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.

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.

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.

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.

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...