Lost in Translation (Literally)

It felt like the beginning of the process of peeling off his old skin, even though the bus ride from Mateo's town to Lisbon Airport was a familiar discomfort. Compared to what was ahead, Lisbon Airport, which was typically the biggest area he had to navigate, appeared busy but doable. Getting on the low-cost airline felt more like processing than going on an adventure. He already regretted not paying more for a little more room as he crammed his backpack under the front seat and crammed himself into a narrow seat with little legroom.

The first leg was a short and uneventful hop to a huge hub in London. However, he experienced disorientation for the first time during the layover. Heathrow was more of a tiny, confusingly intricate nation-state devoted to shopping and fast travel than it was an airport. English-language signs flashed everywhere, competing with announcements in multiple languages that muddled into background noise. Feeling lost in a sea of determined travelers who all appeared to know exactly where they were going, Mateo gripped his boarding pass and double-checked the gate numbers. The strange currency felt like play money in his hand as he paid for an expensive but mediocre sandwich.

The journey across the Atlantic was a test of endurance. Compressed into a vibrating metal tube for nine hours. Between a restless child and a snoring businessman, sleep was impossible. The engine noise was a continuous drone, and the air tasted stale. In an attempt to ease his anxiety, he drew in his notepad, but his hand felt unsteady and his thoughts were too focused on the impending arrival, the immigration process, and the sheer boldness of his quest. On the seatback screen, he observed the flight path tracker, the small airplane icon stuttering painfully slowly across the wide blue expanse of the virtual Atlantic.

He was astounded by the view when they eventually descended toward Los Angeles, not because it was beautiful but because of its size. A vast, hazy grid under the unrelenting California sun, the city sprawl extended indefinitely. It resembled a mathematical equation covering the earth more than a city.

Entering the terminal at LAX felt like entering a new environment, one that was faster, brighter, and louder. There was an electric, slightly frantic energy in the air that he had never felt before. The city's demographics were reflected in the numerous English-language signs that were layered with Spanish, but the speed and sheer amount of information was debilitating. With his passport in a sweaty hand and his heart thumping nervously against his ribs, he followed the herd to immigration.

Slowly, the line moved. Mateo practiced his narrative: artistic investigation. Going to galleries. California light served as inspiration. Obtain a return ticket. Have money. He observed the grim-faced Customs and Border Protection officials in their booths, their brief encounters with passengers frequently concluding with a curt dismissal to a secondary inspection area or an abrupt stamp. Fear coiled in his stomach, cold and sharp. What if the documents he resubmitted weren't sufficient? What if they witnessed his nervousness and his weak narrative?

It was his turn at last. He went to the booth and gave his passport and the landing card he had completed on the aircraft. The officer, a weary-looking woman, scanned his passport with an unreadable expression.

With a flat voice, she inquired, "What is the purpose of your visit?"

Mateo said, "Tourism," and then hurriedly added, "And... artistic research." I'm an artist. from Portugal.

She glanced up from the screen to evaluate him. "Study? What sort of study?

Mateo said, "To visit galleries," in a tighter voice than he meant. "Observe the light of California. for motivation. Recently, I sold a piece overseas. He pointed to the documents he had resubmitted, hoping she would see them.

With a slight frown, she entered something into her computer. She lingered on the visa page of his passport as she scanned it once more. Mateo held his breath. It was this. Here, on the wall.

He confirmed his return ticket when she inquired about it. How long was he going to stay, she asked? He repeated, three weeks. She glanced at him, then back at her screen. Then, silently, she took the stamp, slid it back to him, and thumped it onto a page in his passport. "Thank you for visiting the US. Next.

Mateo felt relief strike him like a physical blow. His legs felt like jelly as he stutteringly said, "Thank you," snatched up his passport, and practically stumbled out of the booth. He had succeeded. He was in.

A full-fledged sensory assault erupted into the arrivals hall's clamor. The noise level was astounding: blaring televisions, rolling suitcases clicking on polished floors, shuttle bus announcements, dozens of overlapping conversations in fast-paced Spanish and English, and snippets of music from rival kiosks. Ads for credit cards, theme parks, and rental cars were glaring with bright lights. The smell of cleaning supplies, fast food grease, and stale coffee filled the air. Everywhere there were people, a tumultuous river rushing past islands of luggage carousels.

He had to locate the shuttle bus to the location close to his low-cost hotel reservation, which was miles away from the airport's direct vicinity. He saw an information desk and went over, carefully crafting his query. "Excuse me," he said, "where please is the bus… shuttle… for Santa Monica Boulevard area?"

With lightning speed, the woman behind the counter rattled off directions while making hazy gestures toward a set of sliding doors. "Shared ride vans: zone C, platform four; follow the blue signs. Alternately, take the FlyAway bus, transfer downtown, platform two, green signs. Only on the FlyAway can you use a credit card.

Mateo blinked, only partially comprehending what was being said. Zone C? Blue flags? FlyAway? Move? It was like using tweezers to try to catch bullets in his meticulously practiced English. Lamely, "Uh… blue signs?" he repeated.

With a sigh, the woman pointed more forcefully. "Go outside! Blue signs! Zone C! "Vans!"

Mateo nodded, muttered a thank you, and made his way to the designated doors, his backpack growing heavier by the second, feeling foolish and conspicuous. Along with the roar of traffic—huge trucks, SUVs, and cars moving in endless streams on multilane roads—he felt the heat outside. After following the blue signs and locating Zone C, he was confronted by a confusing plethora of shuttle company representatives yelling prices and destinations. After a while, he was able to bargain for a ride, paying a ridiculous amount and jamming himself into a van that was already full of other travelers who were looking dazed.

Mateo gazed out the window as the van drew away from the curb and joined the unrelenting stream of traffic on the freeway. It was astounding how big everything was. Bigger cars, taller signs, wider roads, and miles-long buildings. The palm trees that bordered the freeway appeared less exotic and more typical than he had anticipated. From dizzying heights, billboards screamed advertisements. It was utterly alienating, but it was just like the movies. Nothing resembled the familiar bustle of Lisbon or even his sleepy seaside town.

He experienced a profound sense of dislocation, a dizzying realization that he was completely lost in this huge, noisy, confusing environment. He had followed the impossibly long thread of his dream connection, crossed the ocean, and crossed the border. He was present. The initial triumph of arrival was quickly overshadowed by a single, terrifying thought as the van sped deeper into the vast, sun-bleached enormity of Los Angeles: Now what?