Yes, a flood fits.
The last week has left me heart, stomach, mind in a superlotacao. (I am completely fed up with trying to make special characters on this keyboard. I have tried everything the Internet tells me to do and I can't do it. If anyone has any special info, please enlighten).
Doing everything the Internet tells me to do. A dangerously easy trap to fall into.
Ok. So I have come to the difficult truth that I will not be able to share everything that has happened in the past week on this blog.
In truth, there are more highlights than mundanities (if I can use Portuguese I will use other languages besides English too--languages that perhaps do not even exist).
So now, my English is structured like Portuguese. For example: "In truth." I never say this in English, but in Portuguese, we say "Na verdade." Or in truth. Or another example: "ill-treated." I never say this. I say "badly treated." But here, we say "maltratado." Or ill- treated. Anyways.
Last weekend in Sao Paulo was actually, honestly, pretty wonderful. The city was me killing (need I say more? For you readers who are bilingual, you know what I want to say, or quero dizer, if you will. Ok I am done beating this dead horse) for a lot of the time that I was there. (Fuck! It is so hard to write in English right now! The horse continues to convulse under my clubbings). But last weekend was just, well, fun with its confusions and difficulties.
Friday I ate better than a Brazilian at a churrascaria. Because I was an American at a churrascaria--or a BBQ-ish type place. But it is not a BBQ the way you think of it. I will provide a closer look:
There is a huge salad bar in the center. And when I say salad, I mean almost everything else you can imagine in the world but not without vegetables too. Then the senhores come around with gourmet grilled meat on a stick, and you choose what you want, and they cut it off for you, and you take it with these cute little tongs.
I could not move after I ate. I managed to drag myself outside for a smoke (ok so I could move enough to smoke. Even if it was hailing frogs and Neil Diamond was on an eternal loop in the universe I would manage a cigarette.) I talk too much about smoking. It probably sounds like I am happy to be a smoker. Maybe it even sounds like I am obsessed, or addicted. I'll say this: I wish I didn't smoke but I am grateful for its salvatory properties. My theory is that cigarettes take everything solid in your stomach and turn it to liquid. So after this melting, I had room for dessert. And for the rest of the night it was all evaporation and evacuation (liquid to gas—you get the picture).
Saturday after an interesting twist of events and misunderstandings I encountered a new friend and guide. After a night of music, food, and good conversations, I trudged back home to my sticky room and slept.
Sunday I watched the Super Bowl. In Brazil. With Brazilians. And Americans. And pizza delivery and ice cream. It was such an American event. And there was this really neat Brazilian flair to it--like Bud Light with Lime. But it tasted a little bit less like slightly tart urine. Better yet--Bud Light with Papaya.
I love that in bathrooms we see this:
We must be told to refrain from floor urination. This is universal. It is difficult to aim something with a mind of its own. Even with the mandate, every bathroom I enter leaves the soles of my shoes a little wet and smelling of Bud Light Lime. Why don’t we get told this in America? Maybe because no one gives a shit.
I try.
Another piece of business: a few weeks back, I may have made some comments about people I do not know reading my blog that could have been misconstrued as negative. I apologize for my tone and cryptic metaphors. To be clear, I love that people I don't know read. My ego does. It likes the idea of all this. And please--if you care to, say hi to me! You never what could happen--we might become friends.
Right. Still in Sao Paulo. Gotta move on to where I am now. As good as Sao Paulo and its citizens treated me, in general, I do not miss it so much. I miss it some. But shit, we in Bahia now people!
This city is—my gosh, how do I say it…just VIBRANT. It is so alive. Everywhere I walk I hear music. There is always a breeze off the ocean. Always people in beautiful bright colors. People talking loudly. Dancing. There is a certain inexplicable energy about Salvador that not even a native Baiano can explain. And we all feel it.
In general, I have been passing through the city (passando pela cidade, ne?) and just seeing smelling hearing TASTING (the food here is marvelous--say goodbye to wonder bread and fake cheese and hello to copious fruits unknown to Americans and exotically seasoned meats and SALAD. WITH LETTUCE AND NO RAW ONIONS). But I would like to comment on something in particular:
Every night is a party in the Pelourinho. Lots of live free music lots of people lots of dancing lots of cheap food. We were walking down one of the cobblestone streets and it was packed. Suddenly, we come upon a sound of really sexy heavy drumming. Everyone starts dancing. There are thousands of people. The place just packed. And heavy drumming. And dancing. The organism advances up the street, people never stop dancing, the whole thing stops, more dancing, more drumming, then moves on again...
It does not rain here. It is hot. And we have the beautiful ocean. Always. I can walk there. Always.
I am contemplating classes: Portuguese, Artistic Manifestations of Brazilian Culture, Contemporary Brazilian Dance, Private Brazilian Guitar Lessons, Brazilian Drama. Not too shabby, eh? This ain't no UvA or grape.
My host father, Ernani, is wonderful. It is just me and him. I told the ladies last time and I will tell the gents now--jealousy has no place here. Dad--I miss you and love you very much. Hanging out with Ernani makes me miss you more. And Mom--don't think I love Dad more than you. Caleb--you don't need me to tell you how much I love you. And Misty--you deserve a special shout-out as well. I love you. And all you friends and people I love--thank you for being in my life. You make me feel loved and that is more than I could ask for and all I could ever need.
Whoa. That was weird and spontaneous. I just broke all my rules. I was sentimental and made direct references. Emotion swelled. Surely there are some metaphors hidden somewhere.
Anyways. Back to Ernani. His house is great--a beautiful (I want to not mention its use but it is there, you know it. Maybe it breaks people's hearts that love me. I apologize for my selfish choice/nonchoice to blacken my lungs but I not enough to change) veranda included. He is just so...warm, nice, open. We have good conversations. My Portuguese sometimes feels like it is really taking off and other times feels like it is stuck and hopeless.
Found a meeting thanks to the urgings of one of the forementioned. Recovery is hard here. I just do not have the support I have at home. And parties surround. I am making it though.
The computer stays (fica, I know) right next to the TV, which is generally on. I will be listening to lots of classical music via headphones and happily doing so.
Like a donkey, I brought only black and dark blue cotton shirts to Brazil. Wow. Today, I went out shopping and I will now appear as a beautiful tropical bird strutting down the street with my pulchritude poking out of the holes where sleeves might exist in a colder place. Not to mention, I got a speedo. Gotta assimilate, but embrace my gringoness. Look out, beach bums, cause this one is in your face.
Always a section for feelings at the end of a newsy post: I feel......like I said. Flooded. This place is crazy new exciting wonderful. I get so amped. And I get so chilled too, with this go-with-the-flow beach culture. And I miss home. And I have boring mundane days going to the mall and trying to find which bus to get on. I am confused and young. I am present here and stuck there. I have extreme moments of emotional turmoil. And extreme moments of happiness and tranquility. I think in general, I adapt and cope well.
I finished the Jerry biography. Made me cry. What an anomaly, Jesus Christ. No, Jerry Garcia. Well, them both. I wouldn't be the first to make the comparison.
As an English major and Deadhead (they need a Grateful Dead major at UVa) last night I blasphemized: I ran out of papers so I rolled a cigarette with a ripped out page from the book. Is my cough so telling?
Speaking of paper: I just learned that we are supposed to put toilet paper in the trash can after we wipe our butts with it. I knew the septic system here was weak--2 flushes is rarely sufficient--but I had been unaware of the trashcan soiling rule in Sao Paulo. Yeah--there are signs everywhere that say not to put paper in the toilet. But I thought it meant paper towels, like in the states. If only they were more explicit, like they are about pissing on the floor. I guess things scatological in nature must be treated with sensitivity...I surely do a hell of a good job of that (insert scowling grin).
Aside from poop folks, that is just about it. Fuck--I said I wouldn't couldn't relay everything. And I managed to include enough boring details to compose a Barry Manilow song (what's with the hostility, baby? I wish I did not judge people so heavily on their musical tastes...but it is such an important thing to me that I am glad I do. It's like the smoking thing--ambivalent--ambi: ‘around’ or ‘both sides’ and valence: ‘power’ or ‘worth’; on both sides of the power or worth of a thing--PSD).
Anything that everyone likes must be boring, right? But I did not even approach mentioning it all. So I kept my promise, didn't I? I want to fish for some clever innuendo to make you all think I am so poetic. Now anything I say will be false and cheap. I have removed validity from my own words for the time being.
