The Last Maracuja...

I thought I could use refreshment at this point, seeing as my fingers were anxiously tapping the seat next to me. I took a stroll around the food court area and realized that I wanted something cold rather than a drink. I had an awful case of dry mouth in my throat which I was attributing to the gallons of salt water that had entered my mouth earlier that morning. The last food booth had some ice cream bars in it, and the sight of the frozen maracuja fruit bar almost allowed some saliva to form in my Sahara Desertish mouth. I paid the woman for the treat and finished it before I could even find a trash receptacle to dispose of the wrapper. The taste of the passion fruit left me wanting more, so after I passed through security and reached my gate my eyes darted around the crowded room for a vending machine or juice bar of some sort.

There I saw it, standing out like an oasis in the midst of sand and burnt brush, a coffee stand with juice. I wandered over to it and asked for a maracuja juice. They woman spattered something in rocketesque Portuguese and I saw that she was pointing to two different size glasses. At this point I had come to the assumption that my plane was leaving, which later proved false, and I didn't have time for her to go through the process of making a fresh juice for me. I asked for whatever she had in a bottle, which turned out to be a horrible combination of acerola and tangerine. I was not too distraught over the fact that I hadn't sipped the sweet Brazilian nectar due to the fact I was flying TAM airlines. I figured that a Brazilian airline would certainly offer maracuja juice as its headline beverage on the refreshment cart.

I learned that the people going through this gate were leaving for somewhere else, and I waited my turn to board. When my flight began to board I noticed something peculiar. There were four gates (A, B, C, and D). These gates all led into the same hallway which had four airplane ports (1, 2, 3, and 4). This meant that anybody who bought a ticket could change there mind and fly somewhere completely different and not even worry the least bit about being caught, unless the flight was sold out. What a ridiculous scheme!

My seat was in the back of the aircraft that was brought strait back from the 80s. I took a seat across the aisle from a man. After realizing that my cushion was broken, he began going through all these hand motions of what I should do while speaking in English. I played a long for a little while and then once I had resolved my problem I took a seat and asked him in perfect English where he was from. He spoke slowly as if I needed to read each syllable escaping his lips as he said, "The Un-ite-ed Sta-tes." I responded "Cool, me too", only to be met with an expression that screamed "other American's travel to Brazil?"

He began talking to me and I soon learned his name was Josh. After two hours of him conversing with me about what he was doing in Brazil, and what I was doing in Brazil, yadda yadda yadda...I began to wonder if this man could possibly be batting for the other team, and I don't mean the New York Yankees. He was very nice, and I remained polite even when aspects of the conversation got a little awkward for a young fellow like me. The beverage cart slowly made its way through the plane. When it reached my aisle I asked for a maracuja. The flight attendant looked at me oddly and held up a diet coke. No, "mar-a-cuj-a" I responded. A different liquid was waved in front of my face. "Juice," I said. "Ah," he smiled as he waved a container of OJ for my annoyed eyes to see. Finally I responded "Diet Coke please". Apparently I had had my last maracuja in the form of a frozen fruit bar.

Our plane landed and Josh and I went our separate ways. I checked in with the Continental desk and learned a very valuable lesson, if you aren’t fluent in a language don't try to speak it to an airport concierge. He asked me how I was doing and I said "good" in Portuguese, which loosened his tongue faster than you can say the word "pickle". Like a spitfire shooting the enemy out of the sky, he rattled off 10 questions to me in Portuguese before I had the chance to blink. "What" I said in English. He smiled and then started from the beginning only this time, he used my native tongue. I waited in the lines for customs and the international police before arriving at my gate in time to board the plane. I took my seat next to an elderly woman who was closely clutching her purse as if she were routinely seated next to hooligans. I smiled as I scooted past her and plopped down into the window seat. She never smiled back. I thought to myself that this was going to be a long flight...