And I ask myself: who am I kidding here? What, exactly, do I think I'm doing to myself? I have just over two months longer to live in this fearlessly honest and disgustingly tricky town. Two months to immerse myself as if I didn't know that two short months later I will be wrenched out of the nooks and crannies in which I had managed to store my soul and squeeze my butt into to admire, adore, and act as a part of this already-full city, this city that has more life than it needs and more soul than any other I've seen. So much so that, despite my success in finding a spot for my soul and a seat for my butt in this vivacious city, I don't feel the city will feel my absence when I'm gone. I don't think this city feels anyone's absence. It always produces, people always have people, laughs always have laughs, even the most poignant absence, the death of a loved one, is cause for a party, for a convergence of lives and stories and jokes and more laughs. More music, more dancing. In Salvador, pain is only cause for more conversation, more thoughts turned art, more teary stares turned smiles, and smiles turned love. Two months from now, all of that will be yanked out from under my feet, and back into another culture shock I go.
And there is plenty of pain. Everyone wants love, she is too coy to admit it to his face, but the culture is too full of love for him not to know, and they are both too curious, too "realistic" for it to last. That's painful, and it happens all the time. Everyone has to work, but almost everyone is too lazy to enjoy it. She has a great job and comes home tired and upset, self-pitying and ready for bed every day. He has a terrible job and comes home with the same tired feet, the same sorry eyes that first seek food and then seek a novella and then bed.
And the third isn't even employed, he walks the streets picking up used bottles and other redeem-ables. He trudges around in calloused bare-feet, vaguely smelling of the natural scent of human sweat and urine, hair wild and untamed, muscles and fascia hardened from overuse, hardened from the lack of softness in his life. But his pain comes not from working, but from the lack thereof. His pain comes from the fact that he was the first to get fired from the restaurant he was working at when they had to cut down staff, from the fact that he never even heard back from the places he applied to work after that, while his ex-co-workers from the restaurant continued to get hired in the same locations he had applied to. His pain comes from the names he gets called in the street and the fact that he never did anything wrong at the restaurant, nor did he lack qualifications to serve coffee at the next, but his application was ignored because of the color of his skin, because society imagines this most obvious, most visible physical trait to be some kind of sign about his likes, dislikes, his abilities and inabilities, his moral character.
But in spite of all of this, he doesn't complain-- he can't. He bathes in the green water from the pond in Campo Grande park, washing his clothes in the same water and hanging them out to dry in the sun on the bushes nearby. He carefully washes his legs, feet, belly, sinewy arms and tired hands, pads down his hair and flushes his face with the luke-warm, algae-filled fluid, feeling the sun, strong and reliable, beating down on his back and then on his face as he looks up to greet it with a solemn acceptance of its beaming existence. He walks the streets, picking up the empty beer can the woman dropped in the street while trying to forget the dissatisfied self she was all day while working her wonderful job, and picking up the water bottle the man threw in the street from the window of the bus he took home from the job he hates, with good reason. And sometimes he sleeps in the streets, when he doesn't feel like making the 2 hour trek to the outskirts of the city where his aunt has a small, slightly delapidated home full of his cousins, where he can sleep on the floor when he needs a night under a roof with some home-cooked food. So life is hard. There is pain that is inflicted on you, and pain you inflict on yourself, and it all hurts.
But the pain makes us dance harder, play a little more spirit into our tunes, sing a little more soul into our songs, cry a little more until we smile, and smile, once again, until the friends we have made and the tunes we have played and the rhythms we have danced make up for all the pain there ever was, and THAT is the magic of Salvador. And I will be forgotten when I leave, and the jokes and the music and the dancing will continue without me, but I will never forget Salvador. Now this isn't me saying goodbye two months early. This is me realizing that I have two months to immerse and respond, two months imagine and initiate and realize something beautiful to show for my time here, to show for what I have been given here, to show for what I have striven for here, so that the beauty of this city, that is balancing perfectly in my mind, is not lost on me.
The music of this post, here sung by the great Marku Ribas (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UL2GizdGnVA), is appropriate:
Zamba Bem
Zamba Ben é Zamba de Angola
E aqui já tem também
Zambei demais
Que de manhã eu lá na praia acordei
Zambei demais
Que de manhã eu me encontrei
Oh, oh, oh, oh
Deitado à sombra de um coqueiro
como quem espera a vida passar
Minha nega do meu lado
dizia: "Amor o mar tá gelado
E o sol tá bom pra queimar"
Zamba Ben, Ben, Ben
Eu quero, quero
Zambar eu quero
Zamba Ben
Zamba Ben is the Zamba of Angola
And we have it here, too
I zamba-ed too much
till I woke up on the beach
I zamba-ed too much
till I found myself in the morning
lying in the shade of a coconut tree
like he who waits for the life to pass him by
My lady-friend-of-African-descent (... how do I translate nega/negra??) by my side
said "My love, the ocean is freezing
and the sun is ready to burn ya"
Zamba Ben, Ben, Ben
I wanna, wanna
I want to zamba
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Out On the Road -- Norah Jones
I'm going to try to tackle the "describe the past three weeks" post right here and right now so that it doesn't become the past four or five or six or twelve or sixteen posts. I left Boston on January 3rd in the afternoon, waving a tearful (third or fourth) goodbye to my family and then walking on alone towards security, realizing that I was literally walking, step by step, into the biggest adventure of my life so far. I can tell you, that was a good feeling. With hardly anything planned except the duration and "academic nature" of my trip, I could literally make this into anything I wanted. Anything I wanted, of course, in this beloved Latin America, one of my great passions on this planet. And there's nothing like anticipating a long-awaited trip to Latin America while watching a latina on this large cut out part-cardboard-part-TV figurine giving directions in Spanish for how to go through security (and perhaps even better was the little boy in front of me who watched the whole thing through intently, and then publicly deduced that "clave" is "key" in Spanish. Oh, languages!).
I've never had such a sincerely positive experience going through security as I did with American Airlines. As I was walking through security, a very friendly looking middle-aged security guard, probably having noticed my recently crying eyes, said, "How you doin' today?". I smiled, appreciating the personable guard's attempt to reach out, "Tired, it's been a long day". "Oh, me too," he said. "It's been a long life." We both laughed. For him, maybe, but mine was just getting started! I felt lucky to just be tired from a week's worth of bureaucratic insanity and packing and sleep deprivation due to over-excitement, and not tired from a lifetime of difficulty. Although that's probably not what he meant either, anyway. I just responded, "Well, hopefully you've got at least as much as you've already had ahead of you!" "I hope so, too," he said.
Next thing I knew, I was being pulled over to the security desk because something had been found suspicious in my backpack. I, being incredibly tired and emotionally drained, walked barefoot and disinterested over to the desk to go through my stuff with them. No, they weren't getting the fearful girl who doesn't say a word, nor were they getting the friendly girl who tries to create a feeling of goodwill between herself and the security guard. They got the grumpy, exhausted girl who wanted nothing more than to have her stuff all in one place, at her feet, while she sat in an airplane seat with not a thing in the world left to worry about. So I stood, watching this woman go through my stuff. She pulled out the sweet potato my mom had smooshed into a tupperware and looked at me incredulously. "Sweet potato," I said, smiling vaguely at how disgusting it looked. "Good choice," she said, and continued searching. Finally she found the culprit. My hummus appeared to be over the "liquid" limit. "You've packed yourself a real nice lunch here, don't you?" she commented. "Well, my mom did, but yes." She smiled, "I'm sorry about this hummus, it looks delicioius." "No worries, I'm sure you'll enjoy it," I said, mostly joking. "Unfortunately that's not how it works," she said. "I wish it were!" We laughed. And in the end, she let me have it. Apparently it was close enough to the limit. And, she said, what was I gonna do without my hummus? American Airlines have their priorities straight.
Made my way to the gate, made my way onto the plane, made my way to my seat, and we made our way to Miami, Florida. On the flight I sat next to an older man who had a pretty bad cold (although, I've learned since arriving here in Brazil, when people get colds here they don't try to make their nose-blowing and snot-sneezing subtle. They blow and sneeze and cough to their heart's content. I guess maybe it gets the shtuff out faster? I'm not the biggest fan, though...), and he turned out to be one of many Brazilians who were on that flight. In the last 10 min of the flight we made friends, discussing my adventure and his work and how he was visiting his grandchildren who live in Boston with his son, and how he got sick there because of the weather. We arrived in Miami, said goodbye, and then promptly re-found each other, both lost and seeking our gates. I found the departures list, helped him find his, found mine, and then we parted ways, probably forever. The oddness of traveling. I then waited around, surrounded by Brazilians waiting to fly to Salvador, used some internet, spoke with my family, and all that jazz.
We got on the plane to Salvador, they gave the announcements and we took off. The plane was rather silent, and I looked out the window, full of awe. We were literally leaping off of south-eastern-most tip of America into the great unknown. The city lights slowly disappeared into the past and the vast Gulf of Mexico took their place. That was perhaps the most exciting moment of the trip: Jumping off of the U.S. With each second passed, a record was made: I had never traveled that far south in my life, nor been that close to América do Sul.
On the plane to Salvador I made another Brazilian friend, a woman who lives in Olinda in the state of Pernambuco. I helped her with her earphones to watch Ice Age III in Portuguese, and she helped me by eating the bread they gave me for breakfast that I couldn't eat. And then she wished me the best in my travels and confirmed two or three times that I had someone picking me up at the airport. In the middle of the flight I woke up to look out the window. We flew over an island that I believed to be Puerto Rico. And it hit me again: I've never been so far south, and I was left to have this moment alone, looking out the window of this plane in the dead of the night. I adored it.
Morning came, and so did breakfast and Salvador. I had survived the dreaded over-night flight, and also all the craziness of applying for, getting into, getting the visa for, getting the cell phone for, getting the medical records and vaccinations for, and packing for this trip. And here I was! A few other CIEE people had been on the same flight, it turns out, and we all convened just inside the airport at the gate. We got our luggage, made our way through customs (got my first visa ever stamped!), and met up with CIEE outside. I tried to call my parents but the phone didn't work (I promise, Mom & Dad, I did try!), gave up, exchanged my dollars for reais, and hopped into a van that drove me and a few other CIEE students through a jungle of bamboo and other plants and into the ambiguous city of Salvador (more on that in the preceding post). We drove past beautiful beaches with guys walking around in speedos (HAAAA, best/worst part about Salvador!), and ended up at our hotel.
Can you guess what I did the moment I got to my new room? That's right, PILATES. Sabrina would be proud. (For those of you who don't know, she's the Pilates/Biomechanics instructor at Barnard). Pilates, then bathing suit, then beach. The 90 degree weather was a shock. As was the tan I got after 20 min. with sunscreen on the beach. That night, a band, Samba com Você (Samba With You), was playing at our hotel. A few of us insisted on sitting out on the patio with the music and the other hotel guests for dinner. And it was unbearably good, so I got up as soon as my food was done, samba-ed (apparently I know how to samba, according to the Brazilians... so that was a pretty great thing to get validated! :), danced with this crazy and great old man who had so much spunk I cannot even begin to express, and danced with his son who lacked so much spunk, that I can also not even begin to express. His son may have been the worst dancer I've danced with here. He didn't have rhythm, and kept getting frustrated when I wanted to dance to the music. So, no surprise that later when he asked if I wanted to go swimming in the pool with him to "get to know each other" I said that I didn't want to know him. I could've been more subtle had my Portuguese been better, but it got the point across! Two others from my program, Jaya and Ale, stuck around with me at the patio samba party, while others went out in the city. After the show, we got the information of a kind woman who we'd been dancing with who lives in Minas Gerais and said we could visit her any time we wanted. Also, one of the drummers from the band, Paulo, gave us his number and said he'd save us a table at his samba show on the following Sunday (two days later) in the neighborhood of Pituba. Salvador is connections. Brazil is connections. They're so easy and fun to make.
So I guess I only got through one day, really. I'll try to write faster next time. For now, I'm off to the beach. More soon, all!!
I've never had such a sincerely positive experience going through security as I did with American Airlines. As I was walking through security, a very friendly looking middle-aged security guard, probably having noticed my recently crying eyes, said, "How you doin' today?". I smiled, appreciating the personable guard's attempt to reach out, "Tired, it's been a long day". "Oh, me too," he said. "It's been a long life." We both laughed. For him, maybe, but mine was just getting started! I felt lucky to just be tired from a week's worth of bureaucratic insanity and packing and sleep deprivation due to over-excitement, and not tired from a lifetime of difficulty. Although that's probably not what he meant either, anyway. I just responded, "Well, hopefully you've got at least as much as you've already had ahead of you!" "I hope so, too," he said.
Next thing I knew, I was being pulled over to the security desk because something had been found suspicious in my backpack. I, being incredibly tired and emotionally drained, walked barefoot and disinterested over to the desk to go through my stuff with them. No, they weren't getting the fearful girl who doesn't say a word, nor were they getting the friendly girl who tries to create a feeling of goodwill between herself and the security guard. They got the grumpy, exhausted girl who wanted nothing more than to have her stuff all in one place, at her feet, while she sat in an airplane seat with not a thing in the world left to worry about. So I stood, watching this woman go through my stuff. She pulled out the sweet potato my mom had smooshed into a tupperware and looked at me incredulously. "Sweet potato," I said, smiling vaguely at how disgusting it looked. "Good choice," she said, and continued searching. Finally she found the culprit. My hummus appeared to be over the "liquid" limit. "You've packed yourself a real nice lunch here, don't you?" she commented. "Well, my mom did, but yes." She smiled, "I'm sorry about this hummus, it looks delicioius." "No worries, I'm sure you'll enjoy it," I said, mostly joking. "Unfortunately that's not how it works," she said. "I wish it were!" We laughed. And in the end, she let me have it. Apparently it was close enough to the limit. And, she said, what was I gonna do without my hummus? American Airlines have their priorities straight.
Made my way to the gate, made my way onto the plane, made my way to my seat, and we made our way to Miami, Florida. On the flight I sat next to an older man who had a pretty bad cold (although, I've learned since arriving here in Brazil, when people get colds here they don't try to make their nose-blowing and snot-sneezing subtle. They blow and sneeze and cough to their heart's content. I guess maybe it gets the shtuff out faster? I'm not the biggest fan, though...), and he turned out to be one of many Brazilians who were on that flight. In the last 10 min of the flight we made friends, discussing my adventure and his work and how he was visiting his grandchildren who live in Boston with his son, and how he got sick there because of the weather. We arrived in Miami, said goodbye, and then promptly re-found each other, both lost and seeking our gates. I found the departures list, helped him find his, found mine, and then we parted ways, probably forever. The oddness of traveling. I then waited around, surrounded by Brazilians waiting to fly to Salvador, used some internet, spoke with my family, and all that jazz.
We got on the plane to Salvador, they gave the announcements and we took off. The plane was rather silent, and I looked out the window, full of awe. We were literally leaping off of south-eastern-most tip of America into the great unknown. The city lights slowly disappeared into the past and the vast Gulf of Mexico took their place. That was perhaps the most exciting moment of the trip: Jumping off of the U.S. With each second passed, a record was made: I had never traveled that far south in my life, nor been that close to América do Sul.
On the plane to Salvador I made another Brazilian friend, a woman who lives in Olinda in the state of Pernambuco. I helped her with her earphones to watch Ice Age III in Portuguese, and she helped me by eating the bread they gave me for breakfast that I couldn't eat. And then she wished me the best in my travels and confirmed two or three times that I had someone picking me up at the airport. In the middle of the flight I woke up to look out the window. We flew over an island that I believed to be Puerto Rico. And it hit me again: I've never been so far south, and I was left to have this moment alone, looking out the window of this plane in the dead of the night. I adored it.
Morning came, and so did breakfast and Salvador. I had survived the dreaded over-night flight, and also all the craziness of applying for, getting into, getting the visa for, getting the cell phone for, getting the medical records and vaccinations for, and packing for this trip. And here I was! A few other CIEE people had been on the same flight, it turns out, and we all convened just inside the airport at the gate. We got our luggage, made our way through customs (got my first visa ever stamped!), and met up with CIEE outside. I tried to call my parents but the phone didn't work (I promise, Mom & Dad, I did try!), gave up, exchanged my dollars for reais, and hopped into a van that drove me and a few other CIEE students through a jungle of bamboo and other plants and into the ambiguous city of Salvador (more on that in the preceding post). We drove past beautiful beaches with guys walking around in speedos (HAAAA, best/worst part about Salvador!), and ended up at our hotel.
 |
| Arriving in Salvador! (view from the North) |
 |
| The tip you see in the above photo with N^ , E>, W< |
 |
| Bamboo forest from the van. And then it hits us. "WHERE ARE WE??" |
 |
| Well this wasn't our hotel, but here we were in Salvador. |
 |
| Dat beach... |
Can you guess what I did the moment I got to my new room? That's right, PILATES. Sabrina would be proud. (For those of you who don't know, she's the Pilates/Biomechanics instructor at Barnard). Pilates, then bathing suit, then beach. The 90 degree weather was a shock. As was the tan I got after 20 min. with sunscreen on the beach. That night, a band, Samba com Você (Samba With You), was playing at our hotel. A few of us insisted on sitting out on the patio with the music and the other hotel guests for dinner. And it was unbearably good, so I got up as soon as my food was done, samba-ed (apparently I know how to samba, according to the Brazilians... so that was a pretty great thing to get validated! :), danced with this crazy and great old man who had so much spunk I cannot even begin to express, and danced with his son who lacked so much spunk, that I can also not even begin to express. His son may have been the worst dancer I've danced with here. He didn't have rhythm, and kept getting frustrated when I wanted to dance to the music. So, no surprise that later when he asked if I wanted to go swimming in the pool with him to "get to know each other" I said that I didn't want to know him. I could've been more subtle had my Portuguese been better, but it got the point across! Two others from my program, Jaya and Ale, stuck around with me at the patio samba party, while others went out in the city. After the show, we got the information of a kind woman who we'd been dancing with who lives in Minas Gerais and said we could visit her any time we wanted. Also, one of the drummers from the band, Paulo, gave us his number and said he'd save us a table at his samba show on the following Sunday (two days later) in the neighborhood of Pituba. Salvador is connections. Brazil is connections. They're so easy and fun to make.
 |
| From left to right: Carla from Minas Gerais, Jaya, me, Ale |
 |
| The whole crew of Minas Ladies! |
 |
| Gettin' down! |
 |
| Samba com Você! Paulo is in the red shirt |
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
São Salvador, Bahia
Some of the most striking and life-changing things to note about Salvador da Bahia, before I get too caught up in storytelling:
1) You don't throw toilet paper in the toilet. You throw it in a trash can next to the toilet. Which leads to occasionally very smelly bathrooms, but avoids even smellier toilet clogs (the sewage system is a little out of shape). The number of times I have, out of habit, thrown my toilet paper in the toilet and graças a deus made it out of the bathroom alive (without even the slightest flooding) is... well... 5. Apparently the sewage system is not as weak as we are led to believe, but I'm counting my blessings.
2) The relationship between sidewalks and streets is extreme: there is either no difference whatsoever between the two and one can walk (or wheel-chair) freely from one to the other, or the difference is marked by a canyon in which the history of the road's pavements is bared right down to the cobblestone (humiliating if you ask me).
3) Love is in the air. Good-lookin' men walk down the beach, hop the bus, or play soccer in their speedos, ladies do the same with much butt-cheek hangin' out. Doesn't really matter much whether you've got a "rockin' bod" or otherwise, you show it all off here. The same men who strut their stuff in speedos on the beach approach the ladies in the bar, "você é linda demais" (you are too beautiful). If he is also lindo demais, that's a great deal. If not, you gotta pull out your Brazilian-style rejection, shake your pointer finger in his face and push him away. "Não." Unfortunately, in general, the women don't approach the men (I think this is because, in general, the men are so forward, all we have to do is look in their general direction and they will easily make the first move), but I'm willing to switch that up every so often. There is certainly the downside to this forward-ness: I have more than once had to literally duck in order to avoid being more-or-less forceably kissed on the mouth. Although it is Carnaval season and this kind of thing is more common right now, it's still pretty annoying when you've already been (the American version of) clear about not wanting to kiss anyone. But you learn to be mean, and then can typically avoid these kinds of uninvited beijos na boca. In any case, the latin romance and passion & the flirtatious culture here are very welcome after a few years of all-women's schooling!
4) The drinking age is 18+. And it's not the alcohol that makes this worth mentioning. All I'm saying is that I can get into ANY show or ANY event/party/gala/concert/bar/restaurant that I want to without ANY hassle. I can drink if I so please, I can dance, I can have a GOOD old time with no silly age limits that put a damper on all the fun. As a result? I have partied in the best ways since I've been here. Our first night here a few of us danced the night away to a samba band on the deck of our hotel with some other Brazilian tourists. Tuesday nights in Pelourinho are like (for those of you who know Portland, ME) the Old Port fest with real music, good dancers, at night in BAHIA. Weekly. It is a pretty amazing thing. And not the only one of its kind. In any case, you go, you listen to music, you dance, etc. It can be touristy, which is not as fun, but the first time we went there was a good bundle of Brazilians, which made it sahhh good. Anyway, that, in combination with all the music bars and dance clubs that we have at are disposal, make this a pretty rockin' place to be as an 18+-er.
5) Brazilian novellas, at least Salve Jorge, have such good theme songs. Lado a Lado's theme song is also pretty rockin'. Look 'em up if you don't know.
6) Brazil is a land of wild contrasts. Private swimming pools overlook little rust-colored huts packed into neighborhoods called favelas, which are some of the poorest in America. The breathtaking beauty of colonial Portugal found in historical districts with the colorful buildings and cobblestone roads, is surrounded by the pot-holed roads and plastic store signs marking the modern-day city. Perhaps worst of all, finding oneself in “Shopping Barra”, the mall in the beachy neighborhood of Barra (pronounced “bah-hah”), standing under the neon lights of the conspicuously H&M-like store, C&A, leafing through a line of European-style clothing (then again, what do I know? It could be Indonesian for all I know about fashion...) while listening to the blaring English lyrics of Katy Perry, Pitbull, and whoever else is popular right now in America; everything appears perfectly American-- perfectly “normal”-- until you get to the cash register and the friendly-looking cashier takes your items and declares: “olá, boa noite, tem cartão ou sidf skdjf ;aoijd idhfiej reais kjsd idfjoe ã sodifj que osdijf ighef e depois sdifji sidfhksdf, viu?” That's about as much as I understand: the first few words, 40% of the words in the middle, and then usually some final word that means “you understood what I just said, right?” And you just learn when you gotta ask them to repeat their statement on the off chance that you'll catch a few words that you didn't catch the last time cause it's pretty important and, although the chances are low, it'd be really helpful to understand how this transaction was taking place. The rest of the time you smile and you nod and say “simmm” or “é” or just paraphrase in your own broken Portuguese: “então, você quer que eu deixe minha cartão de crédito aqui com você?” (so, you want me to leave my credit card with you?). And then you realize that either you misunderstood their question, or you thought you paraphrased it the way you understood but you actually made up something dangerously different from what you had hoped, and in the end no one is happy: one person feels stupid, and the other is tired of speaking with someone who is so incompetent. Needless to say, my Portuguese still needs work. But it is coming! And that's exciting. (Also, needless to say, I'd never leave my credit card with anyone. Just in case you were concerned).
6) Food. Here is what I eat every day. Breakfast is corn cous cous and plantains with some fruit. Lunch is meat, meat rice and beans. Dinner is meat, meat, meat, rice and beans. I get offered fruit-juice at every meal, even though I choose to get myself water every time. I don't think they realize that water is an edible and viable choice to quench thirst.
7) It is HOT here. 90 degrees on average these days. So you sweat at every occasion during every part of the day. No surprise my mom expected me to shower three times a day in the beginning of my stay here. When planning the upcoming day, the following conversation would ensue:
mãe brasileira: "So you'll take your shower and then eat breakfast?"
me: "Well, I just showered last night and my hair's still wet, so..."
mãe: "Ok so you'll come home at lunchtime, shower, and eat your lunch,"
me: "...."
mãe: "And then tonight, after dinner you can shower..."
I swore I would hold my own, and maintain my New England showering standards (you know, once every few months does the trick downeast!). Who do these Brazilian think I am? Weak? Sweaty? Smelly? Well, I succumbed. These days I shower once or twice a day, sometimes even (gasp) three times. Sounds unnecessary and overwhelming. It is my saving grace in this heat.
8) The other saving grace in this heat: the rain. The rain here is beautiful and soft and fluffy. It comes down like a shower of wet feathers (except it's pleasant, unlike that imagery), and even when there's a lot if it it hardly gets you wet, while still cooling you off. It feels like you're being showered with love. Or just lots of luke-warm weightless raindrops. In any case, it's amazing.
9) People here are wusses: even when there is hardly any rain out, everyone has an umbrella.
10) People here are amazingly non-wus-ish: even when it's 90 degrees and sunny they're wearing pantsuits to work. Respect.
There is so much more to tell, and I didn't even really get to my story-telling, but there's a start for you. Also, I think all of my blog titles will also be song titles, so here's the artist for this first one: Jair Oliveira (or his father Jair Rodrigues). Look it up! So good.
Thank you for reading! More soon!
1) You don't throw toilet paper in the toilet. You throw it in a trash can next to the toilet. Which leads to occasionally very smelly bathrooms, but avoids even smellier toilet clogs (the sewage system is a little out of shape). The number of times I have, out of habit, thrown my toilet paper in the toilet and graças a deus made it out of the bathroom alive (without even the slightest flooding) is... well... 5. Apparently the sewage system is not as weak as we are led to believe, but I'm counting my blessings.
2) The relationship between sidewalks and streets is extreme: there is either no difference whatsoever between the two and one can walk (or wheel-chair) freely from one to the other, or the difference is marked by a canyon in which the history of the road's pavements is bared right down to the cobblestone (humiliating if you ask me).
3) Love is in the air. Good-lookin' men walk down the beach, hop the bus, or play soccer in their speedos, ladies do the same with much butt-cheek hangin' out. Doesn't really matter much whether you've got a "rockin' bod" or otherwise, you show it all off here. The same men who strut their stuff in speedos on the beach approach the ladies in the bar, "você é linda demais" (you are too beautiful). If he is also lindo demais, that's a great deal. If not, you gotta pull out your Brazilian-style rejection, shake your pointer finger in his face and push him away. "Não." Unfortunately, in general, the women don't approach the men (I think this is because, in general, the men are so forward, all we have to do is look in their general direction and they will easily make the first move), but I'm willing to switch that up every so often. There is certainly the downside to this forward-ness: I have more than once had to literally duck in order to avoid being more-or-less forceably kissed on the mouth. Although it is Carnaval season and this kind of thing is more common right now, it's still pretty annoying when you've already been (the American version of) clear about not wanting to kiss anyone. But you learn to be mean, and then can typically avoid these kinds of uninvited beijos na boca. In any case, the latin romance and passion & the flirtatious culture here are very welcome after a few years of all-women's schooling!
4) The drinking age is 18+. And it's not the alcohol that makes this worth mentioning. All I'm saying is that I can get into ANY show or ANY event/party/gala/concert/bar/restaurant that I want to without ANY hassle. I can drink if I so please, I can dance, I can have a GOOD old time with no silly age limits that put a damper on all the fun. As a result? I have partied in the best ways since I've been here. Our first night here a few of us danced the night away to a samba band on the deck of our hotel with some other Brazilian tourists. Tuesday nights in Pelourinho are like (for those of you who know Portland, ME) the Old Port fest with real music, good dancers, at night in BAHIA. Weekly. It is a pretty amazing thing. And not the only one of its kind. In any case, you go, you listen to music, you dance, etc. It can be touristy, which is not as fun, but the first time we went there was a good bundle of Brazilians, which made it sahhh good. Anyway, that, in combination with all the music bars and dance clubs that we have at are disposal, make this a pretty rockin' place to be as an 18+-er.
5) Brazilian novellas, at least Salve Jorge, have such good theme songs. Lado a Lado's theme song is also pretty rockin'. Look 'em up if you don't know.
6) Brazil is a land of wild contrasts. Private swimming pools overlook little rust-colored huts packed into neighborhoods called favelas, which are some of the poorest in America. The breathtaking beauty of colonial Portugal found in historical districts with the colorful buildings and cobblestone roads, is surrounded by the pot-holed roads and plastic store signs marking the modern-day city. Perhaps worst of all, finding oneself in “Shopping Barra”, the mall in the beachy neighborhood of Barra (pronounced “bah-hah”), standing under the neon lights of the conspicuously H&M-like store, C&A, leafing through a line of European-style clothing (then again, what do I know? It could be Indonesian for all I know about fashion...) while listening to the blaring English lyrics of Katy Perry, Pitbull, and whoever else is popular right now in America; everything appears perfectly American-- perfectly “normal”-- until you get to the cash register and the friendly-looking cashier takes your items and declares: “olá, boa noite, tem cartão ou sidf skdjf ;aoijd idhfiej reais kjsd idfjoe ã sodifj que osdijf ighef e depois sdifji sidfhksdf, viu?” That's about as much as I understand: the first few words, 40% of the words in the middle, and then usually some final word that means “you understood what I just said, right?” And you just learn when you gotta ask them to repeat their statement on the off chance that you'll catch a few words that you didn't catch the last time cause it's pretty important and, although the chances are low, it'd be really helpful to understand how this transaction was taking place. The rest of the time you smile and you nod and say “simmm” or “é” or just paraphrase in your own broken Portuguese: “então, você quer que eu deixe minha cartão de crédito aqui com você?” (so, you want me to leave my credit card with you?). And then you realize that either you misunderstood their question, or you thought you paraphrased it the way you understood but you actually made up something dangerously different from what you had hoped, and in the end no one is happy: one person feels stupid, and the other is tired of speaking with someone who is so incompetent. Needless to say, my Portuguese still needs work. But it is coming! And that's exciting. (Also, needless to say, I'd never leave my credit card with anyone. Just in case you were concerned).
6) Food. Here is what I eat every day. Breakfast is corn cous cous and plantains with some fruit. Lunch is meat, meat rice and beans. Dinner is meat, meat, meat, rice and beans. I get offered fruit-juice at every meal, even though I choose to get myself water every time. I don't think they realize that water is an edible and viable choice to quench thirst.
7) It is HOT here. 90 degrees on average these days. So you sweat at every occasion during every part of the day. No surprise my mom expected me to shower three times a day in the beginning of my stay here. When planning the upcoming day, the following conversation would ensue:
mãe brasileira: "So you'll take your shower and then eat breakfast?"
me: "Well, I just showered last night and my hair's still wet, so..."
mãe: "Ok so you'll come home at lunchtime, shower, and eat your lunch,"
me: "...."
mãe: "And then tonight, after dinner you can shower..."
I swore I would hold my own, and maintain my New England showering standards (you know, once every few months does the trick downeast!). Who do these Brazilian think I am? Weak? Sweaty? Smelly? Well, I succumbed. These days I shower once or twice a day, sometimes even (gasp) three times. Sounds unnecessary and overwhelming. It is my saving grace in this heat.
8) The other saving grace in this heat: the rain. The rain here is beautiful and soft and fluffy. It comes down like a shower of wet feathers (except it's pleasant, unlike that imagery), and even when there's a lot if it it hardly gets you wet, while still cooling you off. It feels like you're being showered with love. Or just lots of luke-warm weightless raindrops. In any case, it's amazing.
9) People here are wusses: even when there is hardly any rain out, everyone has an umbrella.
10) People here are amazingly non-wus-ish: even when it's 90 degrees and sunny they're wearing pantsuits to work. Respect.
There is so much more to tell, and I didn't even really get to my story-telling, but there's a start for you. Also, I think all of my blog titles will also be song titles, so here's the artist for this first one: Jair Oliveira (or his father Jair Rodrigues). Look it up! So good.
Thank you for reading! More soon!
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