Folsom Prison Festa

I heard the door bell ringing. It was time to go. My friend Timoteo had come to give me a ride to a birthday party his band was playing at. I'm not going to lie, I was a tad bit nervous. I didn't know what to expect.I mean, don't get me wrong, I am a crazy party animal. For those who know me, they know I can't even type that with a straight face. I am an introvert to the extreme. I opened the door to find Timoteo, his guitar player Lucas, another man I'm going to affectionately refer to as drummer dude, and a 65' bug. Timoteo told me it was a classic. I thought it was a slow moving metal death trap. All five of us crammed into the little bug. Drummer dude spoke some spanish so we got along quite well. It is weird that I never asked his name. We arrived at a large house to set for their show. Outside the gate there was a guard who came and looked in our car. He then pressed a button that lifted a large iron wrought gate so that we could drive in. The walls were ten feet high with two feet of electric fence on top of that. I knew I would be the only one there who could speak english. I contemplated an escape route. My plan, had it been carried out, would've made Jason Bourne look like a rookie. I was going to pole vault over the twelve foot fence. There were only two limitations to the first plan: one, I didn't have a long pole with which to vault, two, I never actually learned how to pole vault. How hard could it be? Have you ever visited a friend in a different city? You know how awkward it is when you go to a party with them to meet all his friends? Well this was kind of like that on steroids. Not only did I not know anyone, but I also couldn't communicate with them due to obvious limitations. All I could do was sit and stare. We arrived at 8:15 so that the band could set up. People didn't arrive until nine. I sat and watch the hostess place bowls of apples floating in water. I thought to myself, "Alright, I can bob for some apples." Then she lit several candles and set them floating in the bowls. Then I thought to myself, "What an intense game of bobbing for apples." Sadly, no one attempted the feat. People arrived and the band started playing. I sat alone until two ladies around my age came and sat next to me. They introduced themselves and we began chatting. Yes, I said chatting. My portuguese has improved to the point where I can hold a decent conversation with some people. We discussed school, future plans, and how difficult Portuguese is. Their names were Larissa and Jessica, and we had a wonderful time. After the band stopped playing they came down and sat with us. We ate. We laughed. What was once a place I was devising suicidal escape plans had now become a place of, dare I say, merriment? We discussed music and what American bands they liked. The lead singer of the band had to have been around 25. He told me his favorites were Metallica and Justin Bieber. You should just stew over that for a moment. Their favorites ranged from Beyonce to Lady Gaga. It wasn't much of a stretch. How sad is it that the only music they know from America is all terrible. The air was wrought with cheap wine (I don't actually know if it was cheap it just sounds good as far as writing goes). The beer, wine, and other assorted drinks flowed like that waters of falls iguazu. Sorry to disappoint my friends, but no I didn't have any. The band got up and played some more. As the evening progressed more and more people began to dance. It was hysterical. One such woman had to be in her sixties, but I'll give it to her. She could move to the rhythm. The party, or festa, lasted until 2:00 am. I arrived home around 2:30 to find Zanatta and Leila still up watching television. I felt bad because I thought they were waiting up for me. They continued to watch for another hour. At least I think so; I was asleep before they stopped. I didn't feel so bad after that. Te night began with me dreading the unavoidable awkward situation I was going to be thrust in, but it ended with several new friends, better portuguese, and some images of elderly woman moving and grooving.

Out of the Silent Slumber

I left the glorious country of the United States of America at 8:30 p.m. on June 14. Originally I was supposed to leave at 7:50, but they stewardess said they forgot to clean the plane, and we were delayed for forty minutes. Yes, they simply forgot to clean, and we were forced to wait as they tidies up. The plan, according to my itinerary, was to arrive in Sao Paulo, hop on a bus for and hour and a half, and then jump on a plane at 1 p.m. to my final destination Campo Grande. However, if there's one thing that I've learned from my limited experience as an international traveler it's that nothing ever goes to plan. I have been blessed by God with a rare talent to sleep wherever, whenever, and in whatever situation i may be presented with. Utilizing this innate ability, I watched a couple movies on the plane and then slept the rest of the night. I woke up to a food cart smashing into my elbow. It was quite painful, but I didn't blame the stewardess she was up late cleaning. I enjoyed a rather stale croissant that came from the cart that struck my poor elbow. When I say enjoy, I mean I forced it down my throat because I knew that I wouldn't be eating for quite a while. About an hour later the pilot came on the PA and announced in the most monotone voice I may have ever heard that there was too much fog on the ground and we would have to circle the runway for 40 minutes and wait for it to clear up. I'm not sure if it was the monotone voice, my innate ability to sleep anywhere and anytime, or a combination of the two, but I decided to sleep for the duration of the rest of the flight. I glanced at my ipod to check the time. It was 9:00 when we began to circle. Even with the fog delay and the hour and a half bus ride I had no doubt that I could make my flight at one. I was thrust abruptly back into consciousness by the screeching of tires against pavement as the plane landed back on the ground. I glanced again at the clock. It was 10:30. I still believed I was doing alright on time, depending on how bad customs was. The same dreary voice came on the loudspeaker. "Ladies and gentlemen it's about 10:30 in the morning. We are taxiing up to the gate as we speak. Thanks for flying American Airlines and welcome to Rio de Janeiro." My heart dropped a couple feet into my bowels at that moment. I was supposed to be in Sao Paulo, not Rio. Apparently, I'd slept through an announcement that enlightened the rest of the plane that the fog was not clearing up and we had to land in Rio de Janeiro. We were delayed there for a couple hours. My hopes of making my flight home were dashed against the rocks. I was lost abroad. We took off again and went back to Sao Paulo. I ran through the airport desperately trying to make it through customs so that I could find another flight into Campo. Luckily they were waiting to give us vouchers for another flight right in front of customs. Unluckily those who were staying in Sao Paulo, which was basically the rest of the plane, went ahead to get in line. With a voucher in my hand and three people behind me in a line of people that had just recently filled a large plane, I waited in the queue with little hope. My flight was in less than an hour. They asked me no questions at the counter and I sprinted away to get my checked bag. I grabbed it from a pile of backs that had been knocked off the conveyor belt and Jetted off to recheck in. The line was, yet again, excessively long. Yet a still small voice rose above the roar of the crowd. "Campo Grande?" A young employee of TAM airlines pushed me to the front of the line. I check my bag and rushed off to security. I easily flew through and found my gate. I arrived as the last people were boarding. I sate down in my seat and realized a flaw in my stroke of luck. The family waiting for me in Campo had no idea that i would be arriving at 4:00 rather than 1:40. When we touched down I met a girl from the states who spoke Portuguese and had a Brazilian boyfriend with a cell phone. We called the family and they translated for me because the family that I'm staying with doesn't speak English. They were on their way to pick me up. I sat in the airports one restaurant shouting at the television with 50 other people as we watched Brazil go on and defeat North Korea in a 2 to 1 victory. Its nearly 5 hours later and the celebration in the streets have yet to stop. I suppose I can take one thing away from this panic ensuing, traveler's experience. I will never again go back to sleep if there is fog on the ground.

Starting Out

Those who know me understand that I am absolutely obsessed with the idea of story. I firmly believe that everything important that I've ever learned in my entire life was in the form of a story. Stories have always been a passion of mine whether it be writing a mediocre tale that no one will ever read for fear of embarrassment, enjoying masterfully written novel that grips me by the throat and doesn't let go until the last page, or simply listening to simple anecdotes from friends and family. This summer I"m spending seven weeks by myself in Brazil. I'll be living with a family that speaks almost no English. I know even less Portuguese. I'm a nineteen year old college student who is in way over his head. I've decided to devote these few weeks to living out one great story. This blog is devoted to documenting my experiences as they come. Several stories may come out of this experience, but I want just one that leaves people with their jaws dropped in disbelief. This story may be funny, scary, spiritual, or any combination thereof. Come what my, this is my pledge: that I will not shy away from any experience because, hey, it'll make a great story.