Planes and a man named Mario--NYC Trip Part 1

March 24-26^th—Angola Embassy Trip, New York City.

Part One, March 24th--Birthday. 

We went to New York not too long ago.

My parents and I.

I feel like a big kid now because I drove 3 and a half hours to the airport. 

I went on a freeway, people. 

A shuttle bus was taken from the free parking I was blessed to have (Shout out to my brother’s future in-laws for those connections!). Then I flew across the country into Newark, New Jersey, where my parents met me.

The favorite stories, however, weren’t even about the boat we took to the Statue of Liberty, the United Nations Plaza, or when ate a location where a Meg Ryan movie was filmed. 

This brings me to a hotel lobby in Minneapolis and a man I met there.

I met Mario as he asked me if I was ready. I had just set my backpack and purse down in the hotel lobby. I picked them right back up as smoothly as I possibly could, hoping they would think I knew what I was doing. The atmosphere was slightly awkward as I followed him through the hotel doors to a small white van, decked with the hotel logo. He opened the door. Clumsily, I made my way to the first seat I could get to and thanked the kind man for his assistance. After he hopped in the driver’s seat and determined which terminal at the Minneapolis-St Paul airport I needed to be, we started our short journey. 

The gentleman makes small-talk. We are both polite. We both obviously have been through this routine before. I’m a little tired after my long drive. I want to see my parents. Then he asks me if I’ve always lived in Minnesota. 

“Actually, I was raised in Honduras.” I say. Explaining I was born in Costa Rica then raised in Honduras would have taken too long. 

“Honduras?” He asks. Except it was more like, “Honduuurasssss!” with a slight question at the last “s”. “Entonces hablas español?”  He ventures. 

I’ve never seen my own eyes light up. However, I’m pretty sure that’s what they looked like. “Pero claro que si.” I say with a smile. Of course I speak Spanish. 

He smiles.

It takes less than 3 seconds for the whole relationship to change.

We dive right in to talking about culture, food, family, food again, climate, people, and then back to food. We ask each other questions to which the answers we can both completely relate. 

This wasn’t just driver-passenger anymore. Not even Latino-Caucasian. We were two humans far from home, with a remarkably similar opinion of Minnesotan winters. 

I’ve never even been to El Salvador, where Mario is from. He has never been to Honduras or Costa Rica. Mario has lived in Minneapolis longer than I’ve been alive (20+ years). He has a family and enjoys his job. He also explains to me how El Salvador imports a lot of sweet potatoes from Honduras. They cook them up and eat them with crema (sour cream). While he’s telling me this, I’m thinking, “So that’s where all our sweet potatoes go—and why we could never find any.”

We laugh. We smile. All too soon the journey had to end. 

He opens the door for me and gives me detailed instructions on how to get to security. Above and beyond detailed.

I express my gratitude for the ride and my delight in meeting him. I shake his hand and ask his name. It’s Mario. I give my name and then wish him well. 

I walk away. 

That was that.

The next few details were uninteresting. I ended up getting sick on one of my planes. Apparently, fatigue + hunger doesn’t really add up to agreeable terms with my stomach. I’m perfectly okay with leaving out those details for you. However, traveling isn’t always as seamless and rainbows as my blocked out memory tries to tell me it is.

Sick, tired, and hungry, I somehow wobbled out of Newark’s terminal.

I did get to see my parent’s faces. It was also 48 degrees Fahrenheit outside—an upgrade to the Minnesotan arctic tundra I had been living in.

My parents fill me in on where we’re staying for the two nights we’re out East as we wait for our hotel shuttle to come.

I mostly spent our time babbling stories of what’s been going on for the past few weeks. It makes them smile. So I keep telling stories. 

Minneapolis Airport

Chicago Airport

Arriving in Newark, New Jersey