A quick shout to the America I know
“How is it going?” the homeless-looking guy shouted at me when we crossed the street from opposite sides.
“I am alright,” I replied. “How about you?”
“Not too bad, not too bad,” he assured, vanishing behind my back amid the fine Autumn rain in the small town of Danbury, Connecticut.
This mundane interaction happened this past Halloween. It is one of the many reasons I fell in love with the US ever since my first visit in 2004. Back then, I was an extra-large-28-year-old business boy trying to network in America. Today, some 40-plus visits later, I still can’t get enough of this place.
I am on a train. My new favourite place to write, apparently. This time I am heading to Grand Central Station. It is the first stop until JFK airport, from where I fly back home, in England. A sluggish ride on a beautiful Sunday of blue sky, no clouds and a fresh breeze announcing the imminent change of seasons.
On a mostly empty carriage, I can’t stop thinking of how many of my most significant memories were Made in the USA.
It was here that I first contemplated opulence in its pure state. A supersized nation where the rich are way too rich. The peasants, wealthy enough to own everything they could ever imagine — and still, go broke if conditions are right.
It was in the US that I discovered that my extra-large clothes were, in fact, a pathetic medium-size. The congestion of obese scooter riders in Costco lanes shocks me every time. It made me contemplate my own weight issues differently.
In America, I made life-long friends and rediscovered old ones. Recently, I got reunited with a part of the family that taught me so much. Including my cousin Carol, the only person I will name in this story. Because Carol, my dear reader, has become someone I love to death and intend to die loving. She’s special.
It was in Massachusetts that I first saw fellow Brazilians struggling and thriving. Simple people that came here, like so many, looking for a better life. Most of them found it.
North Carolina showed me a neighbourhood of aviators with small planes parked like cars on every garage. Give way to aircraft said the traffic sign when I drove in.
Texas, the state that paid my first dollar, connected me with distinguished gentlemen. One, a genius I first met in Germany, who took me kayaking below bridges and bats, and to the ultimate American experience — shooting a gun.
The other, an Irishman I knew in extraordinary circumstances. One that, with his family, became a symbol of love and endurance. A guy who showed me how to turn things around, survive adversities and do better.
In California, I had shrimps at the Cupertino Apple campus. Saw Alcatraz and the wonders of Yosemite. All with one of the most talented Brazilian designers that walked this planet. A friend that I barely saw in the homeland.
Nevada gave me Vegas. Vegas gave me 40 dollars on our first date and took away 100 on our second. At least I got to bump into Mike Tyson while looking for a laundromat with another fine friend. Tyson got out of his car, surrounded by large and robust friends. I was paralyzed. My friend wasn’t.
“Hi, Mike,” he said.
“Hey man,” Mike Fucking Tyson replied while walking into a small boxing gym.
We remained silent for a few seconds before resuming our laundry business on that magical trip.
Florida gave me an accidental encounter with nudists. Including the sight of an old skinny yogi his gigantic balls and a larger-than-necessary penis welcoming me with front-faced contortions. Miami saw me sleeping in the car with the heart full of hope.
Minnesota welcomed me so many times. With snow, more friends and encounters that would affect my life forever.
In America, I had some of the most hard-core drunk moments until I quit the booze. And here I am, now at the airport, with a glass of wine. Breaking the dry season to celebrate everything this place gave me.
The good, the bad, the ugly.
Cheers, America.
Be kind,
Rodrigo Bressane
New York

