No Reservations

This opening monologue just about sums it all up.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8yulE1imCw

The Faceless City

There is no Empire State Building in São Paulo. No Petronas Towers or Big Ben. It's a city of 20 million people without a single iconic landmark. Jesus stretches his arms wide over neighbor Rio de Janeiro. Sampa isn't selling quite as many postcards.

To picture the sprawl of São Paulo, think about it this way: Take all of DC, all of Baltimore and all of everything in between and fill it with 10 to 20-story tall indiscernible buildings. That's it.

At lunch today, Dani and I skipped over a few Metro stops and went up in one of the city's taller skyscrapers to find the overwhelming.

Becoming a Paulistano

-Today I paid a visit to the Federal Police. For the third time.

As an estrangeiro permanente, I have to visit the FP within 30 days of arriving in the country. Today is day 30. We cut it so close to the deadline because that was their instruction the first two times they turned us away. "They said come back on the last day," Dani sighed twice as we made our way to a cab, to the Red line, transfer to the Blue and then home.

The Federal Police building is about the size of a small shopping mall. You don't really see any cops there. Just paperwork and waiting rooms. Imagine a DMV the size of a mall.

Prior to going there, we had to patronize a cartorio, which is another Brazilian government office where paper gets pushed around. Well, we had to visit three of those before we found one that would take our documents and money. Then we had to come back a week later to pick them up.

And before all of that, there was the three or four months it took to acquire my visa that would let me live in this country. And the months of research, planning and decision making before that.

By the end of the morning, after some elaborate fingerprinting, I walked out of the Police Mall with my own RNE number. It's a close equivalent to a social security number. The fact that I arrived one month ago and already have this is a rare luxury among the ex-pats living here.

Most of them arrive on a tourist visa and just overstay their 180-day limit. They apply for the RNE, but that can be about a one-year process if everything goes your way. I did most of my work before getting on the plane. Still not simple.

Among the perks of having my RNE is that I can now buy health insurance. The past month has been the only in my life where I've gone without it.

It's hard to express the sense of accomplishment of having this small string of numbers and letters. This is the hardest I've ever had to work for anything. I'm living abroad, but not in a college program kind of way where I can talk to my coordinator if something goes wrong. I'm emigrating to a new country. As of today, I'm much more Brazilian than before.

-Portuguese is a struggle depending on the situation I'm in. Firstly, living in a new country isn't some kind of Rosetta Stone cheat code. So many people told me that prior to coming here. "Ah, a few months and you'll be speaking it fluently."

Speaking has never been the problem. I can say practically anything I need to say. It's understanding the Brasileiros that's so difficult. The speed. The slang. The offhanded way all of us in any language exhale whole sentences in a muffled breath. I know now that I'll only ever have this relationship with English. Portuguese will forever be the next door neighbor that I let borrow the step ladder.

There's not a damn thing easy about any of it.

There's also the risky element of embarrassment. By that I mean the words for coconut and shit are spelled exactly the same. Only an accent mark atop a shitty O separates them. It winks at me, knowing that I'll forever have to settle for frozen pineapple cocktails.

Also, the word for drink is dangerously close to an extremely derogatory term for gay people. Awesome. I love doing a triple take in my head before offering a buddy a beverage. Or something much, much more intimate.

-There's a decent amount of clowns in this city. I see about one a week. They stand on the street corner, full-on face paint, and walk out into the crosswalk at red lights to juggle. Lots of people make a buck this way. You've got everything from the classic squeegee washer to a guy I saw juggling swords. That's exactly the weapon I want to see on the street.

A lot of people are afraid of clowns. Come here. You won't be scared anymore. There's too much other stuff to worry about to fear clowns.

-I've binged on my share of violent video games in the past. I think that's over now. Violence in movies, in music, I can't digest it as easily now.

-Daniela is a queen. I realize I haven't written much about her lately. Everything is awesome.

There's no way I'll ever mess this marriage up. If she left me in Brazil, I would be lost. If she left me in America, I'd only be half alive. In this small little apartment, buried deep in these millions, we're closer each day than the one before it.

Hello, Movies

Lots of American websites won't let you access them from other countries. Hola.org is one of several sites that lets you bypass these restrictions. I wanted to make sure I could watch Netflix from down here, so I downloaded it.

Then one day I logged onto Netflix without going through Hola. It turns out depending on where you are in the world, Netflix has a different selection of streaming movies. Brazil's library is far superior to the US's. Titles include the Godfather Trilogy, Clockwork Orange, City of God, both Kill Bills, Casino, Catch Me If You Can, 40-Year-Old Virgin and on and on.

Hola works inside the US, too. So, why just watch the American version of Netflix?

1. Go to Hola.org.
2. Download (it only works on some browsers like Chrome).
3. Access Netflix from the country of your choosing.

The only difference is you won't be able to turn off subtitles for some movies. I say a small price to pay.

30th Birthday

I turned 30 last week. Some folks were nice enough to come out yesterday to celebrate with me. In Brazil, the party starts at three, people start showing up at four, the grill gets going at five and the fun goes deep into the night. We weaved a little St. Patrick's Day theme into the mix. It's the best time I've had since arriving.

Silas, Noa, Dani e Tati.

Dani e Joice.

 Mama dos Santos Lima, brother Rodrigo, Vanessa e brother Humberto.

 Adriana, Dani, eu e Marina.

 Bruna, Dani, Tati e Adriana.

 Rodrigo, Vanessa, Dani, mae, Lorayne e Humberto.

The tradition in Brazil is for the birthday boy/girl to blow out the candles, cut the cake and put the first slice on a plate. You then give the piece to someone special and tell them why. A small little speech. It's usually a beautiful thing to witness and so I didn't want to let anyone down. Dani was nice enough to translate as I gave the piece to Edna, Dani's mother. I thanked her for all of her support and love as the mother of my new family.

 And the capivara was there, too.

Dress the Part

Every day when I get dressed, I'm preparing to be robbed. I own two wallets, one I like and the other I could care less about. I put money in the second one, just as much as I'll need. Even if I don't need money, I take some. Getting robbed with no money on me is the scenario I fear the most.

I carry my cell phone about half the time. My credit card only when I have specific plans to use it.

No watch. No accessories of any kind. Dani's engagement ring sees as much Brazilian sunlight as you reading this in the States.

When I ask Brazilians if they've ever been robbed I hear no. When I ask how many people they know in their lives that have been, I usually hear one or two. Probably not too different from what you would get in America.

Brazil is decidedly rougher, though, and any recent travel guide you read will give you similar instructions as my daily routine. I'll probably never get robbed here, but if I do, I'll be dressed for the part.

Other than the firmly clutched purses on women's shoulders, the fashion in Brazil is pretty relaxed and fun. Lots of bright colors and more skin showing than I've seen north of the Equator. The average guy is in shorts and short sleeves. The businessmen wear sleek pinstripes. Women's clothes are universally tight regardless of the occasion.

Flip flops. Sandals. Stilettos. In general, it's a country that doesn't wear a lot of socks.

I've gone shopping a few times at the flawless mall near our apartment. Coming from America, it's like going to a mall in a movie or a video game. Almost all the stores are Brazilian businesses that I've never seen before. It's like a parallel universe of shopping.

With converted American money, you'll do pretty well in a Brazilian mall. Their high-end chains run a little cheaper than back home. All the brands and styles are different than what I've seen before.

Buying American brands in Brazil is an express trip to the poor farm. For a pair of Levi jeans ("lev-ees") you're looking in the US $100-300 range. A regular pair of Nikes? US $200-400.

They love shirts with English text on them. Love them. Bring your t-shirts down and you'll blend right in.

I've never cared for shopping. I'm fully aware of my lack of fashion sense. Still, in Brazil, it's fun to roam this insulated planet of new clothing. My closet rack is expanding with roupa I know I can't find anywhere else and I like it.

Just as long as my clothes don't draw too much attention to me. I don't want that. Should the moment of truth ever arrive, I hope the robbers will only want the small stipend in my backup wallet, not the shirt off my back.

Ex-Jungle

In a way, all big cities are the same. No matter where you are, you're basically in a big bathtub of concrete. Buildings and streets. Trains underneath. A few trees atop. We rank these bathtubs by their cleanliness and who's bathing in them and voila, we have best cities in the world lists.

Every now and then here in Sampa, I get a reminder that this bathtub used to be a jungle. The insects here are consistently different from the US. Butterflies in particular are where you really see it. Crazy coloration that makes you stop in your tracks like it's a little alien fluttering around. Same thing with one of these caterpillars I nearly stepped on the other day.

Last night, Dani and I were in bed watching some videos on the laptop when a commotion above us made us leap from the sheets. Something had flown in through our open window. I thought it was a bird. Then a bat. Once it landed, it turned out to be some kind of enlarged grasshopper. Think a grasshopper with the wingspan of a small bird.

Dani and I collected ourselves from the jump and reentered the room to examine. Maybe grasshopper wasn't the right word for it. This particular insect had a thorax with big wings that were shaped and colored exactly like green tree leaves. Surely it was some kind of Darwinian camouflage mechanism. We leaned in and just watched it for a while as it sat. It didn't even have to move to impress us.

In a perfect world my turning-off-the-lights-and-holding-a-flashlight-out-the-window strategy would have been a peaceful parting of ways for us and the friend. I didn't have that kind of patience. The hour was late. I grabbed my UNCW beach towel and whipped it to death. A sad end, but a necessary one. Go Hawks.

Snapshots

-Really, as long as it's daylight or you're in a group, it's okay. My favorite time of the day is morning. My least is the night. The nearby church bells ring out daily at noon and six.

-Regardless of what my phone's weather forecast says, it's 85 here every day. I was freaked out about not having air conditioning (only the elite of the elite have central air here), but I have to say our apartment has some kind of magic going. It never gets hot in here. Open up a few windows and it's never higher than 75. All that being said, we will have a portable unit before next Summer strikes.

-I've done my share of traveling and I can tell you that Sao Paulo has the most beautiful women of any place I've ever been. Call me biased if you like because I'm marrying one of them. So be it. It doesn't change the reality walking by you on the street every day. If you are a single guy and you're not visiting here, you are unknowingly regretting this and every moment. Trust me.

-Dani's brother drove us home from his place last night. It's when I realized that my new greatest fear in life is to be lost in this city at night with no phone, no money, no ride. The vampires here are real. You see it driving by.

-It's been a few weeks here and I will never complain about the US government again. The DMV is a well-oiled machine. Congress is highly functional. It really is true. I forever have a new appreciation for the efficiency of America.

-Tokyo was number two, by the way.

-Dani's parents bought us a flatscreen, which was awesome of them. When we hook it up, it will be used for our computer, DVDs, etc. The television programming here is worthless. Forget the language barrier. The shows here are just a giant void.

-We got our first power bill. I was amazed at how low it was. Then I remembered, oh yeah, no air conditioning.

-I've gone without television for almost three weeks now. It's been effortless to give up. You really want to watch something? It'll be online. That's how I watched Resurrection. That's how I'll watch March Madness. The television set is just an ether pump sucking away the hours.

-Brazil was a dictatorship until right around my first birthday.

-We got our internet installed today. Finally. I can't tell you the relief of logging into Netflix after going nearly three weeks without. You can't just go to netflix.com here, though. You have to go through some proxy server, so that Netflix thinks you're in America. Hola.org and HideMyAss.com are examples. At the end of the day, it's just a few more clicks.

-I've had a few conversations lately about small business here. One with a guy who is operating one. The other with a guy wanting to start one. The overriding message I got from both is that here, it's basically impossible.

-Our building has a gym in it. Just a few machines and some free weights. I'm almost in the routine of going every day now. I've yet to see another tenant in there. Hello, big extra room in our apartment.

-It costs more to close a business in Brazil than to start one.

-If this city has a theme song equivalent to Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York," it's the song "Sampa" by Caetano Veloso. He's one of Brazil's most famous, and still living, singers.

The song sounds pleasant and floaty. Just a guitar and vocals. I've played it a lot over the last few months for Dani, mostly to cheer her up when she misses home. Arriving here, I played it as a celebration of my new city.

I never bothered to translate the lyrics. I knew a few of the words and would sing them in short bursts. I just always figured it was one of those commercial little ditties about how great a place is.

"Something happens in my heart
 When I cross Ipiranga and Sao Joao Avenue"

I read those translated lyrics tonight. It was what I expected. And then I kept reading.

I had heard the song was about Caetano moving to Sao Paulo and not really knowing what to make of it at first. I read them tonight and two verses later I was openly crying.

Even for a Brazilian moving to Sao Paulo, the new city Caetano found himself in left him feeling the same way that I did, but couldn't put into words.

"And you were a difficult beginning
I get away of what I don't know
And those who sell a different dream of a happy city
Soon learn to call you reality
Because you are the other side
Of the other side
Of the other side"

It will always be one of my favorites. When I listen to it, I will be here again.

Listen to "Sampa" by Caetano Veloso here.

Snake Island

Brazilian parents have the best you-better-go-to-bed stories to tell. No threat sends a kid scurrying for the sack like a trip to Snake Island.

It sounds fake, but Snake Island is a very real place. Officially named Ilha da Queimada Grande, Snake Island, as its known, is about 55 miles from where I'm sitting right now. It's a tiny stack of land rising out of the Atlantic off the Brazilian coast.

The place is overridden with poisonous vipers. No humans live on Snake Island. How many snakes make a place "overridden"? In Queimada's case, it's approximately 1-5 vipers per square yard.

The ruling snake is the Golden Lancehead Viper. Ilha da Queimada is the only place on Earth where they live. The island is lush with jungle and is a stopping point for migratory birds. For many, a final stopping point. In addition to being poisonous, Lanceheads have the distinction of pumping in venom five times as deadly as typical vipers.

The Brazilian government does not allow visits to Queimada. Only special access is granted to scientists and jackasses with Animal Planet shows.

That doesn't mean humans haven't tried. A few Google searches consistently spit back two legends about the island. The first is of a fisherman who ignored posted warning signs and stopped on the island for a little banana picking.

He was reportedly found a few days later back in his boat, in a pool of his own blood.

The other, much more terrifying, tale is of a family that was living on the island. The story goes that the father was hired to look after the island's lone lighthouse. Apparently this was either before the Shining or the family didn't have a copy. The island's snakes infiltrated the lighthouse and drove the family running out into the jungle. And that was that.

Snake Island falls under the important Brazilian rule of know where you're going before you go. You can go ahead and mark it off your list.

The Lot

You could probably spend a lifetime studying the culture of the car in São Paulo. It's a matrix of advantages and disadvantages. The city has some of the planet's worst traffic. Reason enough to not have a car, and yet, proof that you probably do. Many streets aren't safe to walk at night. You'd probably rather drive. But with your car comes all kinds of new crime to worry about like carjackings and "express kidnappings" (to quote my dear friend Ryan Keiper, "Express! They don't even make you wait"). For every plus to having a car comes a massive minus and vice versa.

Dani and I are car-less and it's for the better. Aside from the added expenses, paperwork and traffic, I can't have a car because the culture of driving is so vastly different from the US. There are few times I've ridden with a Brasileiro where we haven't had--what I would consider to be--a near death experience.

There's this understanding here that close calls mean nothing. In the US, accelerating towards a group of pedestrians at a crosswalk is on par with trying to lure a child away from a playground with a lollipop. Here, it's just normal. The driver is counting on the pedestrians being out of his way when he arrives at the crosswalk and the pedestrians know it's nothing personal when his side mirror brushes the sleeves of their shirts. Cars cut inches in front of each other constantly. Pulse rates are unaffected by sudden, screeching stops.

The average Brazilian is twice the driver of the average American. These people operate small vehicles and they have a complete understanding of space. It's truly intimidating to watch. No wonder Senna was the best.

Parking is also a different world here. There are private lots, yes. There is curb parking, yes. To date, I still haven't seen a single parking meter. Coming from the US, I realize I'm like an abused dog adjusting to a new owner. No meters. What? Only a sign that says either E or E with a slash through it. None of that "6 am to 11 pm," or "Zone 2 holders only," or "Except on holidays," and then you have to figure out whether Columbus Day counts.

Instead, Brazilian parkers have to cope with "flanelinhas." I was introduced to these people tonight. Some friends picked Dani and me up for dinner. We made our way towards the restaurant and found a spot on the street nearby. Emerging from the car, a guy come up to us and asked us loudly to move the car up a little bit. Apparently we were too close to blocking some entrance. Our driver got back in the car and did as asked. The driver then asked me quickly for R $2 (US $0.75). I gave it to him and he hustled across the street to give it to the guy.

This was at 9:00 pm on a public street. I said to Dani, "Wait. Who is this guy? Does he work for the street or something?"

She explained later that men in his position are called flanelinhas (loosely translated: "little cleaners"). They basically operate like a scaled-down mafia. They adopt a street. You park there. You pay them for protection. That's that.

What happens if you don't? Well, there's no guaranteed punishment, but it's pretty much a roll of the dice whether or not you'll find your car later exactly as you left it. You're better off greasing their palm.

Is this a downside to the city? Yes. But what about a friend of mine who's lived here for a year and said he's yet to see a cop pull someone over for speeding? An entire year. Again, the abused pup in me flinches. It's strange to live in a new world where the police have much bigger issues to deal with than going 62 in a 55.

What does it take to get a DUI in Brazil? 0.01%. If there's a trace of booze in your system, you're done. I love it. Will it ever happen in the US? Not a chance.

Dani and I use our feet or the Metro for most any transportation. It's great to descend beneath the gridlock and fast forward across town. The wonderful Metro's biggest shortcoming, though, is that it doesn't service enough of the city. We hail a cab instead. They're cheaper here (if you're playing with US money), but as traffic snarls to a stop, you're freshly reminded that you're in the city of the car. And now you're part of the problem just like everyone else.

Better/Worse

Better

The São Paulo Metro kicks the DC system directly in the stomach. Every ride is R $3 (US $1.29) regardless of how far you’re going or the time of day. Stations are clean, secure (for the most part) and have various shops and public restrooms.

The trains run every two to three minutes. You know the anxiety of swiping your ticket, boarding an escalator and then realizing your train is on the platform? In São Paulo, there’s no flinging yourself desperately down a flight of stairs trying to tumble into those idle open doors. If you don’t make this train, there will be another one momentarily.

This frequency also eliminates what I call the “Rosslyn problem,” where you end up tacking on an extra 15 minutes of travel waiting to transfer to a second line. Sampa keeps the rails rolling. You will get you there fast enough.

Worse

Brazilians know nothing about Mexican food. How can this be? Mexican food has been scientifically proven to be the best on Earth.

Dani and I made tacos tonight for some friends. It was the second time in a year that I made guacamole for a Brazilian older than me who had never tried it before. This is a country bursting at the seams with every ingredient in guacamole and yet the idea of mixing them together is some type of grand secret that only us from the North know.

By the way, everyone that I’ve made the guac for loves it. They love it in the same way any person with taste buds and common sense loves it. It’s a perfect food. Why is Brazil in the dark ages on this?

All that being said, a city of this size does have a handful of Mexican restaurants. I will try some soon and report back. I can tell you now, if I don’t see any Mexican owners, managers or employees, I’m going to be pissed.

Better

São Paulo’s shopping malls are flawless. This city is covered in graffiti and does about a D+ job at keeping trash off the street, but step inside a shopping mall and you are in a different galaxy.

They’ve got one here about every two miles. On the outside they are windowless and beige and uninviting. They look like one of those silos NASA stores its shuttles in.

Step inside and you feel like you’re on sacred ground. The stores are all trendy and well-manicured (I’ve never heard of 80% of them). People are happy and beautiful. The floors look like you could eat off them.

I’ve been to three malls in Sampa and all three would rank in the top 10 nicest malls I’ve ever been to. I don’t know what it is about this city and its malls, but they are proud of them and for good reason.

Fun fact: The Portuguese word for mall is “shopping.” There you go. Learning is fun.

Worse

You hate Verizon. You hate Comcast. You hate AT&T. You hate Time Warner. You hate Fios. You hate them all. Any phone/internet/tv provider in the US is horrible.

I can tell you, you’ve got it good. Telecom customer service reaches new lows here in Brazil.

One day after moving in—before I even left for Brazil—Dani ordered internet for us. The provider told her they would install it for us in the next 30 days.

Thirty days.

She called them a few days later and they narrowed it down to 10 days. Another phone call a day or two after and she learned that her order had been incorrectly taken. Had they hooked us up prior to that, it would have been for completely the wrong package.

Dani made a few more calls today. I listened to her in five minute rhythms say her name, her phone number, some fast spiel about our issue and then thirty seconds of silence as the person on the line directed her to a different number. She spoke to about six employees today, all from the same company.

Just before leaving the US, I called Verizon to make sure my phone was unlocked and I could buy a sim card down here. The guy on the other end was pleasant, fast and accommodating. I actually took that customer survey thing at the end because the experience was so good. I just wanted to tell someone about it. Is the US turning the corner on this issue?

Here in Brazil, I never realized I had it so good.

Carnaval

Carnaval is the same celebration as Mardi Gras in the US. It started around last Thursday/Friday and ends tonight. Much of the city shuts down. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and then it’s 40 days of holiness up to Easter.

Friday, I braved the Vampire City for the first time at night. Dani and I went to some outdoor eatery in the shadow of the famous Museu de Arte de Sao Paulo. It was lovely, safe and teeming. About as dangerous as being at an Olive Garden.

There we met a pair of her friends and took the train a few stops over to Rua Augusta. I don’t want to start with too many New Orleans/São Paulo comparisons because these cities are worlds apart, but if there’s a Bourbon Street of Sampa, it’s Rua Augusta.

We walked a block from the Metro and waded into a swamp of young people socializing in the street. Vendors pushed their way through the mix selling beers, water and cocktails. Several of them set up grills right there on the pavement.

The street was not closed.

As traffic tried to circumvent this growing mass (within inches), the crowd started moving. There was one “float,” if you will—a big truck with people atop playing very, very loud music. A guy with a microphone led the crowd in singing. The truck turned onto Augusta and the parade was on. Dani and I joined in, dancing past drivers who had just missed their window to get home.

The next day, Dani went wedding dress shopping. She left me with my new friends Marina and Adriana (side note: I have no schedule anymore. I know basically no one here. Every morning I just wake up and ask Dani what plans we have.).

The girls and I metro-ed over to a neighborhood called Vila Madalena. A couple blocks from the station we met a similar—albeit much larger—street party. They began moving. Again, no real rhyme or reason with the traffic. Like a rising flood, we circled around cars until they were engulfed. Drivers eventually abandoned them where they stood and joined the party. Dani arrived a few hours later.

Carnaval feels like a dream. The coming Autumn is in the air. Temperatures in the 70s. The crowd is boisterous and full of love. Random strangers trade a few words and then make out with a passion I don’t think I’ve ever seen. About half the crowd is in some sort of Halloween costume. No theme, only: be crazy. Lots of people watching from balconies and windows. Lots of bathrooms being invented in abandoned lots.

The sky broke around 9 o’clock that night and the streets split for cover (there’s about one 20-minute storm here every evening). Dani and I walked a mile through the downpour to the Metro. Ten minutes later we were home.

The city that I was afraid of is warming up to me. Carnaval gave me a much-needed shot in the arm of love. I expected to see drunkenness and belligerence like I’ve come to expect from big blowouts in the US. The Brazilian crowd, though, never felt out of hand. Even in the chaotic crawl of thousands, everyone seemed above all other words, happy.

Photos:

 

 

In Vila Madalena.

 

 

If there's one downside to Carnaval, it's people spraying this soapy stuff all over you and your drink.

 

 

I guarantee you these two do not know each other.

 

 

Adriana e me.

 

 

Marina e me.

 

 

 

 

The view from above.