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Stranded in Sao Paulo

The bus bounced and jostled us through the night. Over the speakers, we heard what sounded like a news report. I could tell the broadcaster was talking about the strike, but I told David I couldn’t make out the details. Wait ... did he just say the strike was over?

A guy riding with us confirmed the report with a shrug, as if to say, “Welcome to Brazil.”

Once ensconced at the hotel, David offered to buy a few rounds at the bar. It was empty save for the suited bartender. That was just fine by us—a rowdy party scene would not do.

David and I had said very little during the bus ride over, doubtlessly because he, like me, needed some head-clearing quiet time after the madness we’d endured. But the beers opened us up to parse the latest development and we agonized further over our predicament.

Who goes on strike for a few hours? How do you resolve a strike in that amount of time? When will we be getting home?

The talk served as a way to ease the strain. Of course, the beer helped, too, but so did knowing that, however much ahead remained unknown, at least we wouldn’t be alone.

Wobbly with booze, we headed up to our hotel room. David ordered more beer and we continued griping until well past midnight, when he decided to turn in.

I lay in bed sipping my beer and staring at the TV’s flickering light. It occurred to me that emergencies compress time, especially when traveling alone. They cut out all the fat that rings our relationships under normal circumstances, and lead us straight to the bare bones: Can we help each other, or not?

The next morning we learned that the airline had set us up at another hotel, from which, over the next three days, we shuttled back and forth to the airport in an attempt to secure a flight home. We lived in limbo, unsure when we’d get back to the States, waiting.

During this interminable process, David bought us cigarettes and drinks. Nicotine and alcohol spiked with anxiety powered the engine of our relationship. Another aggravating factor existed, too: his wife and my girlfriend, both of whom were not happy that we were stranded.

This topic served as the tree from which of our angst-and-beer-fueled discussions branched out. He told me about how he’d moved to Germany after medical school. About how he’d met his German wife. About his German-speaking kids. About his house in the Arizona suburbs.

I told him about my life as a grad student. About living in Vegas. About my girlfriend, who was really freaking pissed that I wasn’t home yet after two months abroad. David’s wife wasn’t freaking out, but she was bitching for other reasons, as though he had any control over the matter. That’s why, Kevin, you should love them, live with them, but never marry them.

David and I weren’t friends—we were brothers-in-arms.

Eventually, I got a hold of my father, who dropped some money into my account; and, eventually, David and I snagged a flight home. 

As we were checking out of the hotel, David overheard the clerk give the amount I owed in long-distance charges. Wordlessly, he offered me his credit card. Thanks to my father, I was able to pay my bill and David knew it, but he extended his card anyway, as if it were his duty.

I didn’t say how touched I was at his continued generosity, but I think it was understood. When you know someone well, the silences are often packed with just as much meaning as the words.

David and I didn’t speak for a long time after we parted ways at the airport in Dallas on our way back, finally, to our respective homes. Like me, he was doubtlessly readjusting to his world and confronting “real” life’s quotidian pressures, which were waiting for me, at least, like a stalker.

And then, unexpectedly, on the one-year anniversary of our ordeal, I received an email from him that managed, through a curious mixture of surfer-like jive, ironic posturing and a spray of exclamation points, to capture the absurdities and frustrations of those few days trapped together:

“Dude
Where you at?
I’m stuck in Sao Paulo !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Help !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Later
David”

That’s right: With time and distance separating us from the strike and Sao Paulo, David and I could finally laugh about what had once driven us both crazy and close—as friends so often do.

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Photos Courtesy:  REUTERS  |  iStockPhoto  |  flickr  

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