One year.
One year ago today, we stepped off of an airplane, together.
The flight attendant at the door asked if I’d ever been to Brazil. I’m sure my wild eyes (anticipation? hope? naivety? All of it. It was all of it.) gave away my calm exterior, but I simply shook my head, no. Beautiful country, he said. Beautiful people, too.
Trying to remember that first day feels a bit like trying to recall our wedding day. Two drivers met us at the airport. They drove our family, seven suitcases, four carry-ons, two car seats, and one large box (a to-be Christmas gift) toward the heart of the city.
I stole glances out the window while dispersing our dwindling snack supply to the toddler and nursing the hungry babe.
It wasn’t a particularly welcoming view.
We arrived at the apartment mid-morning, weary, hungry. Our relocation specialist, Ivana, was waiting for us, along with her extensive agenda. She had obviously not spent the last 20 hours traveling with two littles. A flood of questions, directions, tours, and explanations washed over us. My wild eyes, lost in the sea of information.
By the time we were left to ourselves, it was nearly 2 pm. Too exhausted to look for food, we fell eagerly into the rented beds we would call our own for the next two months. Eventually though, hunger roused us from sleep. Our last meal had been the in-flight breakfast nearly ten hours ago. Greg set to the street and, being the hero that he is, brought back to this family two huge cheeseburgers and French fries. They were destroyed instantaneously.
A few hours later we ventured out as a family, freshly showered but still. so. hungry. We walked no more than a block before the lights of Le Pepe drew us in. The owner warmly welcomed us and, after a few hesitant hand gestures, called down her English-speaking daughter. We learned the restaurant was just closing, but her mom wanted us to stay. They settled us into their quaint café, eager to hear our story and, when the food arrived, whisked London away so we could eat in peace.
***
That day… It feels ancient now.
This city has tried us and surprised us and changed us in simple, excruciating and beautiful ways.
For instance, I now drink my tea with a splash of milk.
We buy (and eat and love) persimmon.
We sing bedtime songs by the window, gazing out over city lights and (sometimes) flowing traffic.
When it’s time to leave, Cora asks if we’re taking our car or an Uber.And because Uber, the car seats my kids use most often are my own arms.
We hand wash every fork, plate, pot, spatula, measuring spoon, and glass (ie: all the dishes, all the days).
We walk to the bakery, to the “little market,” and to Starbucks.
London races to the window at the hum of a helicopter landing nearby.
Cora increasingly blends bits of Portuguese into her conversations.
We have been met and moved to tears by the care of people we cannot understand.
We have hid from a fair share of fears, but we have also bravely faced so. darn. many.
We have spent an obscene amount of our free time processing and reflecting, listening and supporting.
We have experienced the (disappointingly) shallow depths of our own patience, love, and grace - and also the unending depths of HIS.
Somehow, in the course of one year, this stranger-of-a-city has made a place for us. It has become home, though most of our walls hold nothing but off-white paint, still.
