Leaving with a bang

Of course, there was no doorman when I lugged my bags down stairs and let myself out at 5:50 this morning. There was, however, a hobo on duty.

This guy escorted me the entire way as I walked the one block to the beach to take the bus to the airport.

Now, when I left Belo Horizonte I was similarly trailed by an unbelievably skinny guy only that time he was hoping to hook up with me. As if.

Same situation. I'm emotional and pensive - obviously wanting to be alone with my thoughts - and yet some guy follows me speed talking his life story in an attempt to weasel something from me.

I told the hobo upfront: I HAVE NO MONEY. Yet, he felt that if he periodically placed his hand on my bag as I dragged it, I would then feel that he deserved some money. What I felt was the desire to yell for the police, but it was pretty obvious he just wanted some change and not to steal my suitcase.

In that short block I learned he was actually American, but had lived in Rio since 1985 when he overstayed his visa (i.e. got sucked into the drug culture).

He used to sleep behind Help, the nearby house of prostitution where some of my roommates worked - but the police kicked him out. Next he moved to the beach, but that didn't work since he woke up one day toasted by the sun and getting kicked by a gang of young children. He then moved to a grove of palm trees. That proved too hidden; someone tried to set him on fire one night.

Finally, he triumphantly discovered the lifeguard post. It's perfect. Shaded from the sun, yet more secure as there's someone present 24/7. All he had to do was bury his flip-flops to keep them safe.

During this monologue, the sun was rising behind us on the ocean setting the entire beach, neighborhood, mountains, the whole world on fire with pinks, reds and oranges. The placid ocean waters seemed to be made out of lava they were so bright. It was stunningly beautiful and I would have liked to have some peace to watch it.

At this point, I reiterated that I HAD NO MONEY. Nor was I lying. I abhor exchanging money so I had given away all my reais except for R$5 for the bus. I then found out from the hobo the bus was R$7 (Bruno. You were right. *sigh... I should make it a policy to never doubt you.) I had to use the extra bit of change to scrounge up R$2.

It was going to be close and I knew it.

I literally did not have any money. Zip. Zero. Nada.

Needless to say, he didn't believe me. And he was pissed. I carried your bag! I'm an American! You do have some money!! Not even some goddamn change? Christ, what kind of an asshole are you?? Man, FUCK YOU!!...

and so on.

With that I left Copacabana. It was fitting really.

A angry hobo yelling at me on a gorgeous beach soaked in the warmth of a early morning sun. Oh Brazil... I'm going to miss you.






[Thanks for following my adventures! This is going to be my last post since I am sitting in the airport waiting to return to the US as I write this. However, it was a great experience and as I'm sure next year will bring more adventures I'll let you know when I have a new blog! Thanks again!]

On Friday I went to the Ipanema beach around sunset. I was magically beautiful. The sun slowly descending just to the side of Dois Irmãos, a twin peak mountain that lies at the very end of the strand.

The sun was not a point, but a presence. It fused with the ocean, the mountains, the people, the sand and the very air filling the world with light and energy.

Where they send Brazilians to die

The last census indicated 30% of Copacabana is over 60 years old. Warm climate, lots of pharmacies. Armies of them. Blue hair, no hair, hearing aids, walking canes and a huge sense of entitlement.

They count out the exact change in the supermarket line... in nickels and dimes. They hobble as fast as glaciers down the narrow sidewalk when I need to get somewhere. They stroll down the street in skimpy bathing suits displaying their little sagging old man butts. They complain incessantly about every little thing about my apartment in our building (we've got oldies to the side, above and below... Christ)

I found myself annoyed. I found myself angry. I found myself questioning their worth and contributions to society.

This is how prejudices begin.

Thoroughly disturbed by that realization, I sat down and noted a few things. First, I am not old, but I hope to be so one day. Secondly, being old is not exactly easy from a physical or emotional point of view. Finally, I get mad at people for prejudice against race, religion, gender, etc. SO WHY IS AGE ANY DIFFERENT? It's not.

I'm pursuing a policy of taking a deep breath and aspiring to compassion when, for example, this morning the poor thing shouted at the cashier, "HOW MUCH IS IT?" rummaged in her pocketbook and then shouted again, "HOW MUCH?"

It might have taken 15 minutes for her to check out, but really what does it matter? She is a person with all her hopes, dreams and fears just like me. She might be a little more rickety but who can say what strength and wisdom hides in that frail, hunch-over frame?

Raindrops keep fallin on my head...

Well it happened yesterday. I found myself drinking shitty beer, knee deep in the surf with giant Brazilian rain drops pelting my head. Once in a while I had to scurry back and move my stuff so the advancing tide wouldn't reach my clothes. The roar of the ocean and the chilly water were more relaxing than my people packed, sweltering apartment. The lightening out over the ocean was cool too. It was only a little annoying because super fit guys kept running past me down the beach.

"See, I work out in the rain and I'm pretty... you're just out here because you need drink off your 'Oh my God, I soooo do not belong here episode.'" Assholes.

I'm better now.

I WANT TO BE AT THE BEACH!

On the way back from Sao Paulo, I managed to lose my cell phone. I would like to pretend that I handled this misfortune with dignity and poise.

I did not.

I won't go into details. But it was ugly. I pretty much had a melt down there in the bus terminal. Think Chevy Chase in Christmas Vacation: Clark Griswald flips like David

I have to buy another phone despite my complete poverty. This morning, I set out to accomplish this seemingly simple task so that I could peacefully enjoy this beautiful day on the beach.

First on my list was TIM. It took me exactly one hour to find the store. AN HOUR!

First, the store was on Constante Ramos (it wasn't). Then it was Barão de Ipanema right in front of the school (it wasn't). No, no, no... It's at the corner of Nossa Senhora and Santa Clara! (it wasn't). No, it's at Siqueira Campos and Nossa Senhora, but the store has closed down. Go look on the door for directions to the new location (it did just so happen to be there, and it WAS NOT closed).

It's nearly 40 degrees Celsius outside today. Get your story straight, people.

Okay, so I arrive at the TIM store, finally. I walk in and glance around. The atmosphere is tense. The salespeople are rushing about looking at the floor with drawn faces.

There is a middle aged woman seated at one of the booths. Screaming. That's right. S C R E A M I N G. Poor thing apparently had a problem they weren't finding a solution for. She was grabbing papers. Yelling at the other customers who tried to back away from her discretely. The store clerks were trying to calm her with little success. She had a very high pitched nasal voice that sounded like a finger nails on a chalk board... or many it was just because she was hysterical with rage.

I was so tired and sweaty I just plopped down in a chair and watched the fireworks for a few minutes. Agitated, let me tell ya. I just wish I had my video camera with me. I could have put it one youtube and made T-shirts to sell. "SCREAMING TIM LADY - VOU TE MATAAAAAR!" Shit, I'd make a fortune.

I finally got up to talk to a sales person about my phone to be informed the only phones they had cost at least R$400. Okay, that's bullshit, thanks for your help.

This is another phenomenon. People hear my American accent and immediately think: "rich and stupid. I'm going to screw this guy over." The problem is I'm ACTUALLY poor and stupid. But at least I know more or less what things are supposed to cost. Jerks.

So I go to Vivo where they couldn't help me since their credit card system was broken. I then visited Claro only to be informed that, yes they did have a phone for R$99, but it would cost R$150 to unblock it. More bullshit. I JUST WANT TO BUY A PHONE, PEOPLE!!

I called it quits there since my mouth was dry from dehydration and I had no cash to buy a drink. I'm now going to get a bus to the Botafogo shopping mall and try the larger TIM store there. Hopefully they'll be a little more organized and have a few phones for sale under the R$400 range. I sure hope I make it to the beach today...

edit: I went to the mall and left in under 10 minutes with a cell phone. They even helped me keep my old number. Score.

Capitals of the Southeast

Belo Horizonte would be a slightly pudgy, middle class, middle aged man - conservative, religious and balding. The type who wears black socks with his leather sandals. This guy is so cheap he makes change in the offering plate. He's so suspicious he greeted his daughter's prom date cleaning a shot gun. He ate at McDonald's that time his wife dragged him to Paris for vacation. Deep down though, despite all his grousing about all the riffraff lowering his property value to his buddies at the bar, he's really just a sweet family man who could probably stand a little more culture in his life.

Rio, on the other hand, is a shaggy haired, irreverent surfer dude. He works out everyday to keep his perfectly toned beach body ripped to make waves at the club where the all the girls (and quite a few men) go crazy when he gyrates his perfectly shaped ass. He likes rough sex, lots of pot and has no troubled obtaining either. If you visit him at home, his room is a disaster and there are dirty dishes covering the sink, but you don't really mind too much because his smile and conversation are so charming and well... he's gorgeous. While he's prejudiced and fights when he gets drunk, he also has a very sweet, vulnerable side under all the bluster that you can't help falling for.

This past weekend I went to Sao Paulo. Wow. A cool young professional. His impeccably stylish clothes are always flawlessly pressed. A sharp tongue and a relentlessly witty attitude makes his conversation sparkle. He charges down the street, briefcase in hand, eyes fixed ahead, focused and motivated. On the weekends, he dances hard under the club lights, music pounding, sweat pouring down his forehead. He's got money to spend: nice car, beautifully designed house in a ritzy neighborhood. Graduate of a prestigious university, he speaks dozens of languages and uses his money to finance the innovation in Brazil.

I could be friends with all of them, but who I'd want to live with...? Rio de Janeiro, for sure. What can I say? Drama aside, I've got a thing for hot boys with a naughty side. Just so much fun.

I'm sorry... that's just annoying

Today I went out to buy some tupperware and some things at the supermarket.

But no.

Everything is closed for some ridiculous holiday. The Day of the Shop Worker... it would be. I was going to cook dinner tonight, but I guess we're going out to eat again. Better hurry before it's Waiter's Day.

Roommies

I live with six roommates. If that seems like a lot, you're entirely right. It is.

Fortunately for me, not one of them wakes up before noon and I'm a morning person. I enjoy hours of solitude.

Often though, I lose momentum especially after going to the beach for a few hours and I crash on my bunk bed for a nap. When I wake up hours later, the living room is filled with loud music and usually some dish with enough garlic to make your eyes water is on the stove.

HEY! HEY YOU! OVER HERE!!

I was getting breakfast on the street corner while a beggar tried to get my attention. He actually was waving his hands and jumping, "hey! hey, you!! Yeah, you at the register! HEY!! GIVE ME SOME MONEY!! hey! OVER HERE!!" As if I had some trouble noticing him.

Though I'm not going to give money to these guys, it pays to be chill about your refusal. I mean, they're making a living like everyone else; I'm not going to begrudge them respect.

This morning, however, I was irritated because there was no toilet paper, paper towels, coffee filters or water when I woke up this morning with a caffeine headache, a stopped up nose and a dry throat. Roommates...

Resigned, I got dressed and grabbed my last bit of change to stumble down to the corner for some coffee and toast.

Sure enough, "hey! hey, you!! hey! Money?! HEY!" It just aggravated me so much that he was shouting at me for money when he almost assuredly had more in his pockets than I had in mine. I HAD JUST COUNTED OUT DIMES FOR A R$1 CUP OF COFFEE.

In my raspy voice, without even turning my back I croaked out an abrupt "get lost."

Ugh... then my conscience was bothering me the entire cup of coffee. I burned my tongue a little too...

stupid Karma.

More on the move

Yesterday I had a long conversation with Leo's cousin and her girlfriend. They are currently living in Australia, where they are studying English and working as cleaning ladies. I was reminded by the pure courage one must have to do something so daring as move to a foreign country. They are not happy there. People are cold and look down on them for their broken English. They work on into the night cleaning toilets, yet are so poor they are going hungry.

It was so a relief to talk to them because they understood. You wake up early in the morning? Your chest feels tight? You worry constantly about the future? You're lonely? Unhappy? Oh my God, that's what I was feeling!

The point is, making changes is NOT admitting failure. My experiences in Belo Horizonte were invaluable. I learned skills (like washing clothes by hand) and gained insights into numerous aspects of Brazilian life (like operating electric shower heads and distrusting everyone). I now feel more self-sufficient than ever before. It's simply time to move on.

Making changes is scary. I'm leaving a secure job, a secure living situation, a secure life... to plunge myself in Rio de Janeiro. Despite the unknowns... I can't wait!!

Let this be a lesson for you, dear reader. If you're unhappy in a relationship, a job, a city... give it a chance, yes, but in the end: having the courage to make changes will work out much better for you than whining about being uphappy. This is your life! Don't waste time! What have you got to lose?!

Change!

my RSS reader had 1000+ items in it. tons of e-mails sat in my inbox for days. no music. no news. bouncing from one hotel to another.

I just want to let you all know that I'm moving to Rio! I know this seems like an abrupt shift, but really I've been considering a change for some time now.

Pictures to follow as soon as I get settled!

five star Italian

A valet parked and retrieved our cars. Our table had a grand total of four waiters assigned to silently glide around it. No pizza was on the menu, which was in Italian. When the food arrived it was covered with silver cloches, which were removed from our plates with a dramatic flourish... I'm thinking it was real silver because they used gloves. Utensils came. Utensils went. They even provided me with a finger bowl to tidy my fingers should the sauce on my partridges and strawberry risotto have sullied them.

Despite the novelty of exaggerated refinement, my favorite Italian dinning experience was in Spain at some hole in the wall where the patrons at one table were charged with flipping a breaker switch because the lights kept going out. I will never forget the aroma that drew droves of patrons every night... or the food when it came. That plate of hot carbs, cheese and spices kicked my partridges' little feathery asses.

It was joked recently that I like poverty... I prefer to think I'm increasingly coming to value good company and good food (wherever I find them) over massaging an idea of myself as a priveledged member of society.

Are you freaking out of your mind?

I have always loved the beach. Yesterday, it was my birthday and I tried, I really did. I plopped my towl down on the deserted Ipanema beach and tried to appreciate the beauty of the waves and moutains. The huge drops of rain persisted in their insistance that I take the hint and have the good sense to desist. I gave up when the wind started lashing my face with sand. Oh well.

I settled into one of those ubiquitous little beach stands with the plastic table and chairs to read. Suddenly, I was surrounded by six large, loud American men. Four of them, from my own beloved Texas, were buying those crappy knock off soccer jerseys that fall apart the first time you wash them from a street vendor. They then began to complain about how the water made them sick. Right... (the water is absolutely fine and drinkable, I imagine the week of high risk sex, binge drinking and overeating they excitedly told me about had nothing to do with it...)

Despite the inclement weather the two Chicagoans had set up a large Bose iPod player on their table and were chilling to instrumental rock music.

Now. for context.

I wouldn't walk around in Rio with even a watch. When taking pictures, I use a disposable camera or take pains to hid my digital, only whipping it out quickly when I already have the shot planned, then promptly stuffing it back in my pocket. Brazilians shed all jewelry before going out and are careful to keep a low profile. In fact, during my taxi ride earlier that day, the driver and I congenially discussed strategies for best avoiding a mugging. While I emphatically do not share many Brazilians unfair characterization of Rio as a "very dangerous" city, I freely admit only an idiot would ignore its high crime rate.

People recount stories of kidnapping and muggings and murders with pain in their eyes I would never want to experience.

So imagine my absolute shock at seeing a piece of high technology worth multiple thousands of dollars displayed prominently in a public place. I absolutely could not resist the question... ummm? aren't you a little... er... worried about that?

The Chicagoan's response surprised me even more than the stereo. He was deeply offended and irritated with me. He had never had a problem, ever. He had never felt unsafe. And who do I think I am? As if he didn't know how to handle himself... As if he didn't know Rio... He had been coming down there for over a year, staying for long periods of time and he had a friend and he was learning Portuguese with Rosetta stone! He was not some inexperienced tourist and I might as well mind my own business, because he wanted to sit at the beach listing to music. Damn it.

Wow... very taken aback, I simply tried to explain where I was coming from. How every single one of my Brazilian friends (without exception) had been mugged at some point or threatened with a weapon as they tried to quietly go about their business. I told my own stories of close calls with fights and carjackings.

I live here. I have spoken Portuguese fluently for four years and while I too love this city, I have the humility to accept the rules that govern this place and the good senese to heed the advice of the natives who are only concerned with my wealfare. I freely admit I am a foreigner who has much to learn about life in Brazil.

By all means, display your material wealth prominently in the shadow of the one of the largest favelas in Latin America in the city with one of the world's highest violent crime rates.

Oh... and those men were laughing at you two because you were freaked out by that bug. It's called a dona joana and is basically a glorified lady bug. Have a nice stay.

BH is for lovers

Every night for several weeks now, I pass by this couple who meet each other under a tree in front of one of the shuttered shops by my building. I know they must come here after work because they're always wearing the same uniforms.

They stand there for literally hours giggling, occasionally making out, talking in low voices or just

sitting close

huddled on the steps.

It moves me to see two people so obviously, so relentlessly in love...

They're young and apparently lower on the socioeconomic chain, so their relationship is structurally disposed to a high likelihood of failure. Marriage is rare among Brazil's marginalized poor, the ability to form a stable family unit seriously complicated by a host of social challenges and insecurities. My research harangues me about all the barriers to resources, the power differentials, the unrelenting poverty that looms over their lives.

But when I pass them, I can't help my smile... and wish them all the best. Seriously, who knows what that bond they are forging can enable them to accomplish...?

Road hazards

Going ANYWHERE here includes a careful study of maps and bus routes. I then depart with the fare carefully divided in separate pockets for quick access. I always draw a map of the surrounding streets. As soon as I get on the bus, I ask the cashier to please alert me when we reach my street. Sometimes all this results in an easy trip to my destination.

MOST OF THE TIME I AM WANDERING STREETS ASKING UP TO THREE OR FOUR PEOPLE FOR DIRECTIONS IN THIS STUPID LABYRINTH OF A CITY AFTER I GET OFF.

I just can't understand how for all my maps and research I still get hopelessly lost... I think the streets are on a randomization algorithm.

I find it sometimes helps to pretend you're Mario and this is just another level to get to the castle. Instead of evil mushrooms and grainy pixel monsters I dodge muggers and psycho-motorcyclists. That princess I rescue had better be grateful, damn it!

I know it just takes time to figure this all out. However, it's getting hotter every day here, and these little peregrinations leave me drenched. The raining season starts in a few days... then I'll really know what "wet" is. Mamma mia! Ay Mario no lika the slushy sneakers!

Screaming vagabonds

Last night we went to the movies to celebrate Brazilian Independence Day. We saw Os Normais 2, a physical comedy shtick that taught me two new hilarious Portuguese slang words for "vagina," insulted the entire state of Bahia (racially?) and managed to work a baby sloth into the plot - brilliant.

The theater is near the top of a tall hill, and by the time we had lopped to the bottom, those potatoes I had pealed and cut up for dinner were simply not going to do the trick. Fortunately, there is a cheap restaurant at the bottom of the hill.

Now, this street during the day is a busy shop lined avenue. At night, however, it is the great divide between light and dark. Marginal and mainstream. Vagrancy and... dinner.

Basically the street lights on the side of the road opposite the restaurant have been burned out since I got here shrouding the area in darkness. This has facilitated the growth of a HOBO COLONY.

I'm not sure when they set up shop or where they go during the day, but after dark a cardboard city springs up. Pedestrians cross over to the well-lit restaurant side, which conducts a lively business. Well, my laziness landed us there last night as well.

It was disconcerting to say the least to eat dinner some 20 feet away from a homeless person, cracked out and screaming incomprehensibly for a good ten minutes at his friends. The entire restaurant collectively shuddered when he stormed off down the street flailing his arms and sputtering.

City dwellers can sympathize with scenes like this one that push you towards the "clean up the rabble" argument. Then there are the little moments that remind you of their humanity like the ancient woman napping on a door step that makes you wish you could "do something." Like poverty, tacky clothing and other social problems, I'm sure the solution is complex.

In the meanwhile, I sure do hope they managed to resolve their problem last night. A HOBO WAR just doesn't seem like it'd be in anyone's interests.

Colação de Grau

This December I will graduate from Texas A&M University. I have been to several Aggie graduations, so I know what to expect for my own: endless boredom. My last name is at the beginning of the alphabet, so I do plan to leave after walking the stage. Rude? Sorry.

Envisioning mind-numbing boredom when my friend invited me the commencement ceremony for a college, it was curiosity alone that forced me to agree.

HOLY CRAP. Where do I begin?

Really, I shouldn't have been surprised by THE THREE HOURS OF OVER STIMULATION that followed.

Brazilians are frequently up front about how much they love their families. "I love you so much. I'm always thinking about you." "You really are one of my best friends. I admire you so much and I miss you whenever you're away." These are things from various friends' Orkut (=lame Facebook) pages. FROM THEIR SIBLINGS!

While I have come across instances of chronic sibling conflict here, generally I'm gratified (and convicted) by these people's obvious affection for each other. Don't even get me started on the parents.

Secondly, Brazilians also tend to be... er... "ebullient", I believe is the appropriate word. At concerts, clubs, parties, church, etc. they compete with each other for being the happiest, dancingest and loudest in attendance. Don't even get me started on Carnival.

Imagine now that someone you love, admire and support with your very lifeblood is graduating from an institution of higher learning.

A small group of family members was about five. Even the nuns turned out for a graduating sister. Most had enough parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, etc. attending that it was possible for one family member each to frantically wave an enormous, bedazzled poster with a single letter... and spell out a name like L-E-O-N-A-R-D-O with still another two rows to throw balloons, pop confetti, and lay on an airhorn like an Italian cab driver stuck in traffic.

I will not deny it. I wouldn't mind one day seeing a large group of screaming people (wearing matching t-shirts with my face splayed under "WE LOVE YOU, DAVID!! YOU'RE THE GREATEST!!!", some with their hair dyed multicolored) mobbing some stage I was standing on. Seems like it would be kind of gratifying.

It was never really quiet even during the most serious speech (and there were many, I assure you). Pretty much the only time things settled down even a little was when the diplomas were passed out - only one group was screaming their heads off at a time, the rest just kind of excitedly tittering in anticipation. I kid you not, though I knew no one there, I nearly cried once from the outpouring of honest... joy.

The time flew by for which I am thankful. I had a pounding headache between the whistles, airhorns and enough camera flashes to simulate daylight indoors.

Parabéns, graduates.

The log flume at Six Flags

The last time I traveled (to Europe) I was doing an internship in Spain. Knowing I couldn't very well look like a slob at my office, I packed pretty much every article of clothing in regular use at the time.

Fool.

I was over the limit by 10 pounds. Flustered, I quickly stuffed ~10lbs. of clothes into a plastic bag I found. Which I then lugged all over DFW airport for the rest of the day because the flight was full. Our journey took us many places, but I must recall the bag's appearance at the Charles De Gaulle... where it exploded (EXPLODED!).

On a staircase.
With French people surging up behind me.

Hurried
Impatient
Anti-American
French people
SURGING!

I was fortunate to have that fortuitous ball of clothing since the airline lost my luggage. I received it a week before I returned to the US. Buying clothes in the Eurozone made my bank account hemorrhage (HEMORRHAGE!).

This time I wasn't going to be an idiot. I packed one duffel which came in well under the limit. I was so proud of my travel savoir...

Then I got a job and moved here.

I now wash clothes like I had two year old twins who shared a bad can of tuna. To make things more interesting, I have no washing machine or dryer nor any prospect of buying one. The laundry mat is also too expensive (I checked...)

How then...? Let me instruct you, fair reader on the art of

WASHING CLOTHES BY HAND

At first, I was ineffectual in the extreme. My clothes were not clean and I'd waste hours sloshing water all over the place. Finally, I gave up and began filching clothes from Ricardo's closet when he was at work (He's much smaller than me - it wasn't pretty). Eventually tired of catcalls, I buckled down to it and made a system.

1. Soak all clothes for at least 20 minutes in detergent.


2. Rub them vigorously against a washboard (ELBOW GREASE!)


3. Apply soap to stains and use a brush on the spots (growling helps)


4. Rinse. I rinse my clothes in the shower because it doesn't get water everywhere. Please, don't tell this to Ricardo. (If he learns English one day, remind me to delete this post). Rinse until no more suds are visible.


5. WRING IT OUT! This is in caps because it requires exuberance. Lots. Especially jeans.


6. Hang on clothes line. Jeans and knit shirts go towards the front. Socks to the back. (duh.) Fortunately, we live on the top floor and the breeze is a freaking hurricane.


7. Ironing is the devil. But you must do it or people think you're too poor to have a maid. It gets faster with practice.

Though it takes time, washing clothes by hand is a great activity if you have a lot of stress in your life. All of these activities will develop your grip as well and rough up your hands giving you a "masculine aura"!

Important Note: if you leave your clothes in a heap after working out, no amount of VIGOROUS SCRUBBING will take out the noisome smell of stagnant log flume water at Six Flags. The evil-smell demons will hiss at you when you burn them.

I recommend a crucifix.

So there you go people! Now you too can travel light or live in poverty in Latin America - whatever the case may be!

Begrudingly

Relaxing on the terrace after a surprisingly drama-filled day, I realized the following:

I have long been unfairly prejudiced against city nights. While they are by no means quiet, in the right mood all those cars following through the streets can sound remarkably similar to a tide roaring.

Though the sky is no Milky Way, the moon is there - faithful as always. The stars that do shine through are in a way even more beautiful - determined to pierce the darkness. The glare of the city lights reflected off the bottoms of clouds create a shade of dull red like smoke from a distant fire.

The buildings are not beautiful mountains and trees, but the lights are human and remind me of the reality of our billions of lives rubbing shoulders on this planet - what we share.

Fine. I'll take it.

You too can live abroad!

I teach English at a language school down the street.
It is great fun.

We learn and learn.
See the Brazilian children learn.
See the business executives learn.
They are so smart, and they are so happy learning the English language.
Some day they will go there. They will be so happy speaking the English language that I thought to them in the language school down the street.
They will think of me and say, "Damn, that crazy mofo-gringo done taught me some righteous English, fo reeeeeeal!"

No, but seriously, what started out as a simple way to get out of the house for a while and make some dough has rather unexpectedly turned into some serious $$... er... R$R$. I would totally suggest getting certified in teaching ESL if you'd like to live abroad. It's a great thing to do on the side! Fo shizzo!

Self-reassuring posting

I know, I know, it's been nothing but static on the blogging channel lately. Life has, in fact, settled into a routine. I know the streets in my neighborhood. People know me at the bakery, the apartment building, my work, the supermarket. They are even starting to comment that my speech seems more natural and fluid. Tranquility? Comfort? Ease?

Nay. Madness.

This is just when moving gets dangerous!! You went to Fish Camp. You bought your books (wtf $$??) You ate pizza three days in a row at the cafeteria (becuase I can!). You've explored campus, even attended a few classes (not so scary). The newness of your dorm has worn off (yes, it's that small).

and you're just sitting there.

at the MSC fountain.

all your highschool chums far away.

Well... what now?

The quiet is so scary because you realize so much of your old life was built on transient things. The silence terrifies you because it demands from you... who are you? what are you about? (and worst of all) Why are you worth my time?

Fortunately, I know how the rest of the story goes. You gradually make new friends (some pretty amazing people too!) You find new aspects of your home (You can get on the roof of most buildings on campus). Religious crazies scream at you. You encounter new ideas. You grow. You work really hard. You learn things you never could have imagined. You fail. You join causes. You get in shape. You learn how to manage money. Your perspective changes. Your direction changes. You cry. You make bad decisions. You fall in love. Your heart breaks.

And when you look around your apartment where you made so many memories. When your friends wave good bye while you wipe the tears away on the road to current dreams, you'll look back at yourself (such a short time ago). And smile.

Though I'm pining for the familiar faces and things, though I'm spazzing out wondering what the hell am I going to do next year? I am confident of this: if you put out your hands and open your eyes - wherever you are - life will find you.

Pride and predicates...

-Well, you see, our lock is broken and I need to borrow from the caretaker... er... one of those tools that turns... you know the things... into the holes... could take them them out too... yes, I'd say that's also something it can do..."

-Um... a screwdriver? (chave de fenda)

If you decide to move to a foreign country, get ready for countless interactions like this one. Indeed, if you are insecure, afraid of rejection or needing to be taken down a few notches, I really can't think of a better way than overcoming your foibles than facing snickers, winces and blank stares pretty much every time you open your mouth.

Sometimes I repeat sentences three times, correcting grammar as I go. Other times, I talk so slowly, pausing every few words, people think I've suffered brain damage.

Then there's the "Spanishisms" (gimnasios don't exist in Brazil, they're "academias." Oh, and "buseta"? yeah, that's a vagina not a mode of transportation)

Receiving communication is also a full time job:
-Po po po?

Let's rewind that and play in slow motion
-Posso pôr pó? (Would you like for me to put some sugar (slang) in your coffee?)

OBVIOUSLY, I do not have the patience to continuously be admitting my brain failed to register that...

Ricardo says people ask me directions all the time, because I look foreign and, therefore, less likely to lie for the heck of it.

Joke's on them because I secretly take pleasure in sending people off in no particular direction when they ask me where a street is and I don't understand them. It's my revenge on them for their lazy pronunciation.

Today I sent "Miss Ugly Perm" "over there." I found out hours later she actually got lucky. I had pointed the right direction. An accident, I assure you.

While I can fool most people, Ricardo's on to me now... when I respond "uh huh, sure..." he's been stopping and demanding I repeat what he just said... the asshole.

Really though, clarification is important. It avoids conversations like these:

-Where the hell are we going? I have an appointment in a few minutes!

- I asked if we had time to go to the pharmacy and you said yes, and don't take that tone with me. It's not my fault you didn't say you didn't understand.

-[not spoken] Yes, it IS your fault for speaking this idiotic language! Portuguese?? Really??? [spoken] oooookay, well, can you drop me off first?

-I heard that.

My neighborhood's sex life

The Barro Preto is home to a hospital, various judicial ministries, the Cruzeiro soccer club sports complex and me.

The neighborhood emphasizes a brisk commercial atmosphere rather than quiet living as do some of the more tranquil, leafier zones to the south. This is the place to find clothing both wholesale and retail in the city. All day distributors linger doubtfully over the ugly Euro-trash jeans, the knock-offs, cheap t-shirts and ladies' underwear in the shop windows.

One retailer on my street tries to entice customers by positioning a young Northeasterner dressed up as a psychotic clown just outside her door. Microphone in hand he stands there all day proclaiming the store's wares in one of those weird affected voices someone somewhere decided was "amusing." Professional people in business suits stride purposefully past him eyes averted.

The crowds attract pamphleteers and vendors: hot dogs, popcorn, fresh pineapple juice and one tiny old woman with a knit shaw who stands all day on the corner courageously hawking homemade candy wrapped in ziplock bags for one real! one real! delicious sweetness!

At night, well... after dark let's just say my neighborhood is known for a different kind of delicious sweetness.

Every town no matter how conservative or religious or tiny has a gay hook up scene. Some neighborhood to the north got the ladies (and ladies?) of the night... after dark, our empty streets suddenly become the hang out of well-dressed young men who seem to have nothing better to do than pace up and down the sidewalk and talk to men in cars. Didn't your momma tell you not to talk to strange men with candy?

If you're worried about your car being identified there's always the 24 hours saunas for cruising.

If you're really really closeted, well just go to an on-line chat room for an incredibly dangerous rendez-vous with some guy you meet on-line like Americans do.

While I believe sexual satisfaction is best sought in the context of a loving, committed relationship, I'm not going to judge. I don't have to imagine the extreme pressure to keep your sexual orientation a secret. I've experienced it. You see, the problem with disapproval, rejection and discrimination is that they do not restrict sexual desires... they just assure that desires will be met in the most unhealthy, dangerous, dysfunctional manner possible.

Do I feel unsafe at night with all the shady business going on around me? Not really. Nor am I really fazed by it. After all, I've heard more about my male friends getting harassed during the daytime in Veteran's Park in College Station, Texas... Besides most prostitutes know who's interested and won't waste time on residents going to the grocery store. And their clients? BELIEVE ME, these guys are eager to avoid any kind of a scene.

All I've really got to say is THANK GOD it's not drug trafficking!!!!!!!

[Working] at home

Currently, I work from home. When I say work, I mean I get paid to sit at my computer and do stuff... Important stuff.

I'm pretty up on the news. I was never such an involved citizen until I came to Brazil. Now I debate public policy and write letters to congress.

I write for this blog... in addition to reading a (few) others.

I tweet. I twit. I run errands. I clean. I cook. I explore this giant Brazilian city I live in.

I just went to the bookstore for fresh supplies. I'm currently on a African/Brazilian lit kick. I have five going simultaneously.

I'm learning Chinese, computer scripting languages and studying human rights abuses.

I paint.

I workout.

I realize this is most people's dream life - getting paid for doing all those things you never seemed to be able to fit in. However, being a highly educated workaholic, I am seriously (sadly?) looking for adventure or productive employment next year. Maybe in China! Writing for a provocative political website!

Besides, every time I get paid, I feel kind of like I'm stealing. Perhaps, I should consider it patronage for my intellectual work. I do do stuff when they ask me to... you know, stuff.



What do you think about the beard? Be honest... Ricardo cannot be trusted. He just gave me that "whatever makes you happy" crap when I asked him.

I'm just big boned...

Since my original plan was to travel through Brazil like the adventurous rebel I am, every article of clothing that went in the duffel was scrutinized for portability and necessity. In the end, I only packed two pants - a pair of jeans and a pair of khakis.

Now that I am married, employed with two kids, a minivan and a mortgage, it's been a pain to keep these two clean - especially since in my apartment laundry is defined as:

3(soap+washboard+sink+rinse+wring) + clothesline^airdry + iron =
"The olden days sucked! Give me a fricken washing machine!"

Then the khakis got a hole in the crotch that shows my boxers when I sit down.

Fortunately, Ricardo lent me some huge, baggy jeans he just happened to have from his ancient "skater days." Needless to say, they fit me snuggly. Too snuggly...

On a long distance call with an American Executive, I sat down at the table only to feel the entire seat of my pants literally explode. (see Twitter) They ripped open from top all the way down my ass to the pant leg.

If that's not depressing, try taking them to the seamstress only to have an old woman laugh at your distress. Or then there was the sales assistant at the clothing store who guessed my size when I walked in.

Not only could I not button the jeans he picked, he eventually had to pull out the "one more size bigger and you have to shop at the fatty store" jeans to accommodate my huge butt.

Geez! I'm only a size 32 in the US!!! What is up with you Brazilians and your tiny perfectly shaped rears?? Oh... yeah. Pretty much no processed foods whatsoever and most fat in the diet coming from dairy or olive oil. And genetics... that might have something to do with it.

Fine.

It did help that they tailored my pants for free.

(Again see Twitter: this story has been unfolding all week and you didn't even now it)

new pants
now I have four!
(two are in the hospital)

Never underestimate the power of stupid

I'm not sure why, but on Friday at going home time, so many people and cars clog the streets I can't help but think of rats escaping a forest fire. The buses have standing room only. The herds of people swarming the crosswalks migrate like wildebeest on the Serengeti - mindlessly lost in their group identity, focused but still slightly jumpy as though a lion might ambush them at the corner. Friday night commuters are so glazed over tired, I am convinced donating pints of blood is the primary economic activity in this city.

I decided to liven things up a bit by wearing my goggles on the bus. I know it seems rather infantile, but I was really trying it more as a cultural/psychological experiment. You know... for science.

The elevator ride came first. I positioned myself at the back with a big grin. Two people got in on the long descent to the street. They ignored me and Ricardo who was turning purple from trying to contain his laughter. Dignified they both just stared at the elevator door intently, desperate to escape that dreaded question "why?"

In the streets, the commuter zombies were so lost in their cares that few noticed how stupid I looked. Every once in a while someone would see me though... You could read the internal dialog on his face... is he? He is. Why? What on earth? One young lady passing in a bus pointed me out to her friend. Another older woman just burst out laughing.

In the darkening gloom after a wearying day, I'm glade I was able to send at least one person home with a chuckle...

The Travesti Who Could

In the previous post, I noted the grim reality that most travestis end up working in prostitution. However, Ricardo told me about a case in the Northeastern state of Ceará about a travesti who managed to graduate from college and even pass the rigorous public exam to work in the school system as a teacher. I looked up the story written by Kalima Fernandes in the January 4th, 2009 ed. of the Folha de São Paulo.

It was so inspiring, I thought I'd share the main points with you. João Filho, or Luma as she prefers to be called, is the first travesti to enter into a doctorate program in Brazil. She also works in the school system managing 28 schools in 13 districts of the state.

Luma is the child of illiterate poor parents. She chose to study to support her family instead of entering into prostitution. In the school system, she was the constant victim of ridicule and physical violence. She tells the story of once running to a teacher for help after being assaulted by a classmate only to be told, "Good job, and who was it who forced you to be this way?" She remembers that the persecution would only diminish around exams when her classmates would ask her for help with math.

Upon graduating, despite her exemplary performance and grades, she was singled out to be monitored for a over a month by the school director. Another attempted to block her assignment all together. In the classroom, she often would face ridicule from her own students.

Now, as she continues her doctorate research, there is no questioning that she is highly qualified. Apart from her professional performance, her own truly heroic struggle against intense discrimination and ridicule to obtain an education and a respectable job is a testimony to her strength of character. Hopefully, her courage will open the doors for other young travestis in education and provide new opportunities away from a life on the streets.

Why face all this grief? Why come out of the closet?

Integrity.

Do what they will, no one can rob you of your freedom and dignity if you are true to yourself.

You go, girl.

Gender B-b-b-b-bender!

I finally trusted someone here to crop my increasingly unruly mane. That person was the oh so fabulous travesti who reigns from her beauty parlor on the north shore of the lake.

When we walked in the door, I met a large black woman. Everything about her physical appearance was somewhat contradictory. Her feet were huge, but beautifully manicured. Her face had the strong jaw of a man, but was framed by elegantly styled long hair and softened with makeup. She served us coffee and we chatted for a while. She went out of her way to make me feel welcome and to cut my hair... I couldn't help feel she was trying to search out my impression. Is he okay with me?

While I never got breast implants, began dressing in women's clothing, adopted a woman's name and started wearing make up, I do empathize. Being known as gay also tends to put you on edge around new people you're not sure will accept you. Fortunately, for me I just don't care anymore what people think (most of the time). But then again, I have it easier than my hairdresser.

People might forgive an alternate sexual preference, but mess with their concept of gender roles and boy do they get uncomfortable! Man = this. Woman = that. In fact, we often praise people for having characteristics in line with our ideas about gender. "He's so strong and manly..."

Now to clarify, travestis are not transsexual women, nor are they cross dressing men. In America, we like dualities: man v. woman, right v. wrong, gay v. straight, Republican v. Democrat, white v. er... well, not white. Travestis are more like the Libertarian party of gender. Americans might manage to recognize their existence, but they aren't really sure what to do with them on election day.

To explain: men who have sex with travestis are not considered homosexual; however, travestis generally are biologically male with varying degrees of modification. We don't really have a way to work them into our rigid Anglo categories. Nevertheless, many other cultures do have a parallel third gender. Take the Berdache or "Twospirits" in Native America or the Hijra of South Asia. While in Latin America and South Asia, these people are often forced into prostitution due to a lack of opportunity in the formal job market, this is by no means always true. Take my hairdresser for example. Really they're fairly common in Brazil...

In fact, in Native American cultures, these people were often high status individuals performing certain roles in society such as medicine and religious rituals. Unfortunately, in all these cultures the Anglo idea of fulfilling a gender role equaling morality has taken hold and resulted in intense discrimination. Or maybe it comes from the familiar case of economically empowered straight men sitting at the top of the heap. Whatever the reason, violence against travesti prostitutes is often horrific. Their HIV infection rates tend to be much, much higher than the rest of the population. No wonder they have the reputation for being fighters... you don't want to mess with someone backed into a corner.

p.s. Watch this movie!

Extra! Extra! The TV wants your mind!

I watched a news report the other day on the Globo. The well-produced video footage, clear narration and array of interviews deeply impressed me. Informative, concise, emotionally impacting, tasteful, almost artistic... This is high quality journalism, people.

As the report drew to a close, the reporter concluded with (my translation - more or less) "THIS IS THE MORAL OF THE STORY. THE CORRECT INTERPRETATION OF THESE EVENTS IS THIS. THESE ARE THE ACTIONS SOCIETY SHOULD NOW TAKE."

I wish I had been drinking something so I could spray it out my nose for a more appropriate demonstration of my shock.

Gasping for air in a thick cloud of righteous-indignation, I exclaimed, "That would never happen in the US!" Ricardo dryly murmured, "Well, I guess you guys have it all figured out then..."

"Yep. Pretty much," just didn't seem like a very good response.

As I calmed down and thought, I realized it's not really like reporting in the US is unbiased. Fox News anyone?

ALL reporting selects images, quotes and words to leave the viewer with a certain impression... Here it's just a little more obvious: to say the least.

We can never expect journalists to fairly represent all possible view points without humanizing some and villanizing others. After all, journalism isn't a public service so much as an economic activity. Fox News, CNN and the local channels only put up content people will watch and generally people don't want to disinterestedly examine an event or issue from all view points to reach a well-informed, personal conclusion.

We watch to be shocked and titillated. Consider the latest Michael Jackson bruhaha. We want journalists to scratch our cultural bellies.

So I guess, I'm actually alright with patent editorializing. After all, the more obvious it is, the easier it is to refute.

Remember, this is a country were the press was [very recently] the government's key tool to repress political dissent and control the nation's diet of information. A little blatant moralizing in an otherwise fantastic report pales in comparison to relentlessly squashing a politician's career and wrecking his private life just because he pissed off the news editor. Huzzah for progress...

O bonde da morte

This trip to Rio, we stayed in a charming little inn in the neighborhood of Santa Tereza. It was a nice change of pace from the more modern Zona Sul. The buildings are older, the pace is slower... unless, of course, you decide to take the vintage street car that has been serving the neighborhood for the past bizillion years.

The cable car is full of tourists, yes, but residents also hitch rides because, let's face it, living in an extremely mountainous area can get a little tiring after a while if you don't have a car. To say the operators are maniacs would be a little harsh... I suppose they really are no worse than the countless cab drivers and bus drivers I have trusted (imprudently?) with my life.

It's just a little bit more jarring since the cable car is completely open, a wee bit rickety after all these years and if you ride hanging onto the sides as I was obliged to do twice...

I won't say I was scared - more exhilarating. However, crossing the Arcos da Lapa, the street 60 feet below, with nothing between me and the pavement but a board that was smaller than the width of my foot... I couldn't help but think I might be doing something stupid.

Every time the thing lurched, I did a quick check to see who had fallen off. Light poles zipped past literally two inches from my back as frantically I tried to flatten myself as much as possible to the side. Once I actually felt it the breeze as we whipped past it. I just had to look at Ricardo whose eyes were as big as saucers to know just how close it really was to brushing me off.

Needless to say, you really must ride the street car when you visit Santa Tereza.

The proudest gay...

Friday evening I squatted 350 lbs. for three sets of ten. I practically ran home, ecstatic at having pretty much shattered a long term goal of mine. Saturday, however, my legs began to ache a little...

On Sunday morning, following much preening and fluttering, we trouped down to the Praça da Estação. The city was still waking up, but as we approached, we could already hear the rumor of a crowd and music.

At one end of the square: an enormous stage covered in sound equipment and drag queens. Under an increasingly hot winter sun, we met people and drank, circulating occasionally in search of shade. I didn't pay much attention to the lip synced drag shows or the speeches by public figures eager to assert their support for human rights.

I was too busy watching the crowd. Besides, campy entertainment and political mobilization were obviously not the point.

People were there to hook up S. E. X...

Even the festive atmosphere was a facade. Music blaring, confetti spraying, people dancing and kissing... basically a gay bar that's spilled into the streets. You get used to people not really paying attention as you talk to them. Everyone is looking for two things: a pretty face (or a passable one) and a willing disposition.

Seeing as I already had a date, I plodded along with one hand tightly gripping Ricardo's, the other shoved firmly into my pocket with my camera and money. Still, someone managed to get his phone number into my pocket without my realizing it - honestly I'm just impressed more than anything.

Poor Ricardo... one of the most intelligent, respectable guys I've ever met (he's a lawyer for an NGO, representing disadvantaged workers for crying out loud) he was the one who got an egg in the shoulder. Just as the parade was beginning, a punk kid started dancing up on him. When he pushed the partier away, I saw his cell phone had been nudged half way out of his pocket.

All along the trajectory, the people leaned out their windows watching the giddy crowd below. Along the street, people broke rank to urinate in a corner or to make out. I really didn't see many of the infamous exhibitionists, the traditional staple of gay pride parades. The two I saw in their underwear, one with angel wings and his little tush hanging out, were so young I'm not sure I can even call them men.

I would compare these two to the teenager who gets a bellybutton ring without asking her mom. Bucking society by flaunting norms... but in the process flaunting good judgment (and taste) as well.

Sadly, my friends, after my first gay pride parade, I must join the naysayers. A gay pride parade has little to do with empowerment. Pride might begin with a public demonstration like this. But an adult, hopefully, takes his or her independent identity for granted... Asserting oneself, making one's own life choices... and respecting other people's autonomy are some of the sweetest rewards of adulthood.

The goal is to move society in this direction. I'm not sure filling the streets with piss and loud music is the best way...

The real work of change happens in the courts. Not tolerating discrimination at work, in public life. Taking the trouble. Protesting. Integrity in your public, professional life. Writing. Speaking. Voting. You really don't need a crowd to help you with that...

In daily life, it's the courage to refer to my "boyfriend" instead of my "friend." Taking his hand on the bus - not to shock, but because I care for him and I expect others to respect that.
After walking for eight hours, though, I was holding my boyfriend's hand mainly because my legs were about to give way with every step. My little weightlifting feat a few days ago had come back to haunt me.

I think that's what it's all about. Someone willing to brave the snickers of ignorant people to hold you up when you're about to fall on your ass.

Bureaucracy blows...

Yesterday, I began the process of registering with the federal police. I never would have found the place had Ricardo not graciously offered to accompany me. While the directions provided by Google were spot on, there is not an actual building, per se. The Headquarters of the Federal Police in the state of Minas Gerais is accessed by trouping through a construction yard and proceding up multiple flights of stairs covered in tarps.

The waiting room was filled with immigrants clutching folders of documents. My own stack was suspiciously sparse compared to theirs and, indeed, the lady at the window handed me a checklist of some seven or eight things I would need for my request to be processed. It ran something like this:

1. Your passport
2. A copy of every page in your passport
3. Two (2) current photos measuring ...x...
4. Form 10234 - three (3) copies
5. Form 103s3a (procurable at @*!#$ Agency of Brazil) - two and one half (2.5) copies
6. Two (2) immortality imparting golden apples [include video footage of your battle to the death with Ladon, firebreathing, hundred-headed dog - two (2) copies]
7. A internationally recognized peace treaty between Israel and Iran, cosigned in purple ink by Kanye West and Kim Jon Il.
8. Money... lots of it.

Weirdly, the money was by far the hardest part.

Bank one pointed me to bank two who informed me I required an ATM in the "such and such" network. Not wanting to spend the day running all over town (ha!), I returned home to get Google's advice.

The mall! Apparently, the mall had two exemplars of the ATM I was seeking. I headed up there and carefully studied the map at the entrance so as not to run around like an idiot. After circling the lower floor three times, I was sweating and glancing nervously at the shop people I passed who were now beginning to stare at me quizzically, their lips curling up at the ends in that little patronizing chuckle.

Eventually, my shame of imperfect Portuguese and admission of cluelessness was overcome by my shame of being obviously lost. I turned to one of the five or six immaculately dressed, beautiful young women with radio headsets who are stationed every few meters for the expressed purpose of graciously assisting patrons in finding what they're looking for. She immediately pointed me in the right direction. Damn it.

I had to ask again after I arrived in the right direction (the ATM was tucked in a corner); this time without hesitation. Triumphantly, I swipped my card. Error. I tried again. Error. I tried the other one. Error. Error. Error.

Shoulders slumped, I plodded defeated down the steps out of the mall. As I looked around aimlessly, my eyes settled on a bank... Finally! A beam of light shown from the heavens on an ATM that worked!

Only now, because of a weird little quirk in the fee department, I was forced to withdraw what we call in the mugging business... a big-ass, sweaty wad of cash. Great...

With affected coolness, I completed the transaction, and my quest was over. "That all?" inquired the teller. "Yes, thank you. I think that's all for today"

Every step towards the door, I seemed to be ascending into the clouds. Only a slim glass door kept me from sailing down the street in a haze of elation.

"What the?" The door growned under my weight and refused. The guard eyed me suspiciously and shifted his weight. More sweat. Oh... right... it says, "PULL"

*sigh... Now I know why there are so many illegal immigrants.

p.s. 7:45... I went to turn in the forms, waited for five hours only to learn... she had given me the wrong one. I didn't need to do any of this. But I have to return in September. At least now I know how to pay the fee...

Gyms+Egos: the neverending saga

Ordinarily, I work out almost every week day. Rather high-strung, it's crucial for maintaining my stress levels and emotional stability.

I haven't worked out in two months. Imagine. Also, my normal healthy eating habits have been utterly disregarded in favor of large amounts of cheese, fried garbage and meat slathered in grease. This move/unemployment/new country gig has been so stressful I've been breaking out like an eighth grader.

This morning, I trouped upstairs for my mandatory physical at Alta Energia.

Oooooh boy.

I am amazed at how thorough the doc was. In a small, scuffed up room decorated with an ancient diagram of the human skeleton, this guy took my blood pressure, measurements, fat ratios, flexibility, resting/active heart rate, and on and on.... I'm in decent shape, but I've gotten a little pudgy around the middle. Is there any way to say that without making someone feel dispirted?

I then resolutely marched in to actually work out and was met by Paulo, six feet tall, moreno with great arms and a half-sleeve tribal tatoo that made me wonder how many bar fights he's been in this month. Sweet guy, very helpful... too helpful...

In the U.S., unless you pay for it, you go into a gym, do whatever and leave. People who talk too much or bother you are avoided at all costs. The gym is the pennicle of American independence. Now, I'm no model, but I feel after seven going on eight years of working out, I at least know what I'm doing enough to be left alone... right?

Wrong. In Brazil you let the gym "professors" prepare workouts for you, monitor you, and basically take care of you to the fullest. For me, it was a weird experience trying to do what I wanted, but also incorporating his advice (which is probably pretty well-informed...) I compare it to climbing into a pool raft. You know it'll hold you up, but you wobble around when you lower yourself down just the same.

I also had to resist the temptation to show-off... "see, I don't need your help; I got this..." In the end, he just left me go do what I wanted and took care of other people. To assert myself, I put all my intensity into it and it turned out to be a good workout. Then I nearly threw up afterwards... embarassing. "Start slowly, David," they said. "Ease back into it," they said.

Me and my ego have a long, hard couple of months ahead.

Cruzeiro crazies

I am staying in Barro Preto currently, which also is the home of the Cruzeiro Athletic Club, one of the main football teams in Belo Horizonte.

Last night around sundown, firecrackers began popping and horns blaring as streets started to fill with cars and trucks overflowing with shouting fans. The Cruzeiro blue was everywhere as the streetlamps flickered on. After dinner, you could easily hear the commotion from 18 stories down and two blocks away. Out the window, you could see tents and blankets streaching around the Cruzeiro athletic complex. O Tempo, the local paper, said over 5,000 turned out to spend the night on the street to buy tickets as soon as they went on sale.

Late this morning, helicopters began circling and the noise really became compelling. Curious at the change in tone, I walked around the block to R. Timbiras where the Cruzeiro administration building is located. Suddendly, hoards [there really is no better word for it] of young men came running, surging and shouting around the corner. As they pressed forward, trashcans went flying, signs came down and the storekeepers who had been watching out their front doors scurried to close the metal storefront shutters. A very restive sea of dark blue tossed in front of the Cruzeiro building. Shouts arouse from the crowd and the street rapidly emptied of shoppers who moved on or posted themselves at the street corners to observe, their hands cluching their bags or shading their eyes. A reporter slowly eased himself out of car and tentatively moved his camera onto his shoulder.

Suddenly, the crowd broke and adolescents scattered back in a wave. The cops had finally arrived. They formed a line in front of the building and tried to move traffic down the street. Overhead, a helicopter circled in tight passes. Soon, the mob regained confidence and the blue waves surged back in rivulets between the halted cars filled with very nervous passengers.

I gathered from the angry outburts hurled from the crowd that the police had cut off the sale of tickets and not all the campers had been able to get in. Feeling themselves cheated after so much effort, they apparently thought the administration deserved to learn of their displeasure first hand. Indeed, men in suits on the patio of the building stared down at stormy crowd with deathly seriousness.

I darted home to retrive my camera when I noticed serveral very well-built shirtless young men ascending the streets in knots. One picked up several shards of concrete from the sidewalk and dove back in the crowd...

By the time I got back, however, there where police on every street corner in the neighborhood. The rabble had been disbanded and an orderly line streached up the street. One particularly massive cop with a motorcycle helmet was coordinating the dealings with the crowd. Order was restored tentatively... boy, wouldn't it just be poetic if Cruzeiro lost after so much bruhaha? hehehehe...

Do you know why Chinatown exists?

Imagine you're an immigrant. You travel to another country in the hopes for a better life. Unfortunately for you, in that country people speak in a way you may one day understand but never be able to completely reproduce. They don't sell your coffee maker there. They laugh at your music. Insurance? What's that? How do I get it?

You are an outsider. Period. Some people may take an interest in you, but most just wish you'd work harder on your verbal skills so they don't have to make an effort when they need to communicate with you... "seriously, why can these people just learn *insert language here."

It is natural to retreat into a ghetto. It gets a little tiring after a while to always be misunderstood, bewildered, clueless... in many countries immigrants are looked upon with mistrust or even hatred.

I am fortunate. Well-educated, well-connected, I am insolated from many of the nearly insurmountable difficulties immigrants face all over the world as they struggle to adapt in an often hostile environment without losing their dignity... or sanity.

I went with my boss recently to a get together for his fishing buddies. The place was about as macho an environment as cigarshop. Beer, meat, firewater, testosterone, egos bloated on alcohol... In these gatherings I'm isolated enough even if I understand what's being said.

The words swirl around you. All the little tricks you have to establish rapport fall flat. No one is looking at you. Quiet, bewildered, you fade into the background. A burning self-consciousness you haven't felt since junior high tugs at your sleave. Things you find distastefull are aplauded. The entire interaction leaves you drained and longing for escape to a place where you feel comfortable. You don't understand these people... but then the terrorible thought assails you... what do they think about you??

You are different. Does that sound scary to you?

Traveling, learning a new language... these things throw into sharp relief our sense of self. You simply have to learn how to carry yourself to interact in the face of such challenges. Here is a brief sketch of strategies you can apply in any social setting where you are an outsider.

1. alcohol in moderation helps.
2. remain calm. Chances are these people are just as mystified by you as you are by them.
3. try bringing the situation down a level. instead of aspiring to be the life of the party, find someone interesting to converse with.
4. recognize your own limits. if you're getting overwhelmed it's much better to sit back and simply observe.
5. if you don't understand, ASK! continuing on with the wrong assumption will lead to way more embarassment that simply admiting you didn't understand something.

I guess I'm writing this to remind you guys that traveling isn't all one long adventure. Sure, there are the nights out, the beautiful sights, the unique food, but there's also the sometimes painful growth of roaming waaaay outside of the familiar.

City of lights

Preparing to leave, I realized Americans have two ideas about Brazil. First, that violent crime is continuously threatening to end your life and rob you of all possessions leaving you naked and bleeding in some dark alley. The other is that Brazilians are stunningly gorgeous with a smoldering sense of sexuality. Langurous eyes shaded by palm fronds beckoning... I started to get a little nonplused by the constant insinuations that I would soon be engaging in almost constant orgies with the gods.
*wink


Oooookay then... Welcome to Rio!

Soon after depositing my things at some friends' apartment, we set off together to walk down the beach front. Copacabana, Arpoador, Ipanema, Leblon... Rio's mountains draped in surf, a fresh, high sun overhead: Sunday afternoon, the city was out strolling. People trotted next to us on a marathon. Neighbors chatted in bars down the beachfront. Kids on tired old powerwheels and bikes with training wheels cruised through a moving forest of legs. Since it's winter, there were but a few surfers, a few beggers both brozed by innumerable beach afternoons - each in their own way, diehards...

We wound through the cool, tall streets of the Zona Sul. The black and white mosaic sidewalks tinted green under our feet from the light filtered through arcades of trees. Men unloading furniture. The fat taxi driver dozing shirtless in his cab. The bustle of an open-air craft market. Shoppings, stores, restaurants, bars, supermarkets.

Glancing through the hundreds of faces, I thought, to be honest, few Brazilians fit American's ideas of beauty. Most are too skinny, too fat and/or shall I say it? Too dark. Yes, every once and a while a man with the most perfectly chisled body would saunter down the street, a cocky smile on his well-porportioned face. But you would meet more gymbunnies in Chelsea on a single city block. The fact that I even had this thought told me I was looking for support for Americans' Brazilian beauty myth.

No, as much as it pains me to burst your bubble, Brazilians are pretty much like people anywhere... pretty, ugly, big, skinny, hairy, young, old, scarred, trashy, sophisticated, slight, thick... would you really want it anyother way? After all, if you wandered into a room of half-naked underwear models, most likely you would be too worried about sucking in your gut to get a hard on.

I left Rio on a dingy, snuffed out cigarette of a night. Hurtling towards the bus station in one of those wild, off the track roller coaster cars they call taxis here, I was lost in thought about all that I had seen. We careened down a street and turned a corner -

suddenly, between the buildings the black sky was filled with a galaxy of stars. It was so unexpected, it took a moment to realize they were the distant lights of one of Rio's infamous shantytowns precariously ascending up the invisible mountain face before me. Poverty, ignorance, violence, dead ends all transformed into constellations of lives hanging above the fitfully sleeping city.

Beauty.

a philosophical approach to travel

The plane took off and turned east. Out my window, my entire adolescence lay sprawled out below me. The plane window rolled slowly over neighborhoods and streets so familiar, from that altitude I didn't see the threads of roads so much as the faces of people who lived on them. Every patchwork of color was a memory, an association... can't this thing go any faster???

It's amazing how calm I am about all this. I don't even have the that familiar building in my chest one gets at the beginning of an adventure... I just hope they don't lose my luggage this time around. When inclimate weather marooned me in Miami, I just started looking for a hotel... no use screaming about it. Formally, I think I would have sat under the departure gate's sign, rocking back and forth, glancing at my watch every five minutes. In fact, I had a lovely day on the beach, lugging my backpack and laptop around, shoes in hand... I had sand between my toes but really no anxiousness in my stomach.


Growing up is not avoiding stressful situations or even necessarily navegating them better... I think it's more in the acquired ability to simply

TAKE LIFE AS IT COMES

What have you done today, eh?

Notice most of my day is spent 1. lying down 2. with few clothes on

Oak Cliff optical adventures!

I think it was Thursday (all the days are running together lately).

In need of contacts since I curiously misplaced my last leftie, I had arranged a 10:30am appointment at the Optical Clinic off Saner.

Now the Optical Clinic has long been where my family gets its eye exams. The place is only surpassed in age by the tottering old optometrist who apparently resides there. He was the same man who examined my father's eyes as a boy and who now presides over his tiny shop shuffling about, all hunched over, and mumbling the exact same spiel about covering the right now the left and tell me which looks clearer.

When his mind finally goes entirely, he will be asking his Jamaican social worker which line looks clearer. Regardless, he's the cheapest show in town and the result of visiting his moldy clinic with the bright blue plastic folding chairs is vision for approximately one year.

Only not this time.

Upon arrival, I was dismayed to be informed by an obese woman in scrubs that the doctor had not come in. Unsurprising.

Nevertheless, could I reschedule? I was directed to another installation deeper into Oak Cliff at 1:30.

Now, Oak Cliff is the neighborhood of Dallas directly to the north of our South Dallas suburban towns. Throughout my entire childhood, the place loomed large in my imagination. It is a very old, very large neighborhood, which at one time was comfortably affluent - I think about the 50's.

But when I knew it, it was the place for authentic Mexican food, YMCA baseball and deal hunting at the Red Bird Mall. I suppose what fascinated me was the pleasant hills, the ancient beautiful trees, the old houses. The place had such a look of memory and belonging - as if I were walking through a dilapidated, but picturesque version of my dad's adolescence.

Unfortunately, this was because no one had enough money or initiative to update anything. Furthermore, there was a real sinister side of the area of which even as a child I was cognizant. The widespread gang troubles and drug traffic made it the "lock your door, sweetie" area.

Now I'm back, walking up and down a street that looks more like Nogales than Dallas. I was reflecting on how fractured Dallas communities are. Gayborhood, little Mexico, the Hood, Asianland, the various Breadervilles, Yuppyland, Highnose Park... I suppose it's like this all over the U.S., but it still makes me sad the boys on the corner smoking weed regard me as such an interloper. "What the hell is he doing here? Let's stare at him menacingly."

I wandered in and out of shops as I waited. I spoke Spanish to most and was alternately regarded with delight or even more confusion. When 1:30 rolled around, the Optical clinic remained impassively closed. Immensely irritated, I strode across the street to an even shadier dive.

For a couple bucks I finally got my eyes examined by a goofy-shaped spider of a man with tired hair, a rubbery, slack face and spindly arms and legs. His "resting demeanor" was silent and brooding, but when he did talk, his voice, bizarrely affected, slightly patronizing, weirdly effeminate, would attack your consciousness like a bored flight attendant droning on about where to jump when the plane bursts into flames.

As he swayed his entire body about to emphasize his dire warnings of contact over-use, I began to doubt the security of the situation. When he peered at my retinas from half an inch of distance from my face, the only light in the dark, closed room coming from his hand held eye-looker thingy, I had to resist the urge to break into hysterics.

I'm just glad they put jalapeños in my French fries at the restaurant where I ate lunch. It´s the little things that make these ordeals all worth while.


Don't eat here...

Transitions... feel the burn

Sorry about the long absence... To say the least, the past few weeks have been tumultuous.

I moved out of College Station to deposit my belongings in a bedroom of my parents' house. I do not envision having an apartment again for quite some time. I have no job either here or in Brazil... which is unsettling.

I rarely worry about that sort of thing due to a bizarre sense of optimism, but you can tell the stress of uncertainty is beginning to weigh on me. I've started having nightmares every night at about three or four in the morning. They aren't scary either... they're accusing. Some person from my past troupes up to express his or her contempt for me. It's as though my subconscious were tying my penury and continued joblessness to every failed relationship or mistake I've ever committed.

Geez louise...

Nevertheless, there have been bright points in my time of waiting. I got to escape with old friends and new ones to Arkansas. Rigorous physical activity amid spectacular Ozark scenery will always be good for one's soul.

Also, I've been enjoying reconnecting with Dallas - a city I grew up in, but seem to be seeing for the first time, as it were. Everything's changed so much since I last lived here... as have I.

So here I am... waiting on calls and trying to find ways to make friends and stay occupied. I look at this time as a challenge to remain smiling despite the continuous stress ball at the pit of my stomach. With a little bit of grit, I will pull, punch and duct tape an amazing adventure in Brazil together that will provide you with delightful reading/viewing (that's right! viewing!) material for months to come.

Official leave date (as of now): June 27th... let's keep our fingers crossed.

p.s. These posts will not turn into a whiny David's journal, I promise. There's Dallas to explore! Here's a teaser for tomorrow's post - Dallas Chapter 1: Oak Cliff optical adventures!!

Peace, love and laziness in Hippie Hallow

Today I packed up most of my apartment.

It's unsettling, really: bare bookshelves, rooms suddenly filled with space, my cat chasing huge dust bunnies unleashed from dark corners by the hubbub.

Hippie Hallow has now been my home for over a year.

Upon moving in, much to my dismay I discovered a gelatinous goo covering much of the stove and cabinets. But we learned what we were really up against when we found the [used] condom, which had melted onto the window sill, eventually fusing with the paint over time.

Mass graves of dead fruit fly carcasses rotted on every shelf of the refrigerator. They were presumably lured in by the uncovered stick of butter left there God knows how long by the previous tenant. Roaches scurried in all directions whenever you flipped on the lights in the kitchen. One time, one of them paused, craned its neck around slowly to face me and audibly hissed, "Our name is Legion, for we are many."

Undeterred, armed with paint and Pinesol, I set to work. After an extensive fumigation, I filled the rooms with furniture scrounged from a dusty warehouse. Sitting in my office chair (a product of that raid) I look around now at a relatively clean apartment, free from significant insect life, the walls bright colors of my choosing.

When I moved in, a giant mirror leaned against the carport. It used to reflect our legs on the porch usually hidden beneath a forest of empty beer bottles that set the rhythm of countless drunken summer conversations. It shattered during Hurricane Ike because no one thought to secure it.

Recently, inspired by the surging vigor of spring, the hippies started construction of a rock-lined garden - abortive like all their attempts at productivity. Pretty much all they accomplished was uprooting my thriving cucumber plants and installing a border around this year's freshly sprouting crop of weeds. Yep. It's time to go...

I will miss neither the cold-shower-already-sweating-in-the-dark-ceiling-fan-drowning AC-less summer heat, nor the rub-your-fingers-before-the-pathetic-space-heater-so-you-can-keep-typing cold of winter.

I will not miss the doghair-cathair-hairyhair-lint-and-leaves laundromat that costs two dollars a load even if you mess up. I'm still irritated it didn't burn down in that dryer fire.

I will not miss the bone-thin, squirrelly-eyed meth heads who lived across the way and used to shriek at me (really there's no other word for it) when I sat on the porch alone. They finally got evicted when a flaming pillow went sailing out their front window. I'm glad I didn't have to clean that apartment...

I feel I can honestly make myself comfortable in any setting - no matter how woebegone, there is a way to bring beauty and comfort with you. You can't romanticize poverty, but there is a certain honesty here that made me really face my middle-class mediocrity. There's also a sweaty, alcoholic apathy here that has converted me into an almost manically ambitious person.

Whatever Hippie Hallow has done for the formation of my current psyche, it saw me through the most exhilarating and difficult period of my life so far. I made my first real home here. I became an adult here.

I will miss the sunlight filtered through a hundred different shades and shapes of green waving in the breeze out my front window - ineffable shine that gilds my (uniquely) audacious youth.