The month of June has passed by like this. I kept consulting the travel agency for the finalised plans. I wanted everything to be in order. No room for mistakes.
One of these days, I need to inform them of the journey. In case my mom wanted to shop for things or something like that, I would like to give her a day or two to prepare.
I decided that I would do it today itself. That would give us two days of time to prepare and pack. I couldn't properly surprise them because in my mind, I would be telling them of the journey at the airport. But, practically, that wasn't possible. For a 10 day trip in France for a family of 4, logistics are very important. And we aren't rich yet. So, everything needs to be pre planned.
The weather was absolutely brilliant today when I went for the run. The morning air in São Paulo carried the smell of winter and roasted coffee, the kind Mamãe made. I came home, freshened up and came down into the kitchen.
The sunlight was coming in through the windows and it illuminated the kitchen table perfectly. There was a golden glow in the kitchen.
Mamãe hummed along to a hymn as she sliced bread. She noticed me and asked me to cut the fruits and put them on the table. I did as asked. I was a bit nervous. How would they react to this news? Would they think that the money is wasted? I have used up almost 20000 dollars on the whole trip. The flight tickets, accommodation and the match tickets cost the most. And I set aside some cash for our shopping there.
"Ricardo," Mamãe said, noticing the way I was acting restless. "Are you okay?"
I swallowed a mouthful of air instead. "I,uh. I'm fine mamãe."
Papai lowered his paper just enough for one eyebrow to peek over it. "You are acting all jittery, son. What's up?"
"Nothing is up papai. Just tired from the run. Give me a minute!"
I used the opportunity to go to my room and hid a brown envelope containing the flight tickets under my shirt.
Once Digão also joined the kitchen table, I slid it across the table to my mom.
"Open it," I told Mamãe.
Her hands, still smelling of coffee and bread, trembled as she unsealed the envelope. Suspense in the air.
Four plane tickets fell onto the table, followed by four glossy passes stamped with the FIFA logo.
For a heartbeat, nobody spoke.
Papai blinked. "Paris?"
"France!" Digão shouted. "We're going to the World Cup!"
Mamãe's eyes widened, darting between the tickets and me. "Ricardo, tell me this isn't a prank."
"It's not." I forced myself to breathe. "We leave the day after tomorrow. I used the money I had for the car. I wanted to have this experience now. I know how much you want to watch Brazil play. This is the world cup! We will not get a better chance. I wanted to thank you all. For everything."
Mamãe pressed her hands to her mouth, tears gathering. "My baby. You did this?"
Papai stood, came around the table, and pulled me into one of those bear hugs that make breathing optional. "You're unbelievable, filho. Completely unbelievable."
"Crazy," Digão added, grinning ear to ear. "But cool."
When Mamãe finally spoke again, after coming out of shock, her voice was soft, barely audible, "So we're really flying to France?"
I nodded. "And not just anywhere. We have seats for the semi-final. If everything works the way it should, it would be Brazil versus the Netherlands."
Mamãe's cry of joy startled the neighbours. Laughter filled the kitchen, the kind that makes you forget every worry. She came up to me crying with joy. She hugged me so tightly that she could give a trial for the world's strongest woman competition.
The next two days were a blur. I realised that telling her two days in advance was a mistake. Since I had everything covered for the trip, my dad bore the brunt of her shopping.
She wanted new dresses. Glasses. Shoes. She would make us buy new shirts and pants as well. She had 5 suitcases packed in a day. I had to tell her that we don't need that much stuff and had to ask her, beg her to cut it down. It would be a hassle with all the luggage. We wanted a nice trip across France.
On the day of the journey, we were at Guarulhos Airport, our suitcases lined up like eager children. Mamãe checked them twice; Papai pretended to complain about her over-preparation but secretly double-checked too.
Digão had already bought a Brazil flag bandana and tied it around his head.
"I'm ready to meet Ronaldo," he announced.
"That confident? If we are lucky, we may see him up close. Meeting him would be impossible." I said.
He shrugged. "Close enough."
As the plane lifted through clouds, city lights dwindled to glowing dust. Mamãe clasped Papai's hand, whispering a prayer for safe travel. I watched their fingers interlace, and something inside me warmed.
Dinner arrived. Plastic trays of beef stew, bread rolls, and tiny squares of guava. Digão wrinkled his nose at the airline dessert, he hated Guava.
"Don't complain," Mamãe said. "We're flying to Europe, menino."
"I'm not complaining," he said. "I'm just showing my displeasure at their choice of dessert."
Hours passed. The cabin lights dimmed. Papai leaned across the aisle to me. "You did all this yourself?"
I nodded. "I had help. I asked the travel agency for all the bookings. I asked coach Martinez for help with the tickets. They cost a bit more than usual, but we have great seats, and they're for the semi finals. I want to watch Mamãe's face when she sees Brazil play and reach the finals."
He smiled, eyes moist, and said "I have said this multiple times before but I will say it again, I am so proud of you Kaká. Not just for being the footballer that you are, but for being just you. The love that you show us, I could not have wished for a better son."
"Shh! Don't let the little shit hear you"
"It'll be our secret then. Thank you Ricardo. For everything."
I just smiled at him in return, my eyes moist as well. And watched him look out into the night sky.
Only one thought was on my mind. Worth it.
When I woke, clouds parted to reveal patchwork fields and rivers glinting like silver threads. The captain's voice crackled: Bienvenue à Paris.
The Charles de Gaulle terminal smelled of coffee and jet fuel. French words rolled like music through the loudspeakers. Outside, cool air brushed my face. Crisp, foreign, alive.
Once we collected our baggage, I had to spend a couple of minutes finding our point of contact. I was informed that one of the people from the travel agency would be there.
Digão noticed a sign that said, "Ricardo Kakà and family". I let out a breath I was holding and led my family there.
He spoke English and Portuguese luckily, and once introductions were made, we took a car into the city. Papai kept leaning forward to admire bridges and architecture. "Look at those arches! Even their highway barriers have style."
Mamãe pressed her nose to the window.
"So clean, and the flowers! Even on the balconies."
Digão pointed at every scooter we passed.
"I'm going to ride one of those."
"Over my dead body!" Mamãe said automatically.
Our hotel in Montparnasse was small but warm, with cream walls and windows that opened to a narrow street lined with cafés. The owner, Monsieur Claude, greeted us with a handshake and a few cheerful words in Portuguese.
"I lived in Rio once," he said proudly. "Copacabana, 1968!"
Mamãe laughed. "Then you know how to treat Brazilians."
He winked and said, "With coffee and patience."
After washing up, we stepped into sunlight that smelled of bread. The street below buzzed with people: office workers balancing espresso cups, tourists with maps, a busker playing accordion near the corner café.
Papai inhaled deeply. "You smell that? Yeast, butter, history!"
"That is a croissant, Papai," Digão said. "Not history."
Mamãe guided us into a bakery whose window gleamed with pastries. Almond croissants dusted with sugar, chocolate eclairs so glossy they reflected the sky. The woman behind the counter greeted us with bonjour! and handed us warm paper bags.
We ate on the sidewalk. The croissant flaked like soft confetti, leaving our fingers shiny with butter.
Mamãe closed her eyes. "I think I've reached heaven."
"Careful," Papai said. "You might decide to stay."
She laughed. "Not without my kitchen."
We wandered toward the Seine. Artists painted on the embankment, their canvases dotted with color. Vendors sold postcards, tiny Eiffel Towers, and watercolor prints of the city. The scent of roasted chestnuts drifted from a street cart.
Digão tried on a beret at one stall.
"How do I look?"
"Like someone who's lost their football team," I said.
He pouted. "Maybe the French girls will like it."
Mamãe chuckled. "At thirteen, you worry about girls already?"
"I'm planning ahead."
We crossed Pont Neuf and stopped to watch boats glide under us. Papai pointed at the stonework. "See the spacing of those supports? That bridge has stood for centuries. Beautiful engineering, functional and poetic."
I loved the way his eyes lit up when he talked about design. It was the same light I felt when I thought about football. Maybe we weren't so different after all.
We found a small café near the Louvre where tables spilled onto the sidewalk. The waiter spoke just enough English to smile at our efforts.
Papai ordered steak frites, Mamãe chose quiche lorraine, and Digão bravely pointed to something labeled croque monsieur because, as he said, "Anything with a mustache word must be good."
The food arrived fragrant and steaming. My plate held slices of roast chicken bathed in thyme sauce.
Papai dissected his steak and said "Perfect."
Digão bit into his sandwich and exclaimed, "It's just ham and cheese, but it's fancy ham and cheese!"
We laughed until people at the next table smiled too.
Then we went to the Louvre.
Our point of contact, Mr. Laurent was not hands on. He said that the best way to enjoy the city is to explore it ourselves. He gave us the basic directions, gave us his contact information and that he would check in on us periodically.
He made it sound fancy, but I thought he was just lazy. I would need to talk to the travel agency about this. But, it was fine for now. Nothing is burning yet. Maybe I am worried about nothing. You cannot blame me, I come from the modern day where I have a super computer in my palm.
We explored the surroundings and we reached the Louvre. Inside, the air felt cooler, heavier. Marble floors echoed underfoot.
Mamãe stopped before every painting as if afraid to blink. "Imagine painting like this without cameras," she whispered. "They captured souls."
Papai was drawn to sculptures instead. He circled the Winged Victory of Samothrace, admiring the balance of weight and motion. "They knew aerodynamics long before airplanes."
At the Venus de Milo, Digão whispered, "She's missing her arms."
Papai bent down. "Sometimes art's perfection is in what's missing."
Mamãe nudged me. "You hear that, Ricardo? Remember that when your passes miss their mark."
I groaned. "Mamãe! My passes don't miss their mark. The mark is not where it is supposed to be. There's a difference."
She just laughed.
We reached the Mona Lisa last. The crowd was thick, everyone craning for a glimpse. When I finally saw her, she was smaller than I'd imagined, yet somehow larger than the room.
Mamãe leaned close to me. "You know what I see in her smile? Patience. Like she knows something wonderful but isn't ready to tell."
I thought of all the secrets my own life held, memories, dreams, fears, faith. I wonder if I wore that same smile sometimes.
We returned to the neighborhood as lights blinked on one by one. Street stalls sold roasted corn, sweet crepes folded into cones, and tiny cups of espresso strong enough to wake the dead.
Mamãe insisted we try crêpe au sucre. The sugar melted into caramel against the warm dough. Digão ended up with powdered sugar all over his Brazil jersey.
A woman selling handmade scarves called out to us. Mamãe admired one patterned like sunflowers. She hesitated, but then Papai bought it and draped it over her shoulders.
"For when São Paulo forgets the sun," he said.
She kissed his cheek, blushing like a newlywed.
I loved this about them. They didn't care for anything. They aren't afraid to show affection. And they truly loved each other.
Later, in a souvenir shop near the hotel, Digão picked a small silver Eiffel Tower for his school desk.
I didn't find anything special that caught my eye. But I liked that my family was having fun. That was enough for me.
The next morning began with a drizzle, gentle, like mist wrapping the rooftops in a shy gray veil. Paris seemed softer under rain; the cobblestones glistened, and the smell of wet bread drifted from bakeries already awake before the sun.
Mamãe stood by the window, her scarf around her shoulders, watching the drops slide down the glass.
"Even the rain smells elegant here," she murmured.
"Elegant rain?" Digão asked, stuffing himself into his Brazil jacket. "In São Paulo, rain smells like bus tires."
"That's because São Paulo is busy surviving," Papai said, zipping his own coat. "Paris is busy remembering."
We left the hotel with umbrellas borrowed from Monsieur Claude, who insisted we looked très chic even though mine was bright red with cartoon cats.
The local street market had just opened. The air was alive with the sound of greetings bonjour, ça va, laughter.
Stalls brimmed with strawberries so red they looked artificial, pyramids of peaches, cheeses with names I couldn't pronounce. There was music too: a man strumming guitar under an awning, his case half-filled with coins.
Mamãe stopped at every stand. "Look at these tomatoes, Bosco, so firm! I could make stew that would make our neighbors cry!"
The vendor grinned, offering her a taste of goat cheese. She took one bite and closed her eyes. "Heaven, truly heaven."
Papai, of course, was studying scales and counter design. "Even their market stalls have structural efficiency. Look, the canopy tension distributes perfectly through those hinges"
"Eat the cheese, Papai," I said, laughing. "No one's grading their engineering."
Digão had already disappeared. We found him a few stalls away, trying to trade his São Paulo keychain for a tiny jar of honey. The old vendor chuckled and agreed.
I did not want to know how he pulled it off. He didn't speak French. Yet, he successfully bartered with the vendor and came back with a jar of honey.
By noon, the rain cleared, and sunlight broke through the clouds in wide, golden sheets. The city glittered like it had been washed clean just for us.
We bought baguette jambon-beurre sandwiches from a food truck parked near the Seine. The man toasted them over a sizzling grill, the butter hissing and perfuming the air.
Mamãe couldn't resist buying a cup of roasted chestnuts too.
We sat by the river, our feet dangling over the edge, boats gliding beneath the bridges like lazy fish.
"This bread" Mamãe said between bites, "isn't bread. It's poetry."
"Poetry with ham," Papai added, chewing thoughtfully. "I approve."
"I think I'm in love," Digão said, mouth full.
"With the sandwich?" I asked.
"With France," he corrected. "But also the sandwich."
We laughed. And in that laughter, something bright bloomed inside me, a sense of belonging, even thousands of kilometers from home.
Later that day, Mamãe led us to Boulevard Haussmann, where department stores rose like cathedrals of glass and gold. Inside, the air smelled of perfume and possibility.
Digão was overwhelmed by the escalators. "This is bigger than our school."
He wandered into the toy section and emerged wearing a French national team cap.
"You only have to pick one thing," Mamãe warned.
"I already did," he said, pointing at the hat.
Meanwhile, Mamãe drifted toward kitchenware. Gleaming copper pots, porcelain dishes painted with delicate blue vines. She ran her fingers along them like someone touching old dreams.
"I could cook anything with this," she whispered.
Papai smiled softly. "You already do, querida."
I watched them from a few steps away. They had grown up sharing everything. Hopes, kids, responsibilities, and even exhaustion. And these days, even chores, thanks to me. Seeing them here, under these chandeliers, made me realize how rare their simple happiness was.
Before leaving, I found a little shop tucked between cafés selling old postcards and notebooks. One postcard caught my eye. A photo of the Eiffel Tower at dusk, the lights just beginning to glow. I bought it.
Not to send, but to remember.
We returned to the Louvre, this time slower, hungrier for detail. The first visit had felt like a rush of awe; now, we wandered with curiosity.
Mamãe lingered near the Dutch paintings. Vermeer's quiet light, Rembrandt's faces heavy with time. "You can feel their breath," she said softly. "Like the people are only pretending to stay still."
Papai stood by an ancient marble bust, tracing the air near the carved lines. "Look at the proportions. Even the smallest deviation changes the balance."
Digão was less philosophical. "Why are all the statues naked?"
"Because art celebrates the human form," Papai replied automatically.
"Yeah, but it's weird. They should at least have some cover or something."
That earned a chorus of laughter that made a few museum guards smile despite themselves.
In the Egyptian Gallery, golden sarcophagi gleamed under dim light. Mamãe touched her cross pendant. "Imagine believing in eternity this much."
I stared at the hieroglyphs. strange, elegant, unending.
We exited hours later, exhausted but glowing.
Outside, the sun was low, and the glass pyramid shimmered like fire.
That evening, Papai found a small restaurant recommended by Monsieur Claude.
The sign said Le Petit Cœur, The Little Heart.
The owner, a round-bellied man with a moustache, greeted us as though we were family. We couldn't understand the language, but we could understand the emotion.
The tables were draped in white, the lights soft. A violin played faintly from a speaker somewhere near the kitchen.
We ordered a bit of everything:
– Onion soup thick with melted cheese.
– Duck confit for Papai
– Ratatouille for Mamãe, who swore she'd make it at home.
– A simple roasted chicken for me and Digão, golden and fragrant.
Halfway through the meal, Mamãe's laughter rang bright. Papai was explaining how the Eiffel Tower's structure managed to remain light yet unyielding.
"Like good relationships," he said, raising his glass. "Flexible where they must be, strong where they must not break."
Mamãe clinked her glass against his. "Then here's to us. And the lord for building us like that."
I watched them, feeling something soft stir in my chest. The quiet knowledge that love needs balance and faith.
I hope to find someone like that for me. Not soon. But somewhere down the line. I am not immune to temptation. I never had the opportunity in my past life. This time, I will have access, and a very good chance to date super models, actresses. I want to see what the allure is about. Underneath the glamour, would they be special? Would they make love different? Would they love differently? I wanted to know. So, I would date around, and then if I get lucky, I would find someone that makes me feel like this.
We woke early to catch the train south. The plan was to travel through the countryside and spend a night in Avignon before heading to Marseille.
The train was fast, gliding past fields like brushstrokes of green and gold. Mamãe dozed against Papai's shoulder, her hand resting over his. Digão sat by the window counting sheep and losing track after ten.
I thought "There's a rhythm in this country. Even the silence has music."
At noon, we stopped briefly in Lyon for lunch.
The station restaurant was bright and full of chatter.
We ordered boeuf bourguignon, tender beef in wine sauce that made Papai declare, "If perfection had flavor, it would taste like this."
We walked a bit near the Rhône river before catching the next train. Lyon felt gentler than Paris, less spectacle, more soul. A musician played violin near the bridge; Mamãe dropped a few francs into his case.
"Music makes every city kinder," she said.
By evening, the landscape changed again, lavender fields rolling toward the horizon, stone villages perched on hillsides.
Avignon greeted us with warmth and cicadas. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and baked stone. Our inn overlooked narrow cobblestone alleys where ivy climbed ancient walls.
After unpacking, we walked to the famous bridge. Pont d'Avignon. Half-broken, it stretched partway over the river, ending abruptly like a dream unfinished.
Papai stood admiring the remaining arches. "They built this in the twelfth century. Imagine. No computers, no steel frames, just intuition and craft."
Mamãe held his arm. "And still, it stands. Like all good things built with love."
We found a small market near the town square. Vendors sold soaps scented with lavender, jars of honey, and painted ceramics.
Mamãe bought a small blue bowl; Papai found an old brass compass from an antique stall.
Digão tried lavender ice cream and immediately regretted it. "It tastes like flowers!" he complained.
"That's the point, dumbass" I said, laughing so hard at his expression that I nearly spilled mine.
At sunset, we climbed the hill behind the Papal Palace. From there, the Rhône shimmered gold, the fields glowing under the fading sun.
"It looks like God spilled light and forgot to clean it up" I thought.
Dinner was served outdoors under vines strung with little yellow bulbs. A young chef brought out platters of grilled fish, roasted vegetables, and bread still warm from the oven.
Mamãe shared stories of her childhood, of markets in São Paulo and the first meal she ever cooked for Papai. He told us about his first engineering project, how he'd miscalculated the water pressure but fixed it before anyone noticed.
"Failure teaches faster than success," he said, sipping his wine.
I thought about my own mistakes, missed goals, bad passes, and nodded quietly.
When the stars came out, Mamãe leaned back in her chair. "This trip. It feels like a dream."
I looked at them, at my brother laughing over dessert, at the sky stretching infinite above us, and I knew: someday, I'd look back and realize this was one of the happiest weeks of our lives.
The morning train hummed like a living thing, slicing through lavender fields still heavy with dew. The sky was a soft wash of gold. Digão pressed his face to the window, eyes wide as the landscape blurred.
Papai folded the train schedule like it was a map of destiny. "We should reach Marseille by noon. Just in time to see the sea."
I leaned back, my backpack on my knees. Eight days ago, this had just been an idea. A surprise I'd saved for months of allowances and match bonuses, something I thought would bring us together before my busy life in the first team would keep me cooped up.
Now we were on our way to the semi-final of the World Cup. Brazil against the Netherlands. Ronaldo. Rivaldo. Dunga. My heroes, my teachers from afar.
I could barely sit still.
The train curved toward the coast, and suddenly the Mediterranean appeared, a vast, shimmering blue that swallowed the horizon. The salty wind came through the open doors at the station, thick and bright.
Marseille was alive. Streets swelled with yellow and green. Brazilians everywhere, flags tied around shoulders, drums beating, voices chanting "Olê, olê, olê, Brasil!"
Vendors had turned sidewalks into carnivals: grilled sausages hissing on flat pans, cold lemonade sold from metal barrels, children waving little paper flags. Somewhere, a trumpet played the first notes of Aquarela do Brasil, and the crowd joined in like a single heartbeat.
Digão tried to count the jerseys. "There are more Brazilians here than in São Paulo!"
Papai laughed. "That's because everyone who could afford a ticket ran away from home this week."
Even Mamãe was wearing face paint, two tiny green stripes on her cheeks. She caught me looking and shrugged. "For faith, meu filho. Football is another kind of prayer"
We walked from the station down toward the Vieux-Port, the Old Port, where fishing boats rocked lazily against the quay. The water shimmered with reflections of flags and sunlight. Cafés overflowed onto the streets.
We found a small stall selling fried anchovies and lemon. Mamãe insisted we try some. They came in paper cones, sizzling hot.
"Careful," Papai warned, but Digão already had one in his mouth. He hissed, fanning his tongue. "Hot! But good!"
A French vendor laughed. "Trop chaud? (Too hot?)"
Mamãe nodded graciously. "Très bon! (Very good!)"
We sat on a low wall facing the sea, eating and watching the chaos of color. Orange Dutch shirts mixing with Brazilian yellow. Despite the rivalry, everyone seemed happy.
By mid-afternoon, the streets turned into rivers flowing toward one destination: Stade Vélodrome.
We boarded the shuttle bus packed with fans singing at the top of their lungs. The seats vibrated with drums. Digão was bouncing, joining every chorus.
"Eu sou brasileiro, com muito orgulho, com muito amor!" ("I am Brazilian, with much pride, with much love!")
The bus driver honked in rhythm. Marseille blurred past the windows, balconies draped with flags, kids waving, old men clapping from cafés.
Mamãe squeezed my hand. "Are you nervous?"
"Not for the game" I said. "For the dream."
She tilted her head. "What dream?"
"That soon I'll be down there. Not watching."
Author's Notes:
Based on the feedback, I have tried to change the way I write. I went back and edited some chapters. I thought I would start with this chapter, this trip.
I took inspiration from some of the other novels I liked, some books, stuff I read online.
One of the suggestions I received was to be more descriptive. I tried it in this chapter. I don't know if I went overboard with it.
Some of the translations are from Google Translate. I don't speak French or Portuguese.
I will learn. I am learning more about grammar, writing and composition. I hope by volume 2, I could show some improvement.
Please let me know what you think.
Thanks for the support! And I hope you enjoyed it!