As I stood in front of an empty check-in desk at Rio’s Galeão airport, due to the extended disappearance of the airline representative who had failed to inform me that she would be taking her dinner break sometime between asking me for my passport and handing me my boarding pass, I came to pass some rather harsh judgments on certain aspects of Brazilian culture. For the bulk of my time in Brazil, I was able to live rather self-sufficiently, and thus did not have to deal with the lax adherence to schedules characteristic of the country. My final day, though, began with my landlady showing up 90 minutes late to view my apartment and reimburse me for my rent deposit, followed closely by the cab company forgetting to take me to the airport because the power had gone out at their headquarters. After finally arriving at the airport and waiting for an hour to check in for my London flight, the lady who had begun checking me in decided to play hide-and-seek. I was stressed and exhausted. 

After about 15 minutes of clerklessness, I turned to the representative at the desk next to me and asked him if he knew where she had gone. He said he did not, but did assure me that “he knew she would be right back,” as he flashed a condescending smile. I wanted to hit him. After another 10 minutes, I caught sight of her running around all of the desks except her own, actively avoiding eye contact with me. She eventually calmed down and returned to the desk, only to inform me that there was a problem with my flight, and that I would need to go to a special room. She led me to a small, windowless room and sat me down with my bags. The whole experience was not unlike the many hours I spent in “time-out” as a youth, except this time I was being sentenced by an airline, rather than my mother, and I did not even have the pleasure of doing something inappropriate to deserve it.

There were a few fellow travelers who had been quarantined along with me. Our discussions led us to understand that Tam, the Brazilian airline we were flying, had overbooked the London flight, and that we were the victims. One fellow asked if it would be possible to fly business class, to which the gentleman beside me, named Augusto, responded that he was supposed to be flying business class anyway. Things were looking grim. Not long after our discussion, though, Augusto was tapped. The process involved a single, shifty-looking Tam representative entering our den of the oppressed, looking around nervously and then motioning for Augusto to follow him out of the room. Soon afterwards, another representative entered the room asking for me. I followed him back into the terminal, and let him explain why I was being removed from the plane in broken English (“There was very big plane. Now it has gotten small. Small plane has not enough seat-places. We are sorry.”) My mother’s interactions with service-personnel have taught me a thing or two, and I firmly told the gentleman that I bought my ticket approximately a long time ago, and that I wanted, nay, needed, to get to London. The rep looked down and fumbled with his papers before leading me back to my seat. 

A few minutes later, I was invited back out and told that they do, in fact, have a seat for me. I had passed the angry customer test. I boarded the plane that night, after purchasing my dinner, which consisted of granola bar, a bread-covered cheeseball and a bottle of water. I then promptly fell asleep for the duration of the hour-long flight to São Paulo.

As I was collecting my luggage from the hold above my seat, I caught sight of Augusto, and we exchanged congratulations for making it airborne. He saw my mandolin, and we started discussing Brazilian music. I learned that he plays MPB (popular Brazilian music, or Música Popular Brasileira) on his guitar in his spare time, and is an engineer by trade. We continued speaking all the way to the gate. Upon reading that our flight was delayed by at least 3 hours, Augusto suggested I try to get in to the Business Class Lounge with him, as sometimes friends are allowed in. I thought this was a terrific idea. I made it through without a hitch, grabbing a handful of toffees and flashing a thumbs-up to guy behind the desk as I passed by. 

As I entered the actual lounge, however, it was immediately apparent to me that I was wildly out of place. The establishment was filled with fair-skinned men and women over the age of thirty, dressed in business suits and ironed button-down shirts. I, on the other hand, was as disheveled as ever, clad in a dirty hooded sweatshirt and jeans, with unruly black curls splaying out from under my navy skullcap. I greeted their looks of surprise with enthusiastic nods, and then dropped into a chair and observed my surroundings. There were gaudy, white and black zebra-striped chairs, crocodile-skin footrests, leather futons, and, to my great delight, a minibar. I headed straight for the food, and found an assortment of delicious little pastries, as well as sandwiches with brie, sundried tomatoes and prosciutto.

I spent the bulk of my time either eating or using the free internet to watch YouTube videos. Life was good. At one point, I gathered the courage to approach the well-stocked liquor cabinet. After some deliberation, I decided on cognac. I usually don’t drink hard alcohol, but cognac felt appropriate. I poured a generous little glass for myself, and then settled down in my zebra chair, just in time for a show. It had been a few hours, and the airlines was starting to play the “only one more hour” game.

I had seen this game played many times, but only with fellow coach-class passengers. Things are different in the Business Class Lounge. Rather being allowed to maintain a distance, or escape into the safety of the off-limits walkway, the airline personnel in the BCL have nowhere to hide. Additionally, I think coach class passengers tend to be more likely to relate to the sad state of the personnel delivering the unfortunate news of the delay, realizing that the kink is probably further up in the line of command and that demonstrating against the gate attendants would do little good. Such is not the case in the Business Class Lounge. As I sat down to sip my cognac, a fellow passenger was beginning to incite protest. “They don’t respect us!” he first cried in Portuguese. I took a sip. “They don’t respect us!” he repeated in English, for the benefit of the foreign travelers. I looked to the personnel. Rather than making any move to calm the man or assuage his anger, they instead just looked blankly ahead, as the passenger berated and criticized them collectively, gathering a bit of a crowd. About half an hour later, we were allowed to board the plane. I have no doubt the vociferous passenger truly believed that he had bullied the lounge attendants, the same people who refill the toffee jar, into getting the plane fixed up more quickly for him. I hope to have that kind of faith when I grow up as well.

My time in England was spent visiting family and old friends around London and Cambridge. England, more specifically Oxford and Cambridge, has taken on a revitalizing, almost cathartic role in my year, as it has been where I have stopped to transition between each country move. It was a great break, and five days later I stepped into Heathrow airport to begin my journey to Istanbul. I arrived in Istanbul on the 5th of April, and was picked up at the airport by Eric Phillips, a close friend from Williams who is currently studying abroad in the city. Eric was kind enough to let me store my junk at his place, so I was able to head to my hostel in Sultanahmet (the part of the city containing the Hagia Sophia and most of the rest of the Istanbul featured on postcards) with no strings attached. The next day, my baby brother Aroop arrived with several friends from Williams and beyond. Revelry ensued. Stories are coming soon.

Much love,

Auyon