Day Six: 17 June 2014

I travel all day, so today’s tale will be less than enthralling. Except for the fact that we, apparently, almost ran out of fuel.

My flight left Manaus at 2:00 a.m. headed for Rio. Again. I slept as much as I could on the plane, which wasn’t much. Sometime early this morning, the pilot announced that the weather in Rio—should I call it “Rio,” or is that like calling San Francisco “Frisco”?—was not good, and that we’d have to circle for a while. I guess that’s what he said. I didn’t really understand it, to tell you the truth. So we circled for a long while, and then we landed. “Great,” I think. “I still have time to catch my conexao to Recife.”

We taxi for a handful of minutes, come to a stop, and then another announcement I don’t understand. People around me mutter a bit, but there’s no real getting-up-and-getting-out going on, and I’m near the very back of the plane, so I just sit and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

My boarding time has passed.

Now, my departure time has passed.

We’ve been on the ground for almost an hour.

Another announcement. This time, it’s followed by a few words in English. We’re waiting for an available ground crew to refuel our plane. Refuel our plane? Why can’t we just get the hell out of here first? Then, do whatever you want to this thing. I just want off so I can get to Recife and take a goddamned nap.

I get up, climb over the old man in the aisle seat, wearing a Three Lions shirt, who’s been hacking something up all night, and head for the front of the plane where the crew are huddled around an open cabin door. I peek out to see caution tape across the opening, and a wide, empty stretch of tarmac beyond it. No gangway, no stairs, just empty airport pavement.

“What are we waiting on?” I ask as politely as I can, putting emphasis on increasing the timber of my voice towards the end of my question so it doesn’t sound like the stereo-typical impatient American, staccato-style interrogation.

“The crew needs to refuel the plane so we can get to Rio de Janeiro,” one of the bald flight attendants tells me. Both the flight attendants are bald, but this one is bald and looks like Pelé.

“Where are we now?” I fumble. Brushing up on my Portuguese may have been helpful today, huh?

“Belo Horizonte,” not-Pelé replies.

“Oh,” I stammer, “and what about my connection?”

“Yes, yes. They are probably late, too. But we will rebook you,” he assures me.

Approximately 90 minutes later, we are refueled, and heading for Rio, again. We land, and all of the things I expected to happen when we landed in Belo Horizonte happen here. People undo their seat belts before they’re instructed. They get bags out of the overheads before we’ve come to a complete stop. They nudge themselves and their carry-ons forward in the aisles, inch by inch, before the cabin door is even open. This is more like it. We’re getting off this plane! It’s just after 11:00 a.m. My connection was scheduled to leave more than three hours ago.

I grab my bags and scramble toward the gloriously open door. We all head down the steps toward the waiting bus that will carry us to the terminal. This airport is still under construction, so, when we get to the terminal, there is a complete lack of signage showing how we’re supposed to get from the boarding gate we just entered through to baggage claim or exits or connecting flights.

I find a GOL Airlines employee around the corner from an unmarked gate and, shoving my connection boarding pass at her, ask where I need to go to get rebooked. She tells me to keep going straight ahead and follow the signs that say, “CONEXAO.” Of course. How did I miss that?

The “signs” are 8½ x 11 pieces of white printer paper taped to stanchions along the back wall of the Departing Flights terminal. We traverse the entire length of the airport wing to be dumped into a mass of people all trying to make or rebook flights. It’s chaos.

I notice a “Departures” screen and see that my flight number is still on it. It hasn’t left yet! Thank god I didn’t check my bags. I sprint back the way I came, heading for my gate, R4. We had just come in gate R3. Out of breath, I hand my boarding pass to the gate agent and ask, “Recife?”

“Yes, Recife,” he says, and points with the hand holding his walkie-talkie toward the line waiting for a bus. I get in line, take a deep breath, wipe the sweat off my brow and nose, and think how lucky I was to see that screen when I did, rather than wait to see a ticket agent. I’m the last to board the bus, and the agent closes the gate’s doors behind me.

Our bus lumbers along the airport pavement, avoiding baggage trucks and police vehicles. All the swerving and dodging makes it feel not unlike driving in Manaus. We head out towards the planes. Back in the direction I just rode in from. Toward he plane I just got off. And then park in front of it.

I’m getting back on the plane I just spent the night in. I shit you not.

The crew is different, and my seat number is different, but “Passenger 29F Manaus to Rio” is now “Passenger 31C Rio to Recife.” On the exact same plane.

I land in Recife with no problem. My AirBnB host, Thelma, has arranged for my airport transportation, but after what happened in Manaus, I’m ready to find alternatives. As I come out of the baggage claim area, I’m greeted by a woman who asks simply, “Taxi?” I shake my head, “no,” and hope I really don’t need one. Through the automatic doors I stride, confident that there is someone on the other side to drive me to a place with a bed where I can soon rest my head.

I scan the crowd gathered outside the Arrivals door. Expectant faces scan right back at me. And signs and clipboards and taxi services’ ads and names scribbled on scraps of paper. On one of those scraps is “STEHN”. “Well, that’s pretty close,” I think to myself. I approach.

“Steefven?” a short older lady asks. What looks like her daughter is standing next to her holding the sign. She looks to be about 20, and she has a nose ring. Did I mention that I think I’m the only male currently in this country with a nose ring?

“Stephen,” I correct. “Are you Thelma?”

“No, Maria,” the daughter interjects. “Do you have bags?”

“Nope. Just these.” I lean a shoulder towards them, indicating my two backpacks. Boy, was that a mistake. Two back packs. Next time, one back pack, one roller bag. Who does two back packs? Amateur.

“Let’s go. This is my, um, mother.” I only know her as Mama. The daughter’s English is pretty good. She is struggling sometimes with simple words, but her English is a lot better than my Portuguese, so I’m glad to help her find the phrases she wants. I find out later she’s been the one writing all the correspondence I’ve had about booking Thelma’s AirBnB. Thelma is her mother’s aunt.

We walk together to her mom’s car, the smallest Ford I think I’ve ever seen. Kind of like if a Smart car was birthed by a chicken, so that it has a bit of an egg shape. Well, enough so that a salesman can tell you there’s a back seat. But that’s where I rode, and nobody should have to be subjected to that “backseat.”

Our route to Thelma’s is the windiest, wiggliest, most circuitous route I’ve ever experienced. I have a pretty good sense of direction, but about 20 minutes after leaving the airport, I could have sworn that we were headed toward Inception. I felt like we were spies trying to lose a tail.

An hour later, we arrive at a high-rise apartment building. We go to the third floor where I finally get to meet Thelma. And her dog, Leona, a very friendly, but very smelly, dachshund. I’m also introduced to Thelma’s sisters, but I was so tired, I didn’t catch their names. For now, in my mind, they’re Louise and Daphne. No one but Maria speaks English.

They give me a key, show me the bathroom and the bedroom, how to turn on the fan in my room—there’s no air conditioning—and ask if I need anything.

“No, thank you. Obrigado,” I say, hoping to take a quick nap before going out to grab some dinner. “Obrigado.”

I wake up about 14 hours later.

Day Seven: 18 June 2014

This was quite possibly my least productive day here. Well, that’s not quite right. I got a lot done, it just had very little to do with soccer or Brazil. I worked remotely today. I refuse to detail that for you. Just assume it was a lot of email and tedium and frustration with work-related things that happen to almost everyone. Also, please note that I am well-aware of how fortunate I am to a) have a great job which gives me the freedom to go on this trip in the first place and b) be part of a team that appreciates me enough to let me work between matches and flights and caipirinhas.

I did go to the supermarket around the corner, too. So I did get some local flavor. It was mainly bread. I bought a lot of bread. Did I mention that Thelma’s place has no hot water? Yeah. And the sisters whose names I didn’t catch yesterday? Well, they live here, too. It was one of those days. Oh, and I cried a lot after a FaceTime call with Katrina and the baby. Aces.

Day Eight: 19 June 2014

“It’s just money.” Last night’s call with Katrina and the baby is still bouncing around in my head. “What am I still doing here?” I keep thinking to myself. “It’s just money,” Katrina had shared last night. She’s right. It’s just money. Am I still here because I have some much invested in tickets and lodging and airfare that I can’t allow it to go to waste? Or, am I so obsessed with this game, and this tournament, that I put everything else on hold to go see matches? I’ve quit jobs to go see games. I’ve missed important events to sit in the stands in foreign countries. Now, I’m missing my daughter’s eighth month to watch grown men in shorts chase a sphere around a rectangle.

I’ve only seen one match. But I’ve kept my streak alive: This is Cup number six. If I go home now, I can still say I’ve been to every one since ‘94. If that’s something to be proud of. More proud than seeing your daughter grow up?

“It’s just money.”

I pull myself together and head out for the day, towards Recife Antigo, the old origins of the city. The first place I end up is Marco Zero, a spot in the center of a park marking the place where the city was first settled in XX. All measures of distance to and from Recife originate here at the zero mark. Not to get too Billy Corgan on you, but standing here, I’m the one who feels like a zero. I take out my phone, open Google Maps, and type in “San Francisco.” I’m 6,421 miles from home. The chorus from Tony Bennet’s ode to my home begins thunderously echoing in the empty cavern my brain has become today. Six thousand, four hundred and twenty-one miles from my family, where I left my heart. Will they ever forgive me?

I shove my phone back into my pocket and try to snatch the day away from my melancholia. I turn to my left and head into the adjacent cultural center. It’s filled with trinkets and textiles and sculptures made by local artists. A lot of the art, to no one’s surprise, are soccer-themed. Metal bent into figures kicking a ball. Rugs woven to resemble a carbon 60 molecule. Clay shaped and smoothed into the likenesses of past and present Brazilian soccer heroes. I browse, but I don’t buy. I still have too many days left to burden myself with another thing to carry. Plus, there’s nothing here Katrina would want in our home.

I’m off to find food and watch the first match of the day, Colombia v. Côte d’Ivoire. I type “peixe” into foursquare and peruse the results. I plot my path to Arsenal do Camarão, and hope they have a T.V.

Success. I sit in the back, near the door and order some fish dish in my best attempt at Portuguese. The waiter gives me a thumbs-up. Everyone here gives the thumbs-up. It’s great because if I don’t get one, I know they have yet to understand my terrible attempts to communicate. But I think I’m getting better. I know, for instance, not to order any dishes with frango. I don’t eat chicken.

By match’s end, I’m stuffed. A huge piece of fried fish, rice with broccoli and a cold bottle of chopp later, I need a nap. But I want to see more of the old part of the city. I rally and wander, ending up in front of the Sinagoga Kahal Zur Israel, the oldest synagog in the Americas. Believe it or not, it’s on a street which has now been renamed Rua do Bom Jesus, which literally translates to “Street of Good Jesus.” I assume it was renamed following the Portuguese Inquisition. Christians. If I read the signs right, and there’s a great big possibility I did not, the Jews had come over when the Dutch turned this city into their capital in 1630. Eventually, finding themselves suddenly unwelcome, they moved north to help establish New Amsterdam—which, as you know thanks to They Might Be Giants, became New York:

Through parks. Past churches. Over bridges. I see a lot of Recife Antigo. Turning a corner marked by a statue I wish I knew the meaning of, I start to hear music. Loud music. And a very excited gentleman urgently exhorting people to do something in Portuguese I can’t quite decipher; dance, maybe? I head in that direction and discover the Recife FIFA Fan Fest. I can watch the next match here, Uruguay v. England. The English fans are already here in force, so I feel I’ll have to conceal my hope for their complete collapse. The earlier the supposedly strong teams get eliminated from this tournament, the better I feel about Italy’s chances to win it. Spain’s demise has been glorious to witness, and I can only hope England and Portugal are not far behind. The thousands gathered watch in disbelief as Rooney leads England headlong into failure once again. It’s glorious. For a team the gets so much ink, they have just invited even more, but each drop will emphasize every instant of disappointment.

At the final whistle, I head for the exit and flag down a taxi. I hand the driver my phone showing a map to Thelma’s. He gives me a reassuring thumbs-up, and we whisk away, headed south. I’m home in twenty minutes.

Exhausted, I greet Thelma and Daphne—or was that Louise? I’m still not sure—and enter my room. I turn on the fan, sit on the bed, take off almost every piece of clothing, and collapse backward into an increasing breeze.

About an hour later, I’m awoken by a knock at my door. It’s Thelma. She’s brought me a piece of pound cake and a glass of the sweetest orange juice I’ve ever tasted. I inhale both. The Japan v. Greece match is on, so I open a browser window to watch it my computer. While its loading, I go to the kitchen and wash my juice glass and cake plate. Thelma catches me and takes them from me, shaking her head, just as I finish. She didn’t want me to have to wash it, but it was the least I could do. She asks if it was good.

“Muito bom,” I insist. Very good. She smiles. Thumbs up.

I head back to my room, call my parents and Katrina on FaceTime, and try to fall asleep.

My melancholy returns.

Day Nine: 20 June 2014, Match Day

I wake up early. Much earlier than any other day I’ve been in Recife. I don’t want to get stuck in traffic and risk missing the 1:00 p.m. kick-off. Thelma has arranged for a taxi to pick me up at 10:00 a.m. and drive me to the nearest Metro stop. From there, I can join the other hordes and follow them to the match. Seems easy enough.

I get in the taxi a little after 10:00. The driver speaks no English, but Thelma has given him instructions. We head off, and I ask in my best Portuguese, “Quantos minutos?”

“Quinze,” he offers.

That’s either 15 or 50. I’m not sure. I reach into the right pocket of my shorts and pull out the Rick Steves’ Portuguese Phrase Book & Dictionary I bought before my trip to Portugal in 2004. It’s always bothered me how they punctuated the title, “Steves’,” He’s not a plural-possessive. He’s a man. Well, an industry now, so maybe it’s right. Anyway, I flip open the cover and glance at the “Survival Phrases” listed there. “Cinquenta” is 50. Good. This ride should only take 15 minutes.

Traffic is not too bad, by Brazilian standards. There are a few backups, some general congestion, but we’re making great time. Then I see a donkey. Wild? Are city donkeys considered wild donkeys? It’s just walking around on the side of the road eating some grass. We go a little further and I spot a horse with the very same job description: eating grass. Then another. And another. A few more miles, a goat. In the trip just from my AirBnB to the Metro, the total animal count included two donkeys, six horses, and a goat. In less than 20 minutes of driving.

The Metro was packed with game-goers, which was good because I forgot to look up which stop I should use to get to the stadium. Now, I’ll just follow the revelers. Our Metro trip lasted almost an hour. Still plenty of time to get to the stadium before kick-off. At the second-to last stop on the line, we all pile out as volunteers herd us down walkways and threw tunnels to a group of waiting buses. The station is brand new, and gorgeous. Bright white tiles, pristine and free of any of the graffiti covering the station where I got on. This place is so new, in fact, as the busses pull away, I spot the freshly laid sod, looking more like poorly placed green floor tiles than a natural ground cover.

All the windows in the bus are wide open. There’s no air conditioning, but the bus is pretty nice. As we pull away from the gleaming new Metro station, we almost immediately enter one of the most impoverished neighborhoods I’ve seen this entire trip. The route is very reminiscent of traveling through Soweto to get to what was then the brand new FNB Stadium in South Africa in 2010. But this time, there’s also a very distinct smell of horse manure. Because I guess I’m classist, or bigoted, or some other trait I can’t quite come up with that I’m not proud of, I assume that one caused the other. Poverty equals stench? I don’t really know why, but that’s where my mind goes. As the bus rounds a bend, and I get a good look in front of us, I notice six policemen riding horses. That’s why it smells like shit, and because of my assumption, now I feel like shit.

On the bright side, my total horse count today has just double to an even dozen.

The bus drops us off at what looks like about a half-mile spot from the stadium. Barricades guide our path around a large hill, sloping down and dropping fans into the valley where the stadium is nestled. All along the path or FIFA-approved venders hawking cans of Coke and Brahma beer. They’re all wearing the same burgundy vests with a patch on them that reads “ID+”. I assume that means they won’t sell beers to minors, but I didn’t see one buyer get checked. Since there was so much other commerce going on, I figured this would be a good place to sell my extra ticket. The one with Katrina’s name on it, a constant reminder of my failed family excursion. I ask the first few Americans I see—they’re easy to spot in their U.S. gear—if they need tickets. After a couple of “No, thanks” responses, a guy in a blue U.S. kit from 2010 says that there’s a group of guys in shirts that say “San Francisco” a few yards away looking. San Francisco, huh? That sounds promising.

I find a group of a half-dozen or so guys all sporting white University of San Francisco basketball jerseys.

“You guys need tickets?”

“We need a few,” one of the jerseys says.

“I’ve got one, if that helps,” I reply.

“Okay, you’ve got one, this guy’s got two, and this guy … Hey, how much did he say?”

Another jersey turns and says, “He hasn’t yet.”

“You can have mine at face value, 90 U.S.,” I offer.

First jersey says, “Alright, I’ll get this one, and you guys deal with the others.” I’ve got 80 U.S. and, what is that, like 10, no 25 reais?”

I feel someone grab my left arm just below my elbow. “Polícia!”

Shit.

“Passaporte. Polícia. Polícia. Polícia. Passaporte.”

A pudgy man in a yellow hat and matching t-shirt is tugging at me and repeating a combination of these two words over and over.

“Why?” I ask.

“Polícia. Passaporte. Passaporte.” More emphatic.

I think it’s all he’s allowed to say.

“What’s the problem? I’m just giving my friend his ticket,” I lie. Turning to Jersey, I say, “Let’s walk. You can pay me when we get in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, starting away with me, leaving the rest of his group.

We head down toward the stadium. Over his shoulder, Jersey calls back to his friends, “I’m just gonna go with this guy and meet you inside the gate.” We continue, with Yellow Hat and Shirt following, occasionally reaching for me, repeating his mantra.

I start some small talk with Jersey, first by introducing myself, “My name is Stephen.”

“Huh. My name is Steve,” he replies.

“Nice. Where are you from.”

“I grew up in the San Diego area, but I live in San Francisco now.”

Now I think he’s messing with me.

“Really? What part?” I inquire, just to see if he’s for real.

“Near the Filmore. You know the Bay Area?”

“Yeah, I live in Noe Valley.”

“Get out of here!” he says. “All this, and today’s my birthday.”

“Wow, we’re both Geminis,” I admit. “My birthday was a couple of weeks ago. I think we’ll be fine,” I reassure him, despite really thinking that myself. Yellow Hat and Shirt is still on our heels.

We get to the security line, and my bag gets checked. I have to toss my water, so I move to the side to let others pass while I try to finish it. Steve is still right next to me, but Yellow Hat and Shirt is gone. I finally start sweating. A lot.

“Well, that worked out. Here, want some?” I hold out the almost-empty bottle of water.

“Yeah. Thanks. Here’s your money.”

Steve hands me a wad of bills. I don’t bother counting it, shoving it into the money belt around my waist.

“Well, I’m going in to catch the warm-ups. You gonna hang here?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m’onna wait for my buddies.” Steve says. “This is your seat, though, the one next to this one?” he asks, pointing to the seat number on the ticket with Katrina’s name on it.

“Yep,” I allow. “You’ll be sitting next to me if you don’t hook up with your friends.”

“Nah, there they are.” He points to the security gate we just came through. “But I’ll come by to see you up there before the end.”

“Alright,” I agree. See you then, and happy birthday.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

I turn toward the stadium and start to head in.

This is the first time I’ve told anyone about this part of the trip. If it had turned out differently, my family would have heard about it much sooner.

Trust me.

By now you know how the match ends. No, I was not happy, but I’ve been telling everyone who’ll listen not to take Costa Rica lightly. They’re a strong side, and they play a game that’s perfect for surprising a lot of the European teams. They’re fast and physical, and they counter-attack unbelievably quick. You can hold the ball from them for 89 minutes, but if you give it up once, it could cost you dearly. It cost Italy dearly. And some of those guys looked beat in the second half, Chiellini in particular. At one point, both he and De Rossi were struggling to recover following an almost full-field sprint to catch up to one of the Coast Rican counters. As the ball went out for a corner, both of them, simultaneously, slumped over, hands on their knees, gasping for enough air to finish the match. I was honestly surprised Costa Rica didn’t score a second.

The drama on the field was almost upstaged by what was going on in the stands in front of me. Well before the match, and just as warm-ups began, I headed down to sit behind the goal on Italy’s end so I could be closer to the team. There was a woman holding a sign professing her love for Buffon, and a guy dressed as Jesus. But there was also a group, probably three to four rows’ worth, of Italian fans all crammed, standing, in the first row against the field. They were signing and chanting and hanging banners and blowing up red, white, and green balloons, calling out players’ names and taunting a woman near them wearing a red Portugal jersey with Ronaldo’s name on the back. I figured I’d hang with them until warm-ups were over, or someone came to fill the seat, whichever came first.

Security definitely took notice of them. Of us. So, when the match started, there was an extra presence sent to our side of the field. Kick-off came, and I was still in Row C, Seat 27. But the first row was being reprimanded for the banners and the balloons and the taunting of the woman in the red Portugal jersey with Ronaldo’s name on the back. Some of these Ultras were being removed by security. I sat quietly watching the match, joining the chorus of groans when Costa Rica made advances, but each time we were drowned out by the deafening cheers of their supporters. The Costa Rican fans, like most of the South and Central American countries in this tournament, are here in force. This is The Americas’ Cup.

By midway through the first half, more than a third of the boisterous Italian supporters had been removed from Row A, but I was still on the edge of Seat 27 in Row C. Then, just before Ruiz’s goal at the other end of the field, security moved in and relocated most of the raucous supporters. There were many protests, and the language barrier did nothing to calm the tension between the sides, but the Safety Jackets won out, as usual, and my section quieted down considerably. But I stayed right where I was, three rows from the field, just before the second half got underway. I used this moment before kick-off to move the money Steve gave me for his ticket into my wallet. Twenty, 40, 60, and 25 reais. Wait. Twenty, 40, 60, and 25 reais. Steve shorted me $2o. I assume it was an accident, and think he’ll notice and bring me the Twenty when he comes by to say hello.

Shit. I’m not sitting in our seats. He has no idea where I am. And I’m only one of a reported 40,285 in attendance today.

Steve, if you ever see this, you owe me a beer.

The result was obviously a disappointment, so after getting the train back into Recife, I decided to get off at a different stop than where I got on so that I could explore another neighborhood for a while and clear my head. Thanks to some user error with Google Maps, I unintentionally ended up in an unfamiliar place. Meaning, I got lost. I had, however, stumbled upon what is essentially Receife’s music shop row. Store after store of guitars, amps, mics, lighting, P.A. systems—everything you would need to start your own mobile Carnaval. I stepped into the few which had T.V.s on, and by the time I had gotten to the end of the first block, France had already scored twice against Switzerland. I kept moving, looking to correct my navigational error and get back on my originally intended route. By the time I got to the Paço Alfândega food court for some dinner, Benzema was shoving in France’s fourth.

Day Ten: 21 June 2014

Another early start today, but this time, it’s to catch a flight. I’m off to the city hosting Italy’s next match: Natal. I’ve booked another AirBnB, and it’s supposed to be near the beach. I’m looking forward to that.

Maria drove me to the airport, and I pay her for both trips, R$140. We hug, and I head into the airport. I’m early. My flight for Natal leaves at XX, with a connection in Fortaleza. Germany plays Ghana in Fortaleza today, and I have a ticket to the match. I’m hoping to sell it during my layover.

While waiting for the flight, I see a group of four americans with obvious Pacific Northwest ties. Portland Timbers hat. Seattle Seahawks shirt. A mowhawk. I strike up a conversation with them. They’r just in from a connection in Miami. All admit to needing a shower, but brushing their teeth in the airport bathroom will have to suffice. They’re headed to the match in Fortaleza, but they already have ticket. I see a guy in a red Hollister t-shirt hawking an extra ticket. He sells it to a guy wearing one of the red Mexico jerseys I’m constantly mistaking for a Germany kit, which today, is understandable.

I approach him to ask about the transaction. Since talking to the Pacific Northwesterners, I’ve started to formulate a plan where I rebook my Fortaleza to Natal flight for much later in the evening to give myself a chance at going to the game. There’s a flight at 10:00 p.m. and if I can rebook and find a place to store my bags, I going to go. But I need to find out what the resale market is like, just in case.

“Did you sell your extra ticket?” I ask.

“Yes, do you need one?” He has what I assume is a German accent.

“No. I have an extra, and I was wondering what you got for it.”

“Two fifty,” he says.

“U.S.? Which category?” I continue.

“Yes. Cat. 2,” he responds. Same as mine. That’s more than face value, so my prospects are looking good. “Do you want to sell it to me?”

I explain my plan about trying to rebook and store my bags and going to the match and returning to the airport in time for a later flight to Natal.

“I’m storing my bags, too, to go to the match. If you don’t go, you can sell me the ticket, and I will resell it at the stadium,” he offers. Awesome. A contingency plan. I either sell him my ticket for face value—great—or I go to the match and still get to Natal tonight—even better.

“My name is Stephen. What’s yours?”

“Shlomo.” He offers his hand. I take it.

“I’ll meet you at the baggage storage in Fortaleza either way,” I clarify.

“Good. See you.”

I walk back to an open seat by the gate, excited by my new prospects to see a pivotal Group G match.

Boarding has begun. I’m in 29F again, a window seat. There are two open seats to my left. They remain open until the boarding doors close, but there are still people in the aisles. Some of them are the Pacific Northwesterners I met earlier. Two of them end up in my row. Tyler sits first. He’s very friendly, and we continue our earlier conversation almost before he’s all the way in his seat. He grew up in Boise—you know, I’ve been pronouncing that city wrong for years; he says it with a hard “s,” more like “Boy C” rather than the lazy “Boy Z” I’ve been saying for as long as I can remember. Most of his crew know each other from there. He’s back there after some years away. His parents and his wife’s parents live there, and with his two kids, it just made sense to move back he says.

I understand. Being a continent away from family and raising a baby is, at times, brutal. Now, imagine the only support system you have is galavanting around Brazil watching what a former coworker of mine calls “a girls’ game.” I’m a terrible father.

“What does your wife think of your trip?” Tyler asks. Where do I begin? As I explain the logic and choices that brought me to this point, alone, Tyler’s friend Matt joins us. They describe how they negotiated their own escapes from their daily routines, and we all admit how thankful we are to have forgiving and understanding partners. If they only knew how torn I am to be here. I don’t admit it to them, and we settle in for the 45-minute flight to Fortaleza.

I explain, excitedly, my new plan about trying to make the match. They’re excited for me. Tyler is a doctor. Matt works for a Lompoc Brewing in Portland. We talk about pilsners and kids and the Timbers and Brazil. Before we know it, we’re on the ground in Fortaleza. We wish each other boa viagem, and I seek out a miracle of timing or availability, or both.