If you're elderly, there are worse places to be in this world than Brazil. Being old here is like having a Disney Fast Pass to life. Old people do not have to wait in line for anything. They have their own preferential registers at crowded grocery stores. They are allowed to skip line at banks and other annoying places.
On the bustling Metro, where I get to sit about one in four trips, they have their own special blue seats. If those seats are taken, good-hearted Brazilians will pop up and offer their seat. And if that doesn't happen, old people will ask you directly to stand. That's just how they roll here. Being old in Brazil is definitely a better deal than the US.
Also, pregnant women and women with young children get the same treatment as above, but it's fleeting and requires an annoying kid.
Worse
Brazilian men love women. Love them. In spite of that, and perhaps in some ways because of it, Brazil is a sexist place for the ladies. I didn't expect this considering how progressive the country is plus the fact that their President is female. You can clearly see it in the media where being smoking hot appears to be a woman's number one credential.
You could argue it's the same situation in the States, but the roads do divide widely. A recent government survey found that 65% of Brazilians think that women who dress provocatively "deserve to be raped." I was confused when Dani told me about this, not just because of the high number, but that "deserve to be raped" would ever be a choice as an answer to anything. The same report found that 58% of the surveyed think there would be less rapes if "women knew how to behave."
Two out of three survey takers were women.
The reaction here has been sharp and deservedly so. Brazilian Facebook and Twitter has been ablaze and I'm just waiting for Avenida Paulista to shut down for a protest. Hopefully this story will change some attitudes.
From my perspective, I see this not just as an issue of how women are viewed, but also an acceptance of violence as a normal part of Brazilian life. I think this place has been far more desensitized than the US. Rape and murder are probably accepted by many as normal penalties for missteps in life. I'm willing to bet if you did a similar survey asking, "Does a person walking alone at night in a bad neighborhood deserve to be murdered?" You would get the same numbers.
Better
The food here is undeniably exceptional. There are churrascarias that let you feast on unlimited meat, yes. And I'll also take the upscale restaurants of Sao Paulo over New York's any day (and at half the price).
But I want to talk about cheap eats. Namely, a little something called pastel. I doubt a finer guilty pleasure lunch can be purchased for US $2.42.
Pastel is like a paperback-sized Hot Pocket if Hot Pockets were fresh and delicious. It's a big dough envelope filled with your choice of meat and cheese. Or you can get chocolate if you want. It's then sealed up and set afloat on a bubbling cauldron of oil. A few minutes later, voila paradise.
There are lots of little hole in the wall places dedicated only to pastel. The one around the corner from us has like three tables in it. Most people prefer to stand outside the open storefront and enjoy theirs on the sidewalk. There's no doubt in my mind that any time I leave Brazil, I will crave these within 48 hours.
This is the feeling.
Worse
Nothing makes me want to lie down on a pair of railroad tracks like a Brazilian grocery store. There's a big Wal-Mart-sized one near our house called Extra. The place is jammed all the time. Average waiting time in line is about 10 minutes (oh, to be elderly).
There are so many carts and people that regardless of where you are, you're most likely in someone's way. The place has the tension of a traffic jam. You can't take your cart down a lot of the aisles because there's just too much going on.
Last night, Dani and I were weaving our way through there at 9:45. I wanted some orange juice. I haven't had any since arriving. There was no refrigerated section of juice that I could find. Just a shelf with containers of "orange nectar"--basically orange sugar water. Dani led me to it and said this is it.
I said no. I just want orange juice. That's oranges squeezed into a bottle and put in a fridge. Nothing else. Pasteurize it if you like. Hell, concentrate it. I just want orange juice. Looks like this is not an option here. Dani said Brazilians have to make that for themselves from oranges. I replied that I'm an American and I would like to pay someone for it.
The orange juice thing really got under my skin. I can understand that they don't have a lot of the name brands I'm used to in America. No Ben and Jerry's. Okay. I get that we're not in Vermont here. But this is Brazil. The tropics. They're selling fruit everywhere. In the grocery store. On the street. Dozens of fruits that I've never seen or heard of before. When's the last time you saw a fruit you had never heard of? It's alarming. All I want is orange juice.
Honestly, if it wasn't for Coca Cola, I would probably have had a personal crisis by now. Coca Cola is here, it's everywhere, it tastes exactly the same and it consoles me.
Here's a run down of what other familiar brands Brazil has and how much you'll have to pay at a grocery store to enjoy them. Some are cheaper here. Others not.
Coca Cola (two liter): US $2.00
Oreos (mini pack of 10): US $1.15
Haagan Dazs (pint): US $10.50
Bacardi rum: US $12.00 (note: it tastes differently here)
Jack Daniel's: US $41.00
They've also got a lot of Doritos, Snickers and M&Ms for a reasonable price. Coke Zero is everywhere, but I haven't seen a Diet Coke yet. Pepsi is here plus Sprite. Dr. Pepper doesn't have his visa. Budweiser is massive, but Bud Lite is absent.
Peanut butter can be found securely stockpiled in our home. I brought like 10 jars in my luggage. I've given one to each of my American friends here and they've both held it like an aged wine.
Milk, like juice, is room temperature on the grocery store shelf. I think I've had the last glass of my life.
The things I would do right now for a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I miss you, baby.
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