Ipanema

It was a brilliant Wednesday morning in Rio de Janeiro, and Ipanema beach was packed. A long stretch of white sand covered in red umbrellas, fleshy bosoms and shapely bottoms. I asked my friend whether all these cariocas didn’t have anything busy to do and he just smiled an amused smile.

A man suddenly appeared out of nowhere and advanced at me with a pineapple in his hand, shouting: “HA!! Abacaxi!! Abacaxi !!!” Pineapples were arranged in a basket on his head, and a whole pineapple was clenched like a sword in his fist. I jumped at first poke.

And then I burst out laughing and shook my head. “Não, obrigada,” I said. He switched to English, which always annoys me because that means I still haven’t got the accent right. Flashing his brilliant white teeth he said, “No?? I Love You!!! No abacaxi?? ”

I laughed again and shook my head. He gaily turned away and started to poke at other people with the abacaxi in his hand, causing outbreaks of laughter in his wake.

As we continued our stroll my friend pointed to one of the condominiums lining the coast.

“That’s my grandmother’s apartment,” he said, “8^th floor, 3^rd window from the right.”

I squinted up and tried to count windows in the blaring sun.

“That would be a gorgeous view she would have from up there,” I said.

“It is,” he said.

He stared out toward the sea. Cracked up into a sudden laugh.

“When I was a kid I would play at the beach every single day with my friends after school, just hanging out and swimming and surfing the waves. And I still had a curfew back then.”

“Which you largely ignored,” I said.

“Of course. But not for long, because whenever I went too far beyond the limit, my grandmother would hang a big red towel on her window right there. From wherever I am on the beach I would see it and feel guilty.”

I was immediately overwhelmed with a comforting certainty that he was the perfect authority to go exploring Ipanema with. We spent an entire day on the beach and I was taught a multitude of effortless lessons. Like how to differentiate the “safer” locals from those coming down from the favelas. How to ask a stranger to look after your belongings while you go for a swim, and to trust them completely. How to bodysurf when the wave is right. How to let your body dry in the sun and never use a towel.

How to stand as if your only business in this world is to look cool under the sun. And how to walk as if the only place you needed to go to was where you were right now.

Denada

The Portuguese term for “you’re welcome” that is pronounced Ji-Na-Da. In a literal sense it translates to “for nothing”.

‘Thank you.”

“For nothing!” (with an audible smile)

But the way the Brazilians express it is a charm that far surpasses the mere meaning of the word. The middle “Na” part of the word is stretched out and curved, like the gentle pull of a guitar string just before it is plucked. The prolonged syllable dips and rises and dips again with a mellowness, enjoying every minute of the millisecond journey, before it swoops to join its next syllable.

Denaaada.

Oh, what a difference a syllable makes. The result is a sound so genuine, lilting, and bright, that you can’t help but be convinced that they are, as a matter of bottom-hearted fact, truly happy to have helped you.

Democraticos

“I have no partner,” I said, when my friend suggested that I join him and his girlfriend go dancing at a traditional samba club. He gave me an exasperated look that could only mean, “shut up and just come”.

So I tagged along with them to Democraticos at the old bohemian Lapa neighborhood. The spacious lobby was unadorned except for a big curving staircase lined with a dirty wall. We went up and found ourselves in a large scruffy crowded ballroom, with a stage on one end covered in a red velvet backdrop and a trail of little hanging light bulbs. I looked at the scene doubtfully and wondered where the music was.

Just then the band walked up to the stage and the crowd perked up expectantly. At the strike of the first sweet samba note the couple took hands and left me to survive on my own, those traitors.

I stood on the peripheries feeling rather nervous and unattractive, watching people whirl by. But a few minutes later the music seeped into my bloodstream (mixing with the caipirinha) and I was moving, uncaring, and ready. By the next song, a quiet-looking man approached and politely extended his hand. In a flustered daft moment I did a little bob while taking his hand and then vaguely wondered whether that wasn’t European. In the next split second my worries had disappeared as he placed a hand firmly on my waist and pulled me into the music.

An hour later, I’d lost count of how many people I had danced with; young and old, short and tall, expert and amateur, polite and dodgy. As each song stopped, there was the awkward pause in which we decide whether to do another song, whether I would be declined from the next song, or whether I would decline him and move on to others. All three situations occurred in rough measure.

The most flattering moments were on being asked, incredulously, “You’re not a Brasileira?” And the most humbling moments were on being told to “Relax. Let me do the job. Let yourself go.” - which I miserably failed to do because he was beyond my crappy league.

When I rejoined my friends they said they were proud of me. I was exhausted and glowing.

Futebol

From where the three of us sat, we could see the smooth oval shape of the entire stadium swelling out before us like a huge beast. And the beast was alive.

That is, half of it was.

The left and middle, where we sat, was filled with a sea of white and green visual noise. Pom-poms and balloons and giant inflatable batons everywhere brandished proudly by supporters of the home team, Palmeiras. The right side was empty except for a few ridiculously outnumbered red and yellows. But they firmly stood their minority ground and kept the drums beating. Pounding them with a samba beat. The sky was gloomy, and the crowd was as passionate as a brilliant summer day. It is impossible to sit in the middle of this and not become infected by the energy, unless you are a vegetable.

My friend’s uncle, however, did seem oblivious to all this. He sat hunched with a portable radio pressed against his ear and his eyes glued to the field. His brow frowned in concentration, straining to hear the radio commentators analyzing the game.

Vendors weaved in and out of the crowd, selling cans of guarana and long cinnamon churros and chocolate bars. M&M’s too, which I buy obsessively, simply to have an excuse to pronounce the brand the Brazilian way: emmy emmy.

“Emmy emmy, por favor!”

A little, cute, sweet-looking boy who looked 8 years old didn’t even notice as the vendor elbowed him aside to give me my emmy emmy’s. His little face was contorted with frustration at the striker. He suddenly jumped up and down and shouted at the top of his lungs this one-breath phrase that can be translated for all intents and purposes to mean:

“SHIT AND GO FUCK YOURSELF, ASSHOLE!”

The crowd swelled in an outburst of dirty language. I happily joined in. The São Paulo home team lost. The crowd became noisily subdued. The shoulders dejected and drooping. The pom-poms abandoned. Only the uncle stayed loyal to his portable radio, intent on listening to commentators analyzing the finished game for another hour or so.

As for myself, I was in high spirits. I grinned at my friend. He looked at me and smiled in a smug way. “See? What did I tell you.” he said.

The thing he had told me was “You’re in Brazil. Come to a football game.”

Balada

Here was my night out in São Paulo in the local lingo, more or less.

We went to go balada and came home at madrugada. Balada expansively refers to going out, dancing, drinking, clubbing, having fun and everything in between. Madrugada is an undefined time on the clock that refers to the wee hours of the morning when you stumble home half-consciously.

In preparing for balada I dressed up to the nines in a little black dress. Coming out from my room I was accosted by my host’s brother’s fiancé. She took the hem of my knee-length dress and reprimanded me, saying “Teez!! I will cut all your skirts! They are all too long!”

Her fiancé came out and rescued me by the arm. Only to draw me aside and teach me a song I should be singing tonight to impress people. It started along the lines of “If you think that chachaça is water, cachaça is not water, no.” Cachaça is the national Brazilian liquor that is quite deliciously lethal. The tune was catchy and sure enough, I was an instant hit.

We hopped three different places and were enthusiastically thirsty. When we had ordered enough to sufficiently be categorized as “a lot”, we got ourselves a saidera, which is the free round that bar-owners always give to good customers as a token of appreciation. I became bebada, which happens when you have too much to drink. And the next day I had a ressaca, which happens when you wake up after having too much to drink. When I informed my host’s parents of my ressaca in the morning they laughed happily.

In order to cure this ressaca the traditional way, my friends took me to Mercado Municipal, the municipal market, for breakfast. We started our late day drinking Chopp, a smooth light beer with froth like no other froth on earth. A little bit suspiciously, the more I drank my Chopp the more my ressaca faded. But the point is, how can you not love a country where people drink beer at the market for breakfast to cure hangovers?

I felt ready for anything. Including the hot fresh bolinha de bacalhau which came shortly to our table. A deep-fried bread-crumbed crispy heavenly something stuffed with shredded bacalhau fish and drizzled with a zing of limão juice.

Afterwards my host took me to see the symphony orchestra at Sala São Paulo. We carried a red plastic bag full of passion fruit and mangoes and dende oil we bought at the market, into the elegant concert hall. By now I actually knew how to reject plastic bags by saying, “não preciso um sacola de plastico, obrigada”. But this time the volume of our ransom was too great. My friend said, “Now is not the time to be a silly tree-hugger.” Fine.

So we hastily stuffed the plastic bags underneath our seats hoping no one would notice. But the seats were foldable ones and as soon as we stood up to give our standing ovation, pop went the seats, revealing plastic bags filled with fruit for all to see.

But no one cared. The orchestra was commanding, elegant and graceful. I love watching a swarm of violin bows dip and soar and letting myself dip and soar with them. This is as much a mental state of dipping and soaring as it is a physical one. I literally sit in my seat and something goes up and down, it could by my foot, or my head, or my general happiness. As an added bonus they played Villa Lobos’ compositions. Oh!

By this time I was absolutely content. The balada, so to speak, lasted deliciously longer than I expected. I was feeling very lucky about my life in general.

The Brazilians would say, with this charmingly nonsensical phrase they use to describe someone who is lucky: Ela nasceu com abunda virada para a lua ~ She was born with her butt facing the moon.

Musica Brasileira

When I told the Cariocas I was going to São Paulo, they said, “why the fuck are you going to that hell hole?”

When I told the Paulistas that I was going to Rio de Janeiro, they said, “That boring place is full of lazy asses”.

All this foul bad-mouthing comforts me. Cities filled with people who are fanatic about their own cities are cities that I want to be in.

In any event there was a stronger calling to begin with, which helped me stubbornly defy various obstacles that almost thwarted me from coming to Brazil. I had grown up listening to Tom Jobim and João Gilberto. I’d already memorized the Portuguese lyrics to “The Girl from Ipanema” even before I knew its meaning. Nearing my departure I’d become obsessed with Vinicius de Moraes, Elis Regina, and Chico Buarque.

Leaving the US with a sad pain in my chest, I played João Gilberto’s “Adeus America” to a repeat:

Adeus America,

essa terra e muito boa,

mas não posso ficar porque,

o samba mandou me chamar

Chega de lights, good nights, e de fights, e alrights,

o samba mandou me chamar.

(Goodbye America,

that land is wonderful,

but I cannot stay because,

the samba is calling me

enough of lights, good nights, and the fights, and alrights,

the samba is calling me.)

And because I’m a generally lucky girl, my host in São Paulo is a wonderful friend who understood my musical tastes inside and out. And would patiently tolerate my enthusiastic rants, as well as my singing in phonetically ambitious but otherwise grammatically doubtful Portuguese.

Solid proof of this solid understanding was when he took me to O Do Borogodó. The name doesn’t mean anything, I’ve been told, and besides, the name was nowhere to be found. This was a 10 sqm hole in the wall in the middle of a dark nowhere with no sign board, a cement floor, bare whitewashed walls and a tiny red bar. The band was a modest assembly of a guitar, flute and tambourine. A woman with magnificent curly auburn hair sang traditional songs.

Some sat enjoying their ice-cold beers, and others danced even when there was no space to dance. An elderly couple held each other in a corner, swaying to the music comfortably. The lone waiter was also ready to dance with anyone who needed a partner. It was just, perfect.

Really, I could dance every night. On the streets if I must. Doesn’t that make perfect sense?

So while you Cariocas and Paulistas sort out which city you hate best, I’ve found a unifying theme to São Paulo and Rio that I can love with equal measure.

Brasilia

The plane taking me to Brazil got abducted by aliens, was transported through a quasar at warp speed, and vomited back to a remote southern part of Earth which the aliens had discovered in the 50s. I remembered nothing of the inter-galactical journey, but suddenly woke up in a confused state to find myself in Brasilia.

The landscape was completely flat, completely arid, and completely quiet. In fact it was so dry that the grass had a scorched look, and trees gave off a steam of overheat. Some patches of trees were, as a matter of fact, on fire, shooting up billows of thin charcoal smoke. Contrasting against an otherwise spotless blue sky.

"Those trees are on fire," I told my host, because he didn't seem to have noticed.

"Oh. Yes, that happens a lot," he said, and continued to drive.

In an almost defying way, the landscape in general felt green. With lots of colorful flowers. A smooth dark blue lake on the horizon. A stark summer feel.

But even stranger still were the futuristic alien structures dotting the land: a huge white dome-shaped museum, cubic buildings with gravity-defying structures jutting out of its side, a lone white tower, a church that looked like giant intertwined fingers, a twin parliament building that looked like a ball cut in half, one upturned, one face-down. Curving walls, cool pools, defined edges, elegant whiteness. The entire city was a marvelous architectural Bauhaus museum.

Of course I later discovered that the “alien” responsible for this is Oscar Niemeyer, the legendary Brazilian architect who designed the entire capital city of Brasilia.

“Is he still alive? I’d like to meet him. If only to shake his hand.”

“Well it will be a rather shaky handshake because he is almost a hundred.”

“Amazing.”

“He’s completely mad. What normal person would build a city in a desert?”

“Maybe he finds it cozy.

“He lives in Rio. By the Copacabana beach.”

Lachinas

In a “diverse market” where various products come together in a single market and therefore create abundant options, consumers gain an increased benefit of choosing the perfect fit. Following this theory, I have discovered that generally the Latin Americans are my soul mates in this world.

I would even happily sit at a table with them and understand nothing of what they are saying in Spanish and Portuguese. I would let the pretty language wash over me and I would feel perfectly warm, perfectly at home. It is strange.

I went to Mexico with a bunch of enthusiastic latinas who took off their clothes and greedily soaked up the sun like a sponge. One of them, hugging her self with a smile tilted towards the sky, described the warmth of the sun like having someone hold you in his arms. For hours they lay on the hot beach drinking mango margaritas, comparing each other's tans when the day was done. When I told them I'd rather be white they were visibly shocked. They say I have perfect skin-tone. They had beautiful bodies but the beach was also filled with lumpy flesh spilling out of bikinis. I never was one to admire the naked human body as an art form or as any kind of statement of freedom. I've always thought bikinis only go well with good bodies. I remembered the tourists in Bali, baring their lumpy flesh on the beach, and remembered how I thought they cluttered the beach and made it ugly.

I told them they should come to Bali and they promised to come. Back home they would spend their weekends on the beach, or on their suburban farms. They asked me what I did on weekends. They asked me whether, since Indonesia is filled with beautiful beaches, I would go to the beach every weekend. I laughed and told them we don't need a tan. I told them I'd go to the movies with my boyfriend, cook at home, or go out to cafes with my friends. I told them Jakartans don't spend a lot of time outdoors because it is too hot and there are mosquitoes. I laughed at how ridiculous it all sounded from where I was on that Mexican beach.

We sang telenovela songs and kept a lookout for tanned cuties. We got along genuinely marvelously. All I needed to do was to slather on a higher SPF.