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).

Just in Case...

Walking to Receita Federal
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

...you were worried that with my registration with the federal police completed there was nothing left on my to-do list outside my internship, you can cease worrying. Really that was just one piece of the scavenger hunt, which I do believe the country of Brazil has constructed in order to help foreigners orient themselves to their new cities.

Of course, I didn't realize that before I came here. Yes, I was aware that I had to register, but I didn't bother to ask what that entailed and the Brazilian consulate in Houston believed that a simple line in my visa advising me about this would suffice. I had this assumption (yes, I know, don't make assumptions) that I'd just show up, say "hi" to the police, they'd take a cursory glance at my passport, note my name down and that would be the end of it.

Ha!

As y'all may know, that wasn't the end of it. Indeed, I hadn't thought to bring the original copy of my visa application with me because I assumed that the pretty visa pasted into my passport would get me everywhere I needed to go (again, I know, don't make assumptions). So I left the application at home with my boyfriend.

I was wrong.

I wish I had been right because then I could have gotten this whole process started my first week here instead of during the beginning of my internship.

As luck would have it, my friend Estrela was flying back to PoA and in the nick of time my boyfriend was able to deliver the visa application and a copy of my birth certificate (gotta be able to show who my parents are) to her to bring to me here.

Phew. Thank you to my boyfriend and thank you to Estrela!

So once I had my papers in order, I got my registration over with in a mere 4 hours.

However, no rest for the weary. The next day I went to the Banco do Brasil (Bank of Brazil) for Step No. 2 in the process: getting my CPF number!

Basically this is like an American social security number. I had tried to obtain this number prior to registering with the police, but was sent away. Clearly this constitutes proof that this is a scavenger hunt - you have to progress one step at a time in order to get all the required clues to bring you to the next step.

So, yesterday, armed with a passport stamped by the police (and a stamped slip of paper, bookmark-size) and proof of residence (thank you A.!) I went to Banco do Brasil.

As usual I bumbled through security (my bag always sets off alarms) and confused the guards. I grabbed a ticket and waited for my number to be called.

Luckily, I had grabbed the right ticket! (The first time in the Banco do Brasil, I'd gone to one desk after waiting 20 minutes only to be given another number and told to wait some more).

The guy was friendly and began rapidly entering my information. "Ok, ok," he said, "Just one more thing...maybe it'll be here."

He opened my passport.

"Nope," he said, "Not there. I need something with the name of your parents."

"Uh..." I said. I wanted to smack myself on the forehead because I hadn't thought to bring my copy of my birth certificate with me.

"Well, we can do it this way," he said, "How about you just tell me their names?"

"I can do that!" I said, "How about I write them down?"

Phew! Obstacle surmounted.

He collected some money from me (just a few dollars) printed out a receipt and said, "Ok, you're done."

I was thrilled.

"Now starting tomorrow afternoon," he added, "You have to go to the Receita Federal to finish the process."

"I can't go today?" I said. I had taken the afternoon off my internship to go the World Social Forum and was trying to fit these "errands" in so I didn't have to take any more time off.

"Nope, tomorrow."

Sigh...."My God, they're going to think I'm such a slacker," I thought and was very relieved to discover later on Google Maps that the address was actually relatively close to my internship.

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So today, I set out at 11:30 AM to walk to the next step in my Scavenger Hunt: Receita Federal.

It only took a half hour for me to get there and I confirmed with the guard that I was indeed at the right location (there was nothing written on the building).

I went to the information desk. They directed me to another room. I waited in line and then was given a CPF number and told to go upstairs. There was a huge waiting room packed with people and a monitor listing numbers (not just CPF numbers, all sorts of other numbers - I have no idea what they were for).

There was also a TV playing the news with the volume just loud enough that you think you can understand the words, but you can't really. I sat and stared. Luckily the numbers were moving considerably faster then with the federal police.

It only took 30 minutes for them to reach my number: 67. I jumped up and strode as fast as I could to desk number 53. "Alo!" I said.

The man looked up and smiled. I handed him the stapled bundle of papers from the Banco do Brasil.

He asked for my passport. He looked up information and confirmed with me who I was, who my parents were and where I was living. He printed a piece of paper with my CPF, gave it to me, and said I could expect the actual card a really long time from now.

I was ecstatic. I made it back to my internship, having been gone only an hour and a half (the normal amount of time they take for lunch).

This CPF number is a pretty groovy part of my Brazilian scavenger hunt. With it I can do such exciting things as open a bank account, buy as many cell phones as I please AND, move onto Step No. 3 in the scavenger hunt: obtaining a Student ID card.

The student ID card will give me a 50% discount on buses among other things. Of course I actually have to be enrolled in the university to get this card and the semester doesn't begin until March. So, I have a little bit of time to spend just being happy that I exist somewhere in a Brazilian database...

Do Frito Pies Translate Well into Portuguese?

So, I'm sitting in the back room of the Spider House Cafe enjoying a vegetarian Frito pie and thinking that this certainly falls into the list of dishes I'll miss when I fly over 5,000 miles southeast of Austin. This is just an assumption, but I don't expect to find this delicacy in other countries.

The cafe is cozy and packed. And I'm thrilled that I snagged a booth with access to an outlet. The guy in the booth next to me is apologetically handing me his computer cord to plug in underneath my table. "Oh, of course it's no problem," I say. I'm reacting oh-so graciously as if the table and the power to bequeath access to electrical outlets are actually mine.

I'm meeting Estrela here. She's one of the reasons I'm certain that things will turn out well in Brazil. If folks I meet in PoA* are only half as open, kind and welcoming as she is, then I will fare well. And considering that she concludes her research work here and returns to PoA just a few weeks after I arrive, I know I'm in luck (her sweet, well-behaved son may not agree as he's told her he'd prefer to remain another month in Austin).

Estrela and I met when we were both wearing short sleeves and could actually sit outside because the oppressive summer had subsided. I recall this when I see her walking into the room wearing layers of clothing. We greet each other with a hug and a cheek kiss. I'm still trying to figure out how many kisses is the appropriate number.

The barista delivers her hot chocolate with whipped cream on top and I sip, a little enviously, from my Earl Grey, thinking perhaps I should have ordered what she did.

We begin our conversation in English. Estrela informs me that she's spoken with a friend of hers in PoA, who agreed to let me stay with her while I find a place to live. How cool is that?! For a little bit, her telling me this that it's not sinking in. It just seems too nice. And then, my next thought is that I can't wait to let me granny know and assuage her fears a little (my dad told me that my granny told him that she was worried that I didn't have a place to live yet).

I often have an innate reaction to just want to do it all on my own. That's what I did when I spent an undergraduate semester in Madrid. No student halls or host families for me. Nope, I trekked through the city and stood in lines to look at apartments for rent. One landlord told me not to even bother looking at the place because he wouldn't rent to me. I wasn't Spanish and didn't have a job. Who cared about bank statements if I could just hightail it out of the country without a trace. It was about that time that I remember crying on the phone to my mother outside a sandwich shop. Several days, one Spanish bank account, one slow read of the lease (with dictionary) and a three-month deposit later, I had the keys to my own little attic apartment. Sure, you couldn't stand up straight in most areas of the room, but from the balcony you could see the opera house and watch the bats fly at dusk.

This time though I don't feel the need to go it alone. I feel comforted to have kind people there from the start to help me as I try to prepare for and navigate my journey. In this case these people now include Estrela's friend and her little dog. And I'm grateful.

Estrela and I continue talking and our primary language morphs slowly into Portuguese. I'm realizing that I do need to revisit that old grammar book from my undergraduate class, as I falter over various tenses. We're talking about poverty here and poverty there. She's telling me about the youth that live under the bridge of a major road in PoA. I have these images of what she's describing but they feel vague. "What do you do when you ask them for money?" I ask.

"I try to give them snacks, but sometimes when I look into their eyes, it depends what I see there. Sometimes I give money."

"I keep bottles of water in my car for the homeless guys I see on the street," I say, "Sometimes they are happy with that offering, sometimes not. Mainly it's just the gesture I guess. It's hard."

I realize most of the homeless guys on street corners here are old, grizzled dudes. Usually they're totally sweet to me and I am sympathetic. But, how would I react if it was a child? I've seen kids begging in India, but I wonder if it would hit me more to see it here where I don't expect it. Of course, almost 1 in 5 children lives in poverty in the US, according to the National Center for Children in Poverty but that takes us back to the point that what poverty looks like here is not what it looks like elsewhere.

Having made it through a year and a half of a social work education, I've become so much more sensitive to this kind of thing (just ask my boyfriend about my social work-flavored running commentary about any movie or TV show we happen to watch together). Something tells me that what I see in PoA is going to feel so much more intense than whatever I've experienced in the past. Especially because I'm likely to see all this in the kids I'll be working with. Up close.

The barrista comes by the table and and asks if she can take away the remnants of my Frito pie. I nod and say, "Thank you."

"I don't exactly know what to expect, but I imagine that I'm going to be shocked," I tell Estrela.

"Well then, at least you're prepared," she replies with a smile.

Our conversation turns to the frustrations of university parking and tickets. We get up to leave, putting our clothing layers back on and our empty mugs in the bucket by the condiments before we head out the door.

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*I've noticed that people from Porto Alegre keep referring to the city as PoA in e-mails and it looks kind of cool to me, so I think I shall follow suite.