Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
No Pennies
After hitting the two month mark on my time here in Rio, I have become so used to life in a different world that all the sudden the countless little differences have blended into my reality. This thought hit me suddenly today when I was doing something I’ve done plenty of times since arriving: grocery shopping.
This is how it happened:
I walked into Zona Sul in Gavea, near PUC on way to school this morning to buy some bread for a snack. Every grocery store here constantly pumps out fresh baked French bread, which means nine times out of ten your baguette is still very warm when you pluck it from the basket. I waited for the tongs as an elderly man evaluated the softness and warmness of each piece with years of Brazilian expertise. This turned out to be an almost two minute process, and when you’re standing, ravenous, in front of bread like that—that’s a long time. When the torch…er, tongs, were passed to me, I simply got a piece, bagged it, weighted it, grabbed the sticker the scale spit out, and got in line. This is the tragedy of a Brazilian breakfast. The bread is warm when you get it, but after the painful slowness in which business here is conducted, by the time you check out your bread may be molding. On this day mine wasn’t and when my turn came I was armed with correct change and the phrase “I don’t need a bag, thank you.” Handing over the change was when it hit me. The scale told me my bread was worth R$0.57. I handed over to the cashier a fifty cent coin, and a five cent coin, smiled, and headed out the door. That’s only R$0.55. Now, depending on where in the world I was, what happened next could have been very different; here are two possible scenarios.
A. (The U.S.) The cashier grabs her microphone, alerts the store a thief is fleeing, and radios her manager to tell him that two pennies belonging to the corporation are walking out the door in my pocket. This brings the 50 year old man to life; he sprints to the parking lot and with the help of a teenage bagger, pounds me into the ground and demands the remaining balance.
B. (Brazil) Nothing.
Fortunately I was in Brazil. In Brazil, there are no pennies. None. Not even a two cent piece or anything. The smallest traded coin is five cents. But that means Zona Sul just lost two cents! If that happens to them three hundred times a day in each of their numerous stores—that’s quite a loss!
But wait, what if my bread was R$0.58? In that situation, due to the dark anti-imperialist radicalism of Latin America, I would have had no choice but to pay R$0.60, effectively losing two cents. There they would go, off into the pockets of the corporate greed of capitalism. Or, more realistically, to Zona Sul, who probably gave me the same two cents the day before.
It seems pretty simple and easy. So much so that perhaps I never took much of a noticing to it before, just like every Brazilian. With the price of making an American penny at about $0.016, maybe the United States could learn something from Brazil? Who actually likes pennies? Why should we put up a fight for losing or getting a few? Wal Mart couldn’t even be upset, all their prices end in $0.88!
My point is that it’s the little differences that make everything unique. Countries on a large scale, people on a small scale. Next time something is annoying, like a penny, maybe it would be worth it to just stop and consider it for a second. Why am I doing this? Does this way have to be the right way? Could I look somewhere different for a new answer? Just a little thought that popped into my head today with the help of some warm bread—something you can’t find at Safeway or Shop’n Save.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sorry for the Delay -- Ilha Grande!
I’ve been a blogging recluse lately, and I apologize! I’ve been busy with school and I have lots of other excuses, but now that I have a chance I’d love to write a bit about a trip I took two weeks ago—and it’s going to be a long one. I travelled to the village of Abraão on Ilha Grande (Eel-yah gran-djee) with three friends. Ilha Grande (which less eloquently translates to “Big Island” in English) is, well, a very large island about a four hour drive south of Rio. It’s located south of the coast of Mangaratiba and Angra dos Reis, and east of Paraty—an extremely well known colonial heritage site for Latin American colonization. We planned well, and after going out Thursday night, we slept for a few hours, got back up at five and headed to the bus station. After sleeping through a three hour bus and two hour ferry, we happily arrived in Abraão, the island’s most populous village facing north towards the coast.
My first impression of the Island was unquestionably my lasting impression: absolute wonder. The Island is incredibly persevered by the Brazilian government: there are no cars allowed on the island and about 80 percent of the land is federally protected rainforest. I’m not a biologist, and I know Wikipedia isn’t either, but take a look at how they describe the scenery I woke up to that Friday morning:
“Ilha Grande is one of the most pristine remnants of Brazil's Atlantic rainforest, one of the richest ecosystems in the world, and a hotspot for biodiversity and conservation. It holds some of the largest remaining populations of many endangered species. The seas around the island, which are also protected, feature a unique convergence of tropical, subtropical, and temperate-zone marine life, and may be the only waters in the world where it is possible to see corals and tropical fish along with Magellanic penguins and Southern right whales.”
Hence the absolute wonder. It is easily the most beautiful place I’ve seen. My pictures frustrate me with their inability to do the magic of the island justice. We walked off the ferry into a town that was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Dirt, sand, and cobblestone roads led us through the main street of the village, past markets, pousadas (little honey-moon-esque hotels), restaurants, and more. It was clear right away that the lone industry was tourism. We made our way across the main beach of the town and found a hostel. I changed into swimming gear in a tiny bathroom with countless mosquitoes, a spider, and two lizards.
By the late afternoon the day was already turning out to be beautiful, and I just couldn’t get over the dazzling landscape. Huge mountains jutted up into the clouds just a few hundred meters from the shore…it was like being in the Caribbean and the Appalachian mountains at the same time. Wielding my novice Portuguese, I spoke with a tourism director who told us that the walk to Lopes Mendes—Vouge Magazine’s second best beach on earth—was quick, easy, and could be done in rubber flip flops without a problem. Excited and equipped with only my swim suit, flip flops, some money and a camera I set off for the “walk.”
As it turns out, I need to learn the Portuguese word for hike. The “walk” consisted of terrain that absolutely required hiking boots, and at times involved climbing vertical rock and crossing streams. I guess the Brazilians really do love their flip flops. With strained ankles and riddled with bug bites, we ascended the immediate slope before us. At the highest point of the trail, I climbed up a few more meters beyond the tree line and lost my breath.
I wanted to never leave the spot where I stood, and I wanted to tell everyone I knew to come to Brazil right away and follow my footsteps to the piece of dried mountaintop mud that afforded me a look across the most strikingly untouched piece of earth I’d ever seen. There was no gift shop, no tourists blocking my view, no man selling me ice cream (though that might have been nice), and my favorite part--no railing. It was me; thousands of feet below, the ocean; and thousands of feet out, countless granite slabs and mountains whose grandeur make you feel utterly insignificant.
I finally forced myself to continue on the trail and arrived at a halfway point village. The “walk” was now zero for two, not easy, and certainly not quick. The village, if you can call it that, consisted of a few sun bleached shacks-turned-restaurants with remnants of plastic beach chairs serving as the seating. A sun drenched man in a tsunga (male Brazilian beach apparel more revealing than most American girls’) stood outside one of the shacks twirling a metal tray idly. His eyes lit up as he saw the day’s only business walk up to him and ask for a menu. All he could give us was a makeshift barter—fish, rice and beans, and salad for twelve reais ($8). Starving, we didn’t have many options. I took a seat on my beach chair made of three thirds of broken beach chairs, and looked forward to my meal.
When he said fish, he meant fish. On the plate set in front of me was a fish, perhaps caught just as we walked in the shack, with its mouth open and eyes staring at me. I’d seen him before, in lakes, aquariums, etc., but only then he was flapping, swimming, and breathing. This fish was just silent, still, and covered in a golden brown fried breading. Yum? Taking a deep breath and pulling bones out of my fork-full, I ate the fish bite by bite and actually found it quite good. I asked a few times what type of fish it was, but my only answer was an enthusiastic but simple, “Yes! It’s fish.”
We continued on to Lopes Mendes and arrived shortly after leaving our speedo clad host/chef/waiter/dishwasher. This was the second time I lost my breath. The view from the top of the mountain had come to life in front of me; the distance was now the foreground. I know my descriptions have seemed ridiculous, but that’s the point—this was ridiculous. I’ve never felt closer to nature. There was absolutely nothing but beauty. The sun burning above, the ocean with a color you couldn’t help but smile at, waves crashing, sand stark white and so smooth and powder-like it literally squeaked with every footstep. And the usual spotless horizon of tropical vistas? That was replaced by a gradient of mountains, cliffs, giant granite slabs jutting out of the water, all covered with a constant mist from the breeze, water, and sand. It was like Jamaica on steroids, the unrated edition of the Bahamas, or the experts-only Dominican Republic. Going in the sea was an incredible feeling. It is just literally indescribable to be floating there in the water with the scenery 360 degrees around you. I felt like I could travel for miles and never find a footprint or an empty coke can. No life guards, no buoys, no boats. It really is amazing what the earth looked like before we got our hands on it.
At about 1200 words I think I’ll leave this blog entry here for now, but I hope to continue the story of my weekend on Ilha Grande soon. It is just so difficult to write concisely about such an amazing experience. If you’ve read this far, I sincerely appreciate it! It’s such a pleasure to share this with you. Until later, Eric.
My first impression of the Island was unquestionably my lasting impression: absolute wonder. The Island is incredibly persevered by the Brazilian government: there are no cars allowed on the island and about 80 percent of the land is federally protected rainforest. I’m not a biologist, and I know Wikipedia isn’t either, but take a look at how they describe the scenery I woke up to that Friday morning:
“Ilha Grande is one of the most pristine remnants of Brazil's Atlantic rainforest, one of the richest ecosystems in the world, and a hotspot for biodiversity and conservation. It holds some of the largest remaining populations of many endangered species. The seas around the island, which are also protected, feature a unique convergence of tropical, subtropical, and temperate-zone marine life, and may be the only waters in the world where it is possible to see corals and tropical fish along with Magellanic penguins and Southern right whales.”
Hence the absolute wonder. It is easily the most beautiful place I’ve seen. My pictures frustrate me with their inability to do the magic of the island justice. We walked off the ferry into a town that was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Dirt, sand, and cobblestone roads led us through the main street of the village, past markets, pousadas (little honey-moon-esque hotels), restaurants, and more. It was clear right away that the lone industry was tourism. We made our way across the main beach of the town and found a hostel. I changed into swimming gear in a tiny bathroom with countless mosquitoes, a spider, and two lizards.
By the late afternoon the day was already turning out to be beautiful, and I just couldn’t get over the dazzling landscape. Huge mountains jutted up into the clouds just a few hundred meters from the shore…it was like being in the Caribbean and the Appalachian mountains at the same time. Wielding my novice Portuguese, I spoke with a tourism director who told us that the walk to Lopes Mendes—Vouge Magazine’s second best beach on earth—was quick, easy, and could be done in rubber flip flops without a problem. Excited and equipped with only my swim suit, flip flops, some money and a camera I set off for the “walk.”
As it turns out, I need to learn the Portuguese word for hike. The “walk” consisted of terrain that absolutely required hiking boots, and at times involved climbing vertical rock and crossing streams. I guess the Brazilians really do love their flip flops. With strained ankles and riddled with bug bites, we ascended the immediate slope before us. At the highest point of the trail, I climbed up a few more meters beyond the tree line and lost my breath.
I wanted to never leave the spot where I stood, and I wanted to tell everyone I knew to come to Brazil right away and follow my footsteps to the piece of dried mountaintop mud that afforded me a look across the most strikingly untouched piece of earth I’d ever seen. There was no gift shop, no tourists blocking my view, no man selling me ice cream (though that might have been nice), and my favorite part--no railing. It was me; thousands of feet below, the ocean; and thousands of feet out, countless granite slabs and mountains whose grandeur make you feel utterly insignificant.
I finally forced myself to continue on the trail and arrived at a halfway point village. The “walk” was now zero for two, not easy, and certainly not quick. The village, if you can call it that, consisted of a few sun bleached shacks-turned-restaurants with remnants of plastic beach chairs serving as the seating. A sun drenched man in a tsunga (male Brazilian beach apparel more revealing than most American girls’) stood outside one of the shacks twirling a metal tray idly. His eyes lit up as he saw the day’s only business walk up to him and ask for a menu. All he could give us was a makeshift barter—fish, rice and beans, and salad for twelve reais ($8). Starving, we didn’t have many options. I took a seat on my beach chair made of three thirds of broken beach chairs, and looked forward to my meal.
When he said fish, he meant fish. On the plate set in front of me was a fish, perhaps caught just as we walked in the shack, with its mouth open and eyes staring at me. I’d seen him before, in lakes, aquariums, etc., but only then he was flapping, swimming, and breathing. This fish was just silent, still, and covered in a golden brown fried breading. Yum? Taking a deep breath and pulling bones out of my fork-full, I ate the fish bite by bite and actually found it quite good. I asked a few times what type of fish it was, but my only answer was an enthusiastic but simple, “Yes! It’s fish.”
We continued on to Lopes Mendes and arrived shortly after leaving our speedo clad host/chef/waiter/dishwasher. This was the second time I lost my breath. The view from the top of the mountain had come to life in front of me; the distance was now the foreground. I know my descriptions have seemed ridiculous, but that’s the point—this was ridiculous. I’ve never felt closer to nature. There was absolutely nothing but beauty. The sun burning above, the ocean with a color you couldn’t help but smile at, waves crashing, sand stark white and so smooth and powder-like it literally squeaked with every footstep. And the usual spotless horizon of tropical vistas? That was replaced by a gradient of mountains, cliffs, giant granite slabs jutting out of the water, all covered with a constant mist from the breeze, water, and sand. It was like Jamaica on steroids, the unrated edition of the Bahamas, or the experts-only Dominican Republic. Going in the sea was an incredible feeling. It is just literally indescribable to be floating there in the water with the scenery 360 degrees around you. I felt like I could travel for miles and never find a footprint or an empty coke can. No life guards, no buoys, no boats. It really is amazing what the earth looked like before we got our hands on it.
At about 1200 words I think I’ll leave this blog entry here for now, but I hope to continue the story of my weekend on Ilha Grande soon. It is just so difficult to write concisely about such an amazing experience. If you’ve read this far, I sincerely appreciate it! It’s such a pleasure to share this with you. Until later, Eric.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
PUC - Pontifica Universidade Catolica
And now a little about the reason I'm actually here.
The school I'm attending has a really good reputation in Brazil, and is definitely one of the best private schools in the country. It has strong programs in everything from engineering to literature, and a very new and popular international relations department at their instituto de relações internacionais.
The university itself is located in Gávea, a really nice area 2km from the beach and above the wealthy Leblon neighborhood. It's right on the edge of the botanical garden, the Jardim Botânico, which is one of the largest national parks in the world. All over campus are examples of Brazil's famous biodiversity, with different plants, flowers, and tress from all over the country (just like AU!). This basically means it looks like you're in a rain forest the whole time. Yesterday I fell asleep on a bench in a garden, and woke up with palm trees and giant leaves shading me from the sun--pretty cool.
There's tons of different places to eat too--in which I can't help but notice a very strong social stigma. There are expensive sushi and international type restaurants in one area, and the cafeteria on the other side of campus--plus countless little snack stands right outside the gates selling açaí, meat skewers, salgados, and the drinks of choice, guaraná, matte, and of course, coke. This means you can spend about $15 on some sushi and be fashionable, or $2.50 on a HUGE meal of rice and beans, meat, salad, rolls, dessert, and a drink at the cafeteria. So basically I live in the cafeteria.
And then they have classes too! I wish I could get into which classes I'm taking, but I'm still not really sure. The whole registration process is almost impossible. Almost every day or two I receive an email half in Portuguese and half in broken English trying to explain the next extremely important thing I have to do to be registered. The problem is, the emails rarely form a complete idea, and when they do, they are immediately contradicted by the next email I receive. So I'm trying. I'm taking a Portuguese language class, which is interesting because it's cool to hear novice Portuguese with all the different accents, English, Spanish, Norwegian, French, etc. Then I have Brazilian Foreign Policy and Social Brazilian Debate, which are both very interesting. I'm experimenting with a few more so we'll see what I end up with. The strange thing is that in order to maintain a 15 credit load at AU, which is 12.5 hours a week, I need to take 22 hours a week of class here. I don't really know why the US thinks class time in Latin America is not as valuable as theirs.
In all, I really like the school, it's such an amazing feeling to be in such a different environment. Oh, and I almost for got to say, you can see the statue of Cristo from some of the class rooms. Even if you don't catch him, you're guaranteed an amazing view of the mountains.
Hopefully I'll be writing more as I start settling in!
I
Friday, August 6, 2010
One Week Down
I've been in Rio for over a week now. Things to update you on include moving to my new and permanent residence here, attending my first week of class, and just making it through a week in general.
On Saturday I grabbed a taxi in Ipanema to take me to the apartment where I'm now living with my host family. The cab took me quickly out of the 2 blocks that I had begun to feel comfortable in and off to the neighborhood of Cosme Velho and Laranjeiras. When I saw the tower that was going to be my new home the address then made sense. That number I couldn't figure out, 1502, turns out to be the apartment number. Fifteenth floor, second apartment. And I thought living on Leonard Six was cool. I got in the elevator, my ears popped, and I was there...with no idea what to expect.
I was greeted by my "host-mom" Fernanda, her two college age kids Ruby and Dillon, and Funk, the dog. (Agatha the cat was hiding). Everyone was very nice and welcoming and we sat for somewhat of a group interview--me on one side and them on the other. However, what grabbed my attention more than anything was their window, facing west towards Corcovado, home of the modern wonder of the world "Cristo Redentor". Not only can you see him, but he's looking right at you--and the thousands of other cariocas that are practically within reach at all times. Regardless of your religion, it's pretty powerful. I don't know if it's that Cristo is always looking down on the city, or that the city is always looking up at Cristo, but something about seeing the statue peek through buildings and granite hills everywhere leaves you with a certain comfort.
That night, I went out with Dillon and his friend Lucas to a place called Lapa. As I've said on facebook, it's just like New Hampshire, if you switch trees with people. The main street was closed off by the police and there were people everywhere. We went into one huge bar and played pool for a while and had a few drinks. Then, we started walking upstairs to what I expected to be your average night club. However, instead of "DJ Kid Lucky" there was a stage and spotlights on two live singers, with a complete brass band playing live and incredible samba music. And a cover of "Welcome to the Jungle." (I knew the words!). The coolest thing was by far the people. Every type of person could be seen coupled and dancing samba. There were 45 year old couples dancing next to teenagers.
To be continued...
On Saturday I grabbed a taxi in Ipanema to take me to the apartment where I'm now living with my host family. The cab took me quickly out of the 2 blocks that I had begun to feel comfortable in and off to the neighborhood of Cosme Velho and Laranjeiras. When I saw the tower that was going to be my new home the address then made sense. That number I couldn't figure out, 1502, turns out to be the apartment number. Fifteenth floor, second apartment. And I thought living on Leonard Six was cool. I got in the elevator, my ears popped, and I was there...with no idea what to expect.
I was greeted by my "host-mom" Fernanda, her two college age kids Ruby and Dillon, and Funk, the dog. (Agatha the cat was hiding). Everyone was very nice and welcoming and we sat for somewhat of a group interview--me on one side and them on the other. However, what grabbed my attention more than anything was their window, facing west towards Corcovado, home of the modern wonder of the world "Cristo Redentor". Not only can you see him, but he's looking right at you--and the thousands of other cariocas that are practically within reach at all times. Regardless of your religion, it's pretty powerful. I don't know if it's that Cristo is always looking down on the city, or that the city is always looking up at Cristo, but something about seeing the statue peek through buildings and granite hills everywhere leaves you with a certain comfort.
That night, I went out with Dillon and his friend Lucas to a place called Lapa. As I've said on facebook, it's just like New Hampshire, if you switch trees with people. The main street was closed off by the police and there were people everywhere. We went into one huge bar and played pool for a while and had a few drinks. Then, we started walking upstairs to what I expected to be your average night club. However, instead of "DJ Kid Lucky" there was a stage and spotlights on two live singers, with a complete brass band playing live and incredible samba music. And a cover of "Welcome to the Jungle." (I knew the words!). The coolest thing was by far the people. Every type of person could be seen coupled and dancing samba. There were 45 year old couples dancing next to teenagers.
To be continued...
Friday, July 30, 2010
First Day (A few days behind...)
The city was surreal. I still don’t feel like I’m here. I’ve seen so many pictures and heard so much, but now those exact pictures of the water, the favelas, Cristo, the hotels, and the mountains are the backdrop to my actual life—pretty hard to wrap your head around. One by one the driver dropped off the kids in the van, and one by one the kids came back down from their apartments for various reasons, “my host mom wasn’t ready for me,” “there was no one there.” The driver laughed as he headed for a hostel, and said “Welcome to Brazil.” Fortunately, the housing system had failed me a month ago, when PUC kindly informed me I didn’t have a home. Thanks to the extreme generosity of the family I babysat for in DC, I had a place to go right away.
And what a place it is. Only about a block from the beach in Ipanema, it’s got a great location and is tucked away achieving what can be called peace in this crazy city. It has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a grand piano and beautiful hardwood floors throughout. It’s so interesting because everything is a little different, the door knobs aren’t actually used for anything—I was turning and turning and turning until the doorman showed me you just use the key to turn. Oops. And the shower—using hot water ignites some gas filled appliance mounted on the wall which heats the water out in the kitchen. And it’s embarrassing how long it took me to learn how to flush the toilet.
I left for the day and met up with the other kids that shared my ride from the airport. We wandered around and emerged at Copacabana Beach. Again, it’s insane how much it doesn’t even feel real, I’ve seen it in pictures so many times! We put our feet in the “cold” water (given it’s the middle of winter here but it’s still 70 degrees), and then ate at a restaurant on the beach. I had caipirinha—the famous Brazilian cocktail of crushed lime, sugar, and Brazil’s take on rum, cachaça—and linguiça with rice and farofa. Farofa is kind of like a condiment that they eat on everything here. It’s a dry and course yellowish powder that’s made from flour, spices, and most notably ground manioc root from the Amazon.
After dinner I walked a few short blocks on Queen Elizabeth Avenue and was at Ipanema Beach. Right from the beach there is a beautiful view of the horizon ahead, and dois irmãos, ”the two brothers”, which are two of the distinct mountain-like rock formations that jut up out of Guanabara Bay. It’s so amazing that after seeing that priceless view for the first time I was back at the apartment in minutes. And this time, the doorman recognized me, so we skipped the duet of broken-English, broken-Portuguese, and he let me right in.
I went to the grocery store, called “Zona Sul <3,” literally. My biggest concern was pretending to be brasiliero enough to get away with using Mr. Moura de Castro’s Brazilian equivalent of a Safeway or Shaws member card. However, when I got there I realized I should have been more concerned with the fact that milk and meat are not refrigerated and that you have to weigh things like fruit before you get to the cashier. The latter cultural difference left me running through the store in search of a scale while a line of angry Brazilians took note that I was clearly not Mr. Moura de Castro.
I don’t have internet here, but hopefully I will soon at my actual host family’s home. I will call them tomorrow and see what arrangements can be made for us to meet—stay tuned! Thanks for reading, I miss you all.
And what a place it is. Only about a block from the beach in Ipanema, it’s got a great location and is tucked away achieving what can be called peace in this crazy city. It has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a grand piano and beautiful hardwood floors throughout. It’s so interesting because everything is a little different, the door knobs aren’t actually used for anything—I was turning and turning and turning until the doorman showed me you just use the key to turn. Oops. And the shower—using hot water ignites some gas filled appliance mounted on the wall which heats the water out in the kitchen. And it’s embarrassing how long it took me to learn how to flush the toilet.
I left for the day and met up with the other kids that shared my ride from the airport. We wandered around and emerged at Copacabana Beach. Again, it’s insane how much it doesn’t even feel real, I’ve seen it in pictures so many times! We put our feet in the “cold” water (given it’s the middle of winter here but it’s still 70 degrees), and then ate at a restaurant on the beach. I had caipirinha—the famous Brazilian cocktail of crushed lime, sugar, and Brazil’s take on rum, cachaça—and linguiça with rice and farofa. Farofa is kind of like a condiment that they eat on everything here. It’s a dry and course yellowish powder that’s made from flour, spices, and most notably ground manioc root from the Amazon.
After dinner I walked a few short blocks on Queen Elizabeth Avenue and was at Ipanema Beach. Right from the beach there is a beautiful view of the horizon ahead, and dois irmãos, ”the two brothers”, which are two of the distinct mountain-like rock formations that jut up out of Guanabara Bay. It’s so amazing that after seeing that priceless view for the first time I was back at the apartment in minutes. And this time, the doorman recognized me, so we skipped the duet of broken-English, broken-Portuguese, and he let me right in.
I went to the grocery store, called “Zona Sul <3,” literally. My biggest concern was pretending to be brasiliero enough to get away with using Mr. Moura de Castro’s Brazilian equivalent of a Safeway or Shaws member card. However, when I got there I realized I should have been more concerned with the fact that milk and meat are not refrigerated and that you have to weigh things like fruit before you get to the cashier. The latter cultural difference left me running through the store in search of a scale while a line of angry Brazilians took note that I was clearly not Mr. Moura de Castro.
I don’t have internet here, but hopefully I will soon at my actual host family’s home. I will call them tomorrow and see what arrangements can be made for us to meet—stay tuned! Thanks for reading, I miss you all.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Flying In
I arrived in Rio today.
Leaving was pretty hard. After talking bad about the United States for so long, it was actually difficult to wrap my head around the concept that I’d be leaving for the semester. Goodbye was harder. It’s amazing how close I’ve been able to become to Kelsey and all my friends in DC, so it was probably one of the toughest goodbye’s I’ve dealt with. But a sad goodbye is also a strong embodiment of a close relationship, so I’m happy to be that lucky. And to all my NH friends, I’m still missing you.
Once in Dulles, where everything looks like it’s melting, my flight was delayed a half hour. Not a huge deal since that still left me with an hour to catch my connection to Rio. Once we boarded the plane however, the captain informed us in a mumble filled ramble that we would not be living for 40 minutes because of a storm, and 40 minutes later, we still had forty minutes to go. Despite the reassurance of my plane neighbors, a twelve year old headed for Nashville and a 60 year old US Airways retiree (who sometimes flies United, if you care), I was rather upset. Once we finally landed in Charlotte at 10:30 I ran across the airport to the gate where my flight was scheduled to leave… at 10:30. When, out of breath, I rounded the last bend towards Gate D11, and the flip-flop-sprinting-on-tile echo faded, and I realized that if I had taken 10 seconds to look at a monitor, I would have realized that my connecting flight to Brazil was also delayed. My time trail through Charlotte was therefore totally unnecessary, and everyone looked at me like I was crazy.
The flight was a mix of fading in and out of sleep, amazement at hearing widespread Portuguese (people actually do speak it!), and listening to my neighbor John. He had also gone to Rio when he was 20, and after being there for a week he fell in love and dropped out of school in Connecticut. He is now 46, and his biggest concern was how much trouble customs might give him for the four 80 pound boxes he was bringing. What’s in your boxes John? I was making conversation. He changed the subject.
Getting off the plane at the airport was the easiest time I’ve ever had. There was no line at customs, they didn’t question me at customs (probably busy with John…), and my baggage was literally the first onto the conveyor belt. Plus, they even had free carts that would have set me back a good $0.25 in the US. But then I decided I should call the US. After starting at a payphone, an enthusiastic man trotted towards me, offering not only help with the phone, but even a ride in his car to wherever I was going! Call me crazy, but I refused. I finally made my way to a calling center desk thing where the attendant spoke the lispiest Portuguese ever and begged my assistance translating a bickering conversation between her and an Argentine customer, neither or whom shared common language nor courtesy. spoke with Kelsey and my dad and made my way back to the pickup area in a feeble attempt to find someone from PUC who was supposed to get me. But there he was! He spoke only Portuguese and turned my name into “Air-eek-ee Pah-keh”. We loaded up in a two hour process that could have been fifteen minutes, and headed into the city.
Leaving was pretty hard. After talking bad about the United States for so long, it was actually difficult to wrap my head around the concept that I’d be leaving for the semester. Goodbye was harder. It’s amazing how close I’ve been able to become to Kelsey and all my friends in DC, so it was probably one of the toughest goodbye’s I’ve dealt with. But a sad goodbye is also a strong embodiment of a close relationship, so I’m happy to be that lucky. And to all my NH friends, I’m still missing you.
Once in Dulles, where everything looks like it’s melting, my flight was delayed a half hour. Not a huge deal since that still left me with an hour to catch my connection to Rio. Once we boarded the plane however, the captain informed us in a mumble filled ramble that we would not be living for 40 minutes because of a storm, and 40 minutes later, we still had forty minutes to go. Despite the reassurance of my plane neighbors, a twelve year old headed for Nashville and a 60 year old US Airways retiree (who sometimes flies United, if you care), I was rather upset. Once we finally landed in Charlotte at 10:30 I ran across the airport to the gate where my flight was scheduled to leave… at 10:30. When, out of breath, I rounded the last bend towards Gate D11, and the flip-flop-sprinting-on-tile echo faded, and I realized that if I had taken 10 seconds to look at a monitor, I would have realized that my connecting flight to Brazil was also delayed. My time trail through Charlotte was therefore totally unnecessary, and everyone looked at me like I was crazy.
The flight was a mix of fading in and out of sleep, amazement at hearing widespread Portuguese (people actually do speak it!), and listening to my neighbor John. He had also gone to Rio when he was 20, and after being there for a week he fell in love and dropped out of school in Connecticut. He is now 46, and his biggest concern was how much trouble customs might give him for the four 80 pound boxes he was bringing. What’s in your boxes John? I was making conversation. He changed the subject.
Getting off the plane at the airport was the easiest time I’ve ever had. There was no line at customs, they didn’t question me at customs (probably busy with John…), and my baggage was literally the first onto the conveyor belt. Plus, they even had free carts that would have set me back a good $0.25 in the US. But then I decided I should call the US. After starting at a payphone, an enthusiastic man trotted towards me, offering not only help with the phone, but even a ride in his car to wherever I was going! Call me crazy, but I refused. I finally made my way to a calling center desk thing where the attendant spoke the lispiest Portuguese ever and begged my assistance translating a bickering conversation between her and an Argentine customer, neither or whom shared common language nor courtesy. spoke with Kelsey and my dad and made my way back to the pickup area in a feeble attempt to find someone from PUC who was supposed to get me. But there he was! He spoke only Portuguese and turned my name into “Air-eek-ee Pah-keh”. We loaded up in a two hour process that could have been fifteen minutes, and headed into the city.
Monday, July 26, 2010
The Day Before...
I leave tomorrow night for Rio, and I'm sitting here in my room on Sam's bed looking at all my clothes and belongings scattered around the floor. It really didn't hit me that I'm actually about to leave my life in DC until December until this morning, when the visual emptiness combined with Sam asking me, "So are you like, freaking out?? You leave forever like tomorrow!!" It was then that I realized that I am, actually, really, leaving tomorrow night. However, the reality of it is not quite in focus, I'm still concerned with stupid things like which tie to bring and to whom I should pass on my leftover frozen vegetables.
As I've been walking around DC for the last few times and saying goodbye to my girlfriend, friends, jobs, and of course Jing, it's definitely been an interesting experience; a ton of excitement mixed with sadness too. But just remembering the two short years ago when I came to DC is enough to remind myself why I'm going to Brazil, or anywhere. With this trip I hope to gain experience, knowledge, perspective, and understanding--not even as much in class as in life. Someone told me once that in my "field" where indecisiveness runs rampant, the best thing to do is just the next thing you can think of, so for me, this is it.
But enough of the seriousness. Clearly all the above is true, but I might also add that I'm headed to the culture capital of South America, the first place the Portuguese arrived in the New World, the fifth largest country on earth, one of the modern wonders of the world, a city of six million people, the home of samba, caipirinhas, and the most famous stretches of sand on earth. (I've been doing some reading...) And on that note, I hope to have the time of my life.
The point of this blog is to keep in touch with friends and family, and to document through pictures and anecdotes what I encounter on my first ever, real-life attempt at pretending to be Latin American. I hope you enjoy!
As I've been walking around DC for the last few times and saying goodbye to my girlfriend, friends, jobs, and of course Jing, it's definitely been an interesting experience; a ton of excitement mixed with sadness too. But just remembering the two short years ago when I came to DC is enough to remind myself why I'm going to Brazil, or anywhere. With this trip I hope to gain experience, knowledge, perspective, and understanding--not even as much in class as in life. Someone told me once that in my "field" where indecisiveness runs rampant, the best thing to do is just the next thing you can think of, so for me, this is it.
But enough of the seriousness. Clearly all the above is true, but I might also add that I'm headed to the culture capital of South America, the first place the Portuguese arrived in the New World, the fifth largest country on earth, one of the modern wonders of the world, a city of six million people, the home of samba, caipirinhas, and the most famous stretches of sand on earth. (I've been doing some reading...) And on that note, I hope to have the time of my life.
The point of this blog is to keep in touch with friends and family, and to document through pictures and anecdotes what I encounter on my first ever, real-life attempt at pretending to be Latin American. I hope you enjoy!
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