Last March, I was at my airport gate in San Diego when I noticed a man staring at an upside-down boarding pass. He smoothed it, then stood up, disoriented, paced around in brown work boots, and sat down again next to me, the letters still rotated the other way. He was anxious, or he was lost—but I couldn’t tell which, and didn’t know why. And then I saw him message someone on WhatsApp, in Portuguese. O senhor é brasileiro? I asked. Sir, are you Brazilian? It turned out he was from the same state where my mom was raised, and flying to the one where I grew up. While we waited to board, I told him what his ticket said, read the departure screens, and repeated the loudspeaker announcements. For a brief moment, I was a translator—and I couldn’t remember ever feeling more useful.
Read Full Article »
