Paris.
The airport is big, complicated, haughtily. Prices do their runway in the windows of cafes and boutiques. Unattainable.
And yet I feel a joy growing.
be because the first stage is done, because the air travel will also cover the taste of dry air conditioning.
be because the people around you changed, the language has become more gentle and friendly, the color of their skin darker, softer ways of walking and daring.
A whole slice of Brazil is coming home. And I with them.
Before the lights of the corridor.
sleep I open my eyes glued arranged by transatlantic flight. The image I have in mind for three years short of the oval window will appear.
I accepted an uncomfortable journey, depending on my neighbor's place and the depth of his sleep to get up, to be here, now, to greet the city to its first appearance.
Start the slight noise of the hostesses and their trolleys. The air is alive with impatient movements of faces and eyes and swollen feet. A Brazilian
germanized starts complaining of his hometown so that everyone knows that the standard of living "beyond" there or elsewhere.
I give him a look fierce and return to immerse myself in the dark.
The plane goes down, out of a bank of clouds and there it is. All
golden light, with its large mysterious shadows, the black depths of its roots and its mysteries.
Salvador embracing the sea with its large bay and speaks the language of waves and the wind and the quiet rhythm of the light of Farol.
Salvador of Oxum
I landed and m'avete embraced. The City and you were waiting for me.
The humid heat of the rain and the sweetness of four in the morning dozing have toyed with the light fabric of my pants.
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