Campinas Brazil

Malibu Hotel Inn, Campinas, Brazil.

A white walled, glassed-in hotel tower sat wedged between gray crumbling concrete walls of mere existence. Inside, behind a white desk atop a white floor that reflected florescent lights, stood a short man with his arms crossed behind him. He did not smile, and barely blinked. He spoke three languages if he chose to speak at all. Most of the time he chose a slight nod or small bow over the noise and chaos of spoken words. He was the formal host translator of this clean white traveler’s oasis. He stood eternal guard over the confusion, miscommunication, and weariness that rules supreme in a such a travelers lair.

As we entered this little man’s domain he acknowledged us with a nod then returned his stare out the window into the dirty street outside. When our Spanish at reception was returned with blinking eyes and confused looks the little man stooped in proudly translating without expression.

The little man told us when we could check in- but not till noon, and he told the receptionist how to check us in /now/. This pale building, sticking out like a sore thumb in Campinas Brazil, was this man’s kingdom. He ruled without a smile and in the fewest words possible. After all, without him communication failed and only chaos remained. So he stood, resolutely, with his hands folded behind his back, without a smile.