Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me...

When I'm Sixty-Four? And that happens to be today. I've been thinking about how an amazing life it's been so far (and hoping it'll continue to be so until one day, luck be my lady today, I just drop dead). And in the process of playing this film backwards in my mind, I've come up with quite a few scary, breathtaking, and downright funny memories. For example:

1 - My first earthquake in Central America in the seventies. I remember waking up thinking that I must have the flu and realizing that the tumbling toys and cracking walls meant that something totally unusual (for me) was taking place outside my body. Next thing I know, we were scrambling to get my daughter out of her crib and looking for a safe spot (the banana plantation across the way looked pretty good at that point). That same year, a couple of visiting friends and I drove down into the Irazu volcano crater (no sign in sight to tell us to stop) only to find out that volcanic ash is worse than sand when it comes to getting your car stuck. If it weren't for a pair of very strong German tourists, I'd probably still be there arguing with an angry policeman.

2 - Cut to Iguazu Falls at the border of Brazil and Argentina a few years later. It was mid-November and the weather was very hot and muggy. The clouds were dark and low and it definitely looked like it would pour very soon. We were taking a walk in the woods behind the hotel and got to a spot where the river was quite wide and not moving very fast (at least it SEEMED so). There was a man sitting in a small canoe and he invited us to get in: "I'll take you somewhere to see the falls," he said. I remember asking where exactly and the answer was "Devil's Throat." That didn't sound like a place I'd like to be, but he came back with something like "this is the last trip I'm making, because of the storm coming." So we had to make a split second decision to hop in. I still don't know what possessed us to do it, but a few minutes later we were in the middle of the river and I could see a little bit of mist ahead. We found out then that he was only taking us half way; from that point on another rower took over who knew the currents ahead. If you've seen the movie "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" you'll remember the sweeping, spectacular shots of the falls. If you looked carefully (and you can bet I did!), you saw an outcrop of rock, roughly a yard and a half from end to end, surrounded by zillions of gallon of rushing, falling water. Well, that's where we got off the second canoe and that's where this woman who suffers from vertigo and used to be really, really afraid of water, did the victory sign. I still have the photograph to prove it! This brings us to the last little story and the reason why I wrote "used to be."

3 - Cut once again to the British Virgin Islands in the mid-nineties. What do you do when you reach fifty and would like to celebrate in style? I decided that I needed to go see the wreck of the Rhone and NOT from the surface! So I spent a few weeks with a lovely young female instructor at a pool in Ohio who taught me the front and back crawl strokes; for someone who was terrified to put her face in the water, that was no mean accomplishment already. Now came the hard part: actually breathing underwater, through a regulator. Another woman (a fabulous divemaster at Peter Island) and another pool later and I was actually feeling pretty confident that I could manage that too. If you're thinking that I got this far to tell you that I failed miserably...well, you're wrong! As a matter of fact, I didn't want to come back up and haven't stopped talking since about how exhilarating (but peaceful) it felt to be down there with the fishes. I bought a book about the Rhone and the DVD of "The Deep" with Nick Nolte and Jacqueline Bisset and everytime I feel like revisiting that afternoon I pull them out of my shelf.

And there were countless flights across the U.S. in a Mooney 201 and crisscrossing Ohio on a Harley-Davidson and numerous hurricanes in Miami and starry nights in the Arizona desert and hikes and camping in the backlands of Brazil and walking in the Amazon with a (literal) spider monkey on my back. I'm really enjoying this ride!

That's my hand holding my precious book.

Perfume de Gardenia

Last Sunday I went to a birthday party for my friend Alicia's oldest son, Andre. They're part of a large Cuban-American family who all live in the general vicinity of Calle Ocho in Miami, so such get-togethers occur with amazing frequency (and I'm not even counting weddings, christenings, quinces, and other assorted celebrations). I was enjoying a plateful of arroz, frijoles, and yuca con mojo while practicing my Spanish with her dad when I happened to glance out the back window. I just meant to check on the rain (which was coming down in sheets), but my eyes didn't turn back to my food for a long time. There in the backyard, in full view of anyone sitting around the dining-room table, was the most magnificent gardenia bush. Aha! That explained the freshly cut flowers I had been getting drunk on a few minutes earlier...I'm nuts about their scent; Perfume de gardenia, perfume del amor, as the song by Rafael Hernandez goes. So, yesterday during the long flight south to Brazil, I would close my eyes and revisit that garden. The white blooms scattered among the deep green leaves, a perfect trio of reddish mangoes hanging from the tree, and a typical Miami summer downpour.

But what my daughter asked me to write about are my daily trips from her island down to the heart of South Beach in the comfortable, smooth-riding, air-conditioned Miami-Dade buses. In a nutshell, using public transportation in Miami is a colorful, rather exciting, experience; after a few rides, you sort of learn to expect the unexpected and the bizarre. Apart from the youngish, clearly not-quite-there woman who asked me, in earnest, if I was going to sue her for falling into my lap when the bus turned the corner, there was this big guy screaming profanities and racial slurs from the back of the bus (I was afraid he would become violent at any moment and kept wondering why the young female driver didn't use her radio to call the police). My favorite, though, has to be the old lady in a loose print shirt, large hoop earrings with dangling blue beads, and a baseball cap in the style favored by Iowa farmers while riding their combines. Having been yelled at the day before by a tall bird who informed me on no uncertain terms that he had a right to sit down (whereas I, I assumed, being merely a 64-year-old woman who was about to faint from the 87-degree heat, could ride standing up in the overcrowded bus), I got up and moved back as soon as I saw her boarding the bus. Lucky guess, Sheila: even though there were about six or more empty seats in the front of the bus at that point, she proceeded to say out loud in Spanish (to no one in particular, but waving a finger in the air) that this was HER favorite seat.

I confess that I've come back to a transportation system that's best described as disastrous. Buses in Rio are generally dirty, rattling, hip-dislocating, hot-as-hell in the summer, non-handicapped accessible, and driven by maniacs to boot. On the other hand, your fellow passengers, from school kids to professionals to beautiful girls on their way to the beach, aren't likely to provide you with stories at the end of the day. Unless, of course, your bus happens to be the unlucky one where armed robbery takes place or urban tragedy unfolds (as in route 174).

The gardenia pictured here is not from a Miami garden.

A Foot in Two Countries

I haven't written anything here in a whole month, but have been mulling over something for days on end. I could also call this post A Tale of Two Cities or A Word That Defines my Life. When you divide your time and existence between two countries, two languages, two cultures, something happens to you. Mainly, to use a great and fitting French word, you become dépaysée, that is, you uproot yourself, but don't quite put on new roots, or rather, you do, but sort of like those little bromeliads I love called tillandseas. They're air plants and will grow on trees, rocks, shrubs, and are quite content to be blown here and there by the winds.

I can explain A Tale of Two Cities: I shuttle between Miami and Rio. I call them respectively my blue and green city. Miami has that amazing turquoise water; Rio boasts the largest urban forest in the world. And if you're curious as to the Word That Defines my Life, that's easy: it's saudade, Portuguese for longing and missing. It's the story of my life!

I'm flying back to the U.S. again tomorrow morning. By a strange and fortuitous coincidence, every single time I go to Miami there's a show by Marcos Sacramento a day or two before. So, I get to say goodbye to my friends and Rio listening to this absolutely spectacular singer. It's almost as if someone is trying to remind me of the reason I came down here in the first place. And if this should be THE last farewell, I can't think of a better or happier finale!

The photo is from last night's performance at Teatro Rival in downtown Rio. For more on Marcos, you can access his site.

Photo courtesy of Alexandre Moreira, via Beto Feitosa. Thank you, guys!

Esgrefendo Popagen

Say what? Even if you can read Portuguese you'll not have understood my title. The reason being that it's Portuguese spoken with a very heavy accent. Not anybody's accent, mind you, but aunt Lucila's. I wish I'd met this lovely Brazilian of German descent, but she's been gone for a few years now. Aunt Lucila has been immortalized by her journalist nephew in a book that had me in stitches in Porto Alegre. So much so that my friend managed to call him and get me a copy. Mind you, no one here is making fun of the way she spoke; we're just madly in love with her hilarious dialogs with him. In his small volume, Mr. Decker also briefly tells the story of German immigration (1824) in Rio Grande do Sul and compiles a vocabulary of the Hunsrück dialect, which has died out in Europe, but still survives in hamlets in the mountains of Southern Brazil. Side by side with what he calls "tialês" or Portuguese as spoken by his favorite auntie.

For me, traveling around this area of Italian and German immigrants was also an emotional journey back to the days when I studied at the Deutsche Schule (which at that point had switched to Portuguese, just as aunt Lucila had to, all of a sudden, because of WW II), bought schwarzes Brot, and ate polenta with radicci, drank red wine, and fell asleep in "nonna's bed." What a childhood that was...

This photograph was taken at our inn in the Valley of Vineyards (part of the region colonized by Italians starting in 1875) and features a tender moment between the owner, Mr. Sant'Anna, and his dog, Galileu.

Before I forget, I hope you've been enjoying all the popagens (bobagens, silly things) that I've been esgrefendo (escrevendo, writing) these past months. Brazil has a lot to offer and I'll be down here a little while longer...

Has anyone seen Franz?

Kafka, that is. I'll explain: if you've been following this blog you're now sort of familiar with Brazilian bureaucracy. Well, it's risen to new heights in my estimation ever since I read the following story in the paper: A theater director in Rio applied for official financing. A few months later, not having heard a peep from the government foundation, he decided to call them. The reason his paperwork was gathering dust on someone's desk? One of the applicants had not signed the form. Who could it be? Yeah, you guessed, Franz. The play? You've probably guessed again: The Process.

Come on, Franz, leave boring Prague and Czech bureaucracy! Coffee is better in Rio, anyway...

Speaking of absentees...I've been on the road in the interior of Rio Grande do Sul (see next post) and will be trekking again as of this coming Saturday to a more urban destination: my favorite city in South America, São Paulo.

With deepest thanks to my friend Sergio for saving the paper for me while I was gone...

Evolution and a Singer in Rio

It has become a (good) habit of mine to go downtown every Saturday. There are plenty of reasons: museums, churches, restaurants, antiquarians, traditional Portuguese desserts (your sweet tooth's got to be ready for these, though!) at Casa Cavé, the perfect draft beer at the centenarian Bar Luiz, Art Déco buildings, and rodas de samba. Oh, I'm forgetting the promise of increased security all around...This past weekend a friend and I saw the Darwin exhibition at the splendid Museu Histórico Nacional. I've been reading a lot about Charles Darwin and his travels, which brought him to Brazil and Rio de Janeiro, and Alfred Russel Wallace, for whom the Wallace Line and a lunar crater are named. Apparently, being quite content to leave all the credit and glory surrounding the evolutionary theory to his contemporary, Wallace is commemorated in other sciences. At least, Wallace's bones are resting in peace, unlike Darwin's, which must have turned a few times at Westminster Abbey recently. I'm talking about Florida's new science teaching standards and the controversy surrounding the theory of evolution in our beloved United States of America. I remind you that this is going on in the most scientifically-advanced country in the world in 2008, NOT in some backward nation, and NOT in the Dark Ages of mankind.


Anyway, we finally get to the best part of my weekend. Friday evening (weekends DO start with TGIF, right?) I went to a recital at Sala Cecilia Meireles, a temple of classical music in Rio. The program, mind you, were popular serenades from the 1930s and 40s, the kind that were (and perhaps still are in small towns in the interior) performed below a woman's window. Voice and guitar, no more. You don't need anything else when the voice and interpretation belong to Marcos Sacramento and the guitarist is his "partner-in-crime," Luis Flavio Alcofra. Where does this concert tie in with my musings on evolution and the state of things in our country? It's simply that I rejoice in the thought that at least some members of our species have evolved to the point where they're able to really contribute to the happiness of others. That some people are able to write such great songs and others to sing them with so much talent and sensitivity. This was for sure one of the best shows of my life! And I, like Charles Darwin, am glad that I came to Rio for a while.

By the way, this was part of a series that will culminate with a concert by Italian jazz pianist Stefano Bollani in December. Can't wait!

The City and the Mosquito

Should I give you the good news or the bad news first? Well, let's get this part over with: For someone who's a mosquito magnet like me, these are not the best of times. I've just read that 1.4 new cases of dengue fever are diagnosed in Rio every minute! The outbreak has sickened over 45,000 people and caused 67 deaths, mostly children, mostly poor; so far, six people I know came down with the infection. Squabbling federal, state, and municipal authorities are pointing the finger at one another. Apparently, no one but the tiny, striped mosquito is responsible for this public health disaster...Meanwhile, as far as I'm concerned, Off is literally that: suffering from chemical sensitivities, I've armed myself with citronella candles and Burt's Bees Herbal Insect Repellent (which I brought from the U.S.), and some homeopathic pills that promise to strengthen my immune system. I keep the air-conditioner on, avoid leaving the apartment during certain hours of the day and evening, and have limited my outings to areas with low infection rates. I check the papers every day for news that the epidemic is tapering off. What else is one to do, except perhaps pray, as Rio Mayor Cesar Maia reportedly did, during a recent trip to Salvador, Bahia? (I'd bet people here are praying that he and his party lose the upcoming elections!)


OK, now on to the good news: For the second time this month, I've spent Saturday afternoon in the City, which translates to Rio's downtown. I wanted to see an exhibition dedicated to Debret, the French artist who documented life in the burgeoning capital of the Portuguese Empire between 1816 and 1831. The arrival of D. João and the Portuguese court in Rio in 1808 had dramatically and permanently transformed what was then a rather backward tropical city, along with the habits and lifestyle of its inhabitants. (By the way, my favorite watercolor depicts a little girl, all dressed up under an enormous hat, on her way to the "Escola de Senhoritas" (Young Ladies' School). Big changes, indeed!)


I've decided that one of the best things about being in Rio is wandering through the old cobblestoned streets. Especially when you get to sit down to lunch at a place like this!

Back Under the Christ's Armpit 2...

I arrived around 11 p.m., exhausted after the usual TAM equipment change in São Paulo, and happy to be back in Brazil, but immediately got a reality check when:

1. There was no one at Immigration and Passport Control, even though this is a daily flight;
2. The young and dapper TAM employee that showed up after a few minutes didn't know what was going on;
3. When he finally showed up, the official responsible kept telling us (and the TAM employee) that we should have gone through Immigration and Customs in São Paulo, even though no one ever does, since this flight terminates in Rio and our luggage is always checked through;
4. The nonchalant young lady who checked my passport was more interested in carrying on what seemed an amusing conversation with her friend(s) or colleague(s) than in paying attention to a rather frazzled, perplexed, and obviously dead tired middle-aged passenger;
5. The airport in Rio is a total mess and getting worse every time I go through it;
6. I won't speak a word about anything else I observed that night...

Meanwhile, the weekly news magazine Veja tells me that the Minister of Tourism refused to have her hand luggage x-rayed at the security point on boarding a plane to Paris (but the captain wouldn't take off because of that, so she was forced to do it after all).

Wouldn't you agree that it's impossible to take this place very seriously, if you are to keep your blood pressure under control?

The photograph today is to let you know that we are celebrating the 200th anniversary of the arrival of the Portuguese royal family in Brazil, on the run from Napoleon and his troops. Whatever evils D. João and his court brought along that survive in Brazilian society and politics today, he was also the founder of one of my favorite places on Earth, Rio's Botanical Garden...

Sad News Here...Great News There!!

Remember the lady who owns (rather, owned) the newstand across the street? She has decided that enough is enough and closed her business a few days ago. I stopped by to say goodbye and chat a bit. She's tired, she said, and it's not a healthy way of life: she's been there from dawn to dusk, seven days a week, for years on end. She doesn't eat well, doesn't exercise, and tends to drink Coke and smoke, because of job stress. I never thought of her line of work as stressful, but I could see that she didn't have much of a life. She says she'll open another business at some point, but she doesn't want to work 12 hours a day, everyday, including holidays. We exchanged mobile numbers and e-mail addresses and hugged. I told her I'd miss her enormously. She was one of the first people I met here and certainly one of the nicest.

I took her photo as a souvenir. I'm flying back to the U.S. tomorrow and I feel a bit melancholy. Perhaps opening up my Store.Barack Obama package (one t-shirt size small) will cheer me up? Considering the sad state of politics in Brazil and the alternatives at home, Mr. Obama's candidacy is the best thing that has happened to me (on the public sphere!) in the past few months...Hey, everyone! Let's go to the polls in droves. He could be the best thing that has happened to our country in a very, very long time!!!!

Imagina!

This title refers to the way people in São Paulo respond to your "thank you!" As you may well have guessed, it's the Portuguese equivalent of "imagine!" It's accompanied by smiles and very strong body language that tells you that "there's absolutely no need to thank me, I'm here to be helpful to you, and I enjoy doing it." This pretty much defines the megalopolis in my opinion. Spending a few days wandering around a few neighborhoods doesn't make me an expert, but I got a general feeling that the city is considerably better managed than Rio and that people are better educated and have a more professional attitude, from the Japanese ladies at the Saturday market to museum guards and uniformed (and polite) taxi drivers. Their cars, by the way, don't seem to be falling apart, and neither do police vehicles. This makes you feel like you can ALMOST trust the officers driving them...


São Paulo also managed to eliminate outdoors and other obnoxious visual pollution and this made such a huge difference. I sampled Middle-Eastern food at Arabia in Jardins and had a grilled salmon at Sushi Lika in Liberdade, the Japanese neighborhood. Both were excellent and I'm told there are countless such great places to eat in this tropical New York City. I also found some heavenly shops in Vila Madalena and Liberdade...Next time, it's on to the Italian and Jewish neighborhoods and on and on...

If you look carefully, you will, for sure, realize that you are still in Brazil, but it's one that we wish was more the norm than the exception.

The first photo was taken outside the Pinacoteca, which has a magnificent Tarsila do Amaral show on right now. Question for you: Why is all this great art practically unknown north of the Equator?

The second is a picture I took of Melona popsicles from Korea, which are all the rage in the Japanese neighborhood. I chose melon, which seemed (and tasted) delish, but had I been a bit more adventurous, corn, rice, and even fish were among the available flavors that afternoon.