I had left the curtains and a window open to make sure I’d wake up on time—the first time waking up alone is weird and slightly disorienting.

It worked like a charm. I woke up at 5 a.m. because it was bright, at 6 a.m. because it was noisy, at 7 a.m. because it was really bright, then at 8 a.m. for a second, and at 8:25 a.m. for good.

For some mysterious reason that only made sense to my last-night self, I had decided to pack some leftover (raw) broccoli, garlic, and tomatoes from the fridge. Morning me quickly concluded it was a stupid idea, so I unpacked it and packed again (the wrapped brownie made the list, though).

Surely they had broccoli, garlic, and tomatoes in Foz do Iguaçu. The supermarkets are open on Sunday, this is not a Brasília moment—I double-checked. Thank you, Google Maps.

I took a last look at the apartment—easy enough given its size—and closed the door behind me. Chapter 1 ended in São Paulo. Chapter 2 would begin 1,050 km away, in the jungle.

I was going to take the bus—a masochistic 18-hour overnight ride—but I found a cheap ticket with LATAM when we were in Florianópolis. Phew.

Feng texted me when I arrived at Congonhas Airport. They had just landed in Toronto. It was cold. He was sleepy.

I texted back that I had just checked my backpack at Congonhas, that I was also sleepy, and that it was hot because Congonhas just doesn’t do air conditioning. Or maybe the air conditioning just doesn’t do Congonhas, because buckets were strategically placed on the ground to catch dripping water from old AC units that clearly weren’t doing the job.

I was in group 5, so among the last to board.

The flight sounded like the beginning of a French joke—a guy with a kippah in row three, two Muslim women in row five, and a priest in row six. How bad was the flight that we’d need divine intervention? Oh, right—Congonhas and the terrifying takeoff on the shortest runway ever…

I looked for the anarchist representative. None in sight. Fine, I’d count on myself. I wouldn’t see the takeoff anyway. I hadn’t paid to book a specific seat, so LATAM had assigned me seat 20D, aisle.

It was a relatively smooth flight—nobody started praying—and we landed on time at 1:15 p.m., in the jungle.

Welcome to Foz do Iguaçu.

I took an Uber to my Airbnb. Not bad at all. Extremely clean. Both the Uber and the Airbnb.

I did what anyone does when faced with a new kitchen—I opened every cabinet to figure it out. No microwave, but a fancy grill I had never seen, an air fryer, and a mysterious appliance that was labelled “old-fashioned electric grill” on eBay when I googled it.

The Airbnb owner must have shopped in Paraguay next door, home of cheap appliances.

I googled the grill and started reading the Tefal Optigrill manual in Portuguese before giving up at page 18. I rummaged around the kitchen some more and found a pot and a pan.

That would do just fine.

There should be a travel competition series on how quickly you can make yourself at home when you’re clearly not: find your place, the door, the key; figure out how to get hot water (right or left—a tricky one when it’s not a suicide shower); make dinner in an unfamiliar kitchen while hunting for pots and pans and testing the stove (induction, gas, do I need matches?); find food, plugs, your way around… all of it while tired, of course.

I sighed and went out to get groceries.

And when I stepped outside, I took a good look at my surroundings for the first time.

I’m in the jungle, baby, a long, long way from São Paulo.

This is going to be fun.