IN THE AIR
I still marvel that I can be in Asheville at 4:40 p.m., then in Miami at 6:30 as I walked what seemed like miles in the airport to get my plastic water bottle filled (which I didn‘t drink until I gulped it in the security line eight hours later in Sao Paulo) where I was the last in line to get on the flight, then slept fitfully as the plane bounced down a bumpy road all night long, then had breakfast in Sao Paula after walking at least a mile from terminal 3 to terminal 2 and then I was in Montevideo at noon. Most of the time I sat comfortably and slept and then, miraculously, I was in Montevideo.
But I met some people along the way. The first person was an unmarried carpenter of about 60 who owned and remodeled homes in Ithaca, New York where he had a farm where he rescued abused or hurt animals, another house in Montford in Asheville and then rental properities and a big Spanish style house in Miami Beach. He apparently is in flight constantly from one home to another fixing things up. It was cheaper to fly from Asheville to Ithaca by way of Miami then to fly to Ithaca directly and he was only going to spend a day in Miami before flying to Ithaca. He did most of the talking with story after story. He showed me photos of before and after of the homes in all three places. His plan is to sell the homes in Ithaca and Miami Beach and to retire in Asheville. He also showed me a photo of a crimson Jeep Wrangler (I may have gotten the name wrong) that his mother, a New York nurse, had loved, which he had sold. But when she died of cancer in 2012 he traced the car‘s identification number, found it almost trashed, and then completely restored it in honor of his mother. How he afforded all of this as a carpenter I didn‘t ask. He did all his elaborate restoration work himself with no help. He showed me beautiful wooden railings and cabinets he‘d made. But I think he was more an entrepreneur than a carpenter, and a wonderful talker.
On the flight from Miami to Sao Paolo I exchanged seats with a man who wanted to sleep leaned against the window and I wanted to be one seat closer to the bathroom. The woman who had the aisle seat had a bum leg, I think, and wouldn‘t shift. (The request was by the man with the woman in Portuguese.) The man told me his story. He was worked in financial services in Miami where he lived with his family. For years he made this 8 hour round trip flight from Miami and back every weekend to visit his parents. Now he only does it every other month or so. He was in the air, a seasoned traveler, as much as the carpenter was while flying between his properties. (My only other flight to Miami years and years ago I sat next to a man who flew down to Miami from Asheville, attended the horse races at a nearby race track (Hialeah?) and then flew right back home the same day. There must be something weird about Miami.) The guy flying to Sao Paolo took his sleeping pill, skipped dinner and breakfast, slept for eight hours straight and woke up rested.
I was not rested when arriving in Sao Paulo but there was also no jet lag when flying straight south. By the time I had walked forever to Terminal 2 I discovered I had no gate listed and couldn‘t find a board with gate listings so I decided to have breakfast.
I passed up Starbucks. For my one visit to Brazil I wasn‘t going to have breakfast at Starbucks. I wanted something Brazilian, and I got it in the Cafe do Centro where they couldn‘t find their English Menu so I ordered in Portuguese, a picture with the word completo which consisted of a cup of milk coffee, mostly milk, and three small pastries. This is what everyone else was having so I figured it was a crowd favorite and what everyone in Brazil had for breakfast. The tiny pastries were very elegant. I am including a photo. Two were almost tasteless, dusted with sugar, with a sour filling and the third was chocolate fudge with a gooey center.
This is all I know about Brazil. It consists of miles of empty corridors and a gooey breakfast. I‘ll never tell anyone that I have been to Brazil.
On the third flight I sat next to a gentleman with an elegant orange coat. But I fell asleep and we didn‘t talk. But then we met again in the airport immigration line for Americans and I was next to him and figured he must speak English so spoke to him. By the time we got to the booths at the end of a short line Gabriel and I were friends. He and his wife run a pasta business in Del Ray Beach. I thought he was only going to show me where to get the bus to town. But soon he had piled my luggage on his cart, used my passport to buy extra whisky beyond the legal duty free limit (he paid) and he was introducing me to the man who came in a van to pick him up as his amigo. He put me in the front seat, and sat in the back of the van on the floor with the luggage and regaled me with descriptions of Uruguay (it was his second visit in 24 years). When we got to my street, which I am guessing was way out of his way, I was on a pedestrian street so he left the car and driver and carried my bag to my apartment house and then exchanged phone numbers so that we could get together again. That is how I found my way to my Airbnb in Montevideo. I had wondered how I would manage the connection.
I was met at my beautiful apartment on the fifth floor of the most elegant building on the street by Pedro, who told me how to get around, where to buy groceries, where to eat and how to manage life in my apartment.
Then I was off to exchange money. The first ATM rejected my Bank of America Visa Debit card. I was directed to a second bank where the machine clearly showed me that would have a service charge of $235 in order to get $200 worth of pesos. I asked at the counter and it turned out that it was $6, 235 pesos with a dollar sign in front of it.
Then I explored my street, Sarendi. But I will process the photographs and describe it tomorrow (actually yesterday, these posts are out of order and it is too complicated to change them).
BILLYBABA’S WANDERING 