The Universe is a Comedian

People say the Universe talks to you.

Really?

Well... maybe it does.

Maybe it is the Universe speaking to you through that little voice in the back of your mind—that gut feeling that whispers, Maybe I shouldn't go there. Or... Hmm... something about this doesn't smell right.

Those tiny subliminal messages that show up before something happens. Many of us ignore them. I certainly did.

But I have since discovered that the Universe has another, far less subtle, way of getting its point across. In fact, when whispering doesn't work, it has a tantrum and starts throwing things at you.

Well, not literally—mostly.

Things simply begin happening. One after another. As though a cosmic air traffic control tower has decided you're heading in the wrong direction and is desperately trying to reroute you—hoping you won't crash and burn.

That was my trip to Brazil earlier this year.

At first, it's just a weird detour and you may dismiss it. But then another thing happens, another detour... Then another. Eventually, still clueless, you begin wondering whether the Universe has developed a personal interest in your itinerary.

There I was, all the way down in Brazil, and the Universe was ready for me.

I guess I was not ready for it.

I should mention that I wasn't there for a happy reason. My mother had just passed away, and I had travelled to Rio to deal with everything that follows a death—the practical matters, the legal matters, the emotional ones you don't even realize are waiting for you.

I had already passed some harsh judgments on the Universe during the trip itself. So, I was ripe and ready to battle it.

After landing, I headed to my once family home—an apartment in a privileged area of Rio de Janeiro. My mom's apartment.

The place was—how can I put this? There really isn't a polite way to say this—the place was a disaster!

My mother had been elderly and living alone. From what I could tell, the cleaning lady hadn't been there in nearly two months, plus the month she had spent in the hospital. A very old apartment in a busy area.

The apartment wasn't simply untidy. It was practically declaring itself a public health threat.

I looked around in disbelief. Nothing worked. The bathroom barely functioned. Out of three, two bedrooms did not even have beds anymore. The only surviving mattress, in my mother's room, was a very hard single bed that looked as though it had been designed specifically for torturing tired bodies.

I stood there for a moment, taking it all in. Then I reached a perfectly reasonable conclusion—

I am absolutely not staying here.

The Universe, apparently, took note of that. You really can't hide from it.

So I began looking for a hotel. After what felt like forever, I found one and headed there in a hurry. By the time I arrived, it was nighttime. I looked less like a weary traveller and more like Wile E. Coyote after his 500th attempt to catch the Road Runner.

I was dehydrated, my hair had long since surrendered to the heat and humidity. My eyes were wide open as if ready to jump out of their sockets, and my tongue had become its own independent life form.

Sweating buckets, I was producing enough perspiration and body heat to qualify as my own weather system. It was forty degrees Celsius outside, but it felt like one hundred.

I staggered into the lobby and begged for two things—water and food.

"Please," I pleaded. "Just keep the kitchen open another ten minutes. I haven't eaten."

They took pity on me.

"We can do better than that. We're upgrading your room."

Well now. Perhaps I had misjudged the Universe.

I thanked them, grabbed my key, headed upstairs, and reached my room. I swiped the key card, already sighing with relief.

The door refused to open.

I pushed.

Nothing.

I pushed harder.

Still nothing.

Okay... Doors do stick. It's perfectly normal.

So I jiggled the handle, swiped again, and pushed one more time.

By this point, sweat was running down my face, down my back, down my legs, and into places that shall remain unnamed.

Eventually, the door surrendered.

At first glance, it looked rather nice. There was a coat closet, a bedroom to the right, a bathroom straight ahead, and another quite large room to the left with a daybed, a couch, and a table.

The lights were dim, which made everything feel pleasantly cozy.

Oh... this isn't bad.

Then I turned on the lights.

Dear Lord!

The room looked as though someone had painted the walls fifty shades of neglect. Gray walls, dirty patches, peeling paint. The bathroom looked like it had lost its will to live sometime around the seventies.

I desperately needed to pee. But I wasn't at all convinced I could survive direct contact with that toilet. So I reached into my purse, pulled out my trusty bottle of hand sanitizer, and proceeded to disinfect the toilet seat as though I were preparing it for surgery.

As I relieved myself, I then noticed something else—it was hot. Very hot.

The air conditioner isn't working!!

I called downstairs, and they sent one of the hotel staff. When he arrived, he proceeded to the bedroom and stared thoughtfully—more like a dead fish—at the thermostat.

Nothing.

They sent somebody else. Again, the man came in, gave me a toothless smile, and stared at the thermostat with vacant eyes.

Nothing.

Two hotel employees—technicians, they called them. Together, both appeared to possess the expertise of a pair of doorknobs with hypothyroidism.

Finally, I gave up.

"Fine," I said. "Can I at least have dinner?"

"We can make you a grilled cheese."

Well, at that point I would have accepted Play-Doh.

"Sure. A grilled cheese will be perfect."

Some time later, another staff member came. To be frank, I was unsure what his position at the hotel was. He was dishevelled, his wrinkled hotel shirt hanging halfway out of his pants—as if he had dressed quickly for the urgent task of delivering my food.

He came carrying an uncovered plate.

Looking as hot as I was, he extended his sweaty arm to hand me the plate—his dirty thumb resting inside it, alongside two slices of dry toast with a piece of cheese.

I stared at it, and it stared back at me.

I swallowed dry.

After he left, I sat on the bed holding the plate, staring at the sandwich for a while. Finally, I took one cautious bite.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!

Still, I did what I always do. I looked for the silver lining. That's who I am: a realist, but also an optimist.

Perhaps an optimistic realist?

I always tell myself that tomorrow will be better.

Surely tomorrow would be better.

Right?

The next morning, I went downstairs for the hotel's famous breakfast buffet. The concierge had assured me it was excellent.

"Excellent," he had said, grinning and making an OK sign with his fingers.

I get to the restaurant—Oh my goodness!

Everything looked tired. The food looked old. The fruit looked aged. Even the coffee looked exhausted—a lukewarm brown disappointment.

I sat there for a moment, looked around the dining room, and finally accepted what the Universe was apparently trying to tell me.

Leave.

So I did. I cancelled my reservation, explained exactly why, collected my luggage, and headed straight back to my mother's apartment.

The Universe—I imagine—smirked a bit. Probably because it was not finished with me yet.

*

After the unforgettable experience at Hotel Number One, I was back at the apartment, standing in the middle of the living room. I looked around again, just as I did when I first arrived.

No. Absolutely not. I cannot stay here.

It felt like I was standing in the middle of an abandoned archaeological dig in the middle of the Amazon forest.

Surely the Universe couldn't possibly expect me to stay there.

Surely.

So I did what any stubborn, sleep-deprived, jet-lagged woman with a truckload of suitcases and more determination than common sense would do—I went looking for another hotel.

This time I found the Othon.

Now, for those who know Rio, the Othon was one of those classic beachfront hotels in Copacabana. Years ago, when I was young, I used to go all the way up to its rooftop terrace with my friends for cocktails and to admire the view.

In my mind, it represented comfort. Luxury. Civilization. And... air conditioning.

I walked into the lobby already imagining myself taking a long, cool shower.

The receptionist smiled.

"Good afternoon. Would you have a room?" I said. "Possibly for a week or two?"

He assured me they had one. Even better—

"You'll be receiving an upgrade."

Again?

Well, perhaps the Universe had realized it had been a little harsh the first time. Maybe this was its apology.

I smiled to myself.

They asked me to wait while the room was prepared.

I sat down in the lobby, where others were also waiting. The place was packed with tourists. People were hot; some were gulping down bottles of water or pop, while others were using little personal fans.

I was melting. I literally was getting the leather-like seats wet. If anyone had planted water lilies around my feet, they would probably have flourished.

The humidity wrapped itself around me like a wet, hot blanket. My clothes clung to me as if my skin had its own gravitational pull. At one point I looked down at my pants and—

Oh dear. People are going to think I've peed myself.

I tried to reassure myself. Maybe the lobby doors were being opened too often and the air conditioning simply couldn't keep up. There had to be a reasonable explanation.

Eventually, the receptionist called me over.

"Your upgraded room is ready," he said with a big grin.

Excellent, I thought.

I headed upstairs. The room was really beautiful. Large, comfortable, tastefully decorated.

Ooh là là... now we're talking.

I dropped my bags, looked around, and smiled. Then I noticed something. It was hot. In fact, the air blowing out of the vent felt suspiciously warm. Then it stopped altogether.

Noooo! No, no, no... Not again!

I called Reception.

"The air conditioning isn't working."

They sent a staff member to my room. He came in and stared thoughtfully at the thermostat. There was an ominous déjà vu feeling.

He pressed a few buttons.

Nothing.

Then a second person came. He also stared at the thermostat and pressed exactly the same buttons.

Still nothing.

Why do they all look like they are hypnotized when they stare at this thing?

I gave it a try myself, but I, too, ended up just staring at it.

Finally, I called downstairs again.

"Oh," they said casually, "we've had a small problem with the generator."

Generator? The thought coming before the words materialized.

"Generator? What generator?"

Then came the explanation.

Sorry, the hotel had lost power.

No electricity? That means no air conditioning, no elevators, no anything.

At that moment I looked up.

Really? What a comedian!

The Universe was laughing at my expense. A community theatre of one solely designed to entertain itself.

I should mention that by then it was around three in the afternoon. I had arrived close to noon and had spent hours waiting for the room. I still hadn't eaten.

As it turned out, the power failure had started long before I checked in. Hence the heat in the lobby.

Well done, Sherlock! Amazing deduction powers, eh?

I picked up the phone again.

"Listen... I really need to eat. I haven't had anything since this morning."

I looked over at the single bottle of water I had been rationing.

"I also need water."

"We're terribly sorry," they replied. "It'll be fixed very soon."

Very soon.

That phrase would become something of a theme.

"I understand," I said. "But I really do need some food."

"We'll see if someone can bring you something."

Wonderful.

As I waited, the room gradually transformed itself into a sauna. Soon the afternoon became evening, and I still had no food.

No electricity.

No air conditioning.

No water.

I phoned again, always ultra-polite. Actually, I was so calm, collected, and sweet that I was afraid I'd puke.

This time they admitted that something had broken in the machine room. They had managed to restore electricity, but only to the lower floors.

Unfortunately, I was living in the penthouse district of the blackout. They couldn't get power to me.

Splendid. I'll remain hungry, sticky, and slowly cooking...

By ten o'clock that night, I had reached the point where reason quietly left the room. So I picked up the phone one more time.

"You know," I said, my voice calm but now with a menacing cadence, "I think I may have to call the police."

Silence.

"Or perhaps the fire department."

Longer silence.

"Somebody should probably come rescue me before I die of dehydration and hypoglycaemia."

Apparently, that got their attention. A little while later, someone appeared carrying several bottles of water. I guess there must have been a kitchen above my floor.

I have never been so happy to see bottled water in my life.

They apologized over and over again. They assured me I would not be charged for the water. They also invited me to help myself to every snack they had left on top of the refrigerator—at no cost to me.

Salty cashews.

Salty peanuts.

Salty chips.

A hypernatremic conspiracy.

That's high blood sodium, by the way.

"And as soon as the power returns," they promised, "the kitchen will stay open. You may order absolutely anything from the menu."

Now that sounded reasonable.

So I did exactly what any brain-fried and somewhat sensible woman would have done: I opened every single snack and drank every bottle of water.

And when the electricity finally returned—many hours later—I ordered dinner with absolutely no guilt whatsoever.

Plus additional bottles of water.

One learns.

The following morning, however, the hotel was still struggling with electrical problems. I looked around my beautiful upgraded room. Then I looked toward the ceiling.

"Really?" I asked the Universe.

Apparently, yes.

Really.

I packed my suitcases once again, accepted my full refund, thanked the staff for trying, and returned to my mother's apartment.

Again.

For the second time, I stood there looking around at the dilapidated space surrounding me. The apartment appeared to look back at me unapologetically.

The Universe said nothing.

Silent treatment, eh?

I still hadn't understood the assignment.

*

So—

After a fourteen-hour flight,

a grieving heart,

an aching body,

Hotel Number One,

Hotel Number Two,

And enough perspiration to replenish the Amazon River, I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the Universe and I had reached an impasse and couldn’t agree which direction I should go.

I still refused to stay in my mother's apartment. The Universe still refused to let me stay anywhere else.

My closest friends in Brazil didn't really have a spare bedroom, and I didn't want to impose on them or their families. Besides, I think I was looking for something I couldn't quite put into words. A place where I could be alone. Cry if I wanted to, laugh if I managed to. Sleep.

Just… exist for a little while.

So I kept searching.

Someone suggested Airbnb. But Airbnb and I were not really a great match. I had heard enough horror stories to know that photographs occasionally enjoy a rich fantasy life.

Still... A friend assured me there were wonderful places.

"You just have to choose carefully."

Well, then. Challenge accepted.

Eventually I found what looked like the perfect apartment in Ipanema. You heard from Ipanema, right? You know— 🎶Tall and tan and young and lovely... 🎶Surely nothing bad could happen in there.

The listing described a charming one-bedroom apartment, close to the beach. Right beside the subway station. The perfect place.

So, I contacted the host.

"I have mobility issues," I explained. "Is it accessible?"

"Absolutely."

"The ad says the subway station is just steps from the building, right?"

"Right there."

"Easy to walk?"

"No problem whatsoever."

Wonderful.

The Universe remained suspiciously quiet. No objections. In hindsight, that probably should have worried me.

It was already evening when my friends drove me there— me and enough luggage to relocate a small country.

As soon as we approached the address, I noticed something alarming —the building sat immediately beside the steps leading into one of Rio's favelas. Now, many favelas today are perfectly ordinary communities. However, others are a lot more “adventurous”. I had no idea what kind was that one.

The host met us at the entrance of the building and immediately noticed my expression. I looked at him. He looked at me. Neither of us said anything for a moment.

Finally I said, "you neglected to mention this building is right beside the entrance to a favela."

"Oh, don't worry," he replied cheerfully. "This community is pacified."

Pacified?

I stared at him.

Pacified? Is that supposed to reassure me?

What the hell did that mean? Heavily armed criminals holding weekly neighbourhood bake sales?!

"Oh, nothing happens here," he continued. "You're going to be perfectly safe."

Right. I was not entirely convinced. But ok, fine.

He then showed me to the apartment. Note that, according to the listing, and photos, I had rented a one-bedroom apartment with a full kitchen. Oh, man… If only!

The photographer for the listing really deserved an Academy Award. Or perhaps criminal charges. Because the apartment was perfect, if your life ambition happened to become a canned sardine.

The "bedroom" consisted of a small space with a divider built as an afterthought to create the illusion of a second room. The "full kitchen" had apparently gone missing. Instead, there was what I believe had once been a narrow laundry space.

Someone had squeezed a refrigerator right by the entrance of this so-called kitchen, so that to get into this boxed-in space, choreographic techniques were required. Two people could not occupy that space at the same time.

“There is a sink and a stove,” the host pointed to a tiny sink and a small camping stove with two burners. And then he proudly pointed upward. "Everything you need to cook is in that cabinet."

I looked up. Way up.

The cabinet was over two metres above the floor. Closer to the Universe than I was at that moment!

I looked back at him.

"How exactly am I supposed to reach that?"

"Oh," he said a bit disconcerted, "there's this small step ladder here."

"I did mention I have mobility problems.”

He gave a weak laugh. I didn't.

Then I wandered into the bedroom. The bed sat directly beside the window. As I approached it, my host suddenly became very interested in preventing me from looking outside.

"You can just leave the window closed."

Naturally, I opened it.

The favela was right there. Not nearby. Not across the street. Right there.

Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!

After the host and my friends left, I stood there surrounded by two enormous suitcases, two carry-ons, my purse, a bag full of water bottles, my cane—and several increasingly questionable life choices.

The air conditioner worked. Technically. In practice, it appeared to either bring the room to a freezing state, or to a hot inferno. At this point, I was beginning to suspect that I should decide if I wanted to turn into a popsicle, or a lump of coal.

After all those surprises, I discovered another tiny detail. The apartment wasn't actually very close or right by the subway. It was just the illusion of closeness. There was indeed an entrance to the subway a few meters down the street. However, to reach the actual station I would have had to walk down the hilly street, descend a long stairwell, and then walk underground.

Then continue walking. And walking some more — a really long walk. Eventually, if every one of my joints cooperated, I would arrive at the subway station.

Funny thing how they can dress up lies with nuances of truth.

I finally sat down on the bed — not defeated, just collecting my thoughts.

Okay, I thought to myself.

I can do this.

I'll make it work.

Then, I reached for my phone charger. Oops! No outlet beside the bed.

Fine.

Maybe the bedside lamp has a built-in outlet, I thought. So, I leaned toward the lamp.

And then—

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Gunshots.

Not fireworks. Not construction. Gunshots!

If anyone had filmed what happened next and sped it up slightly, Pixar probably would have bought the rights.

I screamed and launched myself off that bed just like a scared cat that arches its back, raises its fur, and jumps upwards when frightened.

One moment I was sitting, the next I was airborne.

I landed by the couch, grabbed the nearest pillow, and pulled it over my head. Apparently, somewhere deep inside my exhausted brain, I believed a cotton stuffed pillow to be bulletproof.

Fear does interesting things to human logic.

Crouching there on the floor, hiding behind upholstery and armed with nothing but a decorative pillow… Oh, man—I should be laughing. Not because it was funny ha-ha, but rather because it was unbelievable.

Three times.

Three separate attempts.

Three spectacular failures.

That's when it finally dawned on me. The Universe wasn't whispering anymore. It wasn't nudging me. It was screaming through a megaphone —"GO BACK TO YOUR MOTHER'S APARTMENT!"

Eventually a friend rescued me.

I returned to my mother's apartment. Again. Only this time, instead of trying to escape, I humbly surrendered.

I organized the paperwork spread on every surface, hired someone to clean it, bought groceries, opened the windows. I got some clean sheets and layered them on the bed to soften it a little. Her bedroom was the only one with a working air conditioner.

The irony…

Slowly, little by little, the apartment stopped looking abandoned.

Funny, isn't it? The place I had been trying so desperately to escape from, turned out to be the safest place I could have stayed all along.

The entire trip was truly one long collection of mishaps. Some heartbreaking. Some absurd. Many of them funny — once enough time had passed.

So, perhaps people are right. Perhaps the Universe really does speak to us.

It begins with whispers. Moves on to gentle nudges. Then it escalates to increasingly ridiculous catastrophes. And, if you're particularly stubborn, like I was, it eventually sends gunshots. Metaphorically, of course— mostly.

When the Universe wants you to change direction, it is remarkably persistent in pushing you to do it. Even if it nearly kills you.

Which, admittedly, would be a very different direction indeed.