I grew up in a faraway land where the long weekend is a beloved thing. In Brazil, much to my baby sister’s delight, there have been four national holidays in the past month. One of them fell on a Thursday, automatically extending it to a four-day weekend. In November, the waters warm, the white sands glow and bikinis blossom — summer seeps in. In my overpolluted home-megalopolis, Sao Paulo, the pull of beach and country is an irresistible two-hour drive away and, in high school, I perfected the art of shrugging off homework and packing up a car with friends for a weekend getaway. Fresh air and adventure — nothing like it. In Ithaca, I continued the compulsive traveling, trading farms and beaches for wherever the damned Shortline Bus could take me. In this column, I’ve had great pleasure relating these escapades and encouraging readers to do the same. Yet, this long weekend, The Long Weekend of All Long Weekends, I decided to stay in dear old Ithaca.

Although I find the spirit of the holiday touching, Thanksgiving is not celebrated in Brazil and my half-American family left the tradition behind in the Old Country. Thanksgiving instead means a good long weekend to see other non-American friends and set up camp with fluffy blankets, movies and wine while the rest of America is shut down. This year I had the same thing in mind. I was going to New York to spend the first few days with my sister Camila and then the rest of the time with a dear high school friend, Sofia.

I was planning on doing something for Thanksgiving. I really was. How could I turn down boozy catch-up sessions with dear ones in exotic New York? How could I turn down a five-day weekend? Especially when I have just become convinced that Big Red likes to snack on my soul?

Things got a little heavy. As my plans for the break developed, my “people-to-see” list began to grow. More and more unmoored Brazilians were docking themselves in New York City for the weekend and we had to see each other, everyone said. I had promised to sleep over (on the floor) at a different place every night. Visions of travel bags jamming subway turnstiles and aching feet in pinched city shoes began to stress me out. Putzing around my cozy apartment for a few days seemed much, much more appealing.

I changed my mind very late Wednesday night. I made apologetic phone calls and then slept a divine 12 hours. I cooked myself a big egg breakfast and ate in my own apartment, with real utensils for the first time in months. Refreshed, relaxed, I resolved to complete one of my final papers that very day. I later mended various clothes, cleaned out some neglected crevices in my apartment, worked on a photo album and indulged in several DVDs. Fixed myself a nice little dinner. Drank some wine. Slept another 12 hours.

It was very quiet. It was kind of weird. I didn’t leave the house once that day.

That was Thursday, Thanksgiving Day. Looking back, I was spooked. I didn’t want to see what America looked like on a national holiday. I knew what it would be like — the previous night had given me a good enough idea. The parking lots were empty. The streets were dark. Everything was closed. Everyone was gone. It was the neutron bomb for real. Collegetown had gone and died on me. Thanksgiving Day would be absolutely terrifying.

America is the home of 24-hour establishments, the biggest coffees in the world, the fast food industry. Here at Cornell, living in the library is not a witticism—it’s a cliché. It’s difficult to picture this country ever stopping. It rarely does. Other than Carnaval, Brazil and America share the same number of national holidays, and it seems that few take work off for them — Columbus Day, Labor Day and Veterans Day all occurred this semester and I hardly noticed. Some places closed down. Yet, I can’t imagine the U.S. having holidays willy-nilly; the importance of work is a deep-seated cultural value and has made the country great. Brazil does take its days off, for leisure is their deep-seated cultural value. Working too hard is not very healthy and there is so much going on outside the office — Friends! Beaches! Barbeques! Naps in the sun! Anything! Eating on the run is looked down upon. Coffee in paper cups is shabby. We only drink them in little teacups after a big meal. We take a whole week off for Carnaval. Many say the working year doesn’t really start until after the post-Lenten February extravaganza. The American’s first job will have 10 days off a year. The Brazilian’s first job will have 30 days. Stereotypes be damned!

Staying in Ithaca for Thanksgiving turned out to be exactly what I needed. The rest of the weekend wasn’t as weird, as a few stores opened and people came out of the woodwork to enjoy the beautiful weather. I had time to think of the work I had done, the lack of sleep, the volumes of coffee in the past few months and allowed myself to slow down, guilt-free, for a day or two. I waded and wallowed with great content and, come Sunday, I felt not a shred of dread for the coming finals. Whether you’re stressed out or blissed out, the real thing, a big, fat month and a half of vacation, is just around the corner. I most heartily, sincerely wish you days of long meals, good books, wild adventures and a bit of home. You’ve deserved it!

Erin Geld is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at esg24@cornell.edu. The Sampling appears alternate Wednesdays.