Caboodling

Gringa in Brazil: Driving in Campinas

2005-08-13T04:27:00.000-07:00

Driving in Campinas, Brazil can be ruthless. I told my Portuguese teacher, Fabianna how a car speeded by me on a one lane road, bent my mirror back, and didn’t even stop.

“That’s because drivers here are crazy!” Fabianna explained, “Once people get in their cars, they go from being polite, patient toucans to aggressive, rude piranhas “

“How have you survived this long without whip lash and only three totaled cars, Fabianna?”

“Well, the first thing I do is pray. I don’t listen to my car radio like most people, because I am too busy listening to my prayers, ‘Oh, God, please save me from this lunatic who keeps banging my bumper! God, please don’t let this truck going 40 km over the speed limit squish me like a bug! Lord Jesus, don’t let me discover, too late, that they’ve added a new radar, and dropped the speed limit by 30 km.’ “

Fabianna continued, “Debbie, if you should see me driving on the road, and making the sign of the cross, especially by Iguatemi Mall, it’s because I am thanking God for not getting sideswiped by a car or truck, blocked from my exit, or caught on radar for unintentionally, speeding or running a red light.”

“You pray, Fabianna?”

“Yes, absolutely! I have told the Mormons who have that huge temple overlooking the Iguatemi Mall, that they need to make a sign of the cross too. Praying isn’t good enough when you’re driving in Campinas.”

Fabianna explained to me that some days it’s cheaper to stay in her bathrobe, “If I go to work, and get a traffic ticket, my salary for the day isn’t enough to pay for the ticket. So, I was better off staying at home, and watching Oprah. I tried explaining this to my boss, but he still won’t give me a raise or pay my fines – unbelievable!”

“Have you ever tried to cross a street?” Fabianna asked.

“Not yet,” I replied.

“Well, if you ever cross a street and a car is coming, they will speed up instead of slow down. They want to kill you! Some drivers think that they are Pelė on a soccer field, ready to pummel you down the street like a soccer ball, using their car.”

“Why do you suppose that is Fabianna?”

Fabianna’s theories as to why some drivers in Campinas drive so recklessly:

Ayrton Senna Grand Prix Race Car Fantasy Driver: when these drivers get behind the wheel, they transform into Ayrton Senna, the internationally famous Brazilian racecar driver. Senna died crashing into a cement wall. Many of these Senna wannabes can be seen speeding on Ayrton Senna highway near the airport in Campinas. Some are even sporting a racing suit, helmet, and Marlboro sponsor ads. Others are simply late for their flights.

Guerrilla Driving Academy Graduates: getting behind the wheel of a car turns these normally, laid back people into graduates of the high testosterone, Guerrilla Driving Academy. Graduates of this muito, macho academy know how to successfully cut off others in traffic, instantly slow down from 120 km to 40 km per hour for radar cameras(without getting rear ended), swerve to avoid hitting pedestrians(,while going 30 km or more over the speed limit), speed through stop signs during rush hour, ride bumpers without getting shot at, and make obscene gestures with two hands, using their lower appendages to steer and shift.

Police Shortage: when there is a cop in plain sight on the road, normally, merciless drivers demonstrate that they know how to be law abiding citizens, and aren’t too blind to read road signs. They flash their lights to warn other drivers that a cop is in their midst (like in the USA). It would be too embarrassing to be pulled over by a cop, especially if the cop didn’t take bribes. Plus, having to stop to have a ticket issued would take even more time then going the speed limit, and stopping at lights. Unfortunately, even with the lack of donut shops in Campinas, traffic and highway police are in short supply.

Radars Are Dumb Machines to Be Outsmarted: since a radar camera only monitors cars in certain places and at stop signs, the rest of the time it’s a free-for-all for reckless drivers, “No radar! No police! Yippee! I can drive like a maniac!” It’s like hiring a negligent nanny who knows where the nan-cams are hidden, “Wow! I can drink beer, nap, chat on the phone, throw parties, steal stuff, and have my lover in every room, but the nursery.”

Catcher-Uppers: these pent up drivers are making up for lost time being excruciatingly polite and patient when not in their cars, (waiting in line in banks and stores, being put on hold and forgotten, playing phone tag, shuffling papers, etc. without biting off someone’s ear or making a scene). These ruthless, rubber-burning drivers, bulldoze to their destination. But, as soon as they’ve re-parked their macho-mobiles, they are polite, patient, Stepford types again (even without sedation or a lobotomy), ready for more red tape and bureaucratic nightmares.

Fabianna’s theories got me thinking about why some people drive haphazardly in the US as well. When my Portuguese lesson was over, it was time for Fabianna and I to leave the language school. We both agreed to pray for each other driving home.

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Lighting Up

2005-08-13T04:19:00.000-07:00

After moving to Brazil, I’ve seen public service announcements on the backs of cigarette packs that make my stomach whirl like a seasick blender. Seeing disturbing photos of black lungs, an asthmatic child using an inhaler, a droopy, sexually dysfunctional cigarette, and a low birth weight baby in a jar don’t make me want to walk a mile or even get up off the sofa for a Camel cigarette. Maybe this is why I haven’t noticed as many smokers where I live in Campinas, Brazil.

Even though cigarette packages in the U.S. require one of the four Surgeon’s General’s warning labels, the small type with the warning is an after thought, compared to the huge, glamorous advertisement. And some of the U.S. warnings don’t seem that dangerous, especially to older kids considering smoking, which is when teens obsess at being cool and popular like celebrities Brad Pitt, the Olson twins, and Sponge Bob:

“SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Quitting Smoking Now Greatly Reduces
Serious Risks to Your Health.” Yeah, and so does not eating Twinkies, not going to Pizza Hut, or not losing your virginity. Next!

“SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Cigarette Smoke Contains Carbon
Monoxide.” Yeah, and I inhale carbon monoxide in traffic every day on the school bus.. Don’t we need carbon monoxide for plants? So, it’s gotta be okay. Or was that carbon dioxide?

“SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Smoking By Pregnant Women May Result
in Fetal Injury, Premature Birth, And Low Birth Weight.” Yeah, like I’m going to get (or get someone) pregnant at eleven.

“SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart
Disease, Emphysema, And May Complicate Pregnancy.” Okay, this one is pretty scary, but I can always quit if I get terminally ill. I won’t be smoking through no hole in my neck. And so what if I did? It would look kind of cool.

When I was a kid, my older relatives were my anti-smoking ad campaign. Sitting, hostage, in the back seat of the Chrysler vessel with the windows rolled up, while grandma smoked her high-tars and Grandpa smoked his cigars, inhaling the fumes, was no Chucky Cheese party. Christmas and birthdays, meant getting gifts that our older relatives purchased with cigarette carton box tops like koozies, Joe Camel footwear, Marlboro Man key chains, and cigarette logo ashtrays. I hear that they’re collector’s items now on eBay. Too bad Mom gave them to Goodwill every year.

When I’d visit my great Aunt Martha and Uncle Winston who were chain smokers, their house especially reeked of stale cigarette smoke that had seeped into the walls and carpets. When, they’d smile at me, I’d see their yellow, tar stained teeth. I’d hear them hacking and coughing up black phlegm, six rooms away. The butts in the ashtrays, wastebaskets, and dumpster outside weren’t a pretty sight or smell either.

Thanks to my older, smoking relatives, peer pressure in elementary and junior high school rolled off me like SPAM or a Jehovah’s Witness at my door. When I thought of lighting up a cigarette, I didn’t picture a gorgeous cowgirl, sexy model, or the cool kids in school. I pictured wrinkled Aunt Martha hacking away into a white, cotton hanky, then kissing me with her tobacco breath, and giving me a hug so that I’d get to inhale the stale, nicotine fumes from her beehive hairdo and free, Phillip Morris sweatshirt. Her bug spray scented perfume didn’t hide the smell either.

My older relatives, including Aunt Martha and Uncle Winston, all met the Grim Reaper after getting cancer or strokes, although they tried desperately to negotiate with Camel Cash and Marlboro Miles. I guess the Grim Reaper didn’t need any more koozies either.

When I spot an empty pack of cigarettes on the ground in Brazil, I hope that the message will get through to people to finally stop or never start smoking (and stop littering). A sure fire way would be to put the photos of their aged smoking relatives on the backs of Brazilian cigarette packages. And, if that didn’t work, they could always use pictures of my older relatives; may they rest in peace.

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Gringa Goes Shopping at Carrefour

2005-07-27T17:17:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if anyone else has noticed this, but I have found the lines at Carrefour, (Brazil’s version of a Wal-mart super store) to be slow. Very, very slow, especially, compared to shopping in the US, unless you are shopping at the Albertson’s near my old house in Austin, Texas.

There is one advantage to shopping in Brazil though. They let the people with children, the elderly, and handicapped or “Idosos” skip to head of the line or go in a special line. My friend always makes sure to bring one of her toddlers shopping with her for this very reason. Since my husband and I have no children, and are in good health, I’ve been trying to get my eighty three year old Aunt Ruth to move in with us. Although in Brazil, her name would be pronounced “Hoochie”, which is her main reason for not wanting to come.

One day I was behind an elderly woman in line. She said that she was eighty, but, that when she first got in line she was only sixty, which is why she didn’t feel right about standing in the special line.

Even if only one or two people are in front of you at the Carrefour, it can take ages to check out. The cashier will usually need to do one if not several time consuming activities.

The price check. This buying hurdle occurs when an item isn’t priced. The price check requires the cashier to summons a store team member to roller skate (no jive - really true!) over to their register. If the price checker can safely reach the cashier without having to field customer inquiries, and without knocking over merchandise or customers, the process moves to stage two.

Stage two is the committee meeting between the cashier, the price checker, and the non-priced item. If the two employees are about the same age, often in their early twenties, this may progress to stage three. Otherwise, the employees skip to stage five.

Stage three includes a personal conversation between the two employees about how long they have been working at Carrefour, and whether they like their job or think it sucks. If the two employees are of the opposite sex and or attracted to each other, this may develop into stage four. Otherwise, the employees skip to stage five.

Stage four is when the mutual attraction intensifies and flirting begins. Non-bogus phone numbers and e-mail addresses are often exchanged. They may even plan an upcoming date at the mall.

Stage five is when the price checker pulls out his compass and map of the store or Never Lost Satellite system, and ventures out to track down the price.

Stage six is when the price checker returns to the cashier with the price. Both employees separate until the next business or social encounter.

After a price check is completed, this raises other potential, time delaying issues. Does the customer still wish to purchase the item? For instance, do they still want the box of ice cream bars that have turned into a puddle?

During one of my price check torments, I was in line behind a couple who had just gotten a price for a six-pack of beer. The couple had a long discussion as to whether or not they would still like to buy the six-pack. Although I don’t understand much Portuguese, since communication is 70% non-verbal, I could fill in the blanks.

“That beer has gone up two reales! You don’t need it and it’s not in our food budget. And, why do you want to buy those chips? ”

“Because, I like them.”

“No, it’s because you want to snack in front of the TV at night, instead of listen to me talk about my day. We aren’t buying them.”

So, that price check wasted an hour of my life, an hour that I could have been watching The O.C. (Orange County). But, on a positive note, the price check for the six-pack of beer resulted in a date between the young cashier and price checker. I hear they’re expecting a baby and are engaged to married.

Another frustrating checkout obstacle is investigating customer’s money to see if it’s counterfeit. A sweet looking older woman was trying to pay for her groceries with about twelve various bills to make up about $60. reales or twenty US dollars. The cashier had to examine each bill front, back, sideways, and standing on one leg. Then the cashier’s version of a lie detector test, was to stare her down like Hannibal the Barbarian. When the cashier’s findings were inconclusive, she repeated the process until it was time for her lunch break. Then, she took the woman’s cash and signed out of her register.

Another clog in the checkout process, is getting behind someone who is paying bills. Beware, that if there a short line with only a few people, it’s because the other customers have psychic capabilities and are avoiding that line at all costs. So are the shoppers who have learned how to sniff and detect the ink on bills from twenty feet away.

I got in line behind a woman who was not only paying her bills, she was also paying her sister’s and brother’s bills. She had seventeen siblings. I was so impressed by the sisterly love that she showed her family members that I asked to take her picture, (I keep a digital camera in my purse, since I still consider myself a tourist). We keep it in our photo album next to a picture of President Lula, the president of Brazil (large South American country South of Florida).

Another hold up in line can be caused by getting behind a new foreigner or estrangerio like myself who is shopping at Carrefour for the first time. I had been in Brazil for three days when I decided to take my first shopping expedition. I managed to drive myself to the store without setting the clutch on fire (it only smoked a lot).

It wasn’t until it was my turn in line that I learned that my fresh fruit and vegetables had to be weighed in the produce section. Then, it took me fifteen minutes to figure out if the cashier was asking me whether I wanted paper or plastic bags. That’s when I noticed that Carrefour only has plastic bags.

I didn’t know that I needed a pin to use my new Brazilian credit card. I did have a pin for my new debit card. But, I hadn’t figured out that when using a debit card at a store, you only enter 6 not 8 characters of your password. It was my next shopping trip that I learned they’d be asking additional questions in Portuguese that I couldn’t read. The machine requests the day, month, or year of your birthday. But, never all three. That way management feels that you’ll be less likely to expect a birthday present.

Now, my only option left was to pay with cash. I took out twenty various reale bills from my wallet, which had to be cleared as not being counterfeit. From the depths of my purse, I shoveled up and sorted through a fist full of Brazilian coins mixed with US coins from home, and euros from our vacation last summer to Holland (small European country East of New York). Leaving behind a few of the higher priced impulse items, I managed to scrounge enough money to pay for my groceries and get through the line. It’s nice that Brazilians are so patient.

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Got Floss?

2005-07-27T09:12:00.000-07:00

Compared to most Americans (excluding Los Angeles), most Brazilians work on their appearance more. Maybe it’s due to the warm climate year round and all the beaches, where bodies are more exposed. At least, in many parts of the US where the temperature drops during fall and winter, a person can hide their holiday and couch potato poundage in jeans and a loose fitting sweater - an impossible feat to achieve in a dental floss bikini or thong on Rio de Janeiro beach.

As well as aiming for the perfect body, it seems that many Brazilians also aim for perfect teeth. I’ve noticed that many Brazilian adults as well as teenagers have braces. Cashiers, parking lot attendants, waitresses, sales people, and other Brazilians not only smile often, they do so sporting metal and wire. Compared to many Americans who often spend their disposable income on alcohol, cigarettes, and lottery tickets, it seems like Brazilians must spend their disposal income on dental hygiene and cosmetics.

“Did you know that Brazil uses more dental floss, per capita, than any other country?” my husband informed me.

“For their teeth, swim wear, or in total?”

After my husband worked at his Brazil office for a few days, he noticed after having lunch in the cafeteria with his co-workers, that they would disappear into the restroom for about fifteen minutes every day. Curious, he followed them in. They were all brushing and flossing together at the sinks. Now, my husband brushes and flosses with them every day after lunch too (and after snacks). He also keeps an extra toothbrush, toothpaste, and dental floss in his desk drawer. He enjoys the additional camaraderie, which he wouldn’t necessarily experience on the greens or at happy hour.

When I had my first dental visit in Brazil, the dentist wanted to know why I wasn’t flossing three times a day. So, now I try to compromise and floss every night. Back in the US, I compromised with my dentist who wanted me to floss nightly, by flossing weekly.

As a kid, I used to think that my mother’s habit of flossing in the car was gross, especially, when food particles would flick onto the windshield. I guess here Mom would fit in a little better. She’d never be short on a place to buy dental floss. Some restrooms even have floss dispensers.

Even at the pet shop in the salon area, I have noticed the shelf that contains all of the pet’s, who are regulars, rubber thimble tooth brushes along with their toothpastes, labeled with their names. Every time, I walk by, I get a twinge of guilt thinking about our dogs’ yellow molars. I know that brushing their teeth every night with their favorite poultry flavored toothpaste isn’t enough. But, what are we to do when they bury their dental bones in our backyard and indoor garden? I haven’t found any doggy floss yet to buy - not that our dogs would sit still that long. Next week they have an appointment with a canine orthodontist for their overbites.

By living in Brazil on assignment, my family is learning more than we’d ever imagined about dental hygiene. Improved dental care is going to reduce our need for fillings, root canals, crowns, and dentures in our assisted living years. And, with all the money we’ll save, we’ll be able to come back to Brazil for a vacation. We’ll just need to keep fit enough to squeeze into our floss swimwear.

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Photo Links

2005-07-27T05:24:00.000-07:00

Brazil Photos: http://www.defdesigns.com/Brazil.htm

Amazon Trip: http://www.defdesigns.com/Amazon.htm

Buenos Aires Trip: http://www.defdesigns.com/buenosaires.htm

Gringa in Brazil: Home Safe Home

2005-07-26T18:03:00.000-07:00

When our American friends ask us if we feel safe living in Campinas, Brazil, we say, “Sure. Most of the time, we don’t even think about it.”

We feel safe inside our walled in housing community, lined with electric wires at the top, protected by security guards wearing pistols strapped to their legs, greeting us at the front gate, waving a friendly thumbs up and smiling, once our license plate has been verified along with our photo IDs. We also like to give a little wave to the security cameras too, since those monitors must know us on a personal basis by now too.

As we drive through our gated community past the beautiful, tall, manicured palm trees, a sparkling lake where ducks and water birds congregate, lush greenery, brilliantly colored flowers on bushes and trees, towards home safe home, we pass modern, unique, Architectural Digest style homes with manicured lawns, seven foot cement walls and locked garden gates. We spot more outdoor video cameras, attached to house roofs and three car garages. We give a friendly wave to a neighborhood, patrol car slowing down for a speed bump.

When we pull into our driveway, my husband makes sure not to hit our bikes again, that are secured with kryptonite locks. We considered leaving them unlocked, like many of our neighbors, until our dog’s stuffed, slobbered on, Sylvester cat was abducted from our front yard. I unlock the double, deadbolt lock to go inside.

Also to be cautious, we don’t walk in the public park during weekdays, especially not alone. Besides, dogs aren’t allowed in the park. According to locals, I could return to my car as a chauffer, driving accomplices to my local ATM to take out my maximum cash limit for the day (only $500. reales, because of this problem.) Local folklore warns that some kidnappers may hold you until the following day so that you can take out your maximum withdraw again. Ideally, if you can keep $300.00 reales handy to give a thief, they’ll leave you alone. Criminals hate going to the bank as much as we do.

When we go shopping at the mall, we feel protected too. My husband and I shop at a modern mall, roughly the look and size of Disney World with enough stores to make Paris Hilton never want to return to LA. I feel safe pulling into the mall, surrounded by a tall, metal fence, through an electronic, security gate with surveillance cameras. To gain access, I take a temporary ID card from the machine that opens the gate. It gives me that secure feeling while I’m shopping that if a person tries to hot-wire and steal our car, he or she won’t be able to leave the mall without the ID card that is in my purse.

When I enter a store, I feel safe and snug too. A salesperson or sometimes two, track me around the store while I shop. I reckon it’s to make sure that no one tries to snatch my purse. And, after I’ve bought an item, like a piece of clothing, they’re kind enough to escort me to the exit, holding my stapled, hermetically taped bag, in case some unsavory character should try to grab it out of my hand and run away with it (- not that I’ve encountered any unsavory characters in Brazil because I haven’t). Then, I figure that a security guard can look out for me from there, and another shopping mall video camera. It’s like a maxi pad on a light day – more protection than one could possibly need.

After shopping, I return to the parking lot, where a helpful security guard, wearing a handgun and a bulletproof vest, is there to help me locate my car, should I not find it in 5 nano seconds. I guess this keeps the real thieves from browsing too long for cars to steal.

The crook can’t say to his or her partner in crime, “What about the dark gray Audi?”

“No, I like the red Audi.”

“Why don’t we comb the parking lot, ‘til we find a pricey car that we can both agree to fleece?”

My husband and I also feel safe and at ease dining at restaurants. As soon as we pull up to our favorite restaurant, a valet takes our car - at least we hope that it’s a valet. We’ve been lucky so far.

We asked a Brazilian friend, Fabio, whose car has only been stolen once, about parking our car on the street and just walking a few blocks to a restaurant.

“Well, if you look like Rambo’s evil twin, and seem to know where you’re going, it’s fine. I wouldn’t recommend it for you two, clueless wimps,” Fabio advised.

So, we always opt to valet park. It gives us a secure feeling, knowing that we’ll have still tires on our car to return home (, after a fabulous, seam splitting dinner). To help reduce muggings and car jackings, after 9 pm or so, it’s not required to stop at red lights. This means we get home faster to watch our favorite TV show – NYPD (New York Police Department). Although, NYPD has gotten pretty boring after living in Brazil.

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Hiring a Cook

2005-07-26T18:01:00.000-07:00

When my husband and I moved to Brazil, everyone told us about how great it was to have your own professional cook. So, we hired one. It was our worst decision, since we invested in Enron.

First, there was the introductory meeting between our translator, Claudia, and our cook, Bruna to explain the preliminaries. Claudia translated how we like our vegetables steamed lightly, el dente. Bruna translated this to mean lightly pureed, mushy and pale. Claudia instructed that we use very little salt and fat. So, Bruna measured “little” as in Little Italy, New York amounts.

Claudia said that our favorite foods were quesidias, shepherds pie, and New England clam chowder with Boston brown bread. Understandably, they were foreign to Bruna. Bruna replied that her specialties were tapioca rolls, feijoada, and heart of palm tortes, which were non-staples to us. That’s when Claudia got the great idea that she could spend unlimited, billable hours helping me translate my favorite recipes from English to Portuguese.

“It will be fun!” Claudia exclaimed, making us wonder if “fun” in Portuguese meant lucrative.

Deciding on recipes also meant that I had to determine whether or not the stores carried the products. Several times a week, I’d go on a shopping safari to try to find as much as possible on the recipe list. Instead of flying back to the US to shop at Whole Foods or Albertson’s for foods like dried cranberries for muffins, and Rice Krispies for marshmallow treats, we learned to make due. We posted recipe pictures on the refrigerator, and licked them every time, we got a craving.

Getting the right amounts wasn’t easy either. Once, I thought that I was asking for hamburger for six persons, and the butcher fixed me six packages. I didn’t have the heart not to buy it all, especially after waiting forty minutes, and having my ice cream melt.

We also had to invest heavily in cabinet, freezer, and dishwasher space for microwavable, zip lock containers. Our dogs Rocky and Baylor would steal them to use as chew toys – especially, when they were on the counter with food in them that Bruna was cooling.

Bruna’s main seasoning repertoire consisted of Sazon packets (99.9% salt) and bay leaves. Fortunately, our landlord gave us the okay to plant a bay leaf forest in our back yard. Bruna also liked using red wine, although, we could never taste it in the dishes. We also wondered why we never saw mushrooms in the stroganoff, since we were reimbursing her for pricey mushrooms that she purchased from a guy in a favela alley.

If Bruna was in a hurry to start the weekend, sometimes on a Monday, she’d leave all the food in the oven, figuring it would somehow finish cooking by its self. Sometimes, it would be pre-al dente as in raw, and other times, it would turn into a dehydrated meal to take on camping trip.

The hardest part of Bruna’s cooking for us was hearing my husband complain every night about the results of that cooking.

“Let’s just wait for the food to accumulate, and breed in the refrigerator,” he whined. “She’ll get the idea.”

I thought he was being too negative, but he continued on his second course of criticism. “We can give Bruna a power saw, and ask her to slice the roast that she cooked to death.”

Then came the nightcap, “I don’t understand how she can take an expensive piece of meat and turn it into a deadly weapon.”

After our part-time maid, Dialinda, sampled Bruna’s culinary prowess, she started brown bagging her lunch. The only one who seemed to really enjoy Bruna’s cooking was our foodaholic dog, Rocky. Rocky ate almost anything with a calorie no matter how tough, burnt, or flavorless. So, when Rocky stopped stealing her food, we knew it was time to say good-bye to Bruna.

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Feijoada Anyone?

2005-07-26T18:00:00.000-07:00

Having done my share of traveling, I have found that in some destinations, I have to be careful that I’m not getting something or someone on my plate that I didn’t bargain for. When it comes to eating in Brazil, I feel fortunate that, due to their delicious and appetizing cuisine, I won’t have to experience any unnecessary surprises. Near the city of Sao Paulo, where we live, it’s rare to even see a peppershaker on a table at a restaurant. My only dining danger is mistaking the toothpick dispenser for the peppershaker, and adding some extra fiber.

So, not knowing the Brazilian language or culture well, I don’t have to worry about any culinary misadventures, like ordering forest fire spicy, parts of animals usually reserved for biology labs, or experiencing textures, smells, and edibles created by Mother Nature for kids toys like space mucus, brain mold, and owl puke. And, I never have to worry that the types of insects and wildlife in and around our home will be presented under a cream sauce with a parsley garnish.

There is one popular dish in Brazil called feijoada that is full of surprises. But, at restaurant buffets where my husband, Bob, and I have seen feijoada, it includes a warning label, “Along with black beans, this stew contains animal parts that may be recognizable.” - or, at least something to that effect, from what I’ve been able to translate. A ladle of traditional feijoada could include pig’s ears, pig’s tails, and pig’s feet. The feijoada may also come with pig tongues and snouts - in case you’re wondering where the yelping and snorting sounds are coming from. Yep, you guessed it. That’s why most places leave it out.

Restaurants also offer a pet lover’s feijoada recipe. This is for more sentimental types like me, who: still chuckle at Porky Pig reruns, rooted for Wilbur from Charlotte’s Web, thought Arnold the pig was the only reason to watch Green Acres, thinks Miss Piggy is a catch (versus as obnoxious as George on Seinfeld) and can do better than Kermit, slept with Pigglet, and have visited a hot dog manufacturing plant. Although, the pet lover’s feijoada may have Porky’s cousin or great nephew in it, I never need to see the gruesome details as body parts. It’s kind of like waiting to see Aunt Betty after she is dolled up at the funeral home versus in the morgue with a toe tag after her six-car pile up. So, psychologically, for all we know, that sausage or meat chunk could be pork-flavored soy or bacon-flavored tofu. So, enjoy!

There is also a special, separate, non-official section of the restaurant reserved for the extra sensitive, pet lover types, like myself. (My husband and I were the only ones sitting in the section at the time, due to my insistence.) This way, while enjoying the pet lover’s Feijoada recipe, I don’t have to witness my Neanderthal cousins, slicing a four footed friend’s ear, sucking on a foot, or nibbling on a tail (,even if it is only a distant relative of my pig celebrity idols, like Arnold). Personally, I don’t need to witness the details of their grisly consumption, and then have to explain this should I encounter one of my swine megastars at a book signing, theme park, or toy store opening. How would I be able to answer honestly that, yes, I live in Brazil and yes, I have seen fellow bipeds (as pigs like to refer to us) eating the other feijoada.

Feijoada is such a tasty and popular dish. It’s a shame for it not to be enjoyed freely by all, no matter which kind of feijoada one chooses to eat. After all, how can we, as bipeds, ever expect the world to live in perfect harmony, unless we can accept people’s differences, like their feijoada preferences? To be on the safe and tactful side, however, I know how to handle the feijoada discussion if it arises with my four footed, snout sporting friends, and even more importantly with my two footed, evangelical, hemp footwear sporting, vegan friends. I change the subject and talk about caipirinhas (Brazilian cocktail).

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Brazilians Are So Nice!

2005-07-26T17:58:00.000-07:00

Brazil may not have the fastest people in the world, but, they do have some of the nicest. A culture where even business people, such as bank personnel, hair dressers, and language professors hug you, kiss your cheek, remember your name, and treat you like a long lost American cousin is right up there with pao de queijo (Brazilian hot rolls with cheese inside).

At first, I pondered about why Brazilians are to be so kind and happy. Is it because of the beautiful weather, the beans and rice, or having the seasons flipped in the wrong order? I stopped trying to figure it out, and just enjoy and appreciate it.

The other day, my Portuguese teacher, Professora Fabianna, was at my house giving me a lesson. She asked me if I knew who was playing the beautiful piano music, Elivis Presley’s Love Me Tender, that was floating in through my open kitchen door.

“That’s one of our neighbors, “ I replied. “I think that he or she is a concert pianist. They play almost every morning.”

“What, “ Fabianna replied, “you don’t know whether it is a male or female? You don’t know who it is?”

“No, “ I replied nonchalantly, having never seen most of our neighbors in Austin, except at the biannual block party.

“Well, then, “ she insisted, “we must find out who this person is and introduce ourselves.”

I’m thinking, “We know who this person is. It’s our neighbor who plays the piano every morning. Enough said.”

But, I figured I’d appease her with a compliment,” Wow, you are really outgoing Fabianna.” But, she didn’t seem to catch what I was complimenting her about.

To extend my education of Brazilian culture, Fabianna moved from me textbook to real world. The first step was to determine from which house the music was coming. Outside, Fabianna and I each took a bar stool from the barbecue area and placed it against the seven foot tall, backyard cement wall.

We stood on the stools, peering over the wall. Now, I just needed to hold a sign that read, “Beware of Peeping Toms” in Portuguese. Fabianna said that she could see a keyboard and part of a grand piano in a window of the house directly behind us. We concurred that this must be the house of the pianist.

Ten minutes after receiving another enthusiastic nudge from Fabianna, we had knocked on the pianist’s door, introduced ourselves, and were sitting on Jorge’s sofa with a cool drink. Fabianna complimented him extensively, until the color of my face matched the cherry colored upholstery.

Then she came up with an idea, “Debbie is having a tea for her condominium (gated community) friends, and perhaps you’d like to practice your piano then.”

Not only was Jorge overjoyed to practice during my tea, he wanted to know what kind of music I wanted him to play. I didn’t want to impose, but he persisted, “Classical, Brazilian, jazz, the Beatles?”

Then, he and his wife, Zilda, invited my husband and me to come over anytime for coffee and to listen to his piano playing. We said our goodbyes with thank-yous, hugs, and kisses. I felt like I’d just met more of my long lost Brazilian cousins.

“Wow, people are so nice and friendly in Brazil!“ I exclaimed to Fabianna.

“Yes, but some people here are mean… like people who work in banks," she replied.

Apparently, she doesn’t use my bank.

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Winter in Brazil

2005-07-26T17:54:00.000-07:00

Brrr! It was a cold crisp, winter morning in Brazil - a frigid 62 degrees (16.7 celsius)! My Portuguese teacher, Fabianna showed up at our house wearing her winter woolies – hat, gloves, scarf, jacket, and thick, workout pants. We were going on a morning walk to have a conversational Portuguese lesson and to get my dogs’ workout in.

“Aren’t you going to freeze wearing just shorts and a sweatshirt?” Fabianna asked me, looking concerned that I would get frostbite.

“No, I’m used to cold winters,” I reassured her, “I grew up in Northern New Jersey in an igloo and drove a dog sled to school.”

“But, what about your dogs?” Fabianna persisted, “Will they be warm enough with just their fur?”

After reassuring Fabianna that my forty pound, golden retriever mutts, Rocky and Baylor, wouldn’t catch pneumonia, we headed on our walk and lesson.

As Rocky and Baylor yanked us along at a sporty clip, we approached a white, styled, medium sized, poodle with a pink, fleece jacket and matching pink bows. She was being walked by her owner who was dressed more for snow shoeing in Alaska than a 62 degree day.

The woman’s poodle yapped at Rocky and Baylor like they were invading her galaxy. Thinking it was their galaxy, Rocky and Baylor angrily lunged towards her.

They growled, “Pink jacket wearing wuss!”

The poodle lunged back.

“Nao Priscilla! Nao!” her owner scolded.

But, Priscilla, more agitated than a guest on The Jerry Springer show, was too upset to listen. Standing on her hind legs, she jerked her forearms to gesture like an angry Italian in a traffic jam.

“Oh my gosh! Priscilla is giving Rocky and Baylor the screw you sign! - ‘dar uma banana’ ”, Fabianna translated for me.

Rocky, being the nuclear physicist (Mensa member) of my two dogs, sensed the insult. He pulled so hard that I lost control of his leash. He darted over to Priscilla, and tried to tear a hole in her sweater. Then, Priscilla snapped Rocky’s sun goggles and tried to rip off his Texas Longhorns sun visor. Baylor was howling and pulling to try to provide backup support.

“I can’t take you anywhere!” I yelled, “Get back here, Rocky!”

Then, Baylor lifted up her paw, and joined her index nail and thumbnail to form an “O”, Brazilian, for asshole, waving it at Priscilla. I never knew Baylor was so bright, but now wasn’t the time or the place for praise.

Finally, the dogs settled down to make amends, lingering over each other’s heinie fumes. Priscilla’s owner, Paula, and I apologized to each other. Fabianna complimented Paula on her matching pink scarf, mitten, and hat ensemble – a mother and poodle set.

After wiping the foam from Rocky’s and Baylor’s mouths, we walked further down the street. I spotted a dog trainer with my other neighbor’s large, golden retriever, Domingos. I asked Fabianna to talk with the trainer in Portuguese to see if he could give my dogs obedience classes too. The trainer proudly demonstrated all the tricks that Domingos knew at eight months old.

“Sit Domingos.” Domingos sat.

“Shake Domingos.” Domingos shook.

“Roll over Domingos.” Domingos just stood there.

“That’s because your dogs are making Domingos nervous,” the trainer explained.

Likely story.

Next, the trainer asked Rocky’s and Baylor’s ages, which were eight and seven.

“We have a saying here in Brazil”, the trainer explained, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

At the price he was charging, I wasn’t willing to pay him to teach a new dog old tricks either.

“Well, my dogs will just have to be socially inept for the rest of their lives,” I explained to Fabianna.

“But,” she answered, “it’s never too late to give them a little fashion sense. Besides, they look cold.”

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Amazon Encounter Lodge Vacation

2005-07-26T17:51:00.000-07:00

Part of our reason for moving to Brazil was so that we could go on an Amazon vacation. It wasn’t enough for us to see the Brazilian rain forest on the Travel channel, we wanted to experience it close up with our digital camera.

Waking up to the clock radio at 4 am, my husband and I kissed our dogs goodbye and headed to the airport in Campinas. We spent six hours flying to Manaus with a connecting flight in Brasilia.

Stopping in Brasilia was a chance to impress our friends and family that we’d been to another city in Brazil. It also meant unlimited legroom and not having to eat at a tray table. We picked up post cards to send them. So, what if we never left the airport.

Arriving in Manaus near Amazon country, I was ready for more eating and souvenir shop therapy. At the luncheonette, I prayed that at least one of the employees would be able to understand my pronunciation of pao de queijo (cheese bread). Usually, after saying it six different ways, I resort to pointing. A Brazilian friend warned me how not to say the “pao” part, because then I’d be ordering a schlong with cheese.

After ordering, there was little time left for souvenir shopping. But, while my husband was in the restroom for three minutes, I somehow managed to fill two jumbo shopping bags with souvenirs.

At the Amazon Encounter Lodge airport office, we were greeted by a very friendly guide, Mickeyo (or Mickey), who never stopped smiling and giggling. I wondered if he was smoking some of the Amazon plant life or was best buddies with the local pharmacist. Mickeyo loaded my husband and me, along with six other jet lagged travelers onto the van. He waved goodbye and giggled like he was Mickey Mouse and we were the Mickey Mouse club going to Disney World.

Arriving at the lodge, two hours later, we headed towards our cabin. I think my husband‘s dream had come true - to relive his days at Boy Scout Camp, but, with a wife to share the experience. We would definitely be earning some merit badges.

I plopped myself down on the bed in the cabin. The mattress reminded me of a foam rubber sponge that I’d bought at the Dollar store that disintegrated after three uses. The website had described it as a “queen bed”, which made me wonder if this had been a queen‘s when she was a toddler, and they had taken the railings off the sides. The sheets looked like something to make cheese with. I was already missing our 300 thread count sheets at home.

In the bathroom, the shower had one knob for water - COLD. There should have also had a warning label. They must have pumped the water from the Artic. For my husband, this meant “comfortable”. For me, it meant that I’d have to be treated for hypothermia every time I washed my hair. I felt like I was standing under a Slurpee machine at 7-11.

Our first Amazon Encounter Lodge expedition was a boat ride to fish for piranha, to see the meeting of the Rio Negro and Amazon rivers, have a barbecue lunch, and return to the lodge. When we arrived at the loading dock on the Amazon river, I had to use the bathroom, again. Inside the bathroom, was a hole in a wooden floor that opened to the Amazon river. No paper products for this eco-friendly gal. And, I didn’t want the kids swimming down river to receive any more surprises than necessary.

On the way back from the restroom, I stopped to pet an adorable goat. He was tied to a pole in front of a wide, open doorway. Then, I looked inside and saw fresh meat hanging from the rafters on ropes. “Guess what we’re having for our barbecue.“ the guide said, grinning. I wished that I had ordered ahead for a veggie sandwich like the Bangladesh family. I’d already named this meal, Buddy.

A day on the river meant photo taking, lotion slathering, and voluntary dehydration. I didn’t dare drink any water due to the lack of bathroom facilities on the motorized rowboat. We cast our lines, baited with raw meat, off the sides. I pictured a school of hungry piranhas devouring it, and the piranhas that we didn’t catch, swimming off to snack on a horse or a cow.

The meeting of the waters was a thrill - black water on one side, and beige on the other. Due to the clouds though, it was more like very gray water and gray water. The guide said that nothing lived on the darker side, because it was so acidic. I wondered if he had some how mixed them up, and maybe that’s why we hadn’t caught any piranha. But, three pounds of bait later, someone caught a catfish. And another fish jumped into our boat.

To get back to the lodge, since the van wouldn‘t start, we got rides from the local policeman and police chief. My husband and I had never gotten to ride in a squad car before. We hoped that they’d turn on the siren and their whirling lights for us. But, when they pulled up, the cars looked more like Favela (Brazilian ghetto) cars, one road trip away from the junkyard.

My husband and I squeezed into the police chief’s subcompact compact along with a tall German couple, Franz and Olga. Franz and Olga could have been right out of a magazine ad for a German Big and Tall shop.

Olga started a conversation, “Franz likes vacations at the beach, but, I like the mountains. This year we compromised and chose the Amazon. It doesn’t have either. This way we can both suffer. Franz doesn’t normally go on planes. He has to bring his knees up to my chest, to fit into the seat, like he is sitting now.”

Driving back to the lodge, it started to pour down rain. We noticed that the police chief’s windshield wipers weren’t working on the car. And, the car’s not having seat belts began to bother us more. At least we wouldn’t be fined for not wearing seat belts, since it was the police chief’s car.

As it rained harder, the police chief turned up his contraption of a radio that had wires everywhere to try to drown out the rain. We couldn’t see anything in front of us, and he seemed to be picking up speed to get out of the rain faster and back to the lodge. Franz was digging his nails into the dashboard.

“Franz normally likes to do the driving,“ Olga explained.

Preparing for a hike the following day in the Amazon jungle the next day was its‘ own adventure. We’d already gotten the required shots at the travel clinic, such as yellow fever, and hepatitis. We were taking our anti-malaria drugs, and had slathered on sun screen, and deet bug repellent. Clothing consisted of hiking boots and totally covering our bodies and head to avoid what the deet and sun block couldn’t handle. A burka would have been more practical, but, they were on back order at the sporting goods store.

Going through the rain forest trek, I’d hope to spot things other than trees, green plants, and fungus. We did spot a black ant that was about 20% bigger than the usual, North American big, black ant variety. The photography buffs gathered around for a photo opp.

Further along the path, our two guides, Marco and Gustavo, pounded on a special tree, which echoed through the forest. They said if we got lost, we could always bang on it and it would echo throughout the woods. Hopefully, the sound would reach the lodge staff. And, if they weren’t too busy playing pool or napping on hammocks, maybe they‘d respond. The tree could also come in handy since we had no phone or internet access, due to a recent hurricane.

At our lunch spot in the jungle, Marco and Gustavo tried to build a fire with wet wood to cook our lunch. Thirty minutes later the seven men in our group became part of the consulting team, trying to get the fire to give off more than smoke signals. After the missionary couple had us form a circle around it, holding hands and praying, the fire finally got going. Dousing it with a liter bottle of alcohol helped too.

Next, Marco and Gustavo took out raw meat that had been in their packs all morning and stuck in on sticks that they’d collected in the woods. Then, in order to show their attention to cleanliness, Marco rinsed the plastic meat container in the creek, wiped it out with some leaves, and used it as a serving dish for the cooked meat.

Our side dish was sliced cucumbers in mayonnaise. It had tangy bite that made it taste more like a middle school science experiment than a salad. The meat was smoked and charred on the outside and still mooing in Portuguese on the inside.

As we picnicked, our friendly guides joined in the mealtime conversation, “Have you either of you ever had malaria or dengue fever?” we asked the guides.

“I’ve had dengue fever three times,” answered Gustavo, the younger guide in his mid twenties, squatting at the swarm of mosquitoes, reminding me of a swarm of humming birds.

“I’ve been hospitalized twice for dengue fever, and just recovered from malaria last week,” Marco, who was about the same age, replied, pounding his chest and pulling out a tick on his arm with his teeth.

“Well, I‘ve been bitten by a tarantula six times leading these hikes,” Gustavo boasted.

“That’s because you’ve worked here six months, and I’ve only worked here three,” Marco argued in his own defense.

After that the group got quiet. We arose in unison from our leaf picnic mats and nosey, neighboring insects. We opened our deet bottles and added a few more lawyers of bug repellent. I dropped the mosquito netting down from my REI baseball cap, making me the envy of the group. The two couples that had previously signed up to spend the night in the tree house in hammocks, changed their minds.

After lunch, on the hike back to the Amazon Encounter Lodge, Marcos and Gustavo showed us how nature is really our friend. They each demonstrated how to turn a large, green leaf into a cone shaped Dixie cup, and dip it into the stream to get a fresh, cool drink of water. It did look refreshing and tempting. But, I couldn’t get past the mental block of my childhood in New Jersey, where my best friend drank from the creek next to the chemical plant and grew a third leg.

When we returned to the lodge, my husband and I stopped at the bar for a fruit juice. My normally Teflon coated tummy didn’t feel so good. I couldn’t finish my melon juice and wondered if I’d be able to make the five-minute trek back to our cabin. Bob pantomimed my situation to the cook who pantomimed back that she would brew a tea type concoction that would make me feel better. But, it would take about 45 minutes to brew after she went into the forest to forage for the ingredients.

As, promised, the cook arrived at our cabin with a thick, brownish green concoction in a teacup. Sitting on the bed, I took one sip and felt like I was going to vomit. This “tea” tasted more like sticks and dead leaves mixed with an herbal tea bag. I decided to take the third sip on the front porch, which was lucky because I ended up heaving up my innards over the railing.

I didn’t go to dinner that night. I didn’t leave the cabin period. A day later, I ventured to breakfast only to throw it up again on the way back to the cabin. It turned out that most of the other hikers were in their cabins recovering too, but without having the benefit of the cook’s concoction. The ones who were able to walk, did an exchange of antibiotics, aspirin, charcoal pills, and herbal tea for the rest of us who were bed ridden.

Like our trip to Costa Rica, I’d hoped to see groups of wild monkeys swinging through the trees. The only monkey that we did see was a black spider monkey named Preta. She was chained to a tree. The rope around her waist was so tight, that it dug into her flesh. I asked if it was okay to loosen it. I must have loosened it a little too much. Twenty minutes later, Preta was free. She was swinging from the rafters of the lodge restaurant, and sucking the juice from the fresh fruit cornucopia.

Since we had a mango tree by our cabin, Preta would feast on mangoes, and then stop by for a visit on our front porch. She was even more cute than she was annoying. She’d make herself at home, swinging on the hammock, sitting on the railing, and seeping things off the table with her tail. Preta wasn’t shy or inhibited about where she went potty. So, we had to watch our feet and our seat. Her stint of freedom ended, when the cook caught her in the lodge kitchen, sitting on top of the refrigerator throwing eggs. Then, poor Preta was tied to a tree again.

The last night of our trip when my husband and I were getting ready to go to sleep, he asked me why I was crying.

“I’m worried about Preta,” I sobbed.

Bob exasperated replied, “I don’t know what to do Deb. I take you on this relaxing vacation, and all you can do is cry about a monkey. Our next vacation is not going to have any animals.”

The next morning, when we returned to the Manaus airport, Mickeyo greeted us again with the same level of enthusiasm. Bob and I sat to chat with him in the Amazon Encounter Lodge office. He told us some interesting facts about Manaus.

“In Manaus, the ratio of women to men is seven to one. For instance, my neighbor has four daughters. No sons. They even have women gas station attendants here. Hee hee. This is because there are so few men,” Mickeyo whispered, widening his eyes, like he was revealing this secret for the very first time.

“How do you like living in Manaus, Mickeyo?” my husband asked.

“Oh, I like it very much! I try to enjoy every minute, every single minute of my life to the fullest! To the absolute fullest it can be. Even if I am feeling pain, I want to experience that because it is part of life, part of my life, part of the experience. And, every time I talk to my mother, I make sure to tell her that I love her. I say, ‘Mama, I love you. I love you so very, very much. You are so special to me. I am so lucky to be your son. I love you Mama.’”

I asked Mickyo, if he ever stayed at the Amazon Encounter Lodge or only worked at the airport office. “I did stay at the lodge once.” he replied, trying not to grimace in pain. “Yes once (giggle). Once. Never agai… Oh, but it’s a beautiful place.”

I looked at Mickeyo hoping for a more detailed explanation.

“I got my degree in ecotourism. After two months of working at the lodge, I developed a fear of insects and hammocks,” he whispered. His face started to twitch. I sympathized with him.

We said our thank yous and goodbyes and headed for our plane. Mickeyo headed outside for a cigarette break.

After our Amazon trip, I wondered if we were ever in the same place as the Travel Channel had shown. Where were all those monkeys and hoards of wildlife?

A few weeks later, my husband and I visited a couple who live on the edge of the country in Sousas, Sao Paulo, Brazil. It’s about thirty minutes away from our house in Campinas. I asked them what the squeaking was coming from their backyard.

“They’re the monkeys that come to our yard every afternoon.” Jenny replied. “The chattering is from the wild parrots.”

We opened the back door to go outside, and saw a medley of wildlife. A green lizard with wings flew out of the tree and onto another. In another tree there were little monkeys with striped tails and white fur around their faces swinging about. Green parrots were perched on branches and chatting.

“Wow, this is amazing!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, pretty cool,” Jenny said. “The Travel Channel was just here filming.”

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Hose Shopping

2005-07-26T17:23:00.000-07:00

Shopping in Brazil as a gringo can be difficult, especially, when you don’t know the right word for the thing you want. It often leads to new leisure activities such as charades, pantomiming, modern dance, and telepathic messaging. Shopping is often more like being on a game show. But, instead of winning a free prize like a trip to Hawaii or a shiny new car, the prize is a more modest item like, panty hose, anti-fungal cream, Compound-W, a plunger, dental floss, exfoliating scrub, soap, or latex gloves that you’re expected to pay for.

The other day, I needed panty hose to go with my dress for a party Saturday night. I asked my husband to go with me. We went to the Lojos Americanos store at the shopping mall. (The name sounded hopeful.) We realized that we were going to have to ask a sales associate for help, after combing through the store, first together, and then breaking off separately for more in-depth, CSI (Crime Scene Investigation) type coverage.

Since we’d left our English-Portuguese dictionary at home, we tried just saying, “Panty hose, por favor?”

We got no response from the sales associate other that the usual, confused look, like we’ve just landed our space ship to shop at the mall.

I re-enacted how I put pantyhose on while I’m dressing to Eduardo. (His name was pinned on his red, sales associate vest.). This prompted Eduardo to call over three other sales associates for backup. Actually, he only called over one - the other two tagged along out of curiosity. They’d never seen extra terrestrials before.

My attempts at acting out and drawing panty hose sadly failed.

“Frutaria. Frutaria,” they replied. They must have thought that I was playing the role of a banana unpeeling myself, and backed up their theory with my artistic rendering.

So, our last option was to call our translator, Claudia.

“How can I help you?” she asked in her usual, friendly tone.

“Our friends are having a party tonight, and we’re trying to get hose,” my husband, Bob, explained.

“Bob, I’m sorry, but, hose are illegal here in Brazil.”

“Hose?”

“Yes, hose. They are illegal here. It’s not like Las Vegas, Bob. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I’m talking about panty hose like stockings, Claudia.”

“Oh, panty. You are in a painting store, Bob? You want to buy a hose in a paint store for your garden?”

“No, it’s to wear, Claudia. I’m talking about panty hose to wear - like leg stockings.”

“I’m so sorry, Bob. You don’t do that in Brazil either. Men don’t want to wear stockings to a party.”

“No, they’re for Debbie to wear.”

“Oh, yes. Now, I understand Bob. They are called, meia calca. But, you can’t buy them in a paint store. Try Carrefour. “

Bob thanked Claudia. We showed the word to the now seven, curious sales associates, and a few lurking customers who were hoping to help, and also practice their English on us. Now came the decision as to the color, length, texture, thickness, and size. We still hadn’t gotten to the other items on our shopping list like the soap and latex gloves. But, we wanted to be sure to make it to the party in time – in time to be fashionably late. We’d be playing charades. With the practice that we got shopping, we’d have a decent chance of wining.

Copyright D. L. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Allergies

2005-07-26T17:20:00.000-07:00

Ah Choo! It’s allergy season here in Campinas, Brazil. No, it’s not the flowers, trees, or weeds. It’s the burning of sugar cane fields, and patches of brush fires. Driving around Campinas has become a fall sport with my husband and me. We locate brush fires and see how many we can count. It’s a pyromaniac’s paradise. During the brush fire season, we carry long sticks, marshmallows, and hot dogs.

Last night at 2:10 am, the allergy spirit from the brush fires finally spooked me too. I woke up to find my eyes crazy glued shut and crusty. My brain was bobbing around in my skull because of all the extra fluid. The postnasal drip made me feel like I’d just had my tonsils removed with hedge clippers. Every time, I had almost nodded off, I had to cough up another briquette.

Then, I heard a mosquito buzzing around my ear like a deranged, dental drill. Every time, it would dive bomb close to my ear, I’d slap the side of my head, thinking I’d sent it to live with Elvis.

But, two minutes later, the mosquito was back, buzzing, “Try again, Loser”, and handed me my tennis racquet.

At first, I was also trying to avoid a mosquito bite. But, seeing how the mosquito had managed to outwit me for most of its’ life, I was ready to make a donation. I no longer cared if it sucked more hemoglobin out of me than a Red Cross blood drive. I was tired of being outmaneuvered by an insect with a brain smaller than a wart on a flea’s nose.

“Drink up and go your merry way. Or, drink up until you explode. I don’t care any more. Just let me get some sleep,” I mumbled.

I laid on my back, and stuck both arms out of the covers, vein sides up like I do when I’m donating blood. I kept my neck exposed too, in case it had fangs and a cape. “Cheers, little fellow. Just don’t tell your drinking buddies or unlock the window.”

That morning after a restless night, I asked my husband how he slept, “Oh, I slept great,” he replied, “That allergy medicine worked wonders. How did you sleep?”

“Not as well, my coma king. My allergies kept me up since 2:10 am, along with a hyperactive mosquito by my ear.”

“Well, you should use my allergy medication. Then, you’d sleep well, and wouldn’t hear the mosquito. “

“You know I’d rather be in a Sao Paulo traffic jam than take drugs,” I replied.

(I figured that with the few drugs I’d taken versus him (Mr. Drugstore), my life expectancy had to be longer than his, even if only by a couple of months. And with the additional suffering I’d endured because of not taking as much medication, I figured that I deserved to live longer. But, then, I didn’t want to end up a lonely widow either, even if only for a few months.)

My husband gave me his “I know how you hate taking drugs, but, drugs can be a good thing.” lecture. Then, Bob read me the label, convincingly, discounting the warnings and possible side effects (liver damage, brain tumor, denial). I think he was a pharmaceutical rep. in a past life.

“Okay, I’ve give them a try, before bed tonight,” I stalled.

I knew that he would spot this as one of my procrastination techniques. But, he was also running late for work.

“It takes 24 hours to have them kick in,” he replied, “You have to start taking them now, if you want to be able to sleep well tonight.”

“Okay, I’ll take one,” I agreed, hopeful for a catatonic night’s sleep.

“You’re bound to feel better,” Bob said reassuringly. “But, just to be sure, I’ll pick up a bug zapper and breathing masks on the way home. Oh yeah, and more marshmallows.”

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Advice to Dialinda

2005-07-26T17:18:00.000-07:00

Today, I went upstairs to find our domestic engineer (maid or housekeeper, whichever is more politically correct), Dialinda, looking at her hair in the mirror, her face creased with concern. Dialinda showed me how since she’d been dieting to loose weight for her check-up, her hair had been getting brittle and falling out.

Sensing the urgency, I grabbed my beautician hat. At last, I someone else to share my expertise with. I combed through my alphabetized inventory of hair care products in the bathroom to see what was in stock. I poured from the large, wholesale, beauty store quantities that I’d bought on eBay, into smaller bottles:

- Bad Hair Day Emergency 911: reviving mist (with complimentary CPR manual).

- Gilligan’s Island: the professor’s coconut milk shampoo for split ends and frizzies – storm damage relief with vitamin-H (hair) and banana leaf extract.

- Stalker: 24-7, clinging protein conditioner provides hair with obsessive staying power, body, and shine.

- Rabid Dog: aggressive, frothing, leave-in detangler de force.

- Horse Sense: organic oat bran, hay bale, beta-carotene, and sugar cube scalp massage lotion for any 3-day event or show.

- Vell Hung: long hair straightening lotion with barvarian conditioning.

- The Shining: detailing mist for a hauntingly intense light and shine.

- Floor Tile Hairdo Style: sanitizing hair gloss and polish - chemically enhanced for a lustrous, anti-bacterial shine and finish – also recommended for floors.

- UFO Hair Stay: hair spray with extraterrestrial protein for supernatural hold. (I gave Dialinda one of my warehouse club bottles of this.)

The next challenge was explaining the steps and cycles for all the hair care products, written in English on the containers. Fortunately, together, Dialinda and I managed to communicate. As I acted out the product descriptions, Dialinda patiently taught me the pronunciations and words in Portuguese, regarding shampooing, conditioning, brushing, blow drying, curling, styling, cutting, etc. Excitedly, I telephoned my hairdresser, Humberto, to make an appointment by myself in Portuguese, for the very first time, without my translator’s or Portuguese teacher’s help! Dialinda, being happy for me, (and noticing how proud I was of myself) gave me a big hug, a wide smile, and a thumbs up.

I figured that Dialinda’s hair complaints would also give me the perfect opportunity to give her dieting recommendations, and nutrition tips. Next, I reached for my nutritionist cap, that I’ve had since high school. The only thing that has changed is the type of diet. And, depending on which diets that I reviewed with Dialinda, I’d have to modify them a little had a nutritionist for Brazil:

- Dr. Phil’s Ultimate Weight Solution (first, I’d need to see it work for Dr. Phil)

- Zone diet (Brazilian Time Zone diet)

- Atlkins Diet (Churrascaria diet minus the carb.s)

- South Beach Diet (Copacabana Beach Diet)

- Rice Diet (Rice and Beans Diet)

- Mediterranean Diet (Brazilian, Sao Paulo, or Campinas Diet)

- My Big Fat Greek Diet (My Big Fat South American, Sao Paulo, or Campinas Diet)

- Waterfall Diet (Iguassu Falls Diet on the Brazilian side)

- Martini Diet (Caipirinha Diet)

- Lemonade Diet (Limeade Diet)

- L.A. Shape Diet (Rio Shape Diet)

- No Fad diet

- Duct tape diet

- Look Great Naked Diet (Rio or Sao Paulo Plastic Surgery Clinic Diet)

As I showed Dialinda the dieting information and food items, she was very receptive and appreciative. Kindly and patiently, she corrected me with my Portuguese translations. She also gave me new terms for foods that I’d never heard before. Dialinda helped me to repeat each word or sentence twenty or thirty times until I got it right. She congratulated in a way that made me feel more special than when I won the best archery trophy at Camp Kids-Bee-Gawn. It suddenly occurred to me, that with all the advice I still had to share with Dialinda, I’d no longer need my Portuguese classes or my translator.

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005.

Gringa in Brazil: Gringoes Hire a Maid

2005-07-26T17:14:00.000-07:00

One of the get-to-know-you or conservation starters at ex-pat community socials is, “How is your maid working out?” Since labor is so much cheaper in Brazil, most ex-pats hire a full-time maid (plus a gardener and pool cleaner).

When friends first asked me about our maid, I didn’t know how to answer. I’d never had a real maid before or a solid basis of comparison. With our Suburban Sweepers cleaning service in Austin, Texas, twice a month, their team would come and go like a ninety minute, tidy-up tornado. Usually, my husband and I were away at work because in the States it takes two people working full time to pay for a decent maid. In Brazil, like most ex-pat spouses, I don’t have a work permit so am often at home during the day (digging my tunnel back to Austin, Texas).

“My maid is very nice and hard working,” I answered. “But, I’m a little tired of making her lunch (big, U.S. dinner type meal) every day.”

“What?!”, a more seasoned friend, Beth, corrected me. “She’s supposed to be making and serving your lunch. My maid sets the table and makes and serves me a fabulous hot, four course meal every day. And, there are always leftovers for supper. You need to put some fire under your maid.” This is a clever metaphor but there are a lot more folksy, funny one’s you can use: “Put some propane in her Coleman” or “turn up the heat on her taters” or etc. When you have these spots that I identify as setups, basic statements, then ask your self questions: why? why not? What else could happen? What would be more absurd or exaggerated or even understated.

I now realized that I misunderstood our translator when she said that the maid is supposed to get lunch. I grasped, “Wow, she’s supposed to get lunch for me! That means I won’t need to stop what I’m doing in the middle of the day, like interrupt my Loose Ladies luncheon to run home and cook her a hot meal. Now, I can to be treated like a princess too.”

Another friend Cyndie added, “Well, my maid stole money from my purse so I had to fire her. Just be happy that you don’t have a maid who steals from you.”

“I can’t imagine how I would feel if I found out that my maid was stealing the hard earned money that I get from my husband’s wallet or ATM card.”

Hmm… Now, I felt lucky just to have a maid who didn’t steal. I also realized why at social gatherings Cyndie would put her purse in high, out of the way places like on the roof (as though I can’t use a ladder).

Although having a maid is a wonderful luxury, it can be an adjustment. For instance, having a maid can mean a loss of privacy (I felt so guilty walking in on her and the pool guy). Our maid, Dialinda knows everything about us from the food in our pantry, to the medications in our bathroom, to the size, state, and expiration date of our underwear.

It’s hard to relax or take a nap, when Dialinda is cleaning around me without feeling guilty, like I should be pitching in. What’s even harder is having my masseuse come over when Dialinda is working hard, and has been complaining about her bad back (at least I tell her he’s my masseuse).

My friend Britney, is always trying to find ways to have more privacy, away from her maid too, “I begged my husband, to only have our maid, Silvia, come four days a week. But he said no because we need to boast the local economy while we’re here. Silvia needs the job.” “I guess he’s right,” she sighed, apologetically (I guess that extra two dollars a week is going to perk up their whole economic situation).

When I told Britney that I liked having our maid, because she walks our dogs, she exclaimed, “You just gave me a great idea! If our family gets a dog, Silvia can walk it… That will get her out of the house!”

I’ve seen Desperate Housewives, Britney just may have a thing going with the gardener.

The next day Britney drove around the town of Baro Geraldo, until she spotted a cute but mangy stray dog, hanging outside of a churasscaria (barbecue restaurant). He was begging for food. She opened her car door and called the dog over, waving a bag of treats. Now the dog (“Spot-ado”) is family. Along with his daily, two-hour walk, Britney’s maid takes Spot-ado for weekly shampoos and vet visits. Spot-ado is happy to oblige.

Now that our maid has worked for several months, we have all gotten more comfortable with the arrangement. In the beginning, Dialinda was always overly conscientious about arriving on time, often stayed late, and cleaned meticulously. However, as the months have passed, Dialinda gotten more relaxed. She arrives progressively later and leaves progressively earlier. She chats on the phone to friends (while she does house work), hides out in the pantry to snack on party food, sneaks in her soap operas, and spends forty minutes in the bathroom doing her hair and make-up at the end of the day. When she takes our dogs for a walk, it’s usually so that she can rest on a bench in the park around the corner. Fortunately, by the time she leaves, she has made the house sparkling clean again. We’ve not only gained a maid, we’ve gained a teenage daughter “who actually cleans up after herself”. “They are now shopping for her prom dress.” “They still refuse to let her get her lip pierced”.

As well as a loss of privacy, when hiring a maid, communication can also be a challenge. In the beginning, when I would absently mindedly forget to do something like give Dialinda, bus fare, she would repeat the words faster and louder, hoping in vain that I’d understand her. “I don’t speak much Portugese but I think I heard her use the term ‘stupid gringo cow’ a couple of times.”

So that Dialinda would give our dogs, Rocky and Baylor, a couple of treats during the day, I showed her the box of dog biscuits in the pantry. Instead of taking a couple, she poured half of the box into their bowls, about four days worth of food.

Since Dialinda can’t read or write and I couldn’t speak any Portuguese the first month, every time we had a communication problem, she or I would say, “Claudia!”, the translator, and phone her. Although, Dialinda can’t read or write, she has figured out how to navigate our four remote controls in the TV room to watch her favorite soap operas while we’re out. We’re hoping that she can set up our DVD player from Best Buy to show Brazilian DVDs.

My husband and I have gotten more relaxed also. When we first hired Dialinda, we kept the house picked up, leaving no signs of our typical, slovenly habits. Progressively, we’ve started leaving dirty dishes in the sink again until it looks like a landfill. And we’re back to leaving our clothes on the floor, dirty dishes in the TV room, and towels on the bathroom floor. I no longer clean the toilet bowls either. I almost got on my husband to clean up his mess, until I discovered that a lot of the mess was mine.

When friends visit us and see our messy house, we explain to them that we only have a maid twice a week, feeling sorry for ourselves. Friends sympathize, suggesting that we hire a full-time maid like them, who will do everything except beauty and spa treatments. But, we like the sympathy and our privacy too much. And, having a full-time maid might make us even messier – a habit we’ll have to break when we return to Texas.

Gringa in Brazil: Tracking My Purse

2005-07-26T16:58:00.000-07:00

It’s difficult keeping track of things, especially, things you carry around with you - glasses, keys, wallets, purses. My purse has been left in so many places, it needs a honing device. If my purse could talk, I’d have to send it to therapy for separation anxiety. Whenever I put it down, I know it’s thinking, “You aren‘t going to leave me again are you?”

When my husband, Bob, and I were getting ready to move to Brazil, friends would say, “Exciting news, but, do you know how to speak Spanish?” Our more traveled friends would ask, “Do you know how to speak Portuguese, Japanese, or German?“ A more appropriate question would have been, “Do you have a tracking device for your purse?”

Fortunately, nothing, not even my wallet has ever been stolen from my purse when I‘ve forgotten it. It’s only when it’s been on my shoulder that I’ve experienced my wallet being swiped. At the Dublin Tourist office, while I was shopping for a t-shirt, imprinted with a cartoon of sheep dealing with the cruddy Irish weather, a pickpocket magically pulled out my wallet. Now, I hear they also carry a t-shirt with the design of a jet-lagged tourist being mugged. I’m buying it next time.

Of all of the places that I’ve left my purse, the scariest one was leaving it under the plane seat, after my husband and I arrived at Iguassu Falls, Brazil. Once we were off the plane and in the baggage claim area, I realized that it was missing. “Oh my $%$#% %$^^$* !”, I exclaimed running to a door past a plane load of passengers, hopeful, that no one knew English cuss words.

The entrance door from where we entered baggage claim was locked. I had a sinking feeling, especially having to explain it to my husband. Now, I knew how a trapped lobster felt, “Uh, Honey, I won‘t be coming home for dinner tonight. I am dinner.” I felt like I had no way out either, “Honey, I may not be leaving the airport any time soon, like ever.” Although, there was the baggage conveyer belt opening, which opened on to the runway. But, I didn‘t feel like being shot by a security guard. Our healthcare costs were already too high.

My husband’s and my next step was to look for an airport employee who spoke English. One Brazilian speaking employee directed us to another, who directed us to another until we reached the airline employee who had heard of the English language. But, Mr. English Speaking Airline Employee (ESAE) was busy verifying people’s baggage before they could exit. I never saw this done in the US - A Ripley‘s Believe It or Not event.

I explained to Mr. ESAE that I left my purse on the plane and just needed to get back on to get it...IMMEDIATELY! “Just a minute.” he responded with the concern of a dead fish. I looked at my watch and a minute later, said a little more frantically, “I need to get my purse NOW! It’s on the plane!” “Just a minute.” he responded again, with the same level of concern. “Just a minute” meant as soon as I check this entire plane’s luggage with the break neck speed of a slug on crutches.

In the meantime, I was envisioning the worst. Bob and I would be stuck in this airport. We’d be like Tom Hanks in the movie Terminal, only with less ability to speak the language, and no way to make money, since the baggage carts weren‘t coin operated. We’d spend our entire vacation and perhaps middle age at the airport trying to get home.

Finally, thirty minutes and ten anxiety attacks later, the airline employee, took me to the ticket counter. There, he needed to shuffle through the thirty something bureaucracy channels to get permission to go on the plane to retrieve my purse. My husband asked, “Can you ask him to find our luggage claim tickets too? I think I left them in my seat pocket.” Fortunately, Mr. ESAE had already headed towards the plane. I wasn’t about to slow him down. Luckily, my lost purse had distracted him from remembering to verify our baggage which we had in tow.

As I prayed by the airline ticket counter for Mr. ESAE to return with my purse, I noticed a group of US tourists, all seniors traveling together. They were in a huddle discussing whether or not they brought enough Metamucil to handle the high protein, low fiber meals in the churrascarias. A Churrascaria restaurant is the Brazilian version of the Atkins, low carb diet - meat, poultry, fish, and cheese on skewers, along with a buffet bar for carbs. The senior in pink who was checking in her hot pink vinyl luggage ensemble, chimed in, “I packed Pepto Bismol.”.

As I stood around waiting for Mr. ESAE, a hurried woman with an American accent bumped past me on the way to the restroom, not even saying excuse me. “Excuse Me!”, I yelled after her. “Errr… Rude American.” I thought, “Why doesn’t she go back to her own country?”

Tick. Tick. Still no news about my purse or Mr. ESAE. So, I decided to go through the automatic doors to see if I could see Mr. ESAE returning with my purse. I eyed my husband down at the rental car desk. He was desperately pantomiming to the rental car agent whose face was contorted in confusion. I could tell that we wouldn‘t be getting our rental car in the next decade. So, I wasn’t delaying us.

After five minutes of trying to re-enter through the same automatic doors, a tour operator got my attention. She offered me a sedative, and pointed to another door. It was opening for people and had a sign on it . I think the sign translated to “Entrance.” or “This Way Stupid Tourist”.

Back inside by the airline desk, I continued waiting for Mr. ESAE. I worried that another plane had unloaded, and that he was verifying baggage. Finally, Mr. ESAE returned. And, he handed me my purse! He asked me to verify that everything was there. But, I figured, since it hadn’t been on my shoulder, nothing was missing.

Copyright D. E. Finley 2005