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.

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.

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...