Tchauzinho, Brazil

I never thought that I would ever reach a point where I would say, “Enough! I want to be in the United States right now.”

At least, that was until I missed my flight on July 6, 2009.

And no, before you jump to any crazy conclusions, it wasn’t because I had arrived at the airport at the last minute. Quite the contrary. I was all checked-in and ready to go. With my Brazilian roommate, Felipe, and two other guys that had taken part in the exchange program at PUC-Rio in tow, one of whom would be boarding the same flight as I would, I felt as though nothing could break my stride.

And then came the fiasco with the Federal Police.

Since it had been more than one year and five days since I had first entered Brazil, and my student visa only was valid for one year, I was obligated to pay an overstay fee. But this was common knowledge and, as I had known this ahead of time, I had already advised the United Airlines personnel of my situation and was informed of how things would proceed when it came time for me to board my plane. I thought that I was in the clear. Within less than twenty-four hours, I would be home.

But then, the events that occurred next would quickly remind me that I had not quite made it to the United States just yet and that, even after more than a year in Brazil, inevitably I was still, and always would be, a foreigner. Albeit my goodbye with Felipe and the others was a bit prolonged, I still arrived in the boarding line with what seemed like adequate time to catch the plane. But, to my bad luck, from the time that I had checked in my luggage to the time that I had entered this line, a new Federal Police worker had taken over the shift, and was not too happy about it at all.

Begrudgingly, he set about the task of printing out my fine, collecting the necessary signatures, and stamping my passport. Being the resmungão that he was, he did not go about this in a silent, under-his-breath kind of manner. Oh no, he was upset and wanted the whole world to know. Seeing that his conduct was putting my situation in jeopardy, the United Airlines staff tried to intervene, urging the worker to speed up the process. “Eu sou a única pessoa trabalhando aqui. Não vou me esquentar a cabeça, não.” With those words, my heart fell into some unreachable corner of my stomach. “Wow, he does not want to help me out one bit.” But, through my experience here, I knew that it was unwise to open my mouth and complain. That’s not the way things work in Brazil, at least, not with bureaucratic affairs. In most cases, your chances of fulfilling your objectives not only depend on your credentials and preparedness, but also on the mood of the person seated on the other side of the glass window. If you don’t believe me, then you can ask any of the many Brazilians who were denied visas to visit countries just because the person that interviewed them (yes, Brazilians must schedule full interviews in order to be able to travel abroad) didn’t like something about them. So, in other words, the angry American mode was just not a feasible option at that moment.

Long story short, by the time I had passed the metal detector, it was already too late. I felt like I could have blacked out, not quite in rage, but rather, an extreme mixture of profound disappointment and utter confusion. I felt like I had reached my wits end. “Sir, please don’t shake; there’s nothing you can do. You’ll have to catch a flight tomorrow,” said the United Airlines attendant in English, in an attempt to soothe my frazzled state. “Amanhã? Mas eu preciso voltar para casa hoje. Pelo amor de Deus, dá um jeito!” It was the first time that I had seriously used the commonly-used expression “for the love of God” in Portuguese, but I had used it in the American sense of the expression: I was in dire straits, but there was no measure of Brazilian jeitinho, or ingenuity, that could get me on a flight back to Buffalo.

“Desculpa, mas não tem jeito,” she replied. There was no other way; nothing could be done. In addition to having to pay a hefty fee, I wouldn’t be able to leave until Friday. Four more days in Brazil.

But, initially, this did not bring me much consolation. I had been ready to go then. Favorite places had been visited, goodbyes had been said, and tears had been shed. Now what was I to do? Do it all over again?

My last few weeks in Brazil went by in a whirlwind, accentuated with mirth, marred by final exams, and shrouded in reflection. I found myself counting the days and then, ironically, asking myself why I was doing so. For what? What would await me in the United States? As I sit on the floor of Dulles International Airport, clattering away at my laptop as I wait for my connecting flight to New York City, I repeat this question to myself, but this time, in the present tense. What awaits me here?

Here I am, in my most favorite city of all, and yet my heart did not leap like it normally does when the plane touched ground. People look unfamiliar. The geography of the land is different: no ocean, no Mata Atlântica, no Sugarloaf mountains… It’s significantly hotter in DC than it was in Rio when I had left.. but that’s normal, right? Things have always been like this.

I am the one who has changed.