The taxi driver drops me off in front of the bus terminal and I head straight to the closest available seat. I’m early, which is good because if I can connect to a Wi-Fi network, I’ll finally be able to check my emails.

Does the rodoviária de Aracaju have free Wi-Fi?

Ah ah, good one, Juliette. My phone is listing about twenty networks, all of them with cryptic names and none of them open.

Never mind. I’ll just… you know, read a book.

The bus is right on time. I always book the same seat, number seven. It’s not my lucky number, just a strategic move—not a front seat because there’s no leg room, no a back seat because you don’t want to be anywhere close to the bathroom, right side of the bus because you can keep an eye on luggage being unloaded when the bus stops. Besides, like most travellers, I’m a bit superstitious. My seat number was seven on my first bus trip and since everything went smoothly, I keep the same seat number hoping for more smooth trips.

The seat beside me remains empty again, we’re all nicely spread out in the bus. Perfect.

Yes! A Wi-Fi network! Thank you Real Alagoas bus company!

My phone actually connected to it automatically and emails start pouring in. Clients first—yes, I’ll be happy to translate your urgent document. Just not right now, in the bus, but it will get done tonight. Mark’s school. Oh, my fucking god, Mark’s school… so many emails to say absolutely nothing. It drives me crazy. There’s the daily COVID assessment tool reminder, then Important Update to COVID-19 Symptom Screening, the Virtual Book Fair (??), the “send your virtual appreciation to staff member” campaign, Winter Covid-19 Survey – Share Your Thoughts!…

… well, I’ll do this one quick. It’s easy, two words—“it sucks.”

Mark complains about COVID every day, mostly because he has to wear a mask all the time. “I have to do jumping jacks outside with the mask! It’s cold, I can’t breathe!” The only time he can take it off is during the lunch break, but then kids are no longer allowed to talk to each other while eating because they’re not wearing their masks.

I had always thought I could solve pretty much every problem an eight-year-old can have. I give advice on how to deal with a friend who steals a ruler and denies it, on how to handle friends who no longer want to be friends and on what to say when someone calls you a nerd. I explain why the teacher looks tired (“kind of like me, some days, you know, teachers are people too…”) and I go over gravity and magnetic force lessons in French.

But I don’t have a solution for COVID-related problems.

“I know it sucks. Grand-maman has to wear a mask all day when she teaches too. She’s sorry you have to go through that.”

“That’s nice to say. Tell her I’m sorry she can’t get her grocery shopping done because she comes home at 6 p.m. and shops close at 5:30 p.m. because of the… the thing.”

“The curfew?”

“Yes.”

I try to give Mark hope. “The weather is going to get warmer eventually! I swear I’m coming back at one point! COVID won’t last forever, nothing lasts forever.”

Wait. The last bit sounds vaguely scary.

The bus is driving through middle-of-nowhere Brazil and Wi-Fi keeps on disconnecting.

I close my eyes.

I still have no idea how to go back to Canada—there are literally no planes. I can’t go to France, borders are closed.

And my 90-day stay in Brazil is up soon.

I really, really have to find a solution in Maceió.