Laura Binenbojm

Over the last few weeks of endless introductions, I have come to appreciate the moment when someone asks, “Where are you from?” and I get to say, “Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.” I watch their eyes light up, followed by the unmistakably American exclamation, “That’s cool!” Trying to appear humble, I respond with a casual “Yeah … ” while secretly enjoying the praise. When more questions are asked, I engage with people’s curiosities, describing Rio through its best features: no seasons other than summer, amazing music, happy people and food so fresh it puts the sweetness of Crumbl Cookies to shame. I am usually content with their dreamy version of my city as if my life is spent under the shadow of Christ the Redeemer or lounging on the Copacabana beach — to them, I’m living in a postcard.

But beneath that surface, sometimes, I feel a quiet kind of loneliness. Because no one here really understands my hometown. Not like I do.

It was Sunday the first time I noticed this. I found myself tucked away in one of those dull, gray, cubicles in Bass Library — the kind that seems designed for desperate cramming. My arms ached from carrying the “Iliad” and my laptop across campus, and the weight of an endless to-do list pressed down on me. I stared at my blank screen, trying to force out words for my Directed Studies paper, but everything felt off, stiff, each word completely wrong. Frustrated, I slumped in my chair and flipped through the “Iliad” again, hoping for a spark. And just as inspiration finally hit me, I reached for my keyboard, only to find my laptop was out of battery.

I stormed out of Bass, my frustration boiling over. As I made my way back to Old Campus to grab my charger, I slid my earphones in and let my MPB — Brazilian popular music — playlist wash over me. When “Velha Infância” by Tribalistas started playing, something inside me shifted. I found myself struggling to hold back tears, overwhelmed by a deep, inexplicable emotion. Then it hit me: for the first time since arriving at Yale, I felt saudade – a word unique to the Portuguese language that describes that longing for a place, a moment or a feeling that the English language cannot convey.

But it wasn’t the postcard-perfect image of Rio that I missed. It was the essence of home, the mundane yet cherished places that made up my everyday life. I missed the supermarket where I’d buy snacks late at night, the cozy hair salon where gossip and laughter flowed as freely as the coffee. I longed for Solo, the brunch spot where lazy weekends were spent over endless conversation, and Itahy, the slightly rundown pub that, despite its old furniture and dirty appearance, was the perfect hangout. I missed walking into my grandma’s house, where every corner was steeped in childhood memories, and I longed for the barbecues with my family, where the aroma of grilled meat and the sound of laughter wrapped around me like a welcoming embrace.

I missed the warmth of routine. Walking home from school to a plate of arroz and feijão, rice and beans, the kitchen alive with the sound of my sister and I debriefing our days. I missed wandering downstairs at 3 a.m. knowing I’d find my dad still awake, ready to help me brainstorm ideas for my latest essay. I missed my mom, always keeping every detail of our lives in order: waking me up just in time for school and offering me a cup of tea before bed. I missed my teachers, the sense of stability and warmth of their familiarity. I missed the relatability of my hometown friends, who not only know Rio — but know it like I do.

As I finally returned to my dorm room, I fumbled for my keys with a mix of impatience and relief. After a few deep breaths, I unlocked the door and grabbed the charger, but before heading back to Bass, I took a moment to press play on my MPB playlist again. The familiar music began to soften my sadness, with the strains of Chico Buarque and Marisa Monte renewing my sense of connection to Brazil.

Slowly, as the music erased the edges of my frustration, I began to realize that while most people at Yale cannot fully grasp the depth of my hometown, that’s okay. Rio de Janeiro lives in me, in the songs I listen to, in the memories I cherish and in the quiet moments of saudade that remind me of where I come from.

As I sat down at my Bass cubicle, I couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all. Here I was in a dimly lit library on the other side of the world, trying to wrestle with ancient Greek epics, while my heart was still dancing to the rhythms of Rio. As the words finally began to flow, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the next time I tell someone about Rio, I’ll add a little note about how its magic doesn’t just come from the beaches or the carnival, but also from the deep, quiet spaces where saudade lives.