“Only 3.5 hours? I don’t think we’ve ever had a bus trip this short in South America.”

A three-and-a-half-hour bus trip is short for Brazil. Cities are usually six hours apart by bus according to Feng’s theory.

“Santiago to Valparaíso. São Paulo to Santos. Mmm… somewhere in Uruguay, maybe? Small country…”

“Oh yeah, Curitiba to Balneário Camboriú.”

“Okay, let’s stop naming cities and past bus trips. Bottom line is, I’m taking the 9 a.m. bus arriving at 12:30 p.m. in João Pessoa. I even managed to buy my ticket online—ClickBus finally offers a field for ‘passport’ if you don’t have a CPF! But I had to pay through PayPal because you do need a CPF for credit card payment.”

“How much was it?”

“It was… 45 reais, so 11 dollars.”

My first (pandemic) bus trip this year. I know, I know… But I’m not going to travel on foot and I’m definitely not driving—my Canadian licence didn’t train me for Brazilian roads and… ahem, local “rules.” So I’m taking the bus and hoping no one will sit beside me.

I was stressed out, though, and mostly not because of the pandemic for a change.

Leaving is never that easy. You get attached to places because after a few days, they no longer feel foreign and strange but comfortable and familiar. Oh, I only spent five days in Natal but still, I liked the Airbnb that came with a hammock and washing machine, Padaria Doce Portugal around the corner where I grabbed delicious fish and cuscus in the evening—apparently the most popular hole in the wall among Polícia Militar members, dozens of them were stopping there for dinner every night!—the long beach with my favourite relaxing spot…

… and I was about to trade it for a city I had never been too. Could be better, sure, but it could be disappointing as well.

I was also worried about the early departure. Let’s face it, 7 a.m. isn’t exactly my typical wake-up time but with a bus leaving at 9 a.m., some final packing to do and a rodoviária inconveniently located across the city, I had to set my alarm for 7 a.m.

And I had to hope the taxi driver would show up. My side of Ponta Negra was mostly residential and standing on the side of the road at 7 a.m. with my backpack didn’t seem like a good idea, so I chatted with a taxi driver by the shopping mall on my way back from the supermarket and I informally “booked” him for 8 a.m. He confirmed through Whatsapp. Plan B would be hailing a taxi on the street.

I woke up just before my alarm rang. Humans are weird.

I finished packing, gave back the apartment keys and saw the taxi waiting for me in the street. I love how reliable Brazilians are. Good thing we were early because it did take half an hour to get to the bus station.

I bought a coffee, then water, then I squeeze into a toilet cubicle for a last bathroom break before the trip—as uncomfortable as it is to pee when you have a big backpack on your back and a smaller daypack on the front, you don’t really want to use the bus bathroom, trust me.

The seat beside me remained empty and I swear I didn’t have a giant “British variant” flag on my daypack. In fact, the bus was pretty empty with mostly old ladies visiting family or going home—I couldn’t tell, they were hugged by relatives at both ends of the journey.

I was planning to catch up on sleep but I was wide awake—probably the coffee or the excitement because even though it does make me anxious, I love taking a bus to go places.

I took pictures of the scenery. We did the usual middle-of-nowhere pit stop just in case some passengers were dying to wolf down a churrasco meal (picture grilled meat, farofa aka manioc flour, beans and rice). None of us did but the bathroom and cigarette break was appreciated.

We arrived in João Pessoa half an hour early. I took another taxi to the Airbnb and I started to relax—I was almost there!

I was too early to check in, though. “Not before 2 p.m.,” the receptionist said. So I stored my backpack, went for a walk and came back at 2 p.m. on the dot because you can’t go far with a heavy daypack when it’s 33⁰C and you only had four hours of sleep.

I was handed a magnetic card and I took the elevator to the fourth floor to discover my Airbnb.

It took me two seconds to realize I hated it.

I put my backpack down, washed my hands, grabbed a seat and rubbed my eyes.

Maybe I was overreacting.

On one hand, it looked exactly as pictured—one large room with a kitchen sink, table, sofa, a double bed and a single bed, a window and a small bathroom by the door. But it was dirty with hair on the floor, sticky furniture, stains and crumbs. Everything looked worn out and depressing. Air con wasn’t working, faucet was leaking, fridge wasn’t cold and it looked like the microwave had been used for stuff-you-shouldn’t-microwave experiments.

I attempted to clean but gave up after thirty minutes.

I had booked for five days. Fuck no.

I called Feng. Surprise surprise, poor connexion as well.

“Talk to them!” he advised.

“I think it’s beyond fixing. It’s kind of a timeshare building but it’s clearly not maintained. No one seems to give a damn. I’m not staying here. Well, I’ll spend the night, that’s it.”

“Hey, the place is dirty!” is one of the hardest things to fix because everyone has different cleanliness standards. I can’t stand hair, for instance—pro tip, don’t marry a Chinese, they have sticky hair—while Feng hates stains.

Life is too short to be miserable. Feng helped me find another apartment on Expedia and I booked it for the next day. Airbnb sucks when there’s an issue so I may lose money on this one but hey, no point in suffering.

I discovered later in the evening that the apartment had pretty much been designed to be inconvenient. When it was working, the air con was loud. There was no hot water in the shower. Bed and pillows were hard.

The final straw? The Airbnb picture showed a beautiful brick wall in the shower—turned out it was a sticker! All in all it was just… another brick in the wall.