So, what would you do if you: realized at the Sao Paulo airport that your Adorable Husband had somehow managed to misplace his passport and cell phone, but you had a flight in about an hour, were down to approximately $200 for the next week, and had to be in a city about 1000 miles away in like four days or you’d miss the US World Cup Round-of-16 game you just scored tickets to?? If you were me, you’d screech something to the effect of ‘You motherfucking idiot, SERIOUSLY? I’m going to murder you in your sleep if you make me miss this match and you’re not even gonna like it cause I’m gonna do it WITH A SPOON.’ If you were the AH, however, you’d be an Aussie, and your response would be something more like ‘Yeah, no worries, it’ll all work out.’ And goddamn you, you would be right, ’cause (spoiler alert) all stupid Aussie cunts are the Luckiest Assholes on Earth.
God had smiled upon us. We were at the World Cup, in lovely Brazil, off to the Round-of-16 in Salvador, and the US, for some still miraculously inexplicable reason, had not yet been knocked out. Even more fantabulously, a perfect congruence of unexplainable factors had placed them to play Belgium in Salvador in a short four days. A game we already had tickets to. The Nina was quite pleased with herself, let us just say.
Now, in the idiotic AH’s defense, he did plan the perfect trip. He’d pre-booked flights and hotels to and in all the cities our 7-match pass might hypothetically take us to, all refundable of course, double booking for weeks we’d be in one of two cities but wouldn’t know which ’til like the day before, all well in advance. So really all we had to do was fly to Salvador, stay at our lovely 4-star hotel on the beach, ferry off to a lovely island resort for a couple days, and get back in time for the game. Totes simple, right? HA.
I’d very much like to say that I held it together pretty well when it became patently obvious upon check-in that there wa’n’t no fuckin’ passport in that there backpack, but the AH has given me permission to blog this disaster conditional upon my adherence to The Strict and Honest Truth* (seriously, has he met me??). So I can’t say that I’ve quite mastered the Aussie ability to radiate calm and peacefulness even when, say, being eaten by a shark, disembowelled by a kangaroo, or denied the chance to drunkenly screech asininely patriotic bullshit in public while sporting an American Flag Pseudo-Dress. I have, however, spent enough time living in Oz by now that I can internalize my… ‘ slight discomfort’ and generally at least keep my bloody mouth shut ’til the Aussie Magic kicks in and everything turns out ok.
Because that’s the thing about bloody Aussies. It’s not like they’re any smarter than the rest of us. In fact, I’d venture to say that they pull a shit-ton dumber shit on a regular basis than even the likes of American frat-boys or British pub-wankers. No, it’s that they really buy this shite the Australian Government spews about their being The Lucky Country (yes, that is officially their motto), and generally blather on around the world as if nothing on Earth bad could ever happen to them. The magic / horridly obnoxious part is that this self-fulfilling prophecy is now The Law. The Aussie Law of Lucky Assholes, I shall christen it. Like, I swear to fuck nothing bad has ever happened to an Aussie, ever. And even when it does (as I never like to deal in absolutes, haha), they just don’t care. They’re like, whatever, she’ll be right (yes, that is a phrase. It basically means: Nothing Bad Ever Happens To Us Because We Are Lucky Fucking Assholes).
Like seriously, I’m listening to two dudes at work earlier this week, talking about some friend who cut his finger off sawing a fence (fyi, wtf), and it goes like this:
Dude One: “Yeah, it was so stupid, he cut it right off.”
Me: Omg I hope he’s ok, that’s so awful!!
Dude Two: “Ha, what a wanker.”
Dude One: “Right? And he even had gloves right in his back pocket!”
Me: Omg that’s even worse, how horrid!
Dude Two: “Aww, she’ll be right, at least it wasn’t his thumb.”
I swear to god that is verbatim. The Strict and Honest Truth.
In a strange coincidence (perhaps I need to quit this job?), a guy I work with lost an eye in a freak tree-branch incident (yes, it’s true, even the plant life will kill you in Oz) a couple years ago, and when the office found out, general consensus was to laugh at him. Which, upon his return, he joined right in with. It was AN EYE, people, AN EYE. But I can’t yell at them for being insensitive ass-wipes because, a) he also thinks it’s funny (?????????) and b) the ALLA, which states: he’s totally lucky, like, he should really be dead, so let’s all have a laugh.
But… I digress.
So I peaceably said nothing as he tried to talk his way past the airline ladies (who were super awesomely nice and sympathetic. No, like really. Fuck I love airport personnel in EVERY SINGLE COUNTRY IN THE WORLD EXCEPT MY OWN), to no avail. No, you really can’t fly across Brazil using a photocopy of your passport you found on YOUR WIFE’S phone, what with your own currently hanging out Fuck Knows Where having a fabulous time with said passport. But apparently you can get a “temporary passport” from the cops upstairs? After sprinting around Guarulhos Airport for about 30 minutes, babbling my Portunol / Spanglish inanity at a number of official looking Brazilians, and visiting at least three different types of police kiosks, we learned that there would be at least another hour wait. And our flight was in an hour. And so then I had a failure.
I left him. I left the Adorable Husband at the airport in Sao Paulo, with no passport, no phone, about $200, no available credit, only one word of Portuguese, a potential Fake Replacement Passport Thingie and yeah, I’m pretty sure I also jacked his iPad charger. Yup, I fuckin’ left him and got on a plane. Lemme just say, this is what football does to people. Totally my story, I blame the football-fever. I mean, Bad Wife. BAD wife! Blah blah yadda, I’m a terrible fuckin’ person. But even more terrible, by my view, I didn’t realize the worst part ’til I’d landed in Salvador: he had the tickets.
So we Skyped up the last of his iPad charge when I got there, during which he informed me of the following:
- It’s Friday night and the Aussie consulate is closed ’til Monday.
- They can’t get a new passport in ’til Tuesday.
- No, one cannot have a ‘temporary fake passport thingie’ if one is not Brazilian.
- The game is Tuesday.
- He indeed can’t fly without a passport.
- The bus to Salvador supposedly takes 48 hours, but surely that can’t be on time…
- A last-minute flight to Salvador costs approximately $600 more than we currently possess.
It was at this point that my pathetic pretense at Aussie Calm dissolved and the poor inhabitants of the lobby of the Hotel Bahia Othon Palace (who loves Brazilian hotel names? Nina does, that’s who!) were subjected to a torrent of verbal atrocities worthy only of this blog. The AH took it all in stride, of course, because of what he next informed me, his voice blatantly filled with the evil glee of toying with his AH-ditching Wife:
- The info-desk people (have I praised Brazilian airport personnel enough? God bless Azul Airlines! And the info desk people! And generally just all those non-English-speakin’ Brazilians!) apparently took such pity on poor, language-less, wife-less, passport-less Aussie Bloke that they adopted him in Portuguese, lent him a mobile, and called every place we’d been that day in all of Sao Paulo. A city of 22 and / or 28 million people, btw.
- This actually worked. The AH called the consulate, who called like 12 post offices, where they found that the passport and mobile had been left at the downtown office.
- The post office people had found and kept them.
- The Aussie Consulate people then sent over some Consular Officer chick to guard them.
- She kept them safe at her palatial villa, where the AH had just retrieved them.
- He’d also found and booked a $200 one-way to Salvador for Sunday.
- WHAT THE MOTHERFUCKING FUCK.
I know this should have made me happy. And it did, really. The game was amazeballs, and photo-ops like this occurred:
Or, dare I share it, this:
But seriously. Sometimes I hate Aussies. Cause they are luckiest motherbleeping a**hole See You Next Tuesdays on Earth.
*this blog has been approved by the commission for The Strict and Honest Truth.