter. I had no notion of what a city of 20+ million would feel like or what the stark realities of favela living would call to my attention. I had no idea of how lonely you could feel in a place where relationships were measured in months I’d known someone. Nor the extent to which trying to communicate, take classes and make friends simultaneously in a language I’d never spoken before would frustrate me.  I couldn’t begin to understand how tired, emotional, and stressed, I would be after 6 months imitating o jeitinho brasileiro.  How raw I’d feel. How ready I would be to see familiar places, hug my friends and family or even walk into Target.

I could never have imagined how easy it would be to fall in love with a country where I had neither roots nor heritage.  What it would feel like to be at home in a completely foreign place. Or that I could feel like a piece of my soul was being ripped out when I had to return back to a tiny undergraduate campus of 1600 in Memphis. I had no idea that my time in São Paulo would point me to exactly what I wanted to do with me life. That my thirst for adventure would be permanently piqued.  Or that in spite of significant travel experience post-Brazil, I would continue to reference my time there as a turning point in my life. It would continue to be the best place I’ve ever been. I could have never believed that 6 short months would be enough to change the way I thought, felt, acted and dreamed or that I would ache with saudades for language, food and culture that weren’t really my own.

These are things I have trouble talking about when I return home from abroad. Still. Even though it’s gotten easier and clearer, I still find I’m at a loss for words. People often ask about your “trip” or “experience” when you arrive, with the best and most earnest intentions of hearing your stories and sharing in your emotions, but I’ve never found a way to satisfactorily answer those questions. For me. For them. For anybody.  Living abroad, especially coming from the West and living outside of the West, is one of those difficult to fully encapsulate kind of stories.  I imagine much like giving birth or fighting in a war–thousands have tried to tell their tales over centuries, to perfect the art of sharing the experience, but the only real way of understanding is to do it yourself.

If someone would have told me before I boarded that plane to São Paulo over the course of the next 5 years I would visit over 20 countries across 5 continents, I would have laughed. Outloud. What an absurd idea. But I did and Brazil started it all.

Wish me luck on my return to the place where it all started. I’m feeling those jitters one only experiences after being separated from a love for sometime.   Will we still have enough to talk about it? Will he still think I’m pretty? Are we still sure about this? I guess we’ll find out.

In the meantime, I promise to continue perfecting my art of storytelling…até pronto.