The first day.

I’m here. I’ve arrived. And it at once feels so familiar and yet so strange. The first leg of my flight, to North Carolina, was straight out of a short story by David Sedaris. I sat next to a wonderful, but broken woman whose husband separated from her two weeks prior to embarking on a lavish, all inclusive cruise that they had been planning for over a year. So there I was, munching on my one carrot because I felt so guilty eating my delicious home cooked Indian snacks in front of someone who probably couldn’t even fathom eating, let alone something rich and sweet like a ladoo, when she turned over to me and asked me for my thoughts on life. Me? Thoughts on life? I directed her to read Eat, Pray, Love. All my guidance for helping single middle-aged women find solace comes from that book. It’s my only experience on the matter.

Regardless, I was able to feign sleep when she went to use the restroom, was relieved of my duties as a free psychologist-slash-counselor-cum-life coach, and took a catnap until Charlotte.

The second leg of my flight was much more painless, as I sat with a 19 year old Brazilian expat—who currently lives in NJ. As I ogled over the three-year-olds that were passed via crowd surfing from one family member to the next, plugged my years at the endless times the flight attendant asked everyone (including you, man from Belo Horizonte who feels the need to walk the length of the plane as we’re mid-take-off), the young man informed me on his life mixed between Brazil and the US. It was interesting, and quite a charming and relatable story.

Nearly 10 hours later, I arrived. Past customs, past the drive from GIG through Centro, Flamengo, and Botafogo, I’ve arrived at my temporary housing set-up in Copacabana. It’s a very cute layout, and my research advisor and apartment-mate both seem like, lovely, educated, and gracious people. But what astounds me even more than the generosity of everyone I’ve met thus far is the diversity--- it really hits you in the face the MINUTE you step into Brazil. It’s hard to pin point who is native and who isn’t; anyone is fair game. What also surprises me, and yet doesn't, is the remarkable similarity Rio has to the major cities in India. I feel like I'm in Mumbai all over again, but the language throws me for a loop and there are no autos or rickshaws to be found.

It was raining today, so I couldn’t experience any beach life or see what the city can offer in the sun, but there’s plenty of time for that.

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