Tomorrow is four months in Brazil.
-I think if living here has improved me in any one way it's that I'm now a mentally stronger person. I'm less afraid of the unknown. More adventurous. I feel like I could now move to basically any place in the world and make it work. About once a month I start to think about how cool it would be to live in a place like Mexico City. Two years ago, the thought of visiting Mexico City scared me to death.
-I was always afraid of going places where they don't speak English. While having Dani here to help me translate is huge, please don't ever waste your time with this fear like I did. It's amazing how little a problem it is. Wherever you're going, just learn yes, no, please, thank you and I'm sorry.
-It's surprised me how many old friends I'm seeing here from the outside world. About once a month I get to hang out with someone else who's in town. Before I moved here, I felt like I barely knew anyone who had ever been to São Paulo. I'm not as far from home as I thought.
-If it's not someone I already know, it's amazing how easy it is to find common ground with the other Americans I meet. My new friend John moved here a couple weeks ago. We were introduced by a mutual friend who he met after college and that I grew up four doors down from.
-When John and I went to watch the USA vs. Ghana game, a guy from Minnesota sitting at the table beside us turned out to be a former member of the organization I work for. He's good friends with a member from our Minnesota chapter that I used to have monthly phone calls with. After the game, John and I were talking to a couple from Portland, OR. They knew one of John's friends.
-It's honestly disappointing to talk to a visiting American who doesn't share one of these connections with you. But that doesn't stop me from talking to them. I approach basically anyone I hear with an American accent. Here, we are united.
-As much as I love it here, I'm almost counting the days down till I get to visit home again. The 23rd of the month is always a big day for me because it means I've been here another whole month (I landed Feb 23). It's been four months now. If I woke up tomorrow and it was Feb 23 again, I would have a breakdown. Putting four months together in a place like Brazil is tough. Every time it's the 23rd, I've accomplished something.
-Today is the second day of Winter. It's 72 degrees outside.
-It's been over four months since I last drove a car. I miss walking outside, getting in and just going. I wonder if I'll still be a good driver. I have this recurring fear of returning home and going out for my first drive. I go from my parents' house to the entrance of their neighborhood. I want to stop at the stop sign, but I can't remember what to do. I just stomp the floorboard with my foot. The car rolls out into oncoming Franconia Road traffic. I think about this almost every day.
-I don't miss the endless expenses associated with having a car. Not for one second.
-When it comes to moving money around to pay the rent and bills, I've got two main options. The first is to wire it to Dani's account using a money transfer service. It's cheap to do, but the transfer company takes a decent bite through the exchange rate. The other is to take money out from the ATM and move it, in person, to the bank. The max withdrawal amount here is much lower than the US, so you have to do this over the course of several days, paying a convenience charge each time.
-This month was the first (and last) time we went the ATM route. Few things get the heart beating like carrying a couple thousand dollars in cash down the street in Brazil. This was not something we just went out and did. I spent a lot of time beforehand planning how best to execute it. It's the most I've ever felt like a drug dealer.
May I recommend a similar plan if you ever find yourself in this position.
1. Put a fraction of the money in your wallet.
2. Take your bank/credit card out of your wallet and hide it somewhere else. I put mine in my shoe.
3. Get a greasy paper lunch bag or a raggedy grocery bag. Cover the money and throw it in.
4. Put something disgusting in the bag. I went with a half-eaten, browning banana.
5. Hold the bag in one hand and a can of Coke in the other.
6. If robbed, drop the bag and Coke and hand over the wallet.
7. Pick up the real money and get to moving.
-I'm never running around this country again with that kind of cash on hand. Just having it in my house made me lose sleep.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
The Never-Ending Train
Dani and the never-ending train.
Dani's Valentine's Day (June 12) gift to me: 500 grams of "A Kiss of Milk." Perfection.
Watching Brazil vs. Mexico drone on to a scoreless tie.
Dani.
The new kid in town, John.
I'm not growing a beard. I just don't shave sometimes.
Happy birthday, Dani.
Four months ago today I left.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Meet the New Neighbors
Dani and I live in a tall apartment building in one of the wealthiest areas of São Paulo. We're on the same block as one of the city's most convenient Metro stops (think L'Enfant Plaza). We're a short walk from world-class food, shopping and the most important banking center on the continent.
And yet there's no escaping the reality of São Paulo's poverty. Even in areas far richer than ours (there are tens of thousands of millionaires here), the needy always have a presence. You cannot walk more than a few blocks without stepping around one.
At the end of our short street is a tiny triangle-shaped park. "Park" may not even be the best word for it. There's just a handful of trees there.
A few days ago, a group of 10 or so people set up makeshift shelters in the park. Each of them was clearly in deep poverty, but not necessarily resigned to it. Among their tents were a few hand-pulled wagons that are common around here. Men lug them down the street and pile garbage onto them (the carts are big enough to move a couple of motorcycles). They then sell the scraps to recycling centers. It's about as grinding a job as there is in this world, especially when you add in heat, rain and the traffic they share the street with.
The group didn't seem like trouble, but there was still enough of a shirtless-man-standing-around element to make us take the long way home a couple times. The group only stayed a few nights. Then, as if the whole thing never happened, they were gone.
On Monday night, I went out with a friend to watch the US soccer game. Dani stayed home alone. She heard a commotion going on outside. Not from the park, but a different area of the street. It seemed the group had made its way through the rusty gate of an abandoned house across from our building. A problem of some kind had broken out between them, and their voices, man and woman alike, were at full volume.
For the record, Dani and I don't feel in danger in our building. Like most establishments in São Paulo, our apartment complex is similar to a military fortress. To visit us on foot, you'll have to pass through two iron gates, one of which is topped with an electric fence. One to three doormen keep watch over the premises 24 hours a day and you cannot gain access to the building without speaking to one, who then phones the appropriate resident to get the okay. In a lot of ways, I feel safer here than any house (with one deadbolt) that I've ever lived in.
The commotion from the new squatters, however, that could be a different can of worms.
The next day, I stepped outside and paid attention to the house for the first time. As far as abandoned homes go, it's pretty nice. There's a concrete wall around it that's barely holding in a massive, lanky tree--taller than the two-story house itself--that's sprouting softball-sized orange flowers. The house is expansive, maybe three or four bedrooms. The architecture has an Old World Portugal feel to it. Were its windows not missing and its gutted hallways not black from no electricity, it would be a beautiful place to live.
Dani asked me that first night if she should call the police. By the time I arrived, the voices were dying down. There was no indication that something violent had taken place. I said no. Yesterday, we kept a close eye on things, but I heard nothing other than a woman singing a soulful song of heartache as I walked past to get some lunch.
This afternoon, black clouds crawled in over the city. They broke open and a heavy rain, then a decent amount of hail, fell from the sky. I jumped up from my conference call to race around the house, closing windows. It was not a safe time for anyone to be outside.
Afterwards, I went out for an errand. When I returned home, I saw two children standing outside the home's open gate. One had a bucket in his hand. He bent down and stuck it in the gutter where the street's brown rain water washed by. He filled it and then both kids returned inside.
I hadn't told Dani about this moment until she brought up the new neighbors again at dinner. She's worried about them, as am I. Then I told her about the kids and we both didn't talk for a little while.
It's easy to pick up the phone in the tall, secure building, call the police and make a problem go away. But there was no escaping the fact that this was a moral decision. That those kids would then be going somewhere else for the night, in the rain, or in the hail, or riding on the cart that their dad had pulled garbage around in all day.
We haven't made up our minds completely on the subject. For now, we're just going to let things be. I can't see this group's stay lasting for more than a week. There's just too many things that could go wrong for them in an area where there's so much visible wealth. The gate will be bolted once again. The house empty. Maybe in a few months, we'll repeat the process.
The truth is that on this street, like all streets, and in front of this house, like all houses, one must remain alert when in São Paulo. There are the violent and there are the calm. There are the rich and there are the needy. The problem is it's impossible to know who is really who.
Who makes a street unsafe? Who is just looking for a roof from the storm? What makes the voices lash out at one another? What makes a lone woman sing out from the dark?
And yet there's no escaping the reality of São Paulo's poverty. Even in areas far richer than ours (there are tens of thousands of millionaires here), the needy always have a presence. You cannot walk more than a few blocks without stepping around one.
At the end of our short street is a tiny triangle-shaped park. "Park" may not even be the best word for it. There's just a handful of trees there.
A few days ago, a group of 10 or so people set up makeshift shelters in the park. Each of them was clearly in deep poverty, but not necessarily resigned to it. Among their tents were a few hand-pulled wagons that are common around here. Men lug them down the street and pile garbage onto them (the carts are big enough to move a couple of motorcycles). They then sell the scraps to recycling centers. It's about as grinding a job as there is in this world, especially when you add in heat, rain and the traffic they share the street with.
The group didn't seem like trouble, but there was still enough of a shirtless-man-standing-around element to make us take the long way home a couple times. The group only stayed a few nights. Then, as if the whole thing never happened, they were gone.
On Monday night, I went out with a friend to watch the US soccer game. Dani stayed home alone. She heard a commotion going on outside. Not from the park, but a different area of the street. It seemed the group had made its way through the rusty gate of an abandoned house across from our building. A problem of some kind had broken out between them, and their voices, man and woman alike, were at full volume.
For the record, Dani and I don't feel in danger in our building. Like most establishments in São Paulo, our apartment complex is similar to a military fortress. To visit us on foot, you'll have to pass through two iron gates, one of which is topped with an electric fence. One to three doormen keep watch over the premises 24 hours a day and you cannot gain access to the building without speaking to one, who then phones the appropriate resident to get the okay. In a lot of ways, I feel safer here than any house (with one deadbolt) that I've ever lived in.
The commotion from the new squatters, however, that could be a different can of worms.
The next day, I stepped outside and paid attention to the house for the first time. As far as abandoned homes go, it's pretty nice. There's a concrete wall around it that's barely holding in a massive, lanky tree--taller than the two-story house itself--that's sprouting softball-sized orange flowers. The house is expansive, maybe three or four bedrooms. The architecture has an Old World Portugal feel to it. Were its windows not missing and its gutted hallways not black from no electricity, it would be a beautiful place to live.
Dani asked me that first night if she should call the police. By the time I arrived, the voices were dying down. There was no indication that something violent had taken place. I said no. Yesterday, we kept a close eye on things, but I heard nothing other than a woman singing a soulful song of heartache as I walked past to get some lunch.
This afternoon, black clouds crawled in over the city. They broke open and a heavy rain, then a decent amount of hail, fell from the sky. I jumped up from my conference call to race around the house, closing windows. It was not a safe time for anyone to be outside.
Afterwards, I went out for an errand. When I returned home, I saw two children standing outside the home's open gate. One had a bucket in his hand. He bent down and stuck it in the gutter where the street's brown rain water washed by. He filled it and then both kids returned inside.
I hadn't told Dani about this moment until she brought up the new neighbors again at dinner. She's worried about them, as am I. Then I told her about the kids and we both didn't talk for a little while.
It's easy to pick up the phone in the tall, secure building, call the police and make a problem go away. But there was no escaping the fact that this was a moral decision. That those kids would then be going somewhere else for the night, in the rain, or in the hail, or riding on the cart that their dad had pulled garbage around in all day.
We haven't made up our minds completely on the subject. For now, we're just going to let things be. I can't see this group's stay lasting for more than a week. There's just too many things that could go wrong for them in an area where there's so much visible wealth. The gate will be bolted once again. The house empty. Maybe in a few months, we'll repeat the process.
The truth is that on this street, like all streets, and in front of this house, like all houses, one must remain alert when in São Paulo. There are the violent and there are the calm. There are the rich and there are the needy. The problem is it's impossible to know who is really who.
Who makes a street unsafe? Who is just looking for a roof from the storm? What makes the voices lash out at one another? What makes a lone woman sing out from the dark?
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Copa
And so the day has finally come. Years of waiting and then months and then slow, agonizing days. But it finally came. The World Cup in Brazil started on Thursday.
I'll start by saying I'm pretty shallow in the midst of all of this. I'm not a soccer fan. During the last World Cup, I engaged in heated debates with friends about everything that's wrong with the sport and why America, by turning its back on soccer, was smart.
Since the South African games back in '10, I haven't really changed, but the environment around me no doubt has. I fell in love with a Brazilian. I moved to Brazil. I was given a Santos FC jersey by my father-in-law-to-be. He's a diehard fan and if I was moving to the land of the Beautiful Game, well, alliances here are important.
After a fan from a visiting team was killed outside a stadium here a few months ago, Dani told me she didn't want me wearing my jersey on game days anymore. I don't keep up with game days, so that's turned into pretty much ever.
In a similar way, Dani and I spent Wednesday night not discussing Brazil's chances against Croatia or which bar we were going to watch the game from, but instead, if we should leave the house at all. Brazil's anti-World Cup riots have intensified for months now. Rumors of random violence/police clashes were running wild here, fueled by the fact that the violence making the news seemed so random and unpredictable.
Making things worse, Dani had been told by several friends that the city's largest organized gang was planning an attack on civilians Thursday in the form of burning buses (with or without people inside), something she said they had carried out before.
I finally did persuade her out of the house on Thursday, but in my honest opinion, I really thought the day was a total coin toss for the country. Thankfully things have gone to plan so far, and by that I mean no helicopter aerial footage of large-scale looting and fires.
Despite my reservations about soccer, I honestly have been so excited for the big day to arrive. Dani and I donned the green and yellow and found a bar on Rua Augusta. We secured one of the last tables 90 minutes before game time. I was worried the restaurant was a little upscale for real fans, but as the seconds winded down to kickoff, it was clear that everyone in the restaurant, in Sao Paulo, in Brazil is a real fan. Dani's fallen asleep on the couch beside me many times over the past couple years as I've watched my sports. On Thursday, I've rarely seen her as into anything as she was this game.
In this kind of environment, where the collective happiness and perhaps safety of everyone you know rests on the outcome of a 90 game, it's impossible not to be into soccer. I guess one big reason I was never into it before was that I had no skin in the game. That's changed completely. And Brazil vs. Croatia is about the most fun I've had watching any sport in a good five years.
Brazilians felt pretty confident going into the match. That dropped through the floor when Croatia struck in the opening minutes (mistakenly off the foot of a Brazilian player no less). The air in the bar was completely sucked out. Nothing left but a mix of this-can-not-be-happenings and silence.
The pressure over the next hour plus as Brazil eventually put away one, two and then three goals was enough to make you choke. Every time Croatia booted the ball horizontally across the field in front of Brazil's goal, the voices in the room shot up to screams of pure terror. When Brazil scored each of its three goals, the place swung to instant euphoria. Horns. Vuvuzelas. High fives. Fireworks outside. Hugs. Kisses. Kisses. Kisses.
The streets afterwards were filled with car horns, loud stereos playing, bros with their arms around each other's shoulders, drunk girls draped in Brazilian flags laughing and screaming. The country, as a whole, felt untouchable. And all of this after just one match. As the stakes get higher over the next few weeks, I don't really know how people are going to handle it.
I'm completely on board the World Cup bandwagon this year. If Brazil gets eliminated it will honestly crack my heart open a little. But if they win…well, I guess the world will just have to see.
I'll start by saying I'm pretty shallow in the midst of all of this. I'm not a soccer fan. During the last World Cup, I engaged in heated debates with friends about everything that's wrong with the sport and why America, by turning its back on soccer, was smart.
Since the South African games back in '10, I haven't really changed, but the environment around me no doubt has. I fell in love with a Brazilian. I moved to Brazil. I was given a Santos FC jersey by my father-in-law-to-be. He's a diehard fan and if I was moving to the land of the Beautiful Game, well, alliances here are important.
After a fan from a visiting team was killed outside a stadium here a few months ago, Dani told me she didn't want me wearing my jersey on game days anymore. I don't keep up with game days, so that's turned into pretty much ever.
In a similar way, Dani and I spent Wednesday night not discussing Brazil's chances against Croatia or which bar we were going to watch the game from, but instead, if we should leave the house at all. Brazil's anti-World Cup riots have intensified for months now. Rumors of random violence/police clashes were running wild here, fueled by the fact that the violence making the news seemed so random and unpredictable.
Making things worse, Dani had been told by several friends that the city's largest organized gang was planning an attack on civilians Thursday in the form of burning buses (with or without people inside), something she said they had carried out before.
I finally did persuade her out of the house on Thursday, but in my honest opinion, I really thought the day was a total coin toss for the country. Thankfully things have gone to plan so far, and by that I mean no helicopter aerial footage of large-scale looting and fires.
Despite my reservations about soccer, I honestly have been so excited for the big day to arrive. Dani and I donned the green and yellow and found a bar on Rua Augusta. We secured one of the last tables 90 minutes before game time. I was worried the restaurant was a little upscale for real fans, but as the seconds winded down to kickoff, it was clear that everyone in the restaurant, in Sao Paulo, in Brazil is a real fan. Dani's fallen asleep on the couch beside me many times over the past couple years as I've watched my sports. On Thursday, I've rarely seen her as into anything as she was this game.
In this kind of environment, where the collective happiness and perhaps safety of everyone you know rests on the outcome of a 90 game, it's impossible not to be into soccer. I guess one big reason I was never into it before was that I had no skin in the game. That's changed completely. And Brazil vs. Croatia is about the most fun I've had watching any sport in a good five years.
Brazilians felt pretty confident going into the match. That dropped through the floor when Croatia struck in the opening minutes (mistakenly off the foot of a Brazilian player no less). The air in the bar was completely sucked out. Nothing left but a mix of this-can-not-be-happenings and silence.
The pressure over the next hour plus as Brazil eventually put away one, two and then three goals was enough to make you choke. Every time Croatia booted the ball horizontally across the field in front of Brazil's goal, the voices in the room shot up to screams of pure terror. When Brazil scored each of its three goals, the place swung to instant euphoria. Horns. Vuvuzelas. High fives. Fireworks outside. Hugs. Kisses. Kisses. Kisses.
The streets afterwards were filled with car horns, loud stereos playing, bros with their arms around each other's shoulders, drunk girls draped in Brazilian flags laughing and screaming. The country, as a whole, felt untouchable. And all of this after just one match. As the stakes get higher over the next few weeks, I don't really know how people are going to handle it.
I'm completely on board the World Cup bandwagon this year. If Brazil gets eliminated it will honestly crack my heart open a little. But if they win…well, I guess the world will just have to see.
Penalty kick by Neymar against Croatia. Brazil's second goal of the day.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Exploring the Brazilian Medical System, Pt. 2: A Visit to the Doctor
The Doctor
I have private health insurance here in Brazil. It's a necessity since: A) I don't think I'm allowed to use the public single-payer system and B) With the exception of a few hospitals, the public system is widely regarded as deplorable.
(A quick note: This isn't a political piece. Although the parallels to the US's current state of healthcare seem clear, comparing the two countries is beyond apples and oranges. It's more like apples and umbrellas. US public healthcare will outperform Brazilian public care by lightyears, the same way that American schools, roads and government do. It's basically the reason for the World Cup protests you're seeing. Brazilians are sick of going to crumbling schools and hospitals while the government spends US $11,000,000,000 to put on a needless show.)
It was time for some blood work, so my private translator/fiancee called up my local provider and we made an appointment. Yesterday, we met with a Dr. So and So. He asked a bunch of questions, Dani translated and he typed info into his database.
When the news came out that Dani and I were to be wed in a few months, he asked if I wanted to get my sperm tested to see how our chances of reproduction look (Note: It's the first time a doctor has ever asked and it's probably time. Guys don't really talk about this, but basically all of us have no idea what hand we've been dealt in life.).
He asked if I wanted to give them a sample. I declined. Then he said something else. Something that Dani did not translate. There was a pause and then he went straight in with some rudimentary English, saying, "She can help you."
Good one, doc. Just what I'm looking for in a healthcare provider: a nefarious and completely inappropriate sense of humor. Dani was mortified. Not so much that he said it, but that he saw that she didn't want me to hear it and then went the extra mile to make sure I did.
He asked a few more questions, scheduled a follow up and then sent us on our way. I asked, "What about the blood? I thought I was giving them blood samples." The doc explained that I had to go to the hospital down the street the next day and do it. His office didn't have the necessary lab and they wanted me to go 10 hours without food before giving the sample.
So, this morning we went to the local hospital. It was pretty immaculate inside. We waited with the other blood and urine donors for about twenty minutes, in which time we heard a five year old in one of the exam rooms vocalizing through screams the same fear of needles that I'm sure half the adults in the waiting room had. I thought it was worth a chuckle.
A few minutes later, Joam Markee Day-vay-son was called and I surrendered the red. No money exchanged hands. Whenever the bill comes, I'm sure it will be minuscule or completely covered (Note: According to my healthcare company's pamphlet, a helicopter airlift runs about US $2).
Brazilian private healthcare looks to be on the same level as American healthcare at a fraction of the cost. I guess you just have to find the doctor with the better jokes.
I have private health insurance here in Brazil. It's a necessity since: A) I don't think I'm allowed to use the public single-payer system and B) With the exception of a few hospitals, the public system is widely regarded as deplorable.
(A quick note: This isn't a political piece. Although the parallels to the US's current state of healthcare seem clear, comparing the two countries is beyond apples and oranges. It's more like apples and umbrellas. US public healthcare will outperform Brazilian public care by lightyears, the same way that American schools, roads and government do. It's basically the reason for the World Cup protests you're seeing. Brazilians are sick of going to crumbling schools and hospitals while the government spends US $11,000,000,000 to put on a needless show.)
It was time for some blood work, so my private translator/fiancee called up my local provider and we made an appointment. Yesterday, we met with a Dr. So and So. He asked a bunch of questions, Dani translated and he typed info into his database.
When the news came out that Dani and I were to be wed in a few months, he asked if I wanted to get my sperm tested to see how our chances of reproduction look (Note: It's the first time a doctor has ever asked and it's probably time. Guys don't really talk about this, but basically all of us have no idea what hand we've been dealt in life.).
He asked if I wanted to give them a sample. I declined. Then he said something else. Something that Dani did not translate. There was a pause and then he went straight in with some rudimentary English, saying, "She can help you."
Good one, doc. Just what I'm looking for in a healthcare provider: a nefarious and completely inappropriate sense of humor. Dani was mortified. Not so much that he said it, but that he saw that she didn't want me to hear it and then went the extra mile to make sure I did.
He asked a few more questions, scheduled a follow up and then sent us on our way. I asked, "What about the blood? I thought I was giving them blood samples." The doc explained that I had to go to the hospital down the street the next day and do it. His office didn't have the necessary lab and they wanted me to go 10 hours without food before giving the sample.
So, this morning we went to the local hospital. It was pretty immaculate inside. We waited with the other blood and urine donors for about twenty minutes, in which time we heard a five year old in one of the exam rooms vocalizing through screams the same fear of needles that I'm sure half the adults in the waiting room had. I thought it was worth a chuckle.
A few minutes later, Joam Markee Day-vay-son was called and I surrendered the red. No money exchanged hands. Whenever the bill comes, I'm sure it will be minuscule or completely covered (Note: According to my healthcare company's pamphlet, a helicopter airlift runs about US $2).
Brazilian private healthcare looks to be on the same level as American healthcare at a fraction of the cost. I guess you just have to find the doctor with the better jokes.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Exploring the Brazilian Medical System, Pt. 1: A Visit to the Dentist
This week I've got a series of doctor appointments. It's my first dip into the Brazilian medical system. It's something I've been nervous about, but obviously something I've got to face.
Yesterday, I paid my first visit to the dentist.
The Dentist
I've never liked going to the dentist in any country. In the months leading up to my departure from the US, I made a list of all the things I needed to do before taking off. I gathered and submitted countless forms to get my visa, I opened a new bank account, I shopped for necessities I couldn't buy abroad. It seems nothing on the list was neglected except for going to the dentist.
In my first weeks here, I saw what looked to be a cavity digging its way into one my back chompers. I knew it was time to man up and face the music.
I asked for recommendations on a gringo Facebook group and went with a Dr. So and So. It will be my only visit to his office. Depending on the mood I'm in, it was either the best or worst dental check up I've ever had.
The office had a nice setup. All of the equipment was on par with the US of A. The doc was a nice guy, very pleasant. We wanted to know the price (I don't have dental insurance) and he said he would give an estimate after taking a look. I laid back in the chair, opened wide and, to my surprise, he said, "Your teeth look perfect!" I asked about the cavity I suspected and he said not to worry, it wasn't one.
He was ready to send me on my way right there or I could stay for a cleaning to the tune of R $350 (US $157.49). Needless to say, I was about to stand up and go, but figured I had already come all the way out and was overdo for a cleaning. So, I accepted.
That's when the professionalism took a turn for the worse. Beside my chair was a stack of DVDs that the doc could play on a wall-mounted flatscreen. It was mostly relaxing music videos, concert footage, etc. to put patients at ease. He rifled through a few, put one into the TV and adjusted the volume with the remote control.
Not a problem except for the fact he was still wearing the latex gloves he used to examine my mouth. I watched him do all this with the TV, then leave the room, return, open a few more drawers, pull out some more equipment and fiddle with some paperwork. Then, sure enough, he sat back down on his stool and was ready to go to work on me.
The remote control. Are you kidding me? You don't have to be a doctor--which he was--to know that's one of the most unsanitary items in the world and one of the last things you would ever want to touch before performing a medical procedure on someone.
"Tell him to change his gloves," I said to Dani, who was with me to translate. Embarrassedly, she did and the doc obliged, not seeming to think much of it.
With fresh gloves on, he took his tools--which only God knows the condition of--and started scraping. And scraping and scraping and scraping. And drilling. And numbing. And flossing. And polishing. And more scraping. And then more scraping again.
The cleaning took an hour and fifteen minutes. That's one and one quarter hours on just my mouth. No surgery. No braces. Just cleaning. I can only imagine how long I would've been there had my teeth not already been perfect.
I can honestly say, my teeth right now are the cleanest they've ever been. And assuming my gums don't break out into sores on account of his shady professional hygiene, it's probably the best money I've ever spent at the dentist.
And yet still, there's no way I can go back to that guy. In fact, the experience soured me to the point that it's going to take a lot to get me into another dental chair while I'm here. Unless I'm in agony, I'm holding out for the US. And even there, I still won't want to go.
As soon as I got back to our apartment, I took out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide that my mom recently brought from the US, poured it into a glass and gargled my way towards the light of sanitation.
Yesterday, I paid my first visit to the dentist.
The Dentist
I've never liked going to the dentist in any country. In the months leading up to my departure from the US, I made a list of all the things I needed to do before taking off. I gathered and submitted countless forms to get my visa, I opened a new bank account, I shopped for necessities I couldn't buy abroad. It seems nothing on the list was neglected except for going to the dentist.
In my first weeks here, I saw what looked to be a cavity digging its way into one my back chompers. I knew it was time to man up and face the music.
I asked for recommendations on a gringo Facebook group and went with a Dr. So and So. It will be my only visit to his office. Depending on the mood I'm in, it was either the best or worst dental check up I've ever had.
The office had a nice setup. All of the equipment was on par with the US of A. The doc was a nice guy, very pleasant. We wanted to know the price (I don't have dental insurance) and he said he would give an estimate after taking a look. I laid back in the chair, opened wide and, to my surprise, he said, "Your teeth look perfect!" I asked about the cavity I suspected and he said not to worry, it wasn't one.
He was ready to send me on my way right there or I could stay for a cleaning to the tune of R $350 (US $157.49). Needless to say, I was about to stand up and go, but figured I had already come all the way out and was overdo for a cleaning. So, I accepted.
That's when the professionalism took a turn for the worse. Beside my chair was a stack of DVDs that the doc could play on a wall-mounted flatscreen. It was mostly relaxing music videos, concert footage, etc. to put patients at ease. He rifled through a few, put one into the TV and adjusted the volume with the remote control.
Not a problem except for the fact he was still wearing the latex gloves he used to examine my mouth. I watched him do all this with the TV, then leave the room, return, open a few more drawers, pull out some more equipment and fiddle with some paperwork. Then, sure enough, he sat back down on his stool and was ready to go to work on me.
The remote control. Are you kidding me? You don't have to be a doctor--which he was--to know that's one of the most unsanitary items in the world and one of the last things you would ever want to touch before performing a medical procedure on someone.
"Tell him to change his gloves," I said to Dani, who was with me to translate. Embarrassedly, she did and the doc obliged, not seeming to think much of it.
With fresh gloves on, he took his tools--which only God knows the condition of--and started scraping. And scraping and scraping and scraping. And drilling. And numbing. And flossing. And polishing. And more scraping. And then more scraping again.
The cleaning took an hour and fifteen minutes. That's one and one quarter hours on just my mouth. No surgery. No braces. Just cleaning. I can only imagine how long I would've been there had my teeth not already been perfect.
I can honestly say, my teeth right now are the cleanest they've ever been. And assuming my gums don't break out into sores on account of his shady professional hygiene, it's probably the best money I've ever spent at the dentist.
And yet still, there's no way I can go back to that guy. In fact, the experience soured me to the point that it's going to take a lot to get me into another dental chair while I'm here. Unless I'm in agony, I'm holding out for the US. And even there, I still won't want to go.
As soon as I got back to our apartment, I took out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide that my mom recently brought from the US, poured it into a glass and gargled my way towards the light of sanitation.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Snapshots Pt. IV
Three and a half months in Brazil.
-Our local mall might as well be called English Land. Basically no one speaks it, but you see it everywhere you go. Most of the stores have English names that the employees all pronounce as if they were Portuguese. A store called Hope is pronounced "hope-ee." Many other names don't really make sense at all, like "World Tennis," "Mr. Cat" or "Deny Sports."
Most stores play exclusively English-language music. Basically every t-shirt with writing on it is written in English. Young people gravitate toward shirts with tongue-in-cheek phrases on them about how they love to party, have sex, etc. Other shirts have screen prints of urban life and say something about New York City or, just simply, "Philadelphia." And still others don't really grasp the translation at all, such as the one I saw yesterday: "Life is for deep discourses and strong motions…"
T-shirts displaying American name brand logos are popular here, in particular, Nike, Ambercrombie and Fitch, Jack Daniels and especially the Gap. Wear any of these here and you're going to be the bomb. Bring one of these here to sell and you'll be amazed how much you can get.
-In general, knowing English here is impressive, lucrative and above all else, cool. I try to keep my voice down in public because it is guaranteed to draw attention. In a bad neighborhood, that can be risky. In the mall, it just triggers stares and whispers.
-Before leaving America, I interviewed with several banks, trying to figure out what would be the best option for me being outside of the country for so long. I went with Capital One and I've been pleased with it ever since. If you're someone who travels internationally a lot, their no foreign transaction fees and no ATM fees is the only way to go.
-It's always fun to hand a sales clerk here my credit card or driver's license. The look on their face shifts completely. They study it, then flip it over, then flip it back and study it some more. Dani and I went to the movies the other night and the concessions girl laughed at my card and then showed it to a co-worker beside her.
-ATMs in Brazil are few and far between. This is mostly for safety. Using an ATM on the street, should you ever find one (I can't), is highly discouraged. Instead, ATMs can be found in banks, airports and, most conveniently, shopping malls.
-Earlier this week I noticed the ATM I usually use had an exchange rate that was noticeably more favorable to the dollar than the actual exchange rate. I withdrew some cash and ended up netting a little over US $16 out of thin air.
-Our electricity bill this month happens to be US $16.08. It's amazing what having no air conditioning, heat, dishwasher or clothes dryer will do to your bills.
-From the list above, I miss the dryer the most (in this weather anyway).
-Dani and I recently watched all six episodes online of the TLC show 90 Day Fiance. It follows four American men who bring their international girlfriends over on a K-1 Visa. The visa stipulates that the couple has 90 days to legally marry or the foreigner has to return home. Before moving here, Dani and I considered every option in how to stay together. We almost went the K-1 route.
We watched the show as a joke. We wanted to see how much of a nightmare Paola, an elitist from Colombia could be. Or how much Aziza from Russia had to swallow her dissatisfactions with Mike from Cleveland in order to enjoy the new life she dreamed of.
We didn't expect the story of Kirlyam, a sweetheart from a tiny village in Brazil, to impact us the way it did. Kirlyam fell in love with her Mormon missionary Allan and moved to Los Angeles to be with him. She had a heart of gold that came out in her rudimentary English. Hearing her tell her family in Portuguese over Skype how much she missed them sent me back to a year ago when I heard Dani wiping the same tears from her eyes in the next room as she talked to her parents. And in Kirlyam's face I saw the same pain that I feel when I think about home and the people I love, the things that they're doing that I'm not there to see. And Dani and I watched it and we weren't laughing anymore. And the tears rolled down our cheeks.
-Nothing is quite as satisfying as when I press the Purchase button for an airline ticket to the US of A.
-When I think about returning home, I honestly think about the places where I want to eat with my friends and family as much as I think about the people themselves. It will be a reckless time of Mexican feasts, Thai food and Ben and Jerry's ice cream. First on the list will no doubt be Five Guys.
My first three months here I sort of blocked Five Guys out of my mind. Then about two weeks ago I had a dream about it and it's been on my mind ever since. That first bite in particular, when the meat and cheese are hanging out over the side and you barely get any bread in your mouth. I think about that now every day.
-Since living here I have dreamed about Five Guys, Bojangles and on two different occasions, Ben and Jerry's.
-Dani and I watched the opening battle from Saving Private Ryan in honor of Memorial Day. US holidays mean more to me now than they did when I was there. The 4th of July will be tough this year, as it was last year. September 11 was especially difficult last year. I think for me that will always be the most patriotic day of the year.
-I worked Memorial Day in order to take off this Thursday. It's a federal holiday here because the World Cup begins with Brazil taking on Croatia. I'm no soccer fan, but I'm getting more and more excited as the day approaches. And honestly, I watched two of Brazil's practice matches where they easily dismembered Panama and Serbia and it's exhilarating when they finally score. I'm sure that "Gooooolllllllllllllllll!" call from the announcer helps a little bit.
-Thursday is also Valentine's Day here.
-I want Brazil to win. I have no interest in the US Team other than hearing the National Anthem, which I haven't heard since I left.
-Is Brazil ready for the World Cup? Is there going to be chaos? Honestly, I think it's a coin toss. It's going to be a spectacle either way.
-Our local mall might as well be called English Land. Basically no one speaks it, but you see it everywhere you go. Most of the stores have English names that the employees all pronounce as if they were Portuguese. A store called Hope is pronounced "hope-ee." Many other names don't really make sense at all, like "World Tennis," "Mr. Cat" or "Deny Sports."
Most stores play exclusively English-language music. Basically every t-shirt with writing on it is written in English. Young people gravitate toward shirts with tongue-in-cheek phrases on them about how they love to party, have sex, etc. Other shirts have screen prints of urban life and say something about New York City or, just simply, "Philadelphia." And still others don't really grasp the translation at all, such as the one I saw yesterday: "Life is for deep discourses and strong motions…"
T-shirts displaying American name brand logos are popular here, in particular, Nike, Ambercrombie and Fitch, Jack Daniels and especially the Gap. Wear any of these here and you're going to be the bomb. Bring one of these here to sell and you'll be amazed how much you can get.
-In general, knowing English here is impressive, lucrative and above all else, cool. I try to keep my voice down in public because it is guaranteed to draw attention. In a bad neighborhood, that can be risky. In the mall, it just triggers stares and whispers.
-Before leaving America, I interviewed with several banks, trying to figure out what would be the best option for me being outside of the country for so long. I went with Capital One and I've been pleased with it ever since. If you're someone who travels internationally a lot, their no foreign transaction fees and no ATM fees is the only way to go.
-It's always fun to hand a sales clerk here my credit card or driver's license. The look on their face shifts completely. They study it, then flip it over, then flip it back and study it some more. Dani and I went to the movies the other night and the concessions girl laughed at my card and then showed it to a co-worker beside her.
-ATMs in Brazil are few and far between. This is mostly for safety. Using an ATM on the street, should you ever find one (I can't), is highly discouraged. Instead, ATMs can be found in banks, airports and, most conveniently, shopping malls.
-Earlier this week I noticed the ATM I usually use had an exchange rate that was noticeably more favorable to the dollar than the actual exchange rate. I withdrew some cash and ended up netting a little over US $16 out of thin air.
-Our electricity bill this month happens to be US $16.08. It's amazing what having no air conditioning, heat, dishwasher or clothes dryer will do to your bills.
-From the list above, I miss the dryer the most (in this weather anyway).
-Dani and I recently watched all six episodes online of the TLC show 90 Day Fiance. It follows four American men who bring their international girlfriends over on a K-1 Visa. The visa stipulates that the couple has 90 days to legally marry or the foreigner has to return home. Before moving here, Dani and I considered every option in how to stay together. We almost went the K-1 route.
We watched the show as a joke. We wanted to see how much of a nightmare Paola, an elitist from Colombia could be. Or how much Aziza from Russia had to swallow her dissatisfactions with Mike from Cleveland in order to enjoy the new life she dreamed of.
We didn't expect the story of Kirlyam, a sweetheart from a tiny village in Brazil, to impact us the way it did. Kirlyam fell in love with her Mormon missionary Allan and moved to Los Angeles to be with him. She had a heart of gold that came out in her rudimentary English. Hearing her tell her family in Portuguese over Skype how much she missed them sent me back to a year ago when I heard Dani wiping the same tears from her eyes in the next room as she talked to her parents. And in Kirlyam's face I saw the same pain that I feel when I think about home and the people I love, the things that they're doing that I'm not there to see. And Dani and I watched it and we weren't laughing anymore. And the tears rolled down our cheeks.
-Nothing is quite as satisfying as when I press the Purchase button for an airline ticket to the US of A.
-When I think about returning home, I honestly think about the places where I want to eat with my friends and family as much as I think about the people themselves. It will be a reckless time of Mexican feasts, Thai food and Ben and Jerry's ice cream. First on the list will no doubt be Five Guys.
My first three months here I sort of blocked Five Guys out of my mind. Then about two weeks ago I had a dream about it and it's been on my mind ever since. That first bite in particular, when the meat and cheese are hanging out over the side and you barely get any bread in your mouth. I think about that now every day.
-Since living here I have dreamed about Five Guys, Bojangles and on two different occasions, Ben and Jerry's.
-Dani and I watched the opening battle from Saving Private Ryan in honor of Memorial Day. US holidays mean more to me now than they did when I was there. The 4th of July will be tough this year, as it was last year. September 11 was especially difficult last year. I think for me that will always be the most patriotic day of the year.
-I worked Memorial Day in order to take off this Thursday. It's a federal holiday here because the World Cup begins with Brazil taking on Croatia. I'm no soccer fan, but I'm getting more and more excited as the day approaches. And honestly, I watched two of Brazil's practice matches where they easily dismembered Panama and Serbia and it's exhilarating when they finally score. I'm sure that "Gooooolllllllllllllllll!" call from the announcer helps a little bit.
-Thursday is also Valentine's Day here.
-I want Brazil to win. I have no interest in the US Team other than hearing the National Anthem, which I haven't heard since I left.
-Is Brazil ready for the World Cup? Is there going to be chaos? Honestly, I think it's a coin toss. It's going to be a spectacle either way.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
One Week to Go
The World Cup starts next Thursday, June 12. I still can't tell you why the official mascot this year is an armadillo.
Not the anaconda
or the jaguar
or the monkey
or the piranha
or even this sweet little goalkeeper:
Not the anaconda
or the jaguar
or the monkey
or the piranha
or even this sweet little goalkeeper:
Also, the armadillo is holding the soccer ball. Really? Do I have to explain the concept of the game?
Monday, June 2, 2014
Afternoon Kings
Brazil and the US are two very different places. America does a lot of things better. Barbecuing is not one of them.
A weekend barbecue in Brazil, or churrasco ("shoo-haas-co"), as they call it, is arguably the best thing to do in this country. It's relaxed, pleasant, fun and inclusive, even if you don't know most of the people there. American barbecues are a blast too, but they haven't been perfected the way churrascos have.
Let's talk differences:
1. Menu.
American cookouts usually center around hamburgers and hot dogs. In the south, they go more for pulled pork and maybe some smoked ribs. It makes for a tasty meal, but compared to Brazil it's pretty JV.
Here, the name of the game is steak. Brazilians bring out the best cuts when it's churrasco time. Picanha, in particular, speckled with rock salt, almost requires one to close his eyes when chewing. It's that good.
There's also a thick sausage called linguica, grilled chicken, ribs, cheese bread and cheese-stuffed-turkey. A lot of it on skewers. Yesterday, I saw cubes of cheese grilled for 30 minutes until they were darkly-toasted on the outside and perfect in the middle.
Side dishes usually include rice, beans, potato salad, bread, salad, etc. It's neither here nor there. America does a better job with sides. Corn on the cob and mashed potatoes are sometimes better than your hamburger. In Brazil, they don't seem to care as much. It's all about the meat.
2. Timing.
At my first churrasco, I helped Dani and a few others in the kitchen cooking some rice and chopping some vegetables. We were a good hour away from eating. When I looked outside, I saw Dani's dad throw eight steaks on the grill.
"Woah, woah, woah," I said to Dani. "What's he doing?" Seeing good meat go to waste gives me a pregnancy-scare level of fear.
Dani told me to relax. Six minutes later, Robison pulled off the first slab and sliced it up on a cutting board. He brought it in and we all enjoyed a piece. Then came the second steak, the third, the fourth and on and on.
You don't really need a plate at a churrasco. In America, barbecues are relaxed, but there's usually a formal start time when the first round of food is ready. In Brazil, you're eating the entire time you're there. There's no start or finish. It's not lunch or dinner. It's just one steak after another.
3. Quantity.
It's ridiculous. Americans are famous gluttons, but at churrascos, Brazilians are king for the day. I've yet to see a churrasco come anywhere close to running out of food. We hosted one here two weeks ago when my mom visited. We've still got meat from it in our freezer.
On average, you're going to eat about three steaks worth in an afternoon. Maybe 45 ounces total. Then there's the sausage, bread and eventually dessert.
4. Beverages.
Beer and caipirinhas. That's all you need.
5. Length.
Schedules vary, but here's one I've experienced and like the most.
Let's say you tell your friends the churrasco starts at 2:00 pm.
11:00 am Two friends come over. They help you cook some rice and take some beer off your hands.
2:00 pm The churrasco "begins."
2:20 pm You and your two friends return from the grocery store with all the meat.
2:35 pm Your first guest arrives.
3:00 pm The grill is lit. More guests arrive.
3:28 pm The first steak comes off the grill. Grab a piece.
5:15 pm You finish your second complete steak.
6:05 pm Hey, there's a karaoke machine.
7:23 pm That feels like three steaks.
8:00 pm Cake!
9:03 pm What are you guys doing tonight?
A weekend barbecue in Brazil, or churrasco ("shoo-haas-co"), as they call it, is arguably the best thing to do in this country. It's relaxed, pleasant, fun and inclusive, even if you don't know most of the people there. American barbecues are a blast too, but they haven't been perfected the way churrascos have.
Let's talk differences:
1. Menu.
American cookouts usually center around hamburgers and hot dogs. In the south, they go more for pulled pork and maybe some smoked ribs. It makes for a tasty meal, but compared to Brazil it's pretty JV.
Here, the name of the game is steak. Brazilians bring out the best cuts when it's churrasco time. Picanha, in particular, speckled with rock salt, almost requires one to close his eyes when chewing. It's that good.
There's also a thick sausage called linguica, grilled chicken, ribs, cheese bread and cheese-stuffed-turkey. A lot of it on skewers. Yesterday, I saw cubes of cheese grilled for 30 minutes until they were darkly-toasted on the outside and perfect in the middle.
Side dishes usually include rice, beans, potato salad, bread, salad, etc. It's neither here nor there. America does a better job with sides. Corn on the cob and mashed potatoes are sometimes better than your hamburger. In Brazil, they don't seem to care as much. It's all about the meat.
Picanha with farofa (ground yuca topping).
2. Timing.
At my first churrasco, I helped Dani and a few others in the kitchen cooking some rice and chopping some vegetables. We were a good hour away from eating. When I looked outside, I saw Dani's dad throw eight steaks on the grill.
"Woah, woah, woah," I said to Dani. "What's he doing?" Seeing good meat go to waste gives me a pregnancy-scare level of fear.
Dani told me to relax. Six minutes later, Robison pulled off the first slab and sliced it up on a cutting board. He brought it in and we all enjoyed a piece. Then came the second steak, the third, the fourth and on and on.
You don't really need a plate at a churrasco. In America, barbecues are relaxed, but there's usually a formal start time when the first round of food is ready. In Brazil, you're eating the entire time you're there. There's no start or finish. It's not lunch or dinner. It's just one steak after another.
Edna throwing on some more steak.
3. Quantity.
It's ridiculous. Americans are famous gluttons, but at churrascos, Brazilians are king for the day. I've yet to see a churrasco come anywhere close to running out of food. We hosted one here two weeks ago when my mom visited. We've still got meat from it in our freezer.
On average, you're going to eat about three steaks worth in an afternoon. Maybe 45 ounces total. Then there's the sausage, bread and eventually dessert.
Robison cooks one of probably eight rounds.
4. Beverages.
Beer and caipirinhas. That's all you need.
5. Length.
Schedules vary, but here's one I've experienced and like the most.
Let's say you tell your friends the churrasco starts at 2:00 pm.
11:00 am Two friends come over. They help you cook some rice and take some beer off your hands.
2:00 pm The churrasco "begins."
2:20 pm You and your two friends return from the grocery store with all the meat.
2:35 pm Your first guest arrives.
3:00 pm The grill is lit. More guests arrive.
3:28 pm The first steak comes off the grill. Grab a piece.
5:15 pm You finish your second complete steak.
6:05 pm Hey, there's a karaoke machine.
7:23 pm That feels like three steaks.
8:00 pm Cake!
9:03 pm What are you guys doing tonight?
Let's keep the party going.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)