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