carnaval

(I know, I know, Carnaval was over a month ago. But some shit was buggy with blogger, so pretend this is March.)

Carnaval is over, and I have to say I'm relieved. I was getting sick of hairy dudes who look better in dresses than me. Plus joy and laughter can be really tiring. 

I'll have more to add to this soon. Mark took way better videos with his fancy camera, of a samba school rehearsal in São Paulo and a small town Carnaval parade in Chapada dos Veadeiros. I'll post those when we get around to it. 

But for now here are some images of pink dudes at a pre-Carnaval street party in Vila Madalena. 

livin out loud with ali - a song

My friend A-hole is pretty great. For example, she lets me call her 'A-hole.' 

Also, she came to visit me in Brasíl.

Furthermore, here is a photo of her making me dinner:

She's resourceful. Like here, see how she uses my dog as a pillow:

She's smart. Like, her blog is actually attractive and sophisticated.

She's kind. Here she is giving me great snaps for bringing her a magazine about making jam.

She has great taste. Like, I'm pretty sure these snaps are sincere.

She's great with kids. Here she is entertaining a small blond child we stole who is also her niece.

Also A-hole runs a farm. In Queens. Seriously. A farm that shows city kids about goats and vegetables.

Here is a list of stuff A-hole saves on a daily basis:

• the kids, by running a place where they learn joyful things about circles of life. and goats.
• the planet, by working, blogging about, and supporting sustainable life and work practices
• the world, with her ivy-colored masters degree in social work and years working in city schools 
• my life, by always letting me vent about really stupid things even though they're stupid
• my sense of fun in this world, by always being ready to LIVE OUT LOUD.

What is it, to LIVE OUT LOUD, you might be wondering?

LIVIN OUT LOUD can mean several things informally. 

For example, the Oxygen Network, who arguably coined the expression, seems to think it involves making cakes, engaging in cat-fights while wearing high heels, and/or murdering someone involved in a love affair. Or just someone whose money you want. Or being murdered I guess. 

But after many drunken nights of (inexplicably) watching said programming, and hearing various women bark "LIVE OUT LOUD!" at the camera while we puzzled over why yet another exurban housewife had murdered her husband, A-hole and I adopted the LIVE OUT LOUD! slogan, and have been raising it as our own ever since.

And here in Brasíl, when A-hole visited, we made it official, later ceremoniously defining LIVIN OUT LOUD! - as follows: to LIVE OUT LOUD is to sit on a beach, eat roasted corn, and drink cans of Brahma beer. That is the definition of LIVIN OUT LOUD.

Now you know.

more poopaganda

Ooops!!! I did poop. Now you have to clean.

reading livros

I was reading my Pequeno Nicolau book and came across a word I hadn't seen before.

*Sorry, gonna stop here for a humble-brag. Nah, just a brag: I am now reading Portuguese at a third grade level. So, you know, suck it, second-graders. In yo FACE.

Okay anyway, this new word: 'comível.' From the context I knew it meant something like 'good' or 'agreeable.' Pequeno Nicolau's mom was all, "If you don't come to dinner soon, the roast beef won't be comível."

But I looked it up anyway, because I'm in third grade now and it's time to take the reigns of my own learn-on.

I wasn't expecting what Google Translate gave me:

So I'm glad I looked that up. Cause now I know what Pequeno Nicolau's mom really meant.

you are not in the traffic. you are the traffic.

This is some deep graffiti I love. Especially since I only ever see it when I'm walking my dogs.

meet one of my neighbors

Some people in the US have birdhouses. Here in Brazil we kick that up a notch.

don't make my sidewalk your dog's bathroom

poopaganda

garbage pedestals

I know this is probably one of those things I think is fun about Brazil and then one of you jerks says, 'Yeah, we have those in Detroit,' but I'm sharing anyway because it's special to me.

Garbage pedestals. Garbage in a basket on a stick.

Just seems enchanted.

I have nothing else to say about this.

cill's phrase book / pronunciation guide part 1

You have plenty of time to practice these before the World Cup. You're welcome.

BOM DIA - This means 'good morning,' literally 'good day.' And introducing the mind-fuck that is Portuguese: the D here doesn't make a D sound, it makes a J sound. Furthermore, an M at the end of a word is pronounced like an N. Don't worry about it. Just imagine there is a girl named Gia and you would like to bone her. So someone asks you what you would like to do and you answer, "Bone Gia." BOM DIA.

TUDO BEM - This has many many live uses, but TUDO means 'all' and BEM means 'well,' so think 'all is well.' People say it all the time, as a question, like our 'How are you?' and an answer to that, 'I'm fine. All's well? All's well! So it can mean 'Can I get you anything else?' and 'No thanks' and 'Can I come in?' and 'Okay.' You'll know in context. The TUDO isn't tricky, but the BEM is pronounced like Bane. Like from Batman. In fact, pretend…pretend you're a baker and Bane from Batman comes into your bakery every day and orders two doughs. So your nickname for him is "Two-Dough Bane." But say it fast. You sound great. TUDO BEM.

*There's also TUDO BOM. "Two-Dough Bone."

OBRIGADA - If you're a dude, skip to the next paragraph. This is huge, it's how you say thank you in Portuguese. It's pronounced pretty much how it looks, just make the O nice and round like 'oh' and the 'i' makes a long 'e.' And if you can, mini-roll the R. "OhBreeGAHdDah!" Like…hmmm… -- like you're having an orgasm eating some Brie cheese. OHBRIEGODDAH! emphasize the second-last syllable. My only request: don't pronounce the latter half as 'gotta,' like you're saying 'Oh, brie gotta stop doing that.' Hit the D. Have a cheese-gasm. That way you won't sound like what Christian Bale might call a 'fuckin amateur.' OBRIGADA.

OBRIGADO - If you're a woman, skip to the next paragraph. This is important. it's how you say thank you in Portuguese. And the pronunciation is pretty simple. remember Brigadoon? No? It's okay to admit you like musical theater. Imagine you're singing 'Oh Brigadoon,' and you're almost there. Just drop the N at the end (yeah an O at the end of a word is like an 'ooh'), roll the R a little if you can, and say the 'brig' like 'breeg.' "Oh-bree-GAH-dooh." But fast. OBRIGADO.

POR FAVOR - If you need help with this one, maybe see if you can refund your ticket. It's like Spanish. Means 'please.' Use it liberally. POR FAVOR.

SIM - This is important, it means yes, and it sounds a lot like the spanish "Si!' you can just say Si if you want. If you listen closely though you can sometimes here the N sound at the end, or even an NG, like it's 'Seeng.' So either 'scene' or 'seeng' will do, if you just swallow those last consonants a little. Or don't worry about it and just say Si. See? SIM.

NÃO - This means 'no,' and I guess it's pretty important, depending on your personality. It's pronounced more like our English "Now." but if you want to go strong, add a little nasal to it, so it's like 'neh-ehu,' but fast. It will sound mean and sardonic, like how you used to show derision as a child, but it's correct. Listen for it when you eavesdrop on Brazilian conversations. You'll see. It's normal. Not f-ed. NÃO.

break on true tutti udder sight!

I've seen some great rock and roll cover bands here in Brasíl.

I know the title of this post might imply sarcasm. But I speak with none.

You know when a cover is better than the original? ME TOO.

Try this on for size:

Ringo Fire
by June Carter Cash

I fair into
barning ringo fire
I am down, down down;
the flames are higher
And it barns, barns, barns
Ringo fire
Ringo fire…OH YEAH!

It's not just that the tweaked lyrics are so much better than June's. Or that the singer seems to have fallen into exciting Ringo Fire of his own, jamming his heart out at midday in 100 degrees Celsius. Or even the well- timed-and-placed OH YEAHs and HERE WE GOs.

It's the showmanship, dude. The coração. The power of a dude with huge hair, sweat cascading into his long pants and heavy boots, who clearly would rather be here doing this than anywhere else in the world. The power he has to make you feel that you too are exactly where you should be. Plus that there's no better way to hear this song.

Brazilians have this infectious joygasmic whatever in abundance. White, white hearses couldn't drag me away.

Try to run, try to ride.

(Break on true tutti udder sight!)

ninja school

I love Liberdade. (pronounced 'lee-bay-DODGE.' Sort of.)

Liberdade is the Japanese neighborhood in São Paulo. It has become Chinesey and Koreany too, but mostly it's Japanese, and its main street is all arches with red Kyoto-style lamps.

Also, the Walk/ Don't Walk signs have light-up red arch lamps for stop and green arch lamps for go.  Which is pretty f-ing Japanese.

it doesn't get any more japanese than this

Until last night I'd only ever been there on weekend mornings. This is when there are outdoor markets in the praça and the streets of Liberdade are 'cheio de gente' (<--'really fucking crowded').

food

It's good times. There's a kind of food-corridor - a walk of the market with tons of stalls selling heaping plates of noodle dishes, fried rices, dumplings, sweets, and fresh juices. It smells so good. Even with all the millions of sweaty people and smog-burping cars. And then there's just the 'coisas' part of the market, stalls selling all kinds of clothes, cookware, and toys. We've bought a bunch of souvenirs and gifts there and they all seem real special and Japanesey and Brazilian. Um, and really cheap. (In a good way.)

coisas

So just go there. Buy some coisas and have some Asiany food. And if you're not into eating-while-standing-up-in-a-crowd you can duck into one of the millions of Asian restaurants nearby. And likely wait on a line for a while. But then eat great noodles.

So yes. This market-and-restaurant combo is all i had to report about Liberdade until last night. When we went there with our Japanese friend. Who is a chef. And also a genius.

First thing I learned from Toshi: Liberdade-on-the-Weekend is a different place from just plain Liberdade. Toshi doesn't care for LOTW, but he loves Liberdade.

I guess here is where I should - for full disclosure - admit that when we parked and got out of Toshi's car I looked around and said, 'Wow, I've 'never been to this part of Liberdade! The neighborhood must be bigger than I thought! And what a fun surprise, because this street is so much prettier and lovelier than the Liberdade streets I have seen!' Which would have been an okay aha moment, except that I was standing exactly where Mark and I had bought sun hats and dumplings THREE DAYS AGO.

So this is probably both. Both a testimonial to how different the place looks during the weekend. And also to how dumb I am. Probably both.

But it really does look different. Not just cause it's quiet and more peaceful and less 'cheio de gente,' but …yeah, maybe it's just that stuff. And when it's still and calm it somehow feels even more Japanesey. Maybe just because you can see how more signs are written in Japanese?

Anyway, Toshi pointed out a few landmarks: a large building where he went to school, a famous Liberdade hotel, and the best traditional Japanese restaurants in the city. His two favorites happen to be right next door to one another. He told me to pick one. I picked the one on the left, because it was closer. It is called Yuzu, and you should go there.

We walked in, up a flight of stairs, and through a door that was for serious a portal to Japan. (I haven't been to Japan, but i have seen Kill Bill. So i know.) Wooden tables and benches, those foot-high tables surrounded by mats for sitting, peoples' shoes lined up outside private dining areas. Japan, son.

The food was delicious. Liberdade on the Weekend food is delicious too, but in a different way. The food at the fair tends to be uber fatty - oily, deep-fried, rolled in sugar. Fast food. But the traditional Japanese food we had with Toshi was uber delicate and fresh. And prepared with a precision that almost scared me. Most of my veggie fare was almost plain-looking, things like whole roasted garlic cloves on skewers and small roasted potatoes dusted with salt, but they were all perfect. Like when something's so perfectly cooked that you feel stoned eating it, or like you're discovering potatoes and garlic for the first time. I know this makes no sense. Shut up. My favorite was the ume rice ball.

My second favorite moment of the evening was when a well-dressed young Japanese man approached our table and said hello to Toshi and they spoke rapidly in Japanese for a moment and the man turned to us and chatted politely in Portuguese a little and then left, and Toshi explained, 'We used to breakdance together.'

My first favorite was the ninja school.

Yeah, I said it. Right there on the main drag in Liberdade is an Escola dos Ninjas, and as you can see in the photo it is incredibly badass, elite and full of killers.

(Oh, can you not see the photo? You must not be a ninja. Sorry. (Burn.))

laundry with cill in brazil

Much as surfers are attuned to the winds and tides, so too does Cill chase ideal laundry conditions.

See where I'm from you take your laundry out of the washing machine and shove it into the dryer. Cause duh. That's how it gets dry. Also because nobody in New York has room in their apartment for a clothesline -- and I guess if you do have room for a clothesline you can probably afford to have your own dryer, so you put your clothes in the dryer. Cause duh.

But in Brazil you hang your clothes on a clothesline. I don't know how to say duh in Portuguese, but cause like, sim. Isso.

So now me and Mark are all into clotheslines.

And I'd like to say it's because we're fun and adaptable and when in Rome, or because I don't buy into the American Dream of generating a carbon footprint bigger than fucking Godzilla's. But the truth is that our dryer broke and we're too lazy to have it fixed.

(Think about that for a moment if you will.)

But also, you don't need a dryer. Like 80% of the time here it's sunny and warm. And our house has a whole outside laundry area all set up and it's DOPE. I mean I guess it's really just that the washer and dryer are outside and the clothesline is under a roof. That is extremely dope to me. But shut up. I'm from New York, where you don't get to do your laundry outside. Leave me alone.

Omo smells better than Tide. Yeah, I said it.

So yes yes yes anyway, even though you can do some laundry every day and have it dry in a few hours, there are such things as GREAT DOPE-ASS LAUNDRY DAYS for doing laundry. These are sunny and dry and a little bit breezy and really hot, and on these I swear-to-shit-you-not you can do like six loads because your clothes will be dry in forty minutes. So long as you have time to fold and put away the dry stuff because you don't have a job.

(Heheh. Six loads.)

If I wake up in the morning and smell dope-ass laundry conditions I may very well marathon do-laundry.

But i might also go out.

Cause these conditions are also great for like, not doing laundry.

futebol

A while ago now, Mark - who never gets sick - got very sick.

So sick that the nurse who took his temperature and didn't speak English said 'woooooooooooow that is high,' in perfect English when she saw the thermometer.

So sick that he had to sit in a hospital chair for over two hours rigged up to an IV machine that seeped antibiotics into his bloodstream. So sick that he slept through this.

Semi-conscious, Mark was wheeled into another room to consult with the attending doctor. I explained to this doctor that our Portuguese wasn't good because we'd just moved here. (This was true at the time. Nowadays our Portuguese isn't good because we're idiots.) The doctor addressed Mark in English.

'Senhor,' he said in his kindly voice, 'You should be fine now, you will just need a lot of rest and more medicine.'

'Uhhghguuhnnhnhhhhhg,' said Mark.

'And Senhor Mark,' the doctor continued, 'May I ask if you've yet chosen which football team you will support here in São Paulo?'

'Nrrrrrnnnggghgghnnnnngggnhh,' said Mark.

'May I make a suggestion? Please, the Corintians.' said the doctor.

'Hhhnnndnnngngnhrnrnrrrrngggggg,' said Mark.

And so we tell people we're about the Corintians.

(BTW, Corintians is pronounced 'corINCHinz.')

But that's really all.

Even though we live kind of sort of close to the Corintians' stadium, futebol only affects my life insofar as one of my dogs becomes distressed by the occasional thunder of fireworks.

Cill's just not that into you, futebol. So I can't go to a game. because I'd feel bad pegging a ticket from someone who actually gives a crap. See? I'm selfless.

Also i read Larry Rohter's book about Brazil and in it he says that dudes at futebol games sometimes pee over the tier rails onto the fans below. Now there are many things i like a lot, such as movies, theater, baseball, and popcorn, but i'm not getting peed on for none of those. To no interest am I loyal enough to get peed on. Ever. Even if it is organic Brazilian pee.

I'm sure I'll get swept up in it somehow when the World Cup madness begins. Several people have already bought tickets to come here for it.

Vai Corintians!

crimes

People ask a lot about how dangerous it is here. And instead of finding statistics and maybe quoting a smart person who analyzes statistics, I'd like to just share a bunch of crime anecdotes. That way you will learn nothing.

*Our neighbors were carjacked at gunpoint. I don't remember where they were driving or what time of day it was, but they asked the carjackers if they could take some stuff they needed out of the glove compartment (I think for insurance) and the carjackers let them. So that was nice.

*A year ago a woman was kidnapped right outside my pilates studio. But not a full-blown Man on Fire kidnapping where the kidnappers send ransom notes with pieces of ears and stuff. Just kind of a light kidnapping. A Kidnapping Light. It only lasted the one afternoon. The kidnappers drove her to various ATMs and had her withdraw piles of cash. Then they drove her to a favela and left her there with no money and no phone. So that wasn't very nice, but at least they didn't keep her in a dark room with a chemical toilet and send her husband ears.

*Mark's colleague's wife was house-robbed at gunpoint and the dudes took a bunch of stuff out of their house. That was probably bad.

*My old Portuguese teacher was mugged. Or rather, attempted-mugged. A dude ran up to him and his friend and demanded all their money. They shrugged and said they didn't have any. And the dude ran away. So that's just… funny.

*My new Portuguese teacher was mugged while out jogging. Two dudes took her engagement ring. That was sad, but it happened a long time ago and she said she's kind of relieved to not be wearing an expensive coisa around and worrying about someone mugging her and taking it.

*My across-the-street neighbors were robbed home invasion style while just the woman was home.  This is a bizarre one. in this case the perpetrators were caught and found to have been students looking to get some money to go away for the weekend. This baffled the bejesus out of me. Students? Weekend trip? Maybe they wanted some drugs? Probably drugs. But the icing: they were acquitted because one of them was the spawn of someone important. I think is what someone said.

*My old Portuguese teacher's young friend was assaulted and murdered. This is perhaps the worst thing I've ever heard from someone I know. For sure it's the worst. It was even hard to type just now.

So I guess maybe the answer is 'very.' it's very dangerous here, but I think (based on nothing) that many many people use this as an excuse to never engage with the city. Or rather, they become obsessed with crimes and ergo never want to engage with the city.

For example we had the option to live in a 'vila,' as many people do. A vila is essentially a gated community. Some are clusters of apartment towers, some groups of houses. Some are whole neighborhoods, some just part of a street. But when you live in a vila, your security is to a certain extent guaranteed.

They had appeal - especially the apartamentos. Every one we looked at had incredible community amenities like huge indoor and outdoor pools, state-of-the-art gyms, cool party spaces, on-campus shops, and concierge staff. You know, like, stuff only the mega-stacks have in New York. For a while I  just assumed I'd live out my days in Brazil in an apartment the sky. And I'd have a huge group of ex-pat friends who live in the same vila and we go to the pool and the gym together and watch Avenida Brasil on a jumbo-tron in our building's screening room.

We ended up making our decision - to not do any of that and instead live in a house on a normal, unenclosed street - because of our dogs. We need to walk them and going up and down elevators, through security, then walking a quarter of a mile down a well manicured driveway to get to the real world where dogs are allowed to poop… well, that sounded like a giant boo-fest.

But I'm glad we didn't move into a vila for other reasons, namely crimes. Or rather, because 'mentality on crimes.'

It seems that living in a vila trains your mind to think the world outside is just crimes. I see people living this lifestyle of insular bubblehood, only leaving their secured bubble to drive in a bullet-proof car to the security-bubbled shopping mall and back, and i wonder if I'm perhaps not the one more likely to be mugged. Maybe they are.

We never bought a car. We meant to, just never got around to it. Mark caused international scandal by using the ônibus to commute to work. I walk everywhere, or use the metro, which is a thirty-five minute walk from our house. And for serious, we're not special. Millions of commuters here do the same shit every hour.

And not kidding, I think I'm less likely to be mugged than the ex-pats who think the world outside their bulletproof cars wants nothing but to mug them.

I'm starting to want to mug them...

It's like my mean gay friend Rafa said. You get to know the way a city moves. You know it. You understand how it works, and you're not unsafe.

(Or something like that. I was half-listening. I was drunk.)

But all this being said, there are a few adjustments I made to life when I got here from the US. TYhese were:

I don't walk around alone at night
I don't wear jewelry
I don't wear nice clothing (OK that's disingenuous. I never wore nice clothing. But here sweatpants are smart of me. I guess I should admit that I never wore jewelry before either.)
I don't use my phone in public
I don't listen to music while walking around alone
I keep a maxi pad in my backpack with a R$50 bill hidden inside so if I get mugged I can embarrass the muggers by asking to keep the absorvente and also have R$50 to get home. Double win.

And THAT being said, I still might become a victim of crimes. I hope not, and I'll do what I can not to, but I feel like my self-righteousness above kind of means I should and probably will be mugged. Socorro!

my portuguese progress

Happy Cill Goes to the Market

Happy Cill approaches the Butcher Dude at the butcher stall to buy a frozen duck for Mark. She is quite cheerful, even though she is a vegetarian and finds frozen duck cadavers repulsive and sad. Not to worry. She is becoming confident with her Portuguese!

Happy Cill: Just one frozen duck please.

Butcher Dude: Sorry, the only ducks we have here are frozen. We don't have fresh ducks.

HC: OK, well then I'll take one frozen duck, please.

BD: But is it OK with Senhora if it is frozen?

HC: Yes.

BD: Will there be anything else today?

HC: No thank you, just the duck.

BD: OK here's your duck. What else is it that you would like?

HC: Nothing else, thanks. Only the duck.

BD: OK, what else?

HC: Just. Just this duck. Thank you.

BD: Senhora doesn't want anything else?

Just Cill: Yes. No. Yes nothing else.

fabio dos morangos

There is a handsome man at the produce market who will always help you select fruits and carry stuff, and yes, his name is Fabio.

He will also tell you that you're very beautiful when you're wearing a puff-painted mumu and cowboy boots, and he will learn English phrases such as 'I love you' and 'My name is Fabio' to make you feel at home.

In fact one day at the market Fabio passed me a folded note that said - in English - CILL. I LOVE YOU - and then took it from my hands and tore it up, saying 'Your husband must never see this.'

The market where Fabio works is called Sacolão, which means 'large sack,' something I would say Fabio 'has.'

But you have to love him. There's no resisting. He has these dapply, soulful bedroom eyes with dark lashes and this cadence of worshippa-the-ladies that can actually sometimes seem like actual awe and inspiration at the feminine mystique and have you wondering if your puff-painted mumu is indeed beautiful and timeless and able to bring a humble man of god to his knees and not just a cheap drape that makes you look unhappy enough to have nasty sex with a stranger behind a pile of root vegetables.

But seriously, either way, you have to love him. Not do him, but love him.

For example when Fabio told me with obvious equal-parts pride and concern that he had been promoted from morangos (strawberry section) to general floor overseeing and that if I missed him in strawberries it wasn't because he wasn't there, I felt genuinely happy for him. I bragged to other people about it as if he were my brother or my child.

Another thing you should know about Fabio is that he should probably be a movie star. I've been thinking a lot about this and it just makes sense. Not just because he's beautiful and semi-convincing with his BS, but because he's strikingly small.

I don't know if you've ever met a movie star like Tom Cruise in person - but they're all kind of small and look like small versions of real people. Which makes sense, cause how else would they fit in your TV?