Vampire City

We have a routine going. We wake each morning about an hour later than we intend. I open my peanut butter cache and make myself a sandwich. Dani eats fruit. We run around the city taking care of little errands. Returning home, we make dinner for ourselves and maybe a friend of Dani's visits. Then, as darkness sets in, we lock all of our locks, close off the windows and safely tuck ourselves away from the big out there.

I've visited Brazil twice before and even now that I live here I still haven't gone out at night.

I've always been fully aware of the dangers of this country. I was most nervous before my first trip down last March. All the horror stories ran through my head in the weeks leading up to it. Then I arrived, looked around, and realized that Rio was a normal city filled with normal people. It had more crime, yes, but that could be avoided almost entirely with common sense. The trip went off without a hitch.

And maybe I got too relaxed after that. My first week here in Sampa has been hard on me. The fun started our second night when I awoke at 4:00 am to what was clearly the sound of someone trying to pick their way into our front door. Dani and I cautiously approached it trying to decide what to do. She softly lifted the receiver on the wall-mounted phone. She pushed the numbers for security, but couldn't get a signal. The door clicked again. We were honestly terrified.

Turns out it was the refrigerator. Standing directly beside the front door, the-innocent-enough-looking-appliance makes these random noises that are unnerving at the wrong hour. Even now that we know it's the culprit, we still hear it late in the evening, get out of bed, walk into the living room + kitchen just to make sure everything's cool. It's that realistic sounding.

We laughed about it the next morning on our way to the Metro. In the tunnel, before swiping our tickets, we stopped at a small pharmacy counter for some eye drops. I handed the cashier some money, got my change and immediately there was a guy standing beside me wanting some of it. I said nothing, stuffed the money in my pocket and we walked swiftly away. The disheveled guy followed us a short distance and yelled out some random threats at our backs as we refilled our Metro cards. Then he disappeared into the crowd.

Dani translated his comments for me later. She said he was, "Going to get you." He apparently also called me some names. I asked what they were and Dani had to grab a Portuguese-English dictionary. "Shoddy," she said, "and a hustler." Neither of which struck me as particularly strong insults.

The crime rate in Sao Paulo far exceeds the average city in the US. I've searched for stats to illustrate just how much, but consistent data is hard to come by. One thing I do keep seeing is that the murder rate here is down about 60-75% in the last 15 years. What this place was like around the turn of the millennium I can only imagine.

Walking the Metro tunnels and city sidewalks, one hand clutched to my bookbag, the other tightly in my pocket, I've had a difficult time functioning the last few days. The streets have more shady characters wandering aimlessly than I remember from my first two times here. Then I duck into a library and see a group of older women greeting each other with cheek kisses and laughs and wonder how they can be so relaxed. Don't they know what's happening out there?

Earlier today, I saw Dani off to the Metro for an appointment she had. I decided to swing by a corner store before returning home. Traffic came to a stop and I crossed the street. A few steps in front of me was one of Sampa's one trillion beautiful women. I looked from her to the traffic we were crossing in front of. I saw four side-by-side motorcyclists and watched as one, two, three, four of their heads turned as she passed.

I don't know why, but something about that moment broke a lot of tension for me. They weren't leering at her, it was just a glance. Very Girl from Ipanema style. I could tell in that moment each of them thought, "This is a great city." And for a second, I felt it too.

I'm not worried about the guy from the Metro and neither should you. He looked like a guy who has a lot of problems in life, none of which have anything to do with me. Don't worry about the refrigerator either. I think we're almost used to it.

Sao Paulo has its problems and its beauties. But if you're only looking around for one of them, you're going to have a very difficult stay. Sometimes it's a vagrant loitering on the sidewalk. You get tense and tuck your chin towards your chest. Then a bus comes to a stop beside him and he gets on. You've misjudged him. 

It's okay to relax. I'm learning this now.

That first night out with Dani is coming soon, probably tonight. She's lived through thousands of them. It's what you do here in Brazil--enjoy the safer, wonderful parts of the city, filled with some of Earth's best people. And always stay alert. Always stay alert.

The Dog Days of Summer

It's Summer here. And hot. The temperatures this week are all 80s and 90s. My face has been blotchy and ridiculous looking.

There's no air conditioning here. You can find it only in malls or large stores. It makes me take back complaints I've had about heat in the past, when Summer was just the feeling of passing from one temperature-controlled building to the next. Here, it's an inescapable blanket.

That being said, the heat here doesn't pack the humidity-filled punch of the US south. It's just a slight annoyance that's corrected with even the faintest breeze.

Dani and her family picked me up from the airport Sunday morning. We spent the day at their house before Dani and me came home to our "cozy" (aka small) apartment. We opened the balcony door and every window, and promptly skipped the thawing of Winter, the rebirth of Spring and went straight into the relaxed quiet of a Summer's night.

We've got no tv to idle us, nor any internet to stream in shows as a proxy (the internet company says they'll get to us in about 10 days). The only entertainment comes from a $30 set of computer speakers I decided to pack at the last minute. Sunday night, I plugged them into my laptop and filled the house with the sounds of America (Taylor Swift, Cocorosie, Kacey Musgraves, Future f/ Pharrell, Pusha T & Casino), cut some limes and popped open the seal on a fifth of cachaça that we purchased for US $2.50 (TWO DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS!), shook up some caipirinhas and talked about our future in broad, romantic strokes. By midnight we had damn near drank a dollar fifty's worth, and so we called it a day.

My environment, diet and acquaintances have changed so suddenly and inescapably that I can only imagine this must be what going to rehab feels like (sans the presence of the aforementioned booze). It's a cleansing, I hope, and an opportunity for improvement. There's no point in me finding a tv to watch. And burying myself online would be just as useful as flying around the border of the US and leering. My only choice is to navigate this new world and get the most out of it I can.

Our apartment, as I mentioned, is small, but it's a total win. We're on the same block as one of the city's most important metro stops. On our balcony are up-close views of the city skyline rooted by purple-blooming trees, plus our building's swimming pool below us. We have a charming kitchen, living room and a master bedroom big enough for just a bed. The best views are from the extra room that will become both an office as soon as we put a chair at its desk and a guest bedroom as soon as we get a futon. The place is clean, modern and has a lighting setup that instantly bumps the place up a few notches. We love it.

The next few days will be filled with errands around town at various government buildings we're required to stop by to be all legal. We're in a bit of a rush since I start back with work on Monday. And also because this weekend the city shuts down for Carnaval.

Lar Doce Lar

I'm relieved to say that we signed the lease yesterday on our new apartment. This coming after a two-or-three month search that saw no less than two I'm-pretty-sure-this-is-a-done-deals that fell through at the last minute.

It's probably for the best because our spot has me pretty excited. Although it's on the small side, we scored a place that hit everything on our wish list: two bedrooms, 24-hour security, Metro accessible and furnished. That last one being the biggest. In Brazil, an unfurnished apartment is naked as the day it was born. I'm talking no stove or refrigerator unfurnished. All of our appliances and furniture come with the place and look great.

The best part of all is the location. We'll be living in a neighborhood called Paraíso (Portuguese for paradise or heaven). We're a short walk from Avenida Paulista, which is basically the Wall Street of Brazil. Also, our street is called Rua Correia Dias, which translates to, I believe, Belt Days Street. So, there you go.

Here's Dani's dad, Robison, enjoying the living room. Without Dani's family it would have been impossible to land this kind of place. I can't thank them enough for calling and visiting all of the places we were interested in. Had they not been there to see them in person, we surely would have ended up disappointed. These are great people.

So come on down, friends. We've got a guest bedroom with your name on it.

Land of the Fee, Home of the Tariff

I recently posted on this online message board of ex-pats living in Brazil something like, "What should I buy here in America before moving there?" I got all kinds of answers. Some people went micro on me, saying batteries, razorblades and shoes. Most people gave the simplest and truest advice: Everything.

Brazil is not a cheap place. Correction: Goods in Brazil are not cheap. If you want a haircut or a nanny or someone to scrub every inch of your house, that's a bargain (hotels too!). Name-brand items, though, that's what'll get you. Imported goods can face steep tariffs down there. Some of the highest offenders are clothes and electronics. I've heard a pair of Levis cost about US $100-200. You want an iPad? Forget it.

Personally, I've been to Brazil twice. I can shamefully admit I once paid US $12 for a can of shaving cream.

Over the last couple years, I've heard about lots of friends of friends that have come here to the States with the main intention of going shopping. They come with one suitcase that has several other empty ones in it. They rack up on clothes, accessories and gadgets and haul them back to Europe or south of the Equator. I understand the biggest bang for the buck is makeup.

On Saturday, my family and I took Dani to the airport for her departure home. She was flying a South American airline. Standing in line to check our bags, we were surrounded by unspeakable amounts of luggage. Most everyone in line had those massive pushcart things with hundreds of pounds of luggage on them. Everyone seemed prepared to pay the staggering extra baggage fee of $150-175 per suitcase.

Dani had a handful too, but she was moving. I don't see how everyone else could be in the same position we were. It looked to this gringo like their various final destinations around Latin America were in the same predicament as Brazil.

As the immigration debate heats up again in this country, I've recently realized this component of the issue never really gets discussed. We talk about foreigners coming to America "in search of a better life." We mention that they can make more money here, sure, but what if the money they made back home could actually buy the stuff they wanted? If you're a US company making DVD players, don't you want your product selling at a price that's obtainable for a middle-class Brazilian? Who really benefits from the tons of swollen suitcases being lugged millions of miles each year by travelers? Tariffs are walls that consumers are clearly willing to fly over.

I'm a guy that likes to solve problems and make situations easier and more efficient. In the next few years, I can't do that. Were it up to me, I would make some basic changes to Brazil that would make the place, overnight, function at a much higher level. I've also heard basically every Brazilian I've ever met say some version of the same thing. So many of the issues are so simple and yet, somehow so challenging to take care of.

Anytime I've been fortunate enough to go overseas, I always try to behave like I would if I was a guest in someone else's home. Brazil will be no different. The people are passionate for changes and improvements there and I hope to see them all come true. I won't be marching in the streets with them, though. And I won't be calling on politicians to do their jobs better. I'm just going to tidy up after myself and turn my music down if anyone ever asks.

I went shopping today for some final stuff before I head out. I bought two nice pairs of shoes for a total of $47. I browsed t-shirts and sweatshirts that cost a bargain. In Best Buy, I saw brand-name laptops that cost less than headphones.

The arduous process of packing starts tomorrow. I'll have about four large suitcases stuffed with clothes, basic electronics and keepsakes--all of which I've been told will be unthinkable to purchase in Brazil. So, I'll roll them up tight, wedge them in, and be grateful that I'm coming from the cheapest country this half of the planet.

Final US Meals

The US is just an intricately connected system of amazing restaurants. If you only had one week left, where would you eat?

My list:
L̶o̶s̶ ̶T̶o̶l̶t̶e̶c̶o̶s̶  .  A̶l̶e̶x̶a̶n̶d̶r̶i̶a̶  .  C̶a̶r̶n̶e̶ ̶a̶s̶a̶d̶a̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶c̶h̶e̶e̶s̶e̶ ̶e̶n̶c̶h̶i̶l̶a̶d̶a̶s̶
A̶r̶t̶i̶e̶'̶s̶  .  F̶a̶i̶r̶f̶a̶x̶  .  C̶h̶i̶c̶k̶e̶n̶ ̶p̶a̶l̶l̶i̶a̶r̶d̶
C̶h̶a̶d̶w̶i̶c̶k̶'̶s̶  .  O̶l̶d̶ ̶T̶o̶w̶n̶  .  $̶4̶ ̶c̶h̶i̶c̶k̶e̶n̶ ̶q̶u̶e̶s̶a̶d̶i̶l̶a̶
Royal Thai  .  Old Town  .  Chicken Pad Thai, extra peanuts on the side
Mi Rico Peru  .  Alexandria  .  Steak burrito
Bojangles' Famous Chicken 'n Biscuits  .  Oxon Hill  .  Two-piece combo with fries and sweet tea
La Madeleine  .  Old Town  .  One half croque monsieur with a cup of tomato soup
Paradiso Italian Restaurant .  Alexandria  .  Pizza villa bella
Chipotle  .  Anywhere  .  Steak burrito with guacamole
Wendy's  .  Anywhere  .  #1 combo with just cheese and ketchup
King Street Blues  .  Old Town  .  Rack of ribs
Five Guys  .  Old Town  .  Cheeseburger (with mushrooms, lettuce, tomato, grilled onions, ketchup, mustard) with fries

The Only Person I Want to Do This With

1 in 10

90% of the world lives north of the Equator. The biggest city south of it is São Paulo. Daniela leaves Saturday. I've got a week left.

Currency

My way of buying into the American ex-pat community in Brazil. If I could easily transport Ben & Jerry's, they would make me their king.

The Prologue

Here's the piece that I read at last night's sold out and fabulous As Was Written show in Alexandria, VA. This is why I'm ending up in Brazil.

“Are you nervous?” Daniela asked.

“A little bit,” I answered.

“You’re going to be okay,” she said.

“I know. Everything’s going to be fine.”

I took another shirt from my closet and folded it into a tight square. The February weather outside my bedroom was cold, but everything going in the suitcase had short sleeves. In Rio de Janeiro, Summer lived on.

“I wish I could go with you,” she said.

Technically you can, I thought. She just couldn’t come back afterwards. As a Brazilian citizen living temporarily in America, my girlfriend’s visa was like a concert ticket after you step out the door. Her hand was not stamped for reentry. I tucked the shirt into my bag and started on another.

It was my first vacation to Rio, and while I had been mostly successful at focusing on all the super awesome parts of going, I still had some lingering fears. The fact of the matter was, Brazil’s not the safest place. Sure, every American city has it’s good parts and its bad, but in Rio it’s kind of like avoiding the slums of Southeast DC for the peaceful serenity that is Oxon Hill.

Many a late night, lying in bed, I scoured YouTube, seeing the city from all angles. There was Sugarloaf Mountain, Copacabana Beach, Ipanema, samba music, hang gliding. But it was only a matter of time before curiosity got the best of me. My fingers added a few antisocial words to the search and moments later I’m watching a gang shoot down a police helicopter. It’s an image that doesn’t leave your mind afterwards, regardless of how much beach volleyball you watch.

Dani’s Brazilian friends were happy to prep me for the trip. They recommended plenty of sights and restaurants, but in terms of safety, they kept coming back to one main point: “Try not to look so American.”

“What?” I replied.

“You know,” they said, moving their hands in quick circles, “just...try not to be so...you know...American.”

I attempted to explain that, “Okay, it’s easy enough for me to leave the Duck Dynasty t-shirt at home, but I’ve got premature gray hair, an aggressive 401k plan and the gold status on US Air. It doesn’t get much more American than this.”

Whenever I expressed some doubt, Dani bit her lip and looked away. She was worried. She wanted to be there to help me navigate the English-less streets. To be my insider into this new world. I always kissed her and reassured her I was fine, even if I had laid awake the night before entertaining all the violent what ifs.

It was easy for us to stack up our worries about crime. In reality, there was a bigger fear between us. A greater test that we weren’t discussing as I packed my bags. After a blissful year of dating, and with her visa winding down, this trip was not just a vacation. I loved Dani and I had told her I wanted us to be together forever. But that’s an easy thing to say when the government isn't knocking on your door telling you to move it. Did I love this girl enough to stay with her, no matter what country we ended up in, even Brazil?

Landing in Rio, I walked confidently out of the airport and up to a waiting cab driver. My shirt had an extra open button and my dark sunglasses reflected the hot sun. I had a Brazilian accent chambered and a few Portuguese expressions ready that I had rehearsed in my head going through customs. I acted like I had never step foot in America.

“Oi, meu amigo,” I smiled, “Todo bem? Por favor, preciso uma taxista ao meu casa na Copacabana, sim? Quantos reais? Vente? Quarante? Hm?”

The driver squinted at me, not saying anything at first. When he responded, he unfortunately said neither “What is your name?” or “Where is the library?” The only two followups I was prepared for. Instead, he rattled off a short paragraph that sounded much Portuguesier than my attempt. I smiled a big embarrassed smile of red, white and blue.

He and I made small talk on the way to the hotel. We drove past million-dollar condos on one side of the street and crime-riddled shantytowns known as favelas on the other. My Portuguese was as broken as his English, but we still managed a few laughs. Then he turned onto a side street and asked me to roll up my window. I knew something was up. I had heard of street thugs preying on drivers stuck in traffic, going car to car and putting guns in windows. “Muito perigoso aqui?” I asked him. “Is it dangerous here?” He shrugged and pointed at his dashboard. “Air…” he struggled to say, “air conditioning.”

After a few months of dating someone you learn things about each other: who’s funnier, nicer, more reasonable, better with money, patient, etc. You also learn who’s more badass. Compared to Daniela, I unfortunately fail to rank. You can’t tell it at first, but under her sweet smile and fragile voice is a rock of a woman that, when she shows it, makes me feel like a lightweight.

Recently, we were spending a weekend with friends in an old rented house down south. Dani and I got the top-floor bedroom. We clicked off the lights and snuggled in. Just as I was almost asleep, my eyes opened to a sound in the ceiling. It was, I hoped, the natural sounds of an old house: rusted pipes or something. But as it continued, reality set in that it was definitely footsteps. They were small--maybe a rat--but they sounded heavier than that. It had to a raccoon. I pictured a pair of beady eyes scurrying about. Then with that one set of feet I heard two more, three more, six more. The house was infested and we were sleeping on the front lines.

"Hey," I nudged Dani’s sleeping head.

“Hmmh?” she grogged.

“Listen. Listen. Something is in this ceiling. This is not cool.”

Dani entertained my fear and listened. The rodents tumbled over each other some more. Their paws scratched around randomly before coming to a stop directly above our heads. One scurried down inside the wall beside us.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I think we should go downstairs,” I responded.

“Nah, I’m good right here.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m comfortable,” she answered.

Two minutes later, I pulled a blanket up to my chin on the couch. Dani enjoyed a full night’s sleep alone.

This was the same girl who two years before had left her family, friends and life behind to move to a country where she had never been, to live with a host family she had never met. A choice I don't think I could ever make. It was easy to forget sometimes.

In Rio, I strolled the beaches and city sidewalks. I took a train to the peak of foggy Corcovado and a cable car up Sugarloaf Mountain. The city views were indescribable. The people were warm. The food was relentlessly delicious. Staring out at the oceans and mountains married together, a four-dollar caipirinha in my hand, Brazil felt like a great next step in life.

My last afternoon there I stepped to the curb of Avenida Atlantica to cross to the beach one last time. As I started across, a motorcycle cop skidded to a stop in front of me. He got off his bike and halted all traffic and pedestrians to a stop. A second cop whipped by him. Then another, and another and another. The final vehicle was an armored SUV, full of police in combat gear. One of them hung out the passenger window holding an AK-47. The YouTube videos replayed in my mind. My foot stepped back onto the curb.

We don't have to move just yet, I thought. She could live in America. We both could to start. She knows the language. Her English is flawless. We could get legally married first and get her a green card. The waiting period these days is only like a month. We could have the wedding in Brazil, sure. Maybe the honeymoon. But we don’t have to move here. It doesn’t have to be right now.

Dani wanted to hear everything about the trip. Driving through my familiar American streets, my hand on her knee, I talked about my favorite meals and sights. And that was about it. I didn’t want to discuss the bad. The fear. I wasn’t ready to begin my campaign to have her stay.

After a few more weeks, we could no longer ignore the issue. The time was approaching where we had to make a choice. Either we started the process of me moving there or we started the process of her staying. The stress from the choice bled over into the day-to-day of our relationship. We decided that we would only discuss the issue on Wednesdays. Without that boundary, the choice was ready to consume every conversation we had.

Another Wednesday night found us sitting across from one another in a restaurant booth. Our playful chit chat waned, leaving the silence of the waiting question.

“You’ve been distant,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I responded.

“I can tell when you’re not sharing things with me.”

I denied it again and continued this path for a few more minutes, a move I should have known was futile because she is a woman.

“Tell me,” she said.

I looked away from her to the floor, to the other couples dining all around us. Tears collected at the bottom of my eyes. I clinched them back. It made me angry that they were there. That I was afraid to let her see them. More than that, I was angry they were there in the first place. Because I was afraid again.

I sat there in front of her, the 8-year-old boy who grew up terrified of the dark. The 14-year-old who lied about the girl he liked just because she didn’t fit in with the class. The 20-year-old who didn’t have the guts to study abroad because he was “having too much fun here,” when really, he was just chicken.

Fear has always had a hand on my shoulder my entire life. Your grades won’t be good enough, you won’t make friends, you won’t have enough money, you won’t be happy. I always thought I would shake it before the serious part of life started. I would have this problem under control before it really mattered. And there I sat across from the woman I was completely in love with, making one of the biggest decisions of my life, and I had failed. I hadn’t shaken it. It was still there. It leaned into my ear, ready to make another choice for me.

“I’m just so scared of this,” I said.

Dani smiled and took my hand. I looked up and saw the tears in her eyes now. She told me everything was okay.

And that was one face I wasn't going to let fear take away. I sat up and said the things I thought a hero would say. I made myself say them. Even if they scared me, I knew it was right.

We held both hands together and choked our way through the rest of the conversation. I made promises to her. They were effortless because I meant them. And she made all of them right back to me. We started the process of gathering and filling out documents to get my visa in Brazil. It would take eight months, she was my fiance by then, but we would get that visa. After that night, we had dozens more of the kind of honest conversations that started in that restaurant booth. The kind that you only have with one person in a lifetime.

It’s enough to keep us together in any country, in any circumstance. Unless there’s a raccoon in the ceiling. That’s where I draw the line. I still don't know how she can sleep like that. I’m just not okay with a pair of beady eyes looking down through a cracked ceiling at me--a scared man, gathering his strength, clinging, as all husbands do, to the one woman, he prays, will finally save him, from himself.