January 11, 2015
I sit here facing this blank screen, scrambling for words, and finding the characters that result from my pressing the keys on this contraption alien and wrong. I keep checking the font to make sure this is how this page is supposed to look. I change it once. Calibri. It looks better, since it’s a font I insist on using constantly, but I still find the process of typing strange. It’s only been 34 days since I’ve opened my Word Processor.
I'm at the gate waiting for my flight to begin boarding. A little girl sits in front of me tan as can be. Her skin, and that of her mother’s beside her, is peeling on her neck, arms, and legs. She’s been having fun in the sun lately. This isn’t relevant only to her. Most of the individuals forming the incessant rush existing on the corridor beside our gate are either red, tan, or in airline uniform.
Or in a doggy bag. There’s an unusual amount of dogs traveling tonight.
A family behind me insists on practicing their English with each other. The youngest, a boy of around 15 years old, has a thick Brazilian accent. The girl, who I presume is his older sister, however, has no accent whatsoever. They talk about their seats on the plane and argue over who gets window and who gets aisle seats.
The name of the little girl sitting in front of me is Cassiana. It’s written on her backpack, which happens to be stuffed to the brim. She has found her iPad and gotten permission from her mother to play a game. Her mother watches her closely, and I, in turn, watch them. Her mother is holding a MEC bag–the traditional brand of true Vancouverites. They get up to go to the bathroom before boarding begins, which is supposed to be soon.
I try to feign concentration on what I am writing, yet I type looking up at the people around me. People probably think I’m typing gibberish.
Maybe I am.
The girl and her mother come back, and Cassiana pulls out two gibis from her backpack pocket. Gibis are Brazilian comic books. They’re very kid friendly, yet grasp older audiences firmly as well. I want to read over her shoulder, but I’m 20 years old, dammit.
There will be babies on this flight. Here at the gate they’re cute, cuddly, and I have to resist asking to hold them for a second or three. They barely resemble the figures on the planes. There they become shadows of the cute little humans they were with blood curdling screams, ear piercing giggles and incessant crying. Incessant until they begin coughing or get out of breath. But right now all I can think of is their sweet baby smell, cooing, innocent drooly grins, and chubby cheeks.
It's raining outside. The drops clash onto the large window panes frantically like salmon trying to jump upstream only to be met with a pane of gravity.
It always, without fail, rains when we leave Brazil.
Our flight begins boarding and we let people rush to get up and secure a spot in line. I'm too tired from the good-byes and a month's vacation to care about getting into the plane.
Vacations can be taxing too, you know.
Dad finishes his phone calls, and we get up to board.
Good-bye my darling country with its darling people...
I will see you in my memories and musings...