It wasn’t Hotel California, after all. The Fort Knox Airbnb building was remarkably easy to leave at the inconvenient check-out time of 10 a.m., considering we could only check in at 3 p.m. in the new place.
Never mind—our new host kindly offered to let us drop off the bags while she was getting the place ready for us.
Our fourth and final Florianópolis Airbnb was a house on a steep narrow street in a neighbourhood we didn’t know. It had all the makings of a Palhoça moment, but it turned out to be very comfortable in a homey kind of way—a great kitchen and appliances, a lovely patio and backyard, and only two wandering cockroaches, killed on the third night, presumably because the garbage hadn’t been picked up on the street yet.
We had a set of three tiny keys instead of a keypad. The interphone didn’t work, so I’d just yell “Feeeeeng!” from the street. Either Mark, glued to Better Call Saul, or Feng would come down and open the door for me—the late-night shopper returning with fresh cookies or a new bar of soap like a triumphant offering.
We had so much time, and now there’s none left. Crazy.
I’m sad. Feng is sad. Mark… never mind. Mark has been sulking for the entire trip because he is apparently a teen now, so Mark doesn’t care about the stupid countries we always go to.
But we do.
Florianópolis is one of our happy places, so leaving is a bit of a heartbreak. Maybe even, ahem… a headache.
Picture Feng and me going for a walk around 7 p.m. after yet another beach day and yet another shower. We’re on the sidewalk, holding hands, and then… obstacle.
This is common in Brazil. Sidewalks are rarely a walk in the park—it’s more of an actual jungle, with giant trees pushing up the pavement, or an urban one, cluttered with cars parked at odd angles, bar tables, and bikes.
I saw it right in front of us.
I let go of Feng’s hand.
He went right. I stayed left to walk underneath this weird metal sign.
Except I didn’t see the black metal bar because of the black wall right behind it.
It must have looked like something straight out of a cartoon. I walked into it, bumped my head, and fell back in one clean, stupid motion.
He heard a “clang,” turned around, and found me on the sidewalk.
I touched my head. Yuck. Blood. I know from experience that head wounds bleed a lot, so I didn’t freak out too much. I did a quick check—a scrape on my left wrist where I fell, another one on my toe, and my poor head taking the worst of it.
“Let’s go back, patch you up, and then go for a walk…”
“I can’t believe I did that! You’re the one who gets injured usually!”
Fortunately, I have pretty thick hair, and the wound wasn’t too big. It’s pretty much healed now, but it did look like a horror movie scene when I took another shower later that night, with all the blood running down my face.
Our other Florianópolis adventures were less painful. There was a strangely windy day at Praia do Pântano do Sul, an absolutely perfect Sunday at Praia do Moçambique, a very high tide day at Praia do Matadeiro, and a last day at Praia do Santinho, behind giant sand dunes.
And now what?
São Paulo, for—another—start.
