Seven farewell parties are held, one by one adding weight to my conscience in a sequence of sweet cake, dinners and few drinks. ‘Am I making the right decision?’ I ask myself, whilst I book myself into an Air France flight to Dublin via Paris.

I feel the nausea of the good-bye again. At almost midnight, the empty corridors of Viru Viru Airport reflect the bleak neon lights, the only active check-in counter in sight announcing departure procedures to Sao Paulo.
Farewells are never easy. A dim light between the excitement of anticipation and the sadness of the ones left behind must be drawn and at ‘last calls for flights’, strong hugs tear the heart apart into two big pieces, the one that firmly crosses the immigration hall chin up to the unknown, and the one that stays wandering and hesitates about the decision already made.

Quietly sobbing against the acrylic aircraft interior, the aircraft rotates out of the airport and heads East for a three-hour hop across the Brazilian flat lands and into Sao Paulo. A so-familiar flight with a not-so-familiar feeling.
On arrival, two of my ex-colleagues await at the airport and, tears dried by the open car windows, we cruise through a systems of motorways and come to rest in the town of Piracicaba.

Our host family are of Italian roots. A dinner has already been prepared and a lasagna, a grilled chicken and a large barbecue are served at once. A treat to the palate and the soul, after a stomach wrenching morning of good-byes.
The Piracicaba River flows in dramatic outbursts of murky water and ripples through boulders of red stone. At times overflowing the city, the town proudly relishes on its waters, which feed the soil of an area rich in agriculture, strong coffee and sweet sugar cane.

After a weekend hopping around historical ‘fazendas’, we return to the city, where a row of paperwork is victoriously challenged, streets are walked up and down and friends are met again.
The streets remain the same, traffic is still terrible and the smog still sits stale at the back of the throat, yet I feel like the city has distanced itself from me. Our personalities have grown apart and such distance feels refreshing. A new appreciation for the ‘city of the garoa’ ( garoa: drizzle) can now commence, eventually replacing the grief and hatred once felt in the daily Paulista grind.

Terribly anxious, I hug my ex-colleagues, now friends, good bye and leave for Guarulhos Airport. The summer rain creeps into the bleak sky and pours intensely over the tarmac. My first flight timidly climbs through the black clouds and lands in Rio de Janeiro-Galeao shortly before the street lights of Ilha do Governador reflect on the murky Guanabara Bay. The outdated airport terminal a perfect match to the dirty Air France Boeing 747 jumbo jet which now awaits for us to board it.

Somewhat delighted to fly the Queen of the Skies, the Air France experience on this eleven-hour flight to Paris is remarkably outdated. The food is almost inedible, no personal screens are provided and the interior is rather cramped.

My gut hesitates and send ripples of heartburn through my body.
My brain hesitates at the thought of a hostile check in experience (I had to change my ticket dates and pay a hefty sum of $200 for it).
My flight hesitates at departing and returns to the terminal to offload a sick passenger.

Boy I felt sick. Intuition talking of bad luck , of bad timing, of bad health. A venomous cocktail of sadness for the hard goodbye and of uncertainty for what awaits in Dublin. For eleven hours my body trembles at the roar of the aircraft soaring over the Atlantic and succumbs to sickness when we touch down at Paris-Charles de Gaulle.
Amidst a grey sky drenched in puddles of miserable rain, the crew announce: ‘Air France welcomes you to Paris, where the temperature is two degrees Celsius. Bienvenue!’.

My connecting flight is no better. The cramped Avro lifting off across a turbulent sky which increases my sickness and forces me to take deep breaths of air whilst outside our windows, the landscape below turns both greener and cloudier.

When in Dublin Airport, the friendly immigration officer scans my passport and, trying to establish my reasons for returning to Ireland, finally waves me into the country. I heavily gasp in relief whilst my feet rush through the baggage claim area, The timid wintry sunshine keeping me company whilst the bus rockets down the M1 into the rush hour of the late morning.

Suitcase wheels cry for help whilst dragged across O’Connell Street and onto the grey cobblestones of Smithfield. It starts to rain and the light constant drizzle, which is a feature of the Emerald Isle, feels as cold and miserable as the thoughts inside of me. I have been given the chance of returning for a fresh start, though now I am not sure that this is indeed my wish.

My friend arrives and opens the door for me. Clothes on, I collapse in the sofa and nap.

‘I was feeling sick and laid down and feel asleep with my clothes on. I woke up and looked out of the window. It was pissing rain and, laying next to my unpacked bags, I felt a knot in my throat since I knew I had reached the point of no return and this bleak outlook will be now my new life.’

Chin up.