Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Like Letter, No. 2

Dear Municipal Bus of Porto Alegre,

I didn't expect to be writing you again so soon. However, after yesterday's events, I am certain that you read my first letter and were determined to test exactly how much I liked you. Or at least how much I was willing to let go and enjoy the ride.

It all started when I rushed out of the Cesmapa office located way out there practically in the countryside, and I saw you driving away. "Run!" said the girls at the bus stop and so run I did, crossing the street, past folks enjoying the afternoon as they sat in chairs outside the convenience store.

Unfortunately, I'm no Forrest Gump and away you drove around the pretty sunlit corner leaving me panting in the distance. The folks looked at me from their chairs with bemused expressions as I walked past them again, a block back to the bus stop.

I sighed and laughed. You wouldn't be coming by again for another hour. I was going to miss my appointment.  But what could I do? I didn't know. I couldn't afford a taxi that's for sure.

I grinned sheepishly at the girls as another one of you pulled up. "This one's going to the center too," they said, "...eventually." They drew maps with their fingers of all the twists and turns you would take before you even started heading where I needed to go, which was already good 30-40 minute ride to begin with.

I was a little concerned about this, seeing as I needed to be at a meeting at the university in exactly one hour and 15 minutes. I asked your driver how long he estimated this ride might take. "Don't worry," he said, "In a bit I can drop you off at a bus stop that will have other buses passing through going straight to the center."

"Ok" I said and laughed at my silly situation as I gave my money to the clerk. Well, it wasn't that big of a deal, really. Hadn't I always said that I wanted to have the time to get on random buses and get tours of parts of the city I'd never seen before? True, I had. You must have read my mind and wanted to give me this gift. Ha, or at least that's what you're saying now.

And for a half hour it was lovely. Really, I mean it. We were rattling down red dirt roads with little shacks and green trees. It was hard to remember that I had woken up that morning in a city because I certainly wasn't in one now. As those girls had illustrated quite correctly, our path was not a straight line. The bus even had to back up several times to get out of the roads it had gone down.

Eventually, after twists and turns and a return to paved roads, your driver stopped and walked off you  with me, telling me that from here I could catch a bus downtown and it would be much quicker this way. He brought me to a man in uniform with a clipboard listing all the buses and the minute they'd arrive, who nodded in agreement that this was the place for me to be if I wanted to get where I wanted to go.

This bus stop stood in the median of a gray stone road, open to incoming and outgoing traffic. I couldn't see far because of all the foliage and had no idea what this road led to. It looked like a grand colonial style building off there in the distance. Nearby, a man was selling grilled meat under tent. Another man with no legs, in a wheel chair, with a pile of dried herbs next to him. People were everywhere. On the sides of the road. In the median. Some looked like they were just there for the entertainment and might not actually be going anywhere.

An older woman asked many questions of a little girl, her parents standing nearby but not participating, practically ignoring the older woman. Stray dogs wandered amongst the people. Sometimes barking at each other, then running off together. People kept inquiring about buses with the man with the clipboard. "It'll be here in 3 minutes," he'd reply in a friendly tone. Generally, he was close to right. There were just so many of us on this covered platform and we all seemed a bit odd.  I felt as though at any moment I might discover that I'd just walked on the set of a surreal play.

Eventually (leaving me only 30 minutes to get to my appointment) another one of you pulled up at the stop. The man with the clipboard, pointed at you and told me that you were the one for me. And on I went. I sat through this ride intermittently recognizing where I was. But I also started to wonder where exactly in the center of the city you might leave me. As you know, downtown Porto Alegre isn't that small. I might have to take a cab. And I didn't have a phone number for the woman I was meeting. I had no idea if I'd arrive on time.

I was a little nervous but also just amused. Staring out the window. Staring at my watch. Crossing my fingers as we got closer to the center that you would go down roads that I knew. And you did! I have to like you for this, don't I? You didn't have to be so nice to me. But you took me right to the bus stop I needed to get to and you let me off with five minutes to get to my appointment. I briskly walked to the department, jumped in the elevator and strolled into the 6th floor office at precisely 6:00 PM.

Wow. Was I cool or what? Yeah, yeah, I know that it's really due to you, testing me and all that to see if I really trusted you. Well, I did trust you. I mean, what choice did I have?

But the best part of all of this was that when I opened that door to the office, my colleagues looked up at me. Then they looked up at the clock. Then they laughed and said, "My God you're just like the British. Look at you walking in here exactly on time. To the minute!"

I looked at them and said, "You have no idea!" And then told them all about my adventures with you.

I appreciate that you took it easy on me today during my four bus rides. That was compassionate of you. Though -- and please don't take this as a sign to increase the rate of adventures I have while on you -- yesterday was fun.

Sincerely,
Libélula Azul

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

A Tree for a Saturday

It was a Saturday morning. I stood outside the Lomba office with my supervisor. There we were, ready to immerse ourselves in paperwork that was hard to get done on weekdays.

Except we couldn't get in the building. The gate was locked with a thick chain and padlock. The guard was nowhere to be seen. "Why is it?" I asked, "That you don't all have keys?" I was curious, since life seemed much more complicated this way.

"I do have keys to our office room inside," said my supervisor, "But out here, it's a question of security."

I hadn't realized that there was supposed to be a guard in the building 24/7. Except at this particular moment, the guard wasn't there. My supervisor was on the phone trying to figure out what was going on. And there was little I could do to be helpful, except wait.

I looked up and saw the most lovely tree.


How could it be that I'd never observed its splendor before?

Admiring this tree, I finally observed that we were standing outside in the midst of a delicious day. It felt good to be waiting on this sidewalk with a big blue sky overhead. Instead of pointing out this revelation to my supervisor and interrupting her phone conversation, I contained myself by taking a couple of photos.



A few minutes later the doorman arrived, walking down the sidewalk towards us, apologizing: "Sorry, I just stepped out for a quick cup of coffee at home."

We left the sunshine outside and went inside to our work.

Monday, March 29, 2010

A Like Letter

Dear Municipal Bus of Porto Alegre,

Have I told you that I've grown to like you of late? It's not quite love, but it's definitely like. I'm sure you didn't notice, but in the beginning you really intimidated me. I knew you'd take me for a ride and I wasn't certain that I'd like that ride. I was especially nervous about where it would leave me. I guess I've still got some control issues going on, you know. I'm not always so good at enjoying the journey because I keep thinking, "If I don't know what it looks like where I'm going, how on earth will I know when I get there?" It's hard to let go and just enjoy the ride.

And I guess that it's it really. We've spent so much time together by this point, at least a couple times a day, that I've grown more accustomed to you. I've been able to let down my guard a little. I actually enjoy standing there on brisk weekday mornings, carrying a heavy bag over my shoulder, waiting for you to arrive, wearing my glasses, of course, so that I can actually see you when you do arrive and flag you down so that you'll stop for me.

Of course I've already got my fare ready, waiting patiently in the side pocket of my bag or in my jeans. I know in advance to hold onto something so I don't fall when the bus driver takes off with a jolt while I'm waiting to pay the clerk located further inside. I know to hold my bag up so I can squeeze through the turnstile without feeling like a puzzle piece that doesn't fit.

Then I must squeeze through people in search of a seat, preferably close to the exit so it'll be quicker to get off later. Sometimes I have to stand and hold on to something and try prevent my body from swaying too much with the rhythm of the bus. If I let go, I'll fall into people and chairs. It feels like I'm pretending to surf. But if I can manage to snag a seat, I will.

Then I just get to watch and be. I don't read. I don't take photos obsessively with my camera. I don't even glance at my wristwatch that much. I'm just there and I realize that you give me this wonderful period of time just to meditate, space out, watch, exist. I look at the different people on the bus and hear them chatting and hear the music coming from teenagers' cell phones, but I'm not really listening. It's all part of the noise of the bus combined with rattles and squeaks, doors opening and doors closing. I watch the streets flow past, the numbers on buildings, words on stores, tagging and graffiti on every available space, people and colors. And I enjoy that everything looks interesting to me. Even if I've watched it through your windows a million times before, there's always something new to see.

Eventually, even if I've never been there before, I begin to realize that my stop is getting close. I begin to prepare and think about getting off. If I've asked the clerk to advise me when I get to a certain location, I start looking towards him (rarely her). He'll make eye contact with me and nod or sometimes give me a thumbs up. And I'll know it's time to get out of my seat, to squeeze through the crowd to the exit. This is really comforting to me.

I like anticipating the stop, waiting for the doors to open slowly. I like that freeing feeling of jumping out onto the pavement of the bus stop and then having to orient myself. I feel like I've just accomplished something, been somewhere, stilled my mind. I also feel good just to be on my feet, walking again.

And so Bus, this is my like letter to you. I still like you even though I wish you were more affordable for all the citizens of your city. I do also wish that one of your drivers, after picking me up from a bus stop in a part of town that I didn't know and seeing that I didn't really know where I was, hadn't tried to pick me up (ummm, not cool). But, I get it, no one's perfect and there's always room for improvement. I can honestly say that you are the first municipal bus that I have ever felt this comfortable with, that I have ever grown to enjoy this much. And for that I say thank you.

Sincerely,
Libélula Azul

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Lost in Language


Living in a land where everything is conducted in a language that's not my birth tongue gives me very different sensitivities. It's harder to pick up on subtleties and details. I have to ask a lot more questions or just be content with not completely knowing. Sometimes I realize that I don't know the rules of certain types of conversations. I find myself wondering things like, "Would it be more appropriate to continue expressing some sort of sympathy right now or should I just be quiet?" "Was that supposed to be funny? And if so, why? Should I be amused or saddened?" Also, while I can't shut off my ability to process English, if I accidentally (or not-so-accidentally, for example, when I'm on the bus) space out, Portuguese words can become like background noise.

On another level, I am so much more sensitive to emotions. Operating in a language that's not my own makes me more vulnerable. And if I switch "on" and really listen to what people are saying, which I try to do most of the time, I sometimes "feel" what they are saying even more easily than I can pick apart individual words. And when I'm in this space of "feeling," everything hits me deeper.

Recently I was in an interview with a boy, deeply addicted to drugs. He was uttering something like, "I've tried to stop, but I can't." Exactly what he uttered evaporated for me after I heard it, but the meaning behind the words felt like a physical punch, especially as they crossed the table and hit the boy's mother, who was trying, trying, trying to contain her own sea of emotions.

It's as though I'm watching the words acting on the people saying them and receiving them. And hours after the meeting, the feelings stick to me and become something I must ponder and untangle and make some sort of sense of before I can free myself from them.

And, when I am tired, Spanish words sometimes come to mind quicker than Portuguese ones. This is funny to me because right now, with both languages rattling around in my brain, speaking Spanish is difficult. When I'm tired it's hard to pronounce Portuguese without sounding like I'm swallowing words. Sometimes I do really feel like the words are fighting me, trying to jump down my throat exactly as I'm trying to push them out of my mouth. I'm certain that my vocabulary has improved since I've gotten here, that I'm speaking less Portuñol and more actual Portuguese. But I also feel less confident at times, wondering if perhaps it's because I realize how much more there is to learn, how much more there is to understand of this beautiful, melodic language.

I think that we exercise different parts of ourselves with each language that we speak. I'm curious to pay more attention to how I am when I'm speaking English vs. Portuguese vs. Spanish. Right now I seem to enjoy it most, after long days in Portuguese, when I'm talking with A. and our conversations weave in between Portuguese and English, with Spanish sprinkled in every once and a while. Perhaps that's why Spanglish has always felt so comforting. Maybe I just don't like to choose between one thing and the other but to mix it all together into an interesting, ever-changing concoction.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Street Art in POA

The street art of the city of Porto Alegre is rich and fascinating and all over the place. In fact it seems that the majority of photographs that I take here involve art that I come across while moving around the city. While I can tell basic differences between graffiti, murals, stencils, sticker/posters and tagging, I don't always understand the subtleties, politics or meaning behind what I am seeing. There's so much to learn!


I intern in a region of the city called Partenon, where there is a very active drug trade just a few blocks from the office. As a result, I haven't wandered around too much outside of the main streets on my own. But even within the area that I've seen, there's all sorts of great stuff to appreciate on my way to work:


Recently, I was discussing a potential photo project with a couple social workers at the office. One social worker, L. mentioned that she thought having the kids document the graffiti of their neighborhoods would be a great project. She talked about how graffiti and tagging has been such a problem in the area, that shop owners have taken a different tactic. In an effort to prevent their shops being covered with graffiti, they pay graffiti artists to paint murals on their walls.


I love this response, which creates such a different relationship within the neighborhood. As for the photo project, we decided to present the kids with several different ideas and ask them to choose which one they prefer. In any case, I bet it's going to turn out cool!

Filling Up

Once Estrela took me to see a beautiful view of the city of Porto Alegre from Morro Santa Teresa, more commonly referred to as T.V. Hill because there's a television station there. 


But on the way there, she realized the gas tank was low so we stopped at the nearest station.

As the attendant filled up the tank, Estrela's friend told me that Brazilians absolutely require the service of gas station attendants.

He said that's how it always was. At some point, gas stations tried to make the move to self-serve, but people wouldn't have it. If they drove into a gas station and saw that they would have to get out of their car to fill up, they'd just drive away and find another one.

And so the gas stations said, "Fine, we'll give you gas station attendants. You'll just have to pay more."

The drivers weren't having any of that either. If they pulled up to a gas station and saw that the prices were raised, they'd drive off and wait until they could find a station with less inflated prices.

Gas stations had to give up. And that's how it is: regular prices and gas station attendants.

The service can be impressive too.

On our return trip from Santa Catarina, Samosa and I stopped at a gas station because the car was nearly on empty. A moça (young woman) filled up the tank, washed our windows and then when we were paying the bill inside the station, served us cafezinhos [espressos].

And she did this all with the most incredible kindness, to the extent that despite feeling awful (yup, I was coming down with pneumonia - woo hoo!) she transformed my mood and I wanted to hug her and everybody else at the gas station and wax poetic about how beautiful fellow human beings can be and how maybe there's hope for us after all. (I settled for saying thanks and waving goodbye with a big grin, guessing that perhaps a hug might have freaked her out a little).

I know, I know, that it was her job to be nice, but she was doing a wonderful job at it. I think she just fit into the category of person who just exudes love no matter what they're doing. I may be exaggerating, but I'm not sure - considering that this took place almost a month ago and I still remember. And so, I am grateful that I got the chance to cross paths with her. ( And yes, Samosa agreed that she was nice too).

Filling Up

Friday, March 26, 2010

The Exotic American

I never suspected that I would be exotic here in Brazil. However, it appears that I was wrong and Mario Quintana was right.

For example, the last time I went to an emergency hospital here in Porto Alegre, the nurse was totally smitten with the idea of my foreignness and my ability to express myself in Portuguese. He was super friendly as he took my blood pressure and my temperature. And then later, as I passed by in the hall, he made sure to happily announce to other hospital staff, "You know she's American, don't you?!"

The other morning at my internship, I sat drinking a cafezinho in the kitchen with E., coordinator of a program for adolescents that I participate in.

We were talking about the difficult situation that one of the kids was in, how hard it could be to see this, how sometimes one felt one's actions were ineffectual or just not enough.

"Yeah," I said, "That reminds me of a conversation I had with a cab driver last night. He asked me, 'Why on earth would you choose to be a social worker?!?' and I said to him, 'Well you have to have hope, you have to believe in something you know, even if --'"

And E. stopped me, "Wait!" he said, "Why did the cab driver know that you were a social worker?"

"Well, I told him," I said, "It's part of the general conversation for me, you know. I get in a cab. They say, 'You have a funny accent. Where are you from? Why are you here?' and it goes from there. I don't think this guy had ever met an American before. He had lots of questions for me such as what poverty looks like over there, how people act, what their customs are...I get to be exotic here."

E. started laughing at me, "Exotic, ha! You, exotic?!"

Ha, okay, so not everyone considers me exotic that's for sure, but I've run into quite a few people here who have never seen one of me before.

"I know, I know," I said, blushing a little, "Not something I ever expected to be."

"Don't you mind having to answer all these questions all the time?" E asked.

"Nah," I said, "I mean usually people are really nice. I think they're just curious. So I might as well be a good ambassador."

E. raised and eyebrow and looked at me skeptically. Then someone came in and asked an administrative question and the conversation went to other places. But I have to say that it's kind of fun to be a little exotic, a little different, especially in a place where I can actually manage to blend in...until I open my mouth and start talking.

This is what Mario Quintana has to say on the matter:
I'm suspicious of those tourists that consider the places they've visited to be exotic. They stay outside, seeing the picturesque in everything: the houses, the clothes, the customs, the beliefs...
And they aren't even suspicious that only exotic note in those defenseless countries is precisely themselves!
 (Desconfio desses turistas que consideram exóticos os países visitados. Ficam de fora, vendo o pitoresco em tudo: nas casa, nas roupas, nos costumes, nas crenças...
E nem desconfiam que a única nota exótica desses indefesos países são precisamente eles!)

Monday, March 22, 2010

So, a Tire Walks Into a Bar....


Borracharia
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl
It's true that Spanish and Portuguese have a lot in common. But as this photograph illustrates, they are definitely not the same.

This Brazilian tire is advertising a Borracharia:
Borracha [tire/rubber] + ria [an ending put on to a word to convey some sort of speciality store] = a store that will change your tires

So, why am I getting into all of this?

Well, because every single time that I see a borracharia, usually when I'm on the bus, I laugh. Sometimes out loud. Yup, that's me, the easily amused foreigner, chuckling to herself as she looks out the window.

You see in Spanish, borracha does not mean tire.

Borracha (or borracho, depending on gender) means drunk.

So in Spanish, which follows the same ria = speciality store logic as Portuguese, a borracharia would be something like a "drunk-ery", ie a place to go get drunk. I kind of like the frankness of the statement. Why go to a bar when you can get straight to the point and go to a drunkery?

My goodness, there are a lot of drunkeries all over Brazil...or conversely, one could imagine that when the bars close in Spanish-speaking countries, there are quite a few tipsy tires rolling through the streets.

Yes, this is the kind of thing that I spend my time musing over...

Salsa-Dancing with Peruvians

Last weekend, due to A.'s organizing skills, a group of us took over a table at a Peruvian Salsa Party. We were an international table representing different regions of Brazil in addition to Uruguay, El Salvador, the United States and I do believe that Samosa was the first Pakistani ever to grace their halls.


There was yummy food (even for a vegetarian such as myself!). A little group singing in honor of International Women's Day. A performance of traditional Peruvian dancing.

Then a live band and a jam-packed dance floor (you know you're not in the US of A, when it takes a mere 30 seconds after the band starts playing for the dance floor to fill up).

I had to take it easy on the dancing (yes, yes, eventually I will stop talking about the after-effects of this lung-scarring pneumonia), but that was okay. I was just so happy that Samosa would get to meet many of the people in my life here in Porto Alegre, who are helping make the city a beautiful place:


A.'s father (who lives on the 3rd floor of her apartment complex) and his companion T. about to show us how elegantly salsa-dancing can be done. T. used some of her Reiki training on me a few days earlier and helped me stop being so frustrated about pneumonia and just relax a little bit.


I. & O., who live right around the corner, are super sweet, have great taste in music, and first introduced me to the delights of fried polenta. We even got the pleasure of watching them dancing a little samba together!


N. & A. who live in the happening neighborhood of Cidade Baixa and yes, are such sweet people. Of the rival Porto Alegre soccer teams, they're on the side of Inter.

N. went out of his way to find some soccer tickets for us, but the only game going on was being played by Grêmio (the other team). We asked if he'd like to come with us (this was before I got diagnosed with pneumonia and couldn't go). "I'm not allowed," N. said. "Not allowed?!" I asked. "No, no," he said, "I can't go to their game. It's not my beach." I'm translating literally because I just like that line, "Not my beach."


And then we have the lovely C. on the right, who I first met while enjoying some tasty Uruguayan pizza (who knew Uruguayans had a hold on the pizza market?). C.'s just got this wonderfully relaxing energy that's so great to be around. And the fabulous, ever-generous A. who (with Cipote) has opened her home to me and has helped me through so many varied situations that I will be forever grateful.


And here is brightly-shining Estrela who I got to meet last fall in Austin, Texas and her elegant mother. Estrela is awesome, has always been up for showing me around the city and gave Samosa and I an important lesson in how to make chimarrão. Estrela's mother reminds me how much I love the Spanish language and also happens to make a really delicious eggplant dish.

And here is the American and the Pakistani. You can note the strangeness of the American by the yellow balloons she has chosen to wear in her hair and her odd facial expression. The Pakistani is transcending language barriers ("You don't speak Portuguese?...How about Spanish?...Uh no, no Spanish either?...Um...well we can smile at each other then!) by just drinking in all the good vibes and energy of the party.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

The Cultural Gardener

Before Samosa left town to go back to the States and after I'd followed doctor's orders and stayed inside for a week, we caught a bus downtown. I wanted to get out of the house and I wanted Samosa to see a little bit more of Porto Alegre.

First stop, the Mercado Público (Public Market), a grand yellow building chock full of merchants selling meat, fish, vegetables, fruits, materials for chimarrão, tea towels and religious items (Catholic saints and Orixás):



Second stop, the Casa de Cultura Mario Quintana. I thought this would be the perfect place to relax and enjoy a drink on the rooftop cafe. And it was as pretty as I remembered.



Later, well hydrated (in my case) and full of caffeine (in Samosa's), we started to explore this lovely building to see what other beautiful spots it might contain.


We peered out a window and saw a funky looking garden a few floors below.  I couldn't believe I'd missed this awesome spot during my last visit.



Turns out it was Jardim Lutzenberger, named after a gaúcho environmentalist from Porto Alegre, José Antonio Lutzenberger. The website says (in translation) that Lutzenberger was, "a lover and great defender of natural landscapes, he saw in gardening a singular tool for stimulation of the individual sensibility for environmental preservation."



This garden was created as an homage to Lutzenberger with the intent of "integrating the environment, art, culture, giving tribute to Lutzenberg and contributing to the formation of a culture more conscious and responsible for the great diversity that life gives to our land." It includes a wide variety of plants native to Porto Alegre and southern Brazil. And it's fun and creative!



Plants in bathtubs! How could you not fall in love with a garden such as this one?



And of course, because after all this was a visit to the Casa de Cultura Mario Quintana, I'll close with a line from one of his poems that was cited on the Jardim website:

"O segredo é não correr atrás das borboletas... é cuidar do Jardim para que elas venham até você."

"The secret is not to run after butterflies...it is to care for the Garden so that they come to you."  

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Roadtrip to the Beach, Part II

Mmmm...fresh papaya

Fresh Papaya

to be enjoyed as we looked out the window at this view:



A drive through the island to town



to enjoy fresh coconut juice



at Tenda Tio Ique. Where after a little persuasion, they let me use the phone because there was no place to buy calling cards and no pay phone. I gave the waitress R$2, which was more than enough. She warmed up a bit after that.

Tenda Tio Ique

And, we left to return to Porto Alegre, we were a bit stymied by a cow in the road.

Cow Crossing the Road

This picture looks like it's easy to cross. But for the first five minutes the cow was higher up the hill. The rope was taut across the road preventing us from driving ahead. We sat and laughed and wondered what to do. Was this an angry cow? Would she mind if we nudged her back to her side of the road? Eh, then she moved to greener pastures and driving across her rope became an easy task.

Then we greeted this lovely owl perched on a fence post nearby, potentially quite amused by our silliness.

Owl

And so went our first trip (but hopefully not our last!) to the beautiful state of Santa Catarina.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Brazilian Chic

In Porto Alegre even the pups dress up to represent Brazil:

Brazilian Pup

This particular one got noticed despite her small size and made it onto the international "Dog-Gone Chic!" blog, where all the happening hot dogs are showing off their stuff.

Take a look and check out all the dogs gone chic including this Brazilian beauty.

FYI, in Portuguese, "chic" is pronounced "shee-kii."

Dreaming & Waking


To-Go Garudasana
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl
Last night I had a dream so vivid that it took me a while after waking up to realize that it hadn't actually happened.

I was taking a class with all the young boys that I work with at my internship. Our teacher was the director of the fabulous Street Yoga program. (Last fall, some friends and I had the wonderful experience of participating in a training he put on and got to meet and learn from this great guy).

In my dream he spoke Portuguese fluently and beautifully. The kids were responding well. And it took me about half the class to realize that he was teaching us yoga.

I'm not sure what it had seemed like before, just something else. Something good, no doubt, but just an experience like I'd never had before. It took a long time to realize that what I was doing was already familiar to me.

"This is crow pose," I thought as he brought us into the posture, "This is yoga! And the kids love it! I love it too!"

Crow Pose for the Birds in the Public Gardens

Afterwards, putting my shoes back on I was filled with excitement about the possibilities of working with these kids.

When I woke up, I felt elated.

Once I got over the fact that it was just a dream, it seemed the message was a strong one. Before Samosa left we were having lots of conversations about my internship. I was anxious and stressed out, primarily because I'd missed so much time being sick. I was worried that I couldn't make all this lost time up, or that I would have to make it up in ways that weren't fulfilling to me, just scrambling to get the hours I needed for my degree. And then what would be the point? I wanted it to mean something. What if it didn't? What would I do? And on and on and on. Samosa did the best he could to comfort me in my spiraling thoughts on the matter. But really since it was all just conjecture on my part, I had to wait until I got healthy again and my pneumonia was gone, before anything at all could be done.

Today was to be my first day back at the internship. Finally!

And it seemed to me -- as I got ready for work this morning -- that this dream was saying that although not everything I'm doing right now seems obvious to me (i.e. doing yoga and not realizing it's yoga), it's all good stuff and it's all beneficial in ways I may not yet be able to appreciate or understand. I just gotta go with it and enjoy the journey. I've got to remember what my professors always said and "Trust the process."

Trust the process. And try and enjoy it too.

It was a good day. 

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Roadtrip to the Beach, Part I

The day after Samosa and I returned from Foz do Iguaçu, we rented a car and headed up the coast to the state of Santa Catarina. One of my internship supervisors has a pousada on the beach up there with her husband. She invited us to come stay in one of the apartments for a few days. How could we say no to that awesome and kind offer?


However.

Thinking that one can easily fly into town around midnight and then leave on a six-hour road-trip the next morning in a country that's not your own is perhaps pushing it. In retrospect, we both wonder if the trip wasn't the wisest of ideas.

We were pushing our luck. I was exhausted and getting sick, though I wouldn't admit it. Therefore I was acting with a single-minded stubbornness that made the various melodramas that we encountered while we were just trying to leave all the more difficult. Nothing in and of itself was insurmountable and much of it I had brought on myself. However, the entire day felt somewhat like wading through molasses.

Suffice it to say that we left the city limits at 4 PM in our little rental car, slightly later than our 10 AM anticipated departure time.

Luckily, the scenery quickly turned from cityscape to lush greenery. It was lovely. Our moods improved as we drove through this and drank in all the beauty.


We also got to observe a dump truck, weighed down just a tad too much by what it was carrying:


Ah, beautiful & green & hilly, oh my!


After dark, things got a little more treacherous. Several hundred kilometers of highway were under construction and we were forever weaving in and out of the highway and the frontage road, following lots and lots of signs and arrows.

We made it to our exit in good time. Then the adventure started. We crossed a bridge to an island-like location where the majority of roads were dirt and had no signs. We had directions but they weren't doing us any good. It was late. I'd accidentally forgotten my cell phone at work and had been unable to find it before leaving (another one of the earlier little melodramas). It was dark and late-ish. No one was around. We drove in frustrated circles, seeing lots of cute little pousadas, but not the one we needed to find.

In the end, we were saved by Samosa's iPhone. Seriously. I once had an angry person yell at me on the street in Austin, shouting that my iPhone wouldn't save me. But, in this situation, it did. Ha ha.

Before we'd left Porto Alegre, Samosa had meticulously documented each leg of our trip according to Google Maps by photographing each picture with his iPhone. Genius. Therefore we literally went through the pictures one by one, following the various curves of each road that we had to take to ensure that we were on track. I'll admit that I was useless in all of this. It was all Samosa's doing. The driving and the navigating. I was utterly confused and disoriented.

However, we thought things were going well, despite my lack of assistance, until we realized the road that we were following ended on the shore of the beach.

Ummm...

"Well," I offered, "My supervisor did say that the pousada was on the beach. I didn't realize it was a literal statement, but..."

We cautiously edged out on to the beach. The sand was firm. We saw a building in the distance we drove towards it.

"Maybe?" I said.

I got out of the car. Two guys were walking by with fishing gear and a fluffy dog.

"Um, excuse me?" I said timidly, "Um, are we in Praia do Luz?"

Have I mentioned before that I don't like asking strangers questions, especially when I'm lost and it's dark outside? I fit the stereotype of a typical guy when it comes to this matter. I know it's dumb and certainly something for me to work on. Samosa is much more rational and easily asks questions. However, he couldn't speak Portuguese, so I had to overcome my resistance and do all the talking.

"Yup, this is Praia do Luz," one of the guys said. The other stared. Phew. At least we were at the right beach.

"Do you know if this is Pousada do Luz?" I asked.

"I dunno," he said.
 
"Are there other buildings around here that could be?" I asked.

"I dunno," he said.

They walked on.

A young woman was supposed to meet us here but we were much later than we were supposed to be. I think we'd spent a good 45 minutes lost on the island's dirt roads too. I had no number to call her at and no phone anyway to do the calling.

Samosa stayed with the car and I wandered behind the building.

A group of men sat smoking cigarettes and playing cards at a small table. Light was diffuse. They stopped their conversation and looked up at me. I was reminded of some sort of painting. Or the opening scene of a movie. I just couldn't figure out what kind of movie that might be.

"Hi," I said, feeling foolish, "Umm...is this Pousada do Luz?"

They nodded.

Sweet! On the right track.

"So, uh, I'm friend's of Luiz and someone was going to meet us here. But we're late and I'm not sure where the girl we're meeting would be."

A man kindly offered to take me to the girl. We wandered around back to the front of the buildings. He went up some stairs and told a guy that some Argentinians were here to see him. Eventually that guy got us to the girl and she had the key to the place where we were going to stay. We had made it. It was dark. We were exhausted but excited to see what things might look like in the morning.

And when we woke up to birds chirping, this is what we saw. Yup, this is the road we came up the night before after driving down the beach.


And this is the magnificent beach. Praia do Luz (Beach of Light) is right.







"Oh my goodness," I thought, "It was all worth it!" Almost as though the utter gorgeousness of it all was quickly erasing all the tiredness and the mini melodramas from the day before.

Amazing.

We wandered bare feet on sticky sand down the shore, so very happy to be exactly where we were.