As Lao-tzu says, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
I step onto the plane to Brazil-- and the anticipation of months is now starting to release. Brazil is about to become more than a 6-letter word that reminds me of beach parties, beautiful people, screaming fans at the Brazil-US qualifier volleyball tournament I went to during the Beijing Olympics, and nuts.
But first, layover in Mexico City. I am approached by a guy with a black widow perched under his right eye, and patterns on his neck that presumably connect all the way down to the designs on his hands. After a few words of Spanish, I understand he lost his luggage and wants to use my laptop to charge his iPhone...for whatever my gut instinct is worth, I let him, and he sits down in front of me as we wait for red to turn to green. Talk about watching a pot of water boil...perhaps a less antiquated idiom should have something to do with watching a dead iPhone pick up some charge.
He manages to convey he’s a tattoo artist, from Mexico, coming back from a tattoo convention in Colombia-- should he be plugged in to my laptop?-- and I, having no tattoos, limited Spanish, and never having been to Central or South America, am wondering what we have in common to chat about while this pot starts to boil.
Then, I spot it-- we’re the same age. “You are 27 years old?” I ask. He looks surprised. “Sí, sí...how you know?” I point across the table, “1984” is tattooed across four knuckles on his left hand. “Me too,” I say. Surprise again. “You no look,” he says. I know I don’t...but regardless: playing field has been leveled, ice has been broken. He then begins to explain all his tattoos, one for his daughter, his hometown...and “PERLA, who is that?” I ask. “My girl,” he says, “No anymore,” he quickly adds, and shows how he plans to cover it up with another design.
As it turns out, we’re not only both the year of the Rat, but he also has something I need-- internet connection. He lets me send my “I made my flight” email from his still-red-but-getting-ever-closer-to-green iPhone. Thank god, contact! Perla texts while I’m in the middle of it. Oh well, it takes two to tango, I guess.
iPhone turns to green and my flight is boarding so I’m off to São Paulo-- we exchange a handshake, “Good bye, Alessandro,” I say. “Call me Myth,” he says. We smile, and I’m off.
