Vitória’s airport is spotless clean with shiny floors. Much like the city, it’s pretty quiet.

In fact, I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to be the only passenger on the 2:10 p.m. flight to Rio de Janeiro.

As usual, I arrived way too early at the airport. I’m always afraid that at one point, something unexpected happens—taxi not showing up, heavy traffic, flight cancelled, etc. So now I’m stuck in the main hall, expensive-and-very-expensive coffee options only, with a guy live-streaming the Sunday mass because of course, the taxi showed up on time, it only took about twenty minutes to get to the airport and GOL did have me on the passenger list.

Maybe I should be more confident and turn into these people who waltz in five minutes before boarding.

I’d get more sleep, for sure.

I was feeling the Sunday blues last night, even though it’s been years since I had to go to school or show up at the office on Monday morning—as a freelancer, weekends are a flexible concept. Travelling is an emotional rollercoaster ride. It’s exhausting but rewarding, it feels lonely even though I’m never truly alone, it’s scary but addictive.

I’m packing up and moving on every few days. Sure, it’s tiring and occasionally tedious to gather my stuff for the umpteenth time, not to mention I’m always anxious before going to a new place—what if the next Airbnb, the next neighbourhood, the next city isn’t as good as the current one? But it doesn’t take me long to feel comfortable in a new place past the initial uneasiness and confusion. So it basically sounds like I’m torturing myself, forcing myself out of a newly created comfort zone every few days.

But packing up and moving on is also very satisfying. I get to reorganize my life every few days, for instance. I mean, when was the last time you went through your toiletries, pantry, clothes and discarded empty bottles, finally cooked food about to expire and rationalized what you own? I know, right. Well, trust me, it’s less daunting when your life fits into a backpack.

I’m addicted to travelling. This is my secret to a meaningful life. I’m exploring the world, I’m trying to understand different people, cultures and ways of life, I’m using my brain and my body and I’m trying to create something with words and pictures along the way.

I’ve tried to quit a few times—in my twenties when I convinced myself I’d be just fine in an office job with two weeks of paid holiday a year, then when I had Mark. In the end, it was easier to take the freelance road and travel with a baby then give up on travelling.

We’re taking off. The plane is half empty and I have a window seat. It’s a nice day, the view on Vitória from above is amazing. Somehow, instead of flying higher, above the clouds, the plane just sticks to the same altitude and I can see the entire coast of Brazil all the way to Rio.

Yes, Rio de Janeiro—as a three-day stop, not a destination. It was the easiest way out of Espírito Santo.

Landing at Santos Dumont offers an amazing panoramic view of Rio. Eh, it’s not raining, awesome!

For some mysterious reason, all passengers’ luggage show up wrapped in plastic. Strange.

It’s only a 75-minute flight from Vitória to Rio de Janeiro but it’s a completely different world. I didn’t have the time to adjust during the trip and I’m nervous even though I know Rio pretty well.

What’s next? It’s almost 4 p.m. and it’s Sunday. Should I go to the supermarket and buy groceries for three days?

Fuck it.

I’m in Rio, it’s sunny and it’s Sunday.

Copacabana it is.