The airplane hummed beneath me. Brazil was behind me, along with the warmth of my family. Their company had helped, but the emptiness I had carried home still followed me toward Spain.
I watched the clouds through the window. I wanted to believe that time in Andalusia would help, but I knew peace would take more than a change of country.
After the chaos of the past year and the weeks I had lost while unconscious, I needed time to recover beyond the hospital and my family’s home. My thoughts kept turning toward the Calé community in Andalusia.
I remembered the Romani performers I had seen in Portugal. Their music and dancing had stayed with me. I wanted to spend time among people whose lives seemed to follow a rhythm so different from mine.
I had not met Pablo or stayed with his community before. I knew him only as the man I would have to ask for permission to come.
Before the flight, I called Pablo. I did not know whether he would welcome a stranger, or how to explain why I wanted to come.
The call connected after three rings. A deep, steady voice answered, 'Pablo speaking.'
For a moment, I was unsure how to begin. 'My name is Angelina. I’m Brazilian. I’d like to spend some time with your community, if you’ll allow it.'
'Yes?' he prompted gently, his tone patient but curious.
'I’ve been through a difficult time,' I said. 'I need somewhere quiet, and I’d like to learn from you.'
There was a long pause, the silence on the line broken only by the distant sound of a rooster crowing. Finally, he replied, 'We're not a resting place, you know. We don't carry people.'
His words stung. 'I understand. I’m not asking you to carry me. I’m asking you to let me be present.'
Another pause. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. 'Come,' he said.
Before I could thank him, the line went dead.
I remembered the call as I sat on the plane. I was flying toward a man I had never met and a community I did not yet know.
The plane was not full. I had a window seat and the middle seat was empty and I spread out slightly, which felt like a luxury. Outside, the Atlantic was enormous and dark below us.
I had brought a small notebook where I could put thoughts I did not yet know how to say aloud. I opened it to a new page.
I wanted to understand what had happened to me, but I also wanted days in which I did not have to explain myself. I did not know whether I would find that in Andalusia.
I thought of myself as practical. Yet there were things I had lived through that I could not put into order, and questions I was afraid to ask. I hoped that being somewhere unfamiliar might give me room to think.
I closed the notebook for a moment. I could not plan what I would find. I could only go, listen, and see whether I was welcome.
The plane began its descent. The clouds thinned and below them was the sea — the particular blue of the Mediterranean, which was different from the Atlantic I had just crossed, warmer in colour if not in fact. Then coastline. Then hills. Then the light of Malaga in the early evening.
I closed the notebook. I straightened my seat. I was ready.