A Turn of Fortune

Before leaving the fire station, I conversed with another pleasant firefighter, André. I met him in the kitchen where he was preparing breakfast for the day. He spoke English fluently, which saved us from resorting to dictionaries. André attentively listened as I shared my road stories and eventually commented on how these experiences would make great stories for my future children. As I departed from the fire station, I was greeted with cheers and warm wishes from everyone present, including the once stern-looking firefighter yesterday, who now saw me off with a wide smile.

I headed to a gas station nearby to hitch a ride. Despite the overcast sky, the rain held off, making my journey to the station effortless. The station was bustling with numerous trucks. I was met with refusals from first several truckers: taking in a hitchhiker was against company policies, they said. However, as I was contemplating my next move, a trucker I had approached earlier beckoned me: he offered a lift as far as Curitiba. Gratefully, I climbed into the co-driver's seat and thanked him profusely. Compared fruitless appeals of the previous day, this was almost too easy. It confirmed my belief that perseverance pays off in the end.

While on the truck ride, the driver introduced himself as Jadson. He occasionally took puffs from a marijuana joint, a sight that no longer fazed me. As we drove, we noticed several kites dotting the sky, reminding me of Korea. Jadson explained they were called 'pipas' here. After what felt like hours, we arrived at Sao Jose dos Pinhais, a city near Curitiba. After I disembarked waving Jadson goodbye, I made my way to the nearest gas station. The rain had resumed, making me yearn for clear skies. My hitchhiking attempts at the gas station were once again met with swift success. A passenger car driver named Rinaldo agreed to take me directly to Curitiba. He owned a farm nearby and proudly showed off his produce in the trunk - kale, broccoli, and more. After learning that I was from Korea, he flashed his Samsung phone with a chuckle. We conversed in a mix of Spanish and English, making the ride lively. Upon arriving in Curitiba, I bid Rinaldo farewell and headed towards Centro's city center, hoping to find a shelter for the homeless.

Amidst the busy Centro district of Curitiba, a beautiful park served as an escape from the urban sprawl. The leaves were wet from the recent rain and shone brightly under the diffused sunlight, while the streets hazily mirrored the surroundings. As I wandered around admiring the scenery, I noticed a uniformed officer. I hesitantly approached him inquiring about shelters available for the homeless. The officer, an older man with eyes set deeply and a mustache that hinted at years of service, sought advice from his colleagues before drawing a basic map on a scrap of paper. Despite his rough and weathered hands, he handled the task with unexpected delicacy.

As I waited out another rain shower, sheltering beside a colonial-era building, the same officer approached, his curiosity evident. I sensed his intrigue, not just at my foreignness but at the juxtaposition of my journey's purpose and appearance. Over broken Portuguese, aided by gestures and shared laughs, I regaled him with tales of my adventures since Buenos Aires. He listened, nodding occasionally, a silent bond forming between traveler and protector.

Once the rain subsided, I embarked on the next leg of my journey, following the officer's hand-drawn map and asking locals for directions. I arrived at a shelter, an imposing institutional building with an air of authority. The place was a stark contrast to the Alberge I had known. It was evident that Curitiba, being a major city, had the resources --- and the bureaucracy --- to match.

Upon entering, I underwent a thorough inspection. The staff confiscated my bread knife and two lighters, which they promised to return when I leave the premises. The woman at the desk was stern and meticulously recorded my personal information into their computer system, including details such as my university major and my parents' names, while I was puzzled by the need for such information.

Once inside, the atmosphere changed dramatically. The shelter's vast hall was alive with chatter and activity. I settled on a bench, observing the diverse array of individuals, each with their own story. Among them was Maria, a vibrant young woman with an old soul. Despite being a year younger than me, life had etched deeper lines on her face. Maria, with her warm eyes and contagious laughter, became my guide, leading me to the shower rooms and dining area. Through our conversations, she unveiled her pages: a young mother who had left her two-year-old son in their hometown while she sought employment in Curitiba. Her photograph revealed a cherubic boy, his eyes mirroring hers. After sharing a meal, fatigue began to weigh on my eyelids. The day's events, compounded by the previous day's exhaustion, nudged me toward sleep. The vast dormitory, with rows of beds, invited me. I chose one, its plainness contrasting with the rich tapestry of experiences the day had woven. As I drifted off, the shelter's muted sounds became a lullaby, cradling me into dreams of tomorrow's adventures.