The Road to Brazil

2001-08-27T15:23:00.000-04:00

I think I hate the 2nd Avenue Border's. Maybe I just hate what it does to me.
The day I returned from Brazil, all full of vim and vigor, fully prepared to speak English to each and every person I met, absolutely anticipating making love to the first willing woman I saw, I biked down to Border's, and saw what could well have been the first willing woman.
She was beautiful, and she was looking at books near me - a clear sign of interest. OK, maybe I'd followed her to where she was standing. It's been a while.
I was all ready to approach her, all ready with a line of bullshit, only, of course, I wasn't ready. I had no line of bullshit. All I had was angles and curves in my stomach making me queasy and wheezy, and, even leaving the bookstore the same time this cute girl did, I said nothing.
All my plans, all my oaths sworn after a month of isolation down south, all of it denied, and right there within the confines of Border's Books.
And then, yesterday, Sunday, back in the same store, I spied the most gorgeous amazon I'd ever seen that day. Probably five eleven, short blonde hair, wearing pre-Labor Day white (including a tight laced halter-top that barely attempted to contain her), she was a vision like no other.
She was way out of my league, but also alone, and I even came up with a line or two of bullshit to try and feed her, but there I stood, across from her, only going so far as drooling over her cleavage, looking down her shirt.
I could say nothing.
Humbled by my own inadequacies, I hit the door, only to see another cute blonde, exiting.
We walked the same path downtown for about ten blocks, and in all that time, I could think of no way to approach her, no way to confront my own fears and her, all at once.
All I could do was think about how much I hated Border's.
Though by Border's, I probably mean me.

2001-08-27T13:57:00.000-04:00

Waking up at noon is not something I like. I've been doing that more and more, what with my later and later schedule. I really need to rearrange the trend, make myself one who functions during the days. I figure, within a month or two, I'll be back on track.
On Saturday, after an especially late Friday night, I got up at noon.
"Oi," I said to the absence in my bedroom, knowing I had shit to do.
I trudged over to the computer and started writing. I had a gig that day, and needed some original material for it.
In the nigh-REM state, the writing was pretty easy. It was a quick script, for a quick performance in the early afternoon.
By three ten, I was heading uptown to the Bronx.
I got to Liz and Terence's building a little after four. Liz came down to get me, all in white, and brought me up to her aunt's apartment. A couple of people had arrived.
"Jon, this is Bill, and this is Suzanne."
Suzanne was gorgeous. Something clicked, but I didn't know what it was.
"I need a printer," I said to Liz.
"Just a moment," she said, going to the door, "That's Jenny."
Jenny and Shad came in. Jenny was gorgeous.
Every now and then, Liz tells me about friends of her that I'd not met. Since I'm the only friend of Liz's that matters, the list of alleged other friends in slight. Among them was her way cute friend Jenny, whom, before meeting, I'd professed undying love for. I'd finally met a year or so ago. She was cute, married, and a mother.
Suzanne on the other hand, turned out to be another friend I'd heard about years ago. Back in '92, I was told about this doctor-m-training that was real cute. I'd fallen in love with her, sight unseen.
Now I'd seen her, and my love was just as strong as before.
Which reminds me of an old poem:

SUICIDE MOTE

I hate your nose. And your hair. Your smile and your clothes.

I hate how you look into my eyes, pretending to see something deep or important there, and tell me, "That's very smart."

I hate when you smile at my stupid stories and laugh at my dumb jokes.

I hate that you and your god forgive all my sins, and how you swear you care, and you'd never do anything to hurt me.

I hate how you're good and sweet and considerate. I hate that you complete parts of me I forgot were missing, or never knew. I hate how you see me cry, and how you're the only one to do this to me. I hate that it took me so long to say this.
And I really hate your husband.
Suzanne had married Bill, apparently, soon after Liz had mentioned her, lo those many years ago.
Sigh.

No matter. I had things to do that day other than lust after married women – though, really, that should always be given some certain priority.
Terence took me up to his apartment so I could print out some pages and pocket most of them.
"You look slick," I told Terence.
"I'm surprisingly nervous," he said.
"Well, don't worry. All eyes will be on me. It's really my show."
He laughed, and we went back downstairs.
"Whenever you're ready," Liz told me.
"Cool," I replied, put on my judge's robe, and put Terence in place before me.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, "We're about ready to begin."
They quieted down, until Liz appeared with Jenny on her arm, and her Aunt Marian, one of the ringleaders of the event, began humming the wedding march.
Everyone laughed, as the two ladies marched down, and Jenny handed Liz off to Terence, and they both faced me, angled so the fifteen people present could see their profiles, but mostly, me.
I began to read my script:

"Love is a many splendord thing
Love is all you need.
Love is never having to say you're sorry
And I'm sorry, but when I see the love that exists between INSERT NAME and INSERT NAME, it just makes me feel so very special. As If I am in the sight of a once-in-a-lifetime vision.
If anyone in this room can experience on fourth of the genuine affection that my close personal friends, TRENT and ELISA have for each other, we would be truly blessed.
INSERT TEARS.
I'm sorry. I can't go on…."

I crumpled up my sheet of paper, and said, "This is crap. This was written in fifteen minutes, and I don't think it's any good. I'm going to have to speak from my heart, and tell you what I really think."
Then I reached into my pocket, took out the rest of my script, and returned to reading.
It got the requisite laugh. It's a cheap shot, but it always seems to work.

"We are gathered here today… Liz, you're not pregnant, right?
OK, Cool.
We are gathered here today to celebrate the fake union of Liz and Terence, who really, in the eyes of god and the governments of three minor states are already married.
It's a good opportunity for those who know and love Terence and Liz to come together and toast to their happiness in all things, and more importantly, to eat. There IS food, right?
OK, Cool."

Marian and her friend Carol came up with this. Liz and Terence have lived in infamy for a couple of years now, and I think the oldster's thought a faux wedding would be fun, but might also set a fire under their butts. The reason didn't matter. Liz had first invited me to attend the bash, then to officiate at the wedding. I'd agreed to each.

"I don't know about you," I read, "but I never ask friends and family if they're in love, or if they're happy. Those are kind of huge questions, and I never think to ask them.
And weddings, fake or otherwise, aren't really about love, or happiness. They're about consolidation of gifts, and cake.
Weddings are about dedicating your life – or the next five to fifteen months – with the same person. And it should be obvious to all inhabiting this room and that Liz and Terence are committed to other, or should be.
Anyway, I think they do really love each other.
I write poems. Sometimes, I just steal what other people say and put them on a page. This is one of the things I stole, based on an anecdote between this happy loving couple."

I then read the old hit, only without the title, to give it a little more neutrality:

TO ELIZABETH

Honey, I'd love you no matter what.
I'd love you even if you lost both of your arms and legs in a horrible freak accident.
They say the course of love never runs smooth,
but my devotion for you's so strong,
If I had to feed you
And wash you
And roll you out for walks,
I'd love you just as much –
Maybe more.
Honey, where do we keep the saw?

"Don't ask about the real incident," I said, "I think they're both embarrassed by it now. But the prosthetics look pretty convincing, don't they?
"Anyway, I think that fairly represents why we've all gathered here today:
To celebrate our friends, and their relationship, and… well, food.
So, without further ado:
Terence, do you take Liz to be your lawfully recognized housemate, as long as you share the lease?
OK, Cool.
Liz, do you take Terence to be the guy you bring to all family functions, as long as you find the situation mutually viable?
OK, Cool. I now pronounce you both ready to eat cake.
There is cake, right?
OK, Cool."

I told the people to throw rice at them, or something, and since no one had anything, I decided to continue.
"I have an extra little piece that really should have been read earlier," I said, "But since I do have the floor."
"Encore!" Somebody called, "ENCORE!"
"Right," I said, and finished with what should have been the introduction:

SEX WITH ETHEL.

Marry me, for the passport.
Marry me, for a bigger apartment.
Marry me, for all those presents.
Marry me, for the tax break.
Marry me, to see all your friends in hideous purple chiffon.
Marry me, and get your parents off my back.
Marry me, please; I love you.
And I don't want this one to be another bastard.

They laughed, they clapped. They enjoyed.
"It seemed to work," I said to Melle, afterwards.
"Oh, yeah."
All the couples present asked me to officiate at their next weddings.
"Look like I've got a new job," I said, "A cottage industry."
Some people asked me about parties and clubs, and when I could perform. No one offered to buy a book or come to future shows. Well, no one who wasn’t already on my list.
Still, I think I impressed the two married girls I'd so long been so in love with.
Another successful gig, successfully completed.

After the party, I could go back to sleep – though not until noon. That's just too late.

2001-07-16T15:54:00.000-04:00

Final Observations:

Biking through the City, seeing where I belong, leaves me strangely homesick for Sao Paulo. The women are really beautiful there.
Also, fashion conscious. It's a Latin country, so the women dress to impress. So do the men, of course, which left me in something of a bind. It's good to be back among the slobs.
I've noticed a couple of things I didn't quite recognize, while away.
Women wear loads of black in Sao Paulo. Very sophisticated. Probably has something to do with it being winter, but the temperatures, so far, seem pretty similar.
There are no flip-flops in Brazil, and few sandals. Most women have black heels throughout the city. Even in Rio, a beachfront city, flipflops were infrequent. Already, I miss that.
The stores here are so big. For such a spacious country – for such a spacious city – Sao Paulo had innumerable tiny restaurants, small stores, lots of street vendors. The entire economy was more down to earth.
People yell at your more in New York. While biking around, cars approached me/confronted me on various offenses. Maybe they did that in Sao Paulo too, and I just didn't know. Certainly, it would have mattered less.
I am definitely back in my element. I went to a library, and luxuriated within a room filled with books that I could read. I was in a place I could understand. I was surrounded by English; was at home.
I didn't realized how servile, how polite I'd been lately, because I was so afraid of my communicational deficiencies. Someone looked cross-eyed at the twenty I gave her yesterday, and I immediately reached for exact change. I was afraid she would explain a problem to me I wouldn't understand.
I NEVER do that in New York.
Or, at least, never will again.
It is good to be back.

2001-07-16T11:43:00.000-04:00

Off the plane and flashed through customs.
"Enjoy your stay," The Queens guy said.
"Thanks," I said, "Thanks for speaking English. It's been a long month."
It was the unaccented English that was the issue. There were good speakers in Brazil, but no one was from my part of town. Ricardo is from New Jersey, so he was good, but he's also from Chile, so…
It was good to be among right-speaking people.
Maybe it was excitement about being back, maybe it was that I only got a couple hours on the plane, but probably it was the language. All through my excited Saturday, it was hard to keep my mouth shut. Breathing became something of a chore – when to do it, when to talk. It was so good to be around people who really understood me, or could at least fake it sincerely.
Several people have said I’ve lost weight, which makes no sense at all. I’ve been in the office more hours than not, drinking, eating, abusing…
They say I’ve gotten color – which is possible – except that I’ve been working all daylight hours in the middle of Sao Paulo’s winter. So it’s kind of doubtful.
Are they lying? Are they wrong? Do I somehow seem happier? Or do people just have to say something?
Any number of people told me that New York wasn't the same without me.
"I know," I replied, "I know."

2001-07-16T10:45:00.000-04:00

The winds blew turbulent.
An open window in the office whipped randomly about, representing storm.
"Good luck traveling tonight, Jon," Ricardo said.
"That's right," Carlos added, "Friday the Thirteenth. Whoo!"
"My flight's at eleven fifty five. I only have five minutes of cursed time to contend with," I said. "I figure that that means we won't be leaving until Saturday the Fourteenth."
"But you have to take into account," Carlos said, "That you're going to New York. So you have to use their time zone."
New York is an hour earlier than Sao Paulo.
"Oh shit," I said.
“It’s getting off the ground that’s the worse thing anyway…” Ricardo said.
We finished work and left.
Gustavo hugged me as we parted company.
Chris and I walked back to the hotel – my last chance to see Sao Paulo on foot. We talked about our respective national cuisines. I said, "Other than hot dogs, hamburgers and french fries, I don't know what US food is."
Chris claimed that Brit cooking gets a bum rap.
On the elevator up to our rooms, Chris said, "Well, I think you did a great job, and I hope you'll keep in touch."
"All right," I replied, "Talk to you Monday."
I got off on my floor.
"Safe flight!" Chris called through sliding doors.
"Thanks."
It took ten minutes to clear out my room, ten minutes to pay the bill, and forty five minutes for the taxi to get me to the airport. I stared out the window throughout.
I gave my remaining reais to my driver, and walked past a line of economy registrants to go first on the Business Class line.
I got on the plane right after the children, but before the general cattle call.
We didn't attain altitude until Saturday in Brazil, and we flew into Saturday in New York without much incidence.

2001-07-13T19:17:00.000-04:00

There have been some limited goodbyes.
The men have shook my hand, some have asked when I’m coming back. I say I don’t know, but soon.
I told Glaucia she must come to New York. “I’ll show you…” I said, and paused, thinking.
“Your skyscraper?” Chris suggested.
“Come to New York,” I said, “You’ll have a good time.”
I went down on my knees and begged Liza to take the plane with me.
“Don’t ask me twice,” she said, “Or I’ll come.”
“I need someone to talk to,” I said, “You can have a place to stay. If not now, next week?”
“Next week,” she said.
I really have to clean my apartment.

I have only a few hours to go. My flight is at eleven fifty five on Friday the Thirteenth, which would be a problem, if I expected the plane to leave on time. International flights never leave on time, do they? If so, I’m fucked.
I’m supposed to get there two hours in advance of the flight, and it takes at least an hour to get to the airport.
We’re still working on today’s Morning Line, but that’ll be done soon. It takes half an hour to walk to the Hotel, and I’d kind of like to do that this one last time.
Then I have to check out, pay the bill, carry my bags. I probably need to begin leaving four hours before my departure.
Which was about TEN minutes ago.
So what am I doing writing you?

2001-07-13T18:13:00.000-04:00

I woke up reasonably early and nervous – nervous and excited – with sixteen hours left in Latin America. I had a lot to do.
Not that much, really. I needed to do the job, pack, get to the airport, shave.
Shave I did right away. Without an electric razor, it’s a more time-consuming process, but I get a cleaner head. I still wonder if I forgot my electric, or if it was stolen. When I get home, I’ll have to look…
“When I get home…” I said aloud, almost sang.
I was nervous and excited.
After shaving, I packed, so when I returned to the hotel after work, I could just pick up my bags and jam. Because my room was so small, packing was amazingly simple. There just was no place to sprawl all of my stuff. It was contained in the closet and the bathroom. So I left my room around nine, went for the free breakfast – that I’d only discovered days before – and got to work soon after.
The day was smooth and easy. Because Gustavo is becoming increasingly comfortable with his functions, I’ve performed in more of an auxilary capacity. I’ve written a few good poems out of that available free time.
I was having difficulty getting up the gumption to call Thais, to see if she wanted to get together for coffee. Nothing was going to happen – obviously. Nothing was going to happen anyway. But I did want to see her again, give her my poems, get the obligatory kiss on the cheek. Which was why I was excited. Nervous and excited.
I called. She picked up on the first ring.
“Thais?”
“HI, Jon!”
She remembered me.
“Of course I recognize you!” She said.
She couldn’t get together before she went to work in the afternoon – that had been the plan, but she hoped she could read my poetry, and asked me to write her, and call her.
“And when I come to New York to visit my brother,” she said, “I’ll visit you, too.”
“That… would… be … excellent,” I said.
She kissed me goodbye and I got off the phone.

When Falcone came in by early afternoon, we asked him how he was. He was polite and friendly, and couldn’t remember much of the night before.
“We were worried about you,” I said.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I did.”

We went for rodizio for lunch. Samuel had said we would do Feijoada this last day, and I lived in fear of that. My cast-iron American-fried stomach has been devastated by Brazilian cuisine.
But when Ricardo suggested rodizio, I was SO into it.
Some things are worth dying for.
“Are you happy?” they asked me at lunch, over and over. It was a stupid question. I was so excited to be eating the beef one last time. The pao de queso, the hump roasts, the endless cokes... it was heavenly.
Was I happy? DAMN!
Still, I was excited to go home.
I still am.

2001-07-13T17:49:00.000-04:00

After my first night showing off as a poet (when I first made the claim that ‘they love me in Brazil,’ Carlos showed me a poem that he particularly liked.
ITHACA
When you set out for Ithaka
Ask that your way be long,
Full of adventure, full of instruction.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
Angry Poseidon -- do not fear them;
Such as these you will never find
As long as your thought is lofty,
As long as a rare emotion
Touch your spirit and your body.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
Angry Poseidon -- you will not meet them
Unless you carry them in your soul,
Unless your soul raise them up before you.
Ask that your way be long,
At many a summer dawn to enter --
With what gratitude, what joy!
Ports seen for the first time;
To stop at Phoenician trading centers,
And to buy good merchandise.
Mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
And sensuous perfumes of every kind.
Buy as many sensuous perfumes as you can,
Visit many Egyptian cities
To learn and learn from those who have knowledge.
Always keep Ithaka fixed in your mind;
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But do not in the least hurry the journey.
Better that it last for years
So that when you reach the island you are old,
Rich with all that you have gained on the way,
Not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.
Ithaka has given you the splendid voyage.
Without her you would never have set out,
But she has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor,
Ithaka has not deceived you.
So wise have you become, of such experience,
That already you will have understood
What these Ithakas mean.
Konstantinus Kafavis (1863-1933),

“Here’s why this poem sucks,” I said, and explained my understanding of the greeks.
“This is all about going off on an adventure,” I told Carlos, but Odysseus, he was returning from adventure. He’d been in Troy for ten years, living the life of a warrior – something he never wanted to do – and at the time of the Odyssey, he was on his way home. Ithaca is not a place of adventure. It’s a place to cease such childish things.”
“Well, I like it,” Carlos said.
Later, I realized how callous I was. Carlos had liked my poetry, bought my books, and shared with me a particularly meaningful poem to him. And I’d spat on it. I felt guilty. I felt ashamed. In an attempt to do penance, I wrote the following:

CONSTANTINE’S WORD

They tell me of my great adventure; speak of all the things I’ve seen.
They tell me how it must be grand to be a warrior, voyager, king.
So many wish they’d had my fate so see the world so long and slow
and often will ask my advice as to the best way they can go.

I tell them that the road is long, will pass you by if you’re not on it
I warn them not to miss the joys of waves and love in witches’ sonnets.
I threaten them to take the chances, ride on ships and go as far
as they’ll allow – and fight in battles, big and small – and go to war.

I tell them all deceit is fun, and gods exist as victims, foes;
to love and live and leave behind all that was good, but now must go.
I warn the young to quickly do all that the world will let them do
and am sure in my sage wisdom for a wise man is an old one, true.

And I am old, my face is worn, my beard is grizzled, full of gray
but I have lived and now the people care enough to hear my say.
But if I had listened to one like me, before I’d traveled as a boy
I hope that I’d been blessed enough to hear the words, “Don’t go to Troy.”
Jonathan Berger (1969 –2238)

All of this is precursor to the fact that now, I’m on my way to Ithaca. The adventures have passed, the exploring is done. I have done my clever tricks, and my smartass maneuvers. I’ve been to Troy. Now I’m off to Ithaca – both of which, of course, lie in New York.

2001-07-13T17:08:00.000-04:00

My last full night in Brazil was not bad. There was an office party to go to as soon as the work days was finished, and various companions who might be willing to spend time with me.
I called Thais, the hot lawyer girl I met a couple days before.
“I’m leaving tomorrow. Do you want to pick up my books?”
“Of course I want your books? Are they a gift?”
“For you? Of COURSE they’re a gift. To see you smile…” I said, before gazing off into space.
She laughed, “I could come to your office in about half an hour?”
“We may be gone by then.”
I told her we were going to the Mata Bar, and gave her Gustavo’s cel number, to see if we could reconvene sometime during the night.
“Don’t forget your phone!” I said to Gustavo, maybe five times.
We arrived at the Mata Bar to see Brazilian fortune tellers telling the group of analysts and sales guys what stocks they should buy. There was laughter and joy, but it was all in Portuguese, so I started drinking kiwi Caparinhas. Maybe that way I'd understand – or think I did.
Hor devoirs - which are probably called something else here (maybe ‘eats’) were served.
I ate. I drank. I enjoyed. Some of the clients whom I’d met earlier in my trip were there, and I schmoozed with them. I hung out with the hot interns, Glaucia and Liza.
“When are you leaving, Jon?” Glaucia asked.
“Tomorrow night,” I said, so if there’s anything you need to do, do it soon. You have to marry me tonight, if you’re going to.”
She laughed, but didn’t take me up on it. I was bluffing anyway’ there’s always tomorrow.
I talked to Falcone, my gigantic companion of the night before.
“Thais is a very nice girl,” he told me.
“Absolutely,” I said, “I’m in love. At least until I leave.”
He laughed.
“So what do you want to do after this?” He asked, “We could go to the best bar in town, with a seventy reais cover charge, or go to the best whore house in town, with a seventy reais cover charge. CHOOSE!”
Falcone is about nine feet tall, and nine feet wide. It’s not muscle, but it’s not fat. He’s an imposing motherfucker. Really nice guy, but at the moment, I didn’t want to tell him I didn’t have seventy reais to my name. Dollars? Lots. Reais? I’d run out.
The CL event ended, the interns left, and the crowd changed. The suits disappeared, and the girls showed up. Lots of girls. Beautiful girls. A band started playing. Live cover music.
“Every band I’ve heard hear plays ‘Ladies Night’ at the beginning of the set,” I told Andre, “Any idea why?”
“What?” He said.
I vaguely danced to the music, having long since given up on Thais arriving. I was disappointed, naturally, but there were lots of other women to stare at. And talk to, sort of.
Falcone had made it his mission to get me some in my last night in town. “You should drink,” he shouted, downing his fifth chopp after four Caparinhas. Then he knelt to talk to this incredibly hot mixed breed. I was guessing Afro-Brazilian, though maybe some nipo-was in the mix, as well.
The two of them talked. He gestured at me, and she shook her head, frowning. Falcone grew more emphatic. I shook my head, trying to ignore their interaction, genuinely afraid. I failed in my attempt to focus on the music.
Finally, she stood up, saying something to me, and Falcone, grinning, nimbly moved off.
“What?” I said, “I can’t hear you!”
She smiled wanly, gave me a thumbs up, and sat down again.
I more successfully followed the music. They did a pretty powerful version of Prince’s ‘Kiss.’ People danced, sort of.
When I rejoined Falcone, he did what he could with a couple more women, but they wouldn’t look at me. Frankly, I was relieved. Falcone is a kid, but he’s obviously an Old Boy, very much a “How YOU doin’” type, and I wanted none of that.
Also, the idea of hooking up with an incredibly hot foreigner my last night in town – while in some ways really appealing – seemed in most ways pretty sad.
If I wanted something quick and dirty, there were houses all over town begging for my service. And I wouldn’t have to worry about the major language anxiety that’s plagued me all month. I didn’t want to deal with romance with someone I’d picked up. I don’t do that in New York, where I feel comfortable. Working it out in this town would have been exhausting. Impossible. Hard.
“You should drink more!” Falcone said.
I had another Caparinha. He had two. From the way he was stumbling, I knew I wasn’t asking for a ride home.
After an hour’s absence, Chris reappeared.
“Where have you been?”
“I was talking to that Amazon we saw when we came in.”
I remembered. She’s popped out from behind a counter, and very pleasantly surprised me.
“She was a big girl,” I said, impressed that he could hold her attention.
“And she’s really from the Amazon.”
“Isn’t that Amazonian?”
We talked for a while, drank for a while. Some of Falcone’s friends told me about all the cool clubs to visit to get laid the next time in Brazil.
“Carnaval!” Andre said.
“Maybe next year,” I replied.
Probably not, though. I won’t be back for work – unless some miracle gets me re-employed in the LatAm sector. If I come back, then, I’ll probably explore more.
But I’d have to learn the language. And I’d have to travel more. And I’d have to not be working twelve hour days.
Around one o’clock, Chris and I agreed we’d had enough. Falcone, drunker than anything, cursed me for a homosexual because I wasn’t helping him help me hook up. I shrugged, too his abuse like a fey man, laughed a lot, and said, “I’m out of here.”
Falcone tried to shame Chris into staying, so we didn’t get out until one thirty.
“A cab, then?” Chris asked.
“We’re about five blocks from the hotel.”
“How did you get to know the neighborhood better than I did?”
“I walk,” I said.
We headed off.
I was fairly proud of myself. I had drunk much less than the last several nights, and suspected that the next day wouldn’t be anywhere near as difficult.
At least, I hoped.

2001-07-12T11:36:00.000-04:00

So naturally, I go out drinking.
“Jon,” Chris said, near the end of the day, “Fancy a few drinks?”
“Sure!” I said.
Why? I felt bad and achy and lousy, and, if I were home, I’d take it easy, and get comfortable, and not feel lonely, because I was at home. The best that was available to me if I took it easy was a chance to follow that great Brazilian show, Familia Soprano. I had finished my book on decoding and probably wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on the novel I’d just begun.
I didn’t want to be lonely in a lonely land. I didn’t want to be alone.
So I said “Sure.”
We went back to the hotel and agreed to meet up in half an hour, at ten.
I was asleep when he knocked.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Andre suggested this place Robert Charles,” Chris said.
So we went. We took a cab, and I recognized every street we passed. I knew the neighborhoods, I knew the roads… it was only a ten minute drive, so my feat was only so impressive.
We entered the crowded Robert Charles to see swarms of middle-aged women, looking.
“Apparently, it’s a pick-up bar.”
“Ah,” I said.
We stood between crowds and watched the end of the Billy Soul Band’s set.
“I understand this is something of an expat hangout,” Chris said.
Everyone around us spoke Portuguese. For expats, they weren’t doing me any good.
Some of the women were attractive. We stood next to a pretty impressive group of young lovelies – younger than us, which was rare in the club. Still, the language barrier…
We finished our Caparinhas and got out of there.
“Want to try another place?” Chris said.
“Sure!” We went to a bar across the street from Porta Luna, where I’ve spent several entertaining evenings. I don’t know the name of the new place, but there was a picture of a turntable by the entrance. I doubt I’d be able to find it again.
The women there were much prettier, much younger, but spoke just as much Portuguese.
“They probably understand a little English.”
“They need a lot to hang with me,” I groused.
We drank more Caparinhas.
“We’re reaching my maximum,” Chris said, “When I went home, stumbling, blind drunk, I’d had five Caparinhas. We’re at four.”
We drank, we talked. I ogled. Lots of lovely women there.
“So, if you leave here after a month without scoring,” Chris said, “in Brazil? That’ll be some kind of record.”
“Well, so long as I’m unique…”
I felt my tongue stiffen, and heard my thought processes shut down. During my repeated trips to the bathroom, I found myself stumbling more and more. If I were to start vomitting, how could I apologize to the world around me?
We hadn’t spoken to anyone all evening, though, as per usual, many of the locals would look at us curiously, interested. By twelve thirty, we stumbled home.
It was difficult walking the five blocks back to the hotel, but we managed, went to our respective rooms, and prepared for another work day. I drank as much water as I could, but, based on my head this morning, I don’t think it was quite enough.
Sao Paulo’s gonna kill me.

2001-07-11T19:25:00.000-04:00

All day, I have been slow, aching, hurting, short-tempered and sharp.
I have looked too long at people and spoken too little.
I do not like drinking, and I’m not very good at it. I drank as much water as I could last night to ensure that I’d have no hangover. And I’ve had no hangover, but I haven’t felt good.
As ever, I think I’m depressed that the joyous feelings of last night – the potential in connections – the thrill of meeting new people who don’t know all of my schtick, everything about successful socializing ends up with me feeling let down and slightly depressed.
Also, far away from home and nobody wanted to go get Feijoada with me.
It’s probably for the best. My sour stomach wouldn’t have been able to handle the salty low-quality pork.
Probably, I need to get home, to be done with adventuring for a little while, so I can figure out what is next.
Probably that’s it.
Everything hurts, just a little bit.
Everything aches.

2001-07-11T19:13:00.000-04:00

“I should tell you,” Falcone said as we drove, “My sister is very beautiful. Very tall, very intelligent. And if you so much as look at her…”
I licked my lips. “Your sister’s gonna be there?”
Turns out I recognized the place where Falcone led. I’d passed it in my travels in Pinheiros the day before.
He brought us into a labyrinthine restaurant, looking for his sister and her party. After one turn too many, she found him.
Carolina was pretty. She wasn’t the most gorgeous girl in the world, which was probably for the best, since Falcone was such a big guy. I would have hated to have bled all over him, ruining his shoes, getting the police all up in his face about some voluntary manslaughter rap…
Her friends, though…
Man.
“Brazilian women are the most beautiful in the world!”
Cintia and Thais each kissed my cheek, as is custom in this part of the world, and I tasted a little bit of make-up.
Each with long dark hair, sparking eyes and business suits, I was in love. Twice.
Because we added so much to the group, we moved upstairs to a secluded booth – all ten of us. I sat across from Cintia, with Thais at my side.
“Jon,” Falcone said, “Could you tell us one of your poems?”
I couldn’t.
“I don’t have them memorized,” I said, “But here!”
I pulled out the copies, since reading to non-English speakers in a loud bar isn’t my forte (outside of the East Village).
I passed my books around, and the women laughed.
“Oh this one is for me!” Thais said, and read, “I hate your nose.”
“I think your nose is great,” I told her.
“I love you,” she said.
I drank margaritas, because that’s what you do in a Mexican place. Most of the girls were in school to be lawyers, a five-year program hereabouts. The only one who argued with me was Carolina, Falcone’s sister.
“What makes you think New York is such a great place?” She asked.
“Uh… it’s the center of the world”
“Only a New Yorker would say that!”
“Only a non-New Yorker would deny it!”
I didn’t use the word “Third World,” since I didn’t think that would serve me well. I’ve grown to like Sao Paulo a lot, appreciate the streets, the culture, how affordable everything is to me, and if not for the language… my god, I would very much regret my decision not to relocate.
“How can you not love New York?” I asked, “How long were you there”
“I have to go,” Thais said, “I’m very tired.”
“Oh,” I said, “Give me your number!”
She did. She wrote her cel phone, her home phone, her email. This way, I could get her books if she wanted.
I hoped she wanted. The reason I write is to impress the hot Brazilian chicks. I mean, what’s sexier than a bald sweaty man screaming psychotic non-verse to his non-adoring audience.
She left, and the night went on, with me vying with Chris for Cintia’s affection. I think he was winning, but only because he was sitting next to her, and I was sitting next to Carolina.
The arguments raged. She took my lighter. She was very mean to me, very argumentative.
Strangely, I still like Cintia more.
The evening was great. The combination of Mexican food and Mexican drink, I knew, was going to serve me very poorly the next day – and maybe the next. But easily, it was worth it.
Falcone drove us home, with Cintia sitting between Chris and me. The warmth of her stockinged leg made, as most things do, me sweat.
When we parted company at our hotel, Cris and I kissed Cintia and Carolina. Falcone said he’d seen us the next day, in about five hours, and suggested there be a send-off party for me.
“You haven’t had good tour guide while you’ve been here,” Falcone said, “I’ve been studying for my examinations. Now, though, we can go to all the clubs. We can go to Love Story.”
“Not tonight,” I begged, and crawled up to my room to get a few hours before facing the new day.

2001-07-11T18:12:00.000-04:00

It was a difficult work day. We had two sizable reports as well as our daily LAML responsibilities. With Gustavo on LAML and helping fix stuff and me doing the major fixes, we were working full tilt for a sizable portion of the day. It was very much a Monday, even though it was Tuesday.
Making matters harder was an office party at six o’clock sending pregnant Andrea off into the world. I met Andrea right before she was married, and couldn’t help but think, “What a waste.” Now, of course, it’s “What a WAIST.”
So we went in for some cake, some bread, some wine, but had to go out again to finish our work, which, finally, by eight thirty, we’d completed.
In the conference room was the remains of the party: Carlos, Eduardo, Samuel, and Falcone, with a couple bottles of Johnnie Walker Black between them.
“Jonathan Berger!” Carlos said, “Tell me this: If you could have any of the women in the office, who would you choose?”
And we got into it.
Chris and I both joined the confab, which Gustavo had to get home for some design work. The rest of us sat around drinking.
Falcone, a big young guy, said, “The trouble with Brazil is, we never had it rough. Never had any major wars, any revolutions… Nothing has been too difficult for us.”
“Seems like the country has a lot on the ball,” I said.
“Oh, I love Brazil. And I love Sao Paulo. But…”
And we got into it.
We didn’t leave the office, stumbling and drunk, until eleven thirty, and then, it was to go to a Mexican place.
“That’s why I came to South America;” I muttered, “To have North American food.”
Eduardo and Carlos begged off, heading to Porta Luna. We agreed to try to catch up with them later.
We would not seem them again.

2001-07-11T09:22:00.000-04:00

I just heard that the girl of my dreams (V.010710) has a boyfriend.
Needless to say, I am devastated.
Liza came back from a weekend at Campos – a winter retreat for the Sao Paulo elite (like the Hamptons – or Fort Lauderdale) – with her boyfriend, where he has a house.
How do you compete with that?
Of course, I’ve been here for weeks, and hadn’t asked her out, and only had a couple days left to make a move before losing her forever, so nothing ventures, nothing lost.
Still, as I said, I am devastated…

2001-07-10T11:30:00.000-04:00

The streets were empty; the stores were closed. The city, apparently, was taking this Nove de Julho thing pretty seriously.
I walked around Pinheiros on this very seasonal Monday, to no availo. Nothing was opened to see. No one was out to study. Sao Paulo seemed all rolled up, so I headed over to Ibirapuera Park.
That, apparently, was where the action was. Banners said something was happening by the obelisk, so that’s where I went.
Bands were playing. Rock bands. Kids were dancing, playing volleyball, soccer. Some young men were doing acrobatics.
The bands were good and I sat out there for a while, listening, grooving.
There was a display about the celebration of July Ninth.
It’s a Sao Paulo specific holiday, and some of the slogans bandies about were ‘celebrating the heroes of 1932’, and ‘Constitutional Revolution.’
Hardly suggests like the makings of a dictatorial overthrow. It seemed like a day for freedom and liberty, and all that.
So I was more confused than ever over the origins of the holiday…
Turns out, the solution was in the office.
Carlos clarified that, in the middle of Vargas’ reign, the state of Sao Paulo insisted on a new Constitution that gave concessions to this important commercial state. It was to give the coffee and sugar barons additional rights, but it was a stab against the fascist regime. It was a matter of heroics.
So it was a good thing – even if it was for economic betterment…

2001-07-09T12:33:00.000-04:00

In Sao Paulo, there are any number of streets named after famous people, famous places. No numbered streets here, so Avenida de Brigaderio Faria Lima butts into Avenida Pracao, I think, and runs slightly parallel to Rua Dr Maria Castellano (I’m making that up; can’t be troubled to look at the map).
In the city, though, there are lots of streets named after dates, which is very curious. My first weekend out, I spent a lot of time on Maio de 23, which is easy to write, but I have no idea how to properly pronounce 23 in Portuguese.
Right next to my hotel – the nearest major intersection – is Nove de Julho, which is, by strange coincidence, today. It is a holiday throughout Sao Paulo, and I don’t have to be at work this Monday, which sort of makes up for working on the Fourth of July.
I asked Gustavo what July Ninth symbolized, and he wasn’t entirely sure, but did clarion-call out, “Revolution! Constitution!”
While walking through the park, a poster said something to the effect of “Celebrating the heroes of July ninth, 1932.”
Looking on the web, I discovered that Getulio Vargas orchestrated a military coup in 1930; he was in and out of power until 1954. I’m guessing, then, that 1932 was when he designed the constitution, which is pretty much the document of law to this day.
Still, it sounds somewhat strange to celebrate the overthrow of a democratic republic during the age of fascism. It struck me as very much like celebrating what we did to the Japanese-Americans during World War II.
Of course, it took me a little longer to think about Thanksgiving, and all that is represented in us remembering a day when the white and red man ate together peacefully – right before three hundred years of institutional genocide.
So we’ve all got our freakish holidays.
Luckily, I get a day off because of it…

2001-07-09T12:05:00.000-04:00

Youth Culture

I couldn’t get moving on Sunday, so when Chris called me at two something, I was still in bed.
“Gustavo is taking me shopping. Do you want to come?”
“Sure!” I said. Better than not doing anything.
It wasn’t straight-up shopping. I’d heard Gustavo mention this market where cool designers meet once a month. I didn’t think it would be the kind of fashions I’d be into (i.e. not dirt-cheap) but the experience? That could be cool…
We traveled for about twenty minutes by car. “What neighborhood are we in now?”
“Pinheiros,” Gustavo said.
I thought I’d been all around Pinheiros. I didn’t realize it was so big.
Actually, most everywhere I’ve been in Sao Paulo has been within a five-mile radius. All the rides I’ve taken, however, suggest a much bigger area. It’s not that Sao Paulo sprawls – it does – but that the city is filled with curving one-way streets. Some of the places that appear – driving at a nice clip – to be miles off are often in fact five blocks from the starting point. Getting to the small side street of my hotel is quite a burden…
So the part of Pinheiros we were heading to could well have been five feet from the office, and I’d have never noticed.
We reached the market, which was not an outdoor mall, as I’d imagined, but a large warehouse with a line outside.
“There’s an entrance charge?” I asked, feeling that sinking feeling of an international explorer who is about to give up some cash, “How much?”
“Four reais.” Gustavo said.
“Oh, no problem.”
The people on-line ran something of a gamut. There were some slick older women to my left, a variety of braces-wearing teens ahead of me, and, off the line, walking back and forth, a giant transvestite wearing clear plastic high-heeled shoes.
“Interesting mix,” Chris said, “Do you like young girls, Jon?”
“Best thing about young girls is, no matter how much older you get, they stay just the same.”
“Mmm, good point.”
We went in.
The music pumped, but I recognized a bunch of the tunes. There had to be a DJ for the warehouse, since there was a version of the Beatles’ “Love Me Do” with extra scratches and beats. I heard the Clash and the Cure and Jane’s Addiction… why didn’t the club last night have music like this?
Inside the place, I saw mostly kids. The entire placed was pretty much filled with alterna-kids, wearing ironic t-shirts like Kurt Cobain or Batman or the Union Jack or whatever. I didn’t know why so many kids would wear the Union Jack, but not one would wear the American Flag. Maybe because it didn’t have a cool name.
Whenever I see the kids, all massed together and hanging out like this, I kind of want to interview them, get a sense of their views vis a vis mass culture. I almost never do: it’s creepy, and the few times I’ve had a chance to talk to the kids of today, it’s never satisfying (when massed together, they’re pretty stupid).
Of course, that wouldn’t be an issue here. Much as I would have liked to talk to the silver-haired fifteen-year-old, or asked the I Love NY-wearing cutie if she’d ever been to the City, it wouldn’t have made much sense. I can’t even communicate enough to clarify why I can’t communicate. It was just watching for me.
I ended up buying a couple of comic book T-shirts. I got a Brazilian Superman shirt, which looks like it might, in fact, have a different template than the one I’m familiar with. They had some pictures of Batman and Spiderman that look nothing like I’d ever seen of the guys. It was strange.
The girls were cute all throughout the warehouse, at all the different stalls. Pity they were illegal. Though, I wonder, maybe in Brazil, it’s not wrong to date a fifteen-year-old?
No, it’s wrong everywhere. Wrong wrong wrong…
After a couple of hours of shopping for vinyl jackets, Chris and Gustavo had found their fill, and were ready to go. I only had a few reais left in my pocket, so I was ready to go with them.
“Did you like?” Gustavo asked.
“Yes,” I said, realizing, though, that I might not really have answered his question.

Later in the day, I went for a walk-about, and headed over to Eldorado to buy some chocolate. The place was closed down, so I went walking blindly, and found myself on a side street with music blaring and people out on the street. Upon closer inspection, I found that the music sounds live and most of the people were kids. They were getting ready to celebrate the extra day of the long weekend, so probably, no school for them tomorrow. Though I think this is winter break for the kids of Sao Paulo.
Everyone was on the street with drinks. The drinking age in town is eighteen, but I don’t know if they take it any more seriously than New York does.
Just like at the warehouse, I was interested in the pretty young girls’ motivations for being out and about, fantasized about talking to them, understanding them, experiencing them, but this didn’t feel like an especially comfortable environment. I don’t know if I scream TOURIST or not, but I do certainly feel like a stranger in a strange land, and don’t really want to call attention to that fact.
Of course, if I did, maybe I’d have a thousand times better a trip? Doesn’t matter. I don’t know if that would work for me.
Anyway, kids. Kids everywhere, kids galore.
I was the dirty old man sniffing out the children wherever they were.
Kinda creepy. Kinda fun.

2001-07-09T11:56:00.000-04:00

I walked back to the hotel after dark and decided to search out dinner. It was Saturday, a traditional Feijoada day, but I was still tasting some of the prior day’s rodizio churascarria, so I opted for something similar: all you can eat sushi.
I feel a little embarrassed going back to old glories when there should be so much to explore, but I felt like I’d hit a wall. I wondered if maybe I’d pushed my stay too far. I felt homesick.
Of course, I could never get delicious endless sushi in New York, so I bit the bullet and ate the fish.
My legs were hurting. Throughout the week, the only walking I’d done was to and from work – which is perhaps, at the end of the day, two miles, but not enough exercise. Throughout the Saturday, however, I’d been moving and moving and moving. After dinner, I went to my room and began to read. Maybe I’d get a second wind and want to go out. At the moment, though, I was ready just to give my poor legs a rest.
At ten thirty, the doorbell rang.
“I’m up!” I said.
Chris was at the door. He wanted to know what I was up to for the evening.
“Uh…” I said, then paused some, to get my bearings, “What did you have in mind?”
“Maybe look into some bars…” he said.
“Sounds like a plan.”
Then I remembered Gustavo was going to a discotheque tonight.
“Why didn’t you say so?”
We called Gustavo, who said he’d pick us up in an hour.
“That gives you another hour to nap,” Chris said.
“Oh, I won’t be napping anymore,” I chuckled.
I was wrong.
Gustavo called at eleven thirty saying he’d be late. I didn’t quite understand, as I was just waking up, again, trying to get my bearings.
Tired as I was, I didn’t understand why I was so tired. When Gustavo and his roommate Beto arrived at quarter after twelve, I’d again been sleeping. It must have been quite a day.
“We go to Monica’s,” Gustavo said. Monica was a friend of his. We drove to the center of Jardins, one of the nicest neighborhoods in town.
“Aren’t we in Jardins?” I asked Chris.
“No, we’re in Itaim.”
I yawned at that.
We passed the guarded gate to go up the elevator to Monica’s apartment. Everything seemed very nice.
We were introduced to Monica and Daniella; Daniella spoke some English, Monica virtually none. It was fine. I was busy looking at things.
“This is the first residence I’ve seen in Brazil,” I said, “It’s nice.”
We sat there, drinking wine, eating fruit and talking, until about one thirty, when we headed out.
There was no line outside of Lov E. As we paid, friends of Gustavo and Beto’s joined us and talked in Portuguese.
I nodded, and waited to get inside.
We entered to see many people sitting comfortably in a dark room, with a bar to our left. Further in, pulsing lights and music hinted where the action was. After our crew got lubricated, we hit the floor.
The music was heavily percussive, as is right for a dancing, and impressively anonymous. There was no character, no soul to the music, and most people in the club, I noticed, were not smiling.
Even so, there was much to look at. Beautiful people were everywhere, and in different shades and styles. Cool, black wearing sophisticates stood beside tattooed black-wearing punkers, with an occasional multi-colored tie-dye sprinkled in for flavor.
Like in most clubs I’ve viewed, people didn’t seem to mix it up, but we had a large enough group. I danced for about an hour, yawning more and more, building my excuse.
See, I go to clubs to have fun, and I have fun in a few of ways: enjoying the music, showing off my spastic dance moves, and impressing the chicks.
I didn’t think any of them were possible here. The music weren’t my cup of tea, and, even if I could generate the proper enthusiasm to become the freak-moving monstrosity that I so like to be, I wouldn’t afterwards be able to field all the compliments from all the lovely lasses. There was nothing for me at Lov E.
So, after a particularly extensive and sincere yawn, I told Gustavo and Chris I was on my way out.
“Enjoy the night,” I said, and walked out, to enjoy mine.
I got home around three thirty.

2001-07-08T20:54:00.000-04:00

Saturday morning, I woke up late. I’d had trouble getting to sleep the night before, so watched some TV and kept myself busy until suddenly, the slight light streaming into my room woke me.
It was a beautiful day, so I figured I’d start back at Ibapuera Park, and see where I went from there.
It looked like some event was being planned. Parts of the park were gated off, and advertising was everywhere, but nothing I could read. I can read a lot more Portuguese than I can hear, but it’s still not quite enough to get me through the day. I can only imagine what it would be like somewhere that doesn’t use the Cyrillic alphabet.
I found places in sunshine and shade, and basically made a nuisance of myself in the park for a few hours. Then I decided to head for the biggest mall in town. Ibapuera Mall is about a mile and a half from the park, but that’s nothing for a man with legs of iron. For me, of course, it was somewhat harder.
Still, while the mid-day sun left me rolling in sweat, I arrived at the Mall and walked around for a bit. It was not especially different from the Iguatemy mall, just a few blocks from my hotel. Ibapuera was bigger, though, and less classy.
I left fairly quickly.
I had Gustavo’s number, since he’d suggested we do stuff over the weekend, so I went to one of the street corner Telefonica eggs. The phone booths here are half-body – like in New York – but it seems to be monopolized by a single chain: Telefonica. I took change out of my pocket, figured I’d keep feeding the meter until I got results.
There was no place to put the money.
I saw a bar code reader, but no place for any cash. It was frustrating. I couldn’t make a call in this town. I sighed, and decided to head back to the hotel, where I could liase with Gustavo.
On my way, I opted for a different route than the one I took, and soon found myself lost. Every main street has signs pointing you the direction to nearby neighborhoods, but the signs I saw were for no neighborhoods I could recall.
Well, I tell a lie. There was one. One sign pointed to Marginal Pinheirios. I’d seen the name, but wasn’t sure where it was in relation to straight-up Pinheiros, which is right next to my hotel in Jardins.
According to my map, Marginal Pinheiros was the name of a river than ran near my hotel, so I figured it was well worth a shot.
Heading towards the river, I found other sights that helped me acclimate, and, though it was hot, I found a second wind and got myself back to Faria Lima, my home street, my old stomping grounds.
I got back to the hotel, called Gustavo, and made tentative plans for later.
Then, with some hours to kill, I headed back to the Park.
It’s pretty.

2001-07-08T20:16:00.000-04:00

Return to the Belly of the Beast:
In this sprawling city of 18 million, I have run out of things to do, so have repeated some time-honored activities.
At the ground floor of my hotel rests one of the restaurants listed in my tour book, Roppongi. Last week, I decided to check it out. It’s another Jap place with buffet sushi, at affordable prices. This one was more in line with New York cost structure, at the cost of 35 reais. Still, it was delicious, and plentiful, and, unlike a meat-fest, I didn’t feel sick afterwards.
I did, however, feel embarrassed when a waiter had to show me how to properly pour the soy sauce. I laughed at my own foolishness and, at the end of the meal, left a little something in the bill for services rendered.
The waiter looked at my money and muttered, “Not necessary.”
I glanced at the bill again and saw the obligatory servicios opcional. I tried to explain I wanted to tip more.
“Servicios…. addicional?” I tried.
“Not necessary,” he said, so I took it back.
There is a ten- percent service surcharge added to the meal. I’d told it was all right to top in addition to that, but that it was not necessary. This was the first time I’d ever been stopped from properly tipping.
Of course, when I walk out, I’d left a few reais on the table.

Later in the week, I had my second rodizio experience. A seasoned pro by this point, I did not heartily accept every meet going my way. In the past, I’ve tried the chicken hearts, and the beef lungs, because you should TRY everything. Having tried it, though – having remembered it – I didn’t see it necessary to repeat.
I ate with George and Gustavo and Samuel and some of the Settlement people who I hadn’t met before. One of them spoke a lot of English. He sings country music on weekends. I couldn’t tell if it was music from his country or mine (there’s a cowboy music tradition here, too, but I haven’t yet explored it).
“Do you like?” George, my host, asked again and again. Again and again, I had to nod, trying to keep the food flowing into my mouth.
It wasn’t easy. We talked a lot, discussing views of the US and US views of the rest of the world, where people came from, and my language deficiency. Every twelve seconds our conversation was punctuated by a server with a spit of meat asking us if we wanted. As the meal progressed, more and more I declined.
I had four or five cokes to lubricate the path of the meat – and the pao de queso, and the fries and the cheeses. It was a good meal. I think it might have been even better than my last rodizio. Certainly, the food was more plentiful.
I returned to the office very full and very sleepy.

2001-07-06T20:19:00.000-04:00

My stay has been extended.
Earlier this week, Gustavo and I talked, and he suggested that he could do with a bit more real-time, in-his-face support.
So though my last day in this country was expected to be today – I would, in fact, be on my way to the airport any minute now – I have a week’s respite from the horror of being in the Greatest City on Earth.
I’m understandably ambivalent. I love New York, and it tears me up to be away. I have things to do and people to see this very week that I’m going to have to give up for the sake of this adventure.
But that’s the thing. This is an adventure. And even if I don’t live up to all of the potential available in this incredible country (I’ve been here longer than I’ve been in any other country – besides Massachusetts), I am seeing things, experiencing things different than the norm – what’s best, it’s on someone else’s dime. Unless somebody puts my roadshow, JONATHAN BERGER – MORE THAN A FEELING, up, I may not have this chance again.
So I have another weekend in Brazil, which I have to pay for by another week of work in Brazil.
After that, though, I return to my first love: Twinkies.

2001-07-06T20:08:00.000-04:00

It took me a good week and a half to begin flirting with Liza – and by flirting, I mean talking.
She’s one of the interns here in the office – there are two, and they’re both hot. Somehow, though, Liza seemed friendlier. For one, I’d had dealings with her back in New York. I was in New York, I should say, she was in Sao Paulo.
But when I arrived, I started showing her stuff around charts and tables – of which, apparently, I’m a master – and we started talking.
She talk English good.
She’s not even from the big city, but rather, Sao Paulo state, one of the six (I think) states that make up the country of Brazil. I’m surprised she’s had the chance to master the language. But then, I don’t fully understand who gets educated in my mother tongue and who doesn’t.
So we’ve been talking, Liza and I, and I try to be what amounts to flirtateous for me, by saying stuff like, “Tell me a story,” or “How you doing?”
These are the lines that have made me the man I am today.
I don’t know if she gets them. Liza laughs at all the right times for my crummy jokes, but I get the feeling (from this country of foreigners) that people can just figure out my cliched timing, my repetitive delivery style, and, by not understanding a word of English, laugh at all the right times.
(I used to think, when I was a kid, that I spoke a language entirely different from the rest of the world, but, by sheer coincidence, everything I said could be understood as a coherent sentence by them, and everything they said could be understood as a coherent sentence by me. I would say, “I would like a drink of water,” and they would hear, “I would like change from the money I am about to give you.” I don’t know why I’m sharing this)
So, I’m having all these good interactions with Liza, and I keep thinking that I should make her show me around town, because she’s young, pretty, and been here for a while, but, alas, I’m too shy, and am afraid she might run screaming.
Still, I am flirting. She may not know it; no one may know it, but I am. I am making practice.I am trying. I am exploring something different.
Isn’t that why I’m here?

2001-07-06T19:34:00.000-04:00

I went to fnac yesterday.
After yet another long day in the electronic publishing mines, Gustavo wanted to show me one of his places, so we got in his car ,and he drove me to Pinheiros.
“Is the office in Pinherios?” I asked, and he said yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. His English is good – far better than my Portuguese, but perhaps not quite as good as my Pig Latin.
I’m sorry, I meant my igpay atinlay.
Anyway, it was a short drive, but the neighborhood I saw was kind of dirty, but but kind of thriving. My book says Pinheiros was cool, but I thought the office was smack dab in the middle, and that ain’t cool – when I walk home, the entire strip is rolled up – except for the Iguatemy mall.
So I think there’s something new to explore.
We drove to the parking lot of fnac. All week, Gustavo’s been talking about this entertainment center, and I was certain that the name was some strange pronunciation issue between us, but in bold red letters, it read: fnac.
We went in. We only had half an hour, so we were straight to the CDs downstairs.
He showed me a couple of local acts, and the prices on most of the CDs ran no more than R$23.00. Calculating back to US dollars, that meant about ten bucks. Most CDs ran around sixteen, seventeen. I was duly impressed.
More, though, Gustavo held up a CD and said, “Come with me.”
He led me to a bar-code reader which told us how much it cost, but also, after I put on the headphones, played 30 seconds of each song on the CD. They had a computerized catalog of their entire inventory available to us.
I was duly impressed, again.
“This is great!” I said, “Do other stores have this?”
Gustavo nodded, “I think so…”
This is some great country I’m in.
I ended up not buying anything, because, of course, their AntiFolk section was pretty light, but I was amazed at the kind of things available. Bridget Bardot had a greatest hits album, and, strangely, Rebecca Pidgeon had two CDs. She’s not a good actress; how could she be a good singer? I mean, look at Cher!
At ten o’clock, though, we had to vacate, because that’s the way it goes in this part of town.
“Did you like?” Gustavo asked as he drove me home.
“Yes,” I said, I like.
“Good.”

2001-07-05T15:28:00.000-04:00

There seems to be no centralized pavement system in Sao Paulo. I mean, all the streets have some hard substance underfoot, but depending on the block, it can be mosaic, concrete, tarmac… It’s creatively varied, like there’s no organization to keep the streets safe.
I’ve tripped on any number of loose stones, or potholes, or on the potted plants that seem to be everywhere.
I wouldn’t really care about the entire issue of what’s beneath my feet, if not for the last day of my last international trip, where I fell off the Sidewalk and sprained my ankle. So far, though, in this substantially more difficult city to walk in, I’ve remained unscathed.
Maybe it’s the last day of my trip I have to be careful for.
Faria Lima has a really nice black and white chicken mosaic down its streets.
Anyway…

2001-07-05T08:47:00.000-04:00

I didn’t realize that July 4th was the Fourth of July until well into the day – when I got an email from New York, reminding me of that fact.
I’ve never been a particularly patriotic sort – jingoistic about New York, but the nation as a whole can pretty much kiss my ass – but it was still somewhat unsettling that I didn’t remember.
I got out of the office at around nine, and, having heard that Carlos was going drinking at a local pub, I figured I’d try to search him out.
I’d been to the place before – it looked like a thousand and one luncheonettes in town, but this one was a happening club after hours.
I passed three or four that looked just like it, but no Carlos – and, as I thought about it, each was positioned wrong on the street. I didn’t know the name of the place (not that most of the places hang names), and I didn’t know the street (not that the streets are easy to navigate); I was just going on spatial memory.
And, within fifteen minutes, I found it.
“Jonathan Berger” Carlos said, “We were just about to leave.”
They didn’t, though. The table full of tie-and-suit men stayed for another hour and half, drinking, talking, watching the futbol game. I saw my old friend Julho, whose name I had thought was Raul (I haven’t really been introduced to anyone here; we just start talking).
Among the group was a Phoenix expat with Bear Stearns.
“All these guys are gay,” he said.
“Carlos!” I called out, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I work for Bear Stearns,” the expat said, “Have you heard of it?”
“I’m looking for a job there,” I said.
“As an editor?” He asked.
“Sort of. With Rowe?”
“Rowe Michaels?” The guy said, “He’s gay. They’re all gay!”
I tried a couple of beers. I’m not a fan of beer, but then, I’m not a fan of drinking. And when in Rome…
Xintu, a black beer, wasn’t bad.
I’m sure a series of interesting things happened with the group, but I can’t remember all of them. I know I was told I had to have sex in Brazil.
“When you fuck a Brazilian woman, she fucks you back!”
Everybody laughed at that.
I said I’d take in under advisement.
Soon after, we left.

2001-07-04T19:57:00.000-04:00

I got sick yesterday.
Because my time in this country is running short (well after the halfway point), I need to make sure that I do all the things that I need to do. Makes sense, right?
So, Fodor’s told me about this restaurant where not only the beautiful people meet, but the steak is delicious and the pao de queso is first rate!
In my first weekend in town, I’d passed the place but was too intimidated to go in. Now, I’m a seasoned traveler, who knows no fear.
Also, I made Gustavo go with me.
“It is expensive, yeah?” he asked.
“My treat.”
I’m feeling guilty, throwing Gustavo to the wolves. This job is tough, and I think it’s going to be hard going for him for a while. A meal is the least I could do, particularly since, by my standards, it’s so cheap.
So Gustavo drove us out to Pinheiros where we could dine at the fine Esplanada Grill.
Pretty chic-chic. Pretty nice. I was glad to have a local speaker, though I could have done without – just barely. Luckily, Gustavo was there to smooth over difficulties.
“Would you like to share a full steak?” he asked, “They’re very big.”
Remembering my weekend, and the huge meals that had overpowered me, I was, for a minute ashamed. My manhood was suddenly called into question.
“No,” I said, “I think I want a full course on my own.”
So we ate, and we talked, and Gustavo said he thought that New York, with its great diversity, would probably be more open to different peoples, like homosexuals.
He glanced at me as he said that.
“I dunno about that,” I said, “I have friends in New York who still get into trouble about their gender preference.” I almost choked out gender preference – I didn’t think it would translate too well.
We ate. My big steak wasn’t quite as big as the one in Rio – everything’s better in Rio – but it was big. I had a little trouble finishing it on my own, but I did finish it. All by myself.
Anyway, I got sick yesterday.
I was in the bathroom a lot. I felt like throwing up for about an hour or two, and spent more time sitting near the toilet than on it. I totally cleaned out my system. I was sick.
But, by the real end of the workday, I was able to walk home, and even take in some popcorn.
I feel better, but still not great. I have to take it easy.
Still, Wednesday is Feijoada day…

2001-07-04T10:23:00.000-04:00

Sunday, but Sunday in a way that I haven’t experienced it in a while. For hours, I had a feeling of dread that the weekend would end and I’d be back to the brutal grind. Sunday had the feel of junior high school.
I felt guilty getting a start as late as nine thirty. The city and sun are so beautiful, I almost wish I’d hit dawn. But then I would have missed my free breakfast.
Anticipating a repeat of the day before, I didn’t call Chris. Undoubtedly, h e’d be sleeping late.
So I got on my shoes and I hit the boardwalk again.
The boardwalk, of course, was not made of boards, but a continuous mosaic design of flowing crescents, in honor of Copacabana’s beachfront. On Sunday, I didn’t consistently walk on the boardwalk, because half the adjacent Avenida Atlantico was closed off to vehicular traffic, so strolling pedestrians could stretch out.
Everybody was stretching out. The tiny tight bikini tops on women, the equally tiny Speedo bottoms on fat old men… everybody was parading what they had, no matter how little – or much – what they had was.
I watched and gaped, and even rolled my pants up to my knees. I was already showing a fair amount of skin, having cut the sleeves off my T-shirt. I felt risqué.
I turned off the blazing boardwalk when one of the tourist maps told me I was near the Faria Hippie, or Hippie Fair. It was one of the listed shopping highlights of the city, so, ever the tourist, I vowed to check it out.
There was nice stuff at the Hippie Fair, the kind of stuff you’d be able to find at any street fair in New York, only different actual stuff. Like, say there were no Hard Rock Café – New York City t-shirts available and not so much Bart Simpson paraphernalia. There was lots of chachkes, though. I loaded up.
I meandered back to the hotel, wondering what else to do with my last day in the most beautiful city on earth. I wanted to check out the Christ, though, really, I doubted anything could top my adventure with the man already.
And, also, I hadn’t laid on the beach yet.
I’m not a big beach layer, because, in general, I do things alone. When I hit a beach, it’s usually Coney Island or Rockaway, and I got there by biking like a motherfucker, and I have my big packbag with me, and it’s a little difficult to layout. So I’ll often sit on boardwalks, but rarely hit the beach.
It was time for a change.
I bought myself a beach blanket, and laid out near where I’d seen a beautiful woman stepping hours before. She was gone, but the sun was still hot, so the location was good.
Every three seconds a new vendor would pass with new goods. Typical stuff, like cold beer and soda, but less typical, like a giant bag of biscuitos, which looked difficult to manage. I bought some of those, and they turned out to be vegetable puffs. Not bad, but not that good.
To the left of me, I heard American voices. To the right of me, the same. I marveled at how much and how well English was spoken in this town. It was so much friendlier than Sao Paulo. The carioca life-style. The tourist life-style.
After about an hour, I headed in.
When I reached my room, I called Chris.
“What’s on your agenda today?” he asked.
“I was thinking about the Christ.”
“That sounds good. I haven’t seen anything of Rio this time. I feel somewhat guilty.”
“Excellent,” I said.
“Some lunch first?”
“Also excellent.”

We reconvened at one of the cafes on Avenida Atlantico, with an excellent view of the beach.
Chris got pizza, which had olives on it, and I had steak, which didn’t.
My steak was huge. Unlike my last major meal, however, I was not defeated by it. Still, it was fucking huge.
“Excuse me, sir,” I asked the waiter, “Are the portions supposed to fill one person?”
He smiled knowingly, and I felt this entire city must be bulimic.
There were fat and ugly people on the beach, but most seemed fit and beautiful. How could they do that with such food available? And such portions!
I couldn’t understand it. I had to keep eating.

“How do you like it?” Chris asked.
“Rio? I love it. I can hear English again.”
“Well, it is a pretty big tourist town.”
“Well,” I waved my arms around, “I can see why!”
We discovered, as we sat, that we were surrounded by Americans. To my left were expat retirees, to my right, vacationers. All around us were friendly women who smiled for money.
We paid our bill and agreed, that next stop was Corcovado.
Unfortunately, while I had a better idea of where the mountain was (“Just past the interior lake, look for the giant mountain with the huge cross”), I still didn’t really know how to get up there. One of the American expats suggested a cab could do the job, so we began driving up to Corcovado.
We passed the first poor neighborhood I’d seen, with razed buildings and what looked like adobe huts going up the face of the substantial incline. “I was in a shanty-town last time,” Chris said, “Someone I knew visited. The people had machine guns and watched us very carefully while we were there.”
The car moaned and dragged, but went higher and higher – every car I’ve ridden in is stick-shift, presumably, for greater pulling power.
We twisted and turned and went up up up, and, looking at the path we took, I had to admit that, faith-inspired or not, I wouldn’t have been able to walk this. Not only was it too far up, but the path was unclear, unlabeled, and with no pedestrian walkway. The way Brazilians drive make sharing a road with them a definite, and potentially fatal, liability.
So it was good we were in a cab.
More and more of the city stretched out before us, and it was beautiful. The day was beginning to wane, so everything seemed darker, richer.
A pleasant eternity later, we reached the point where we had to climb. The last couple of hundred feet required walking up steep steps, which we did, until we were at the foot of god himself. Jesus was before us.
“Big guy,” I said. I took some pictures.
The view of Rio was amazing. Corcovado is maybe twice as high as Pao de Acucar, the other view I caught in Rio, so you can see more of the city. But things were so much more distant. We had to contend with clouds beneath us, and, while seeing geological landmarks was a snap, actually recognizing sights was somewhat difficult at such heights.
Still, it was impressive.
“Great view,” I said, and took some pictures.
The cabbie took us back down, which, since it was twilight, seemed pretty dangerous. There was no way I could have handled this voyage on foot.
Of course, we did discover a cable car that goes right up the mountainside, affording an excellent view. If only I’d know about that. Apparently, it’s famous…

At the hotel, we had an hour plus to kill before we had to head to the airport. I would have spent the time reading, or walking, or taking notes, but Chris was bored.
“There’s nothing to do,” he said, “Fancy some drinks?”
I couldn’t stop laughing at that.
We went for drinks.
At the same seaside restaurant we frequented earlier, there were less Ugly Americans, more lovely ladies all around. Some were smiling at us.
“You reckon those girls are fifteen?” Chris asked over my shoulder.
I glanced. They seemed young. I hoped they weren’t that young, because, even here, the things I was thinking could put me in prison. They weren’t smiling, though, they weren’t friendly, they weren’t looking for eye contact.
“They’re not professional,” I said.
“I think they are. Just not very good at it.”
We debated that point, and much more, as our caparinhas came.
Several laughing women asked Chris for a cigarette. They looked like pros. A girl sitting near them, but more shabbily dressed, asked for a light.
Somehow we started talking.
Priscilla was really beautiful, and, from a couple of years in Toronto, spoke English beautiful. She was originally from Sao Paulo, to which I said, “Hey! Me too!”
We got alone all right. I sort of led the conversation, asking questions, making jokes, until we realized we had to hit our flight
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” I said.
“Bon noite,” she replied, a little disappointed. What a nice lady!
On our way out, one the pretty young ways said to me, “Psst! My friend thinks you’re cute.”
“She should,” I said, “I’m pretty wonderful.”
“Oh, I don’t think so!” she said.
We all laughed, and, finding a ride, Chris and I got the hell out of town.

2001-07-04T08:54:00.000-04:00

“So what do you want to do?” Chris asked.
“Well, I’m going to Casa de Feijoada for dinner. After that, I was thinking of Plataforma.”
“Feijoada in the evening?” he said, “It’s kind of heavy. More of an afternoon meal.”
“Why would you eat a heavy meal in the middle of the day?” I asked.
“Good point.”
Chris wasn’t as comfortable walking the mile or so through streets we didn’t know to the restaurant in Ipanema. I was willing to forgo the walk because of my exhausting morning excursion, but really, the city hardly felt threatening. The cariocas – natives of town – seem so friendly, so open. I guess most of them are on the take, but no one had taken anything from me…
At Casa de Feijoada, I ordered a feijoada. Everyone told me it was necessary eating on Saturdays, and this was the place to get it. My tourbook backed that up, so I knew what to get.
“You can choose between these meats,” the waiter said, in adequate English, traditionally, you get them all.”
I glanced at the list, which included pig snout, hoof and tail. When in Rome…
“Traditional it is!”
“Man,” Chris said, “The portions are pretty big.” I snorted. I don’t think he’d really seen me eat yet.
The meal was huge. The meal was bigger than I was. The meal involved parts of the pig that, were I thinking clearly, even I wouldn’t eat.
There was a full plate of rice, a tureen of beans, a bucket of pig stew, and, just in case, some bread, some strange salty seaweed, and some pork rinds. This was enough food for three of me. I had to give up about halfway through, and couldn’t even face the prospect of dessert. I did order and finish pumpkin compote. The meal was good, but the meal was bigger than a human could take.
“I told you so,” Chris said.
We finished late, because we got talking about work stuff.
Eventually, we got a cab to Plataforma.
It’s one of the main tourist locations, where they do a two hour samba show, which is pretty much the best dance routines available. If you go to Rio, apparently, you HAVE to go to Plataforma.
Unfortunately, we arrived an hour into a R$70 show. We were about to skulk defeated to the street when the manager took pity on us and let us see a couple of numbers.
The dancers were colorful and flashy and good. They music was from a drum ensemble, and sounded amazing. It was a sight for the eyes, a sound for the ears, and, if my nose worked better, I probably would have gotten something that way too.
It was all touristy, but it was great.
When we headed out of Plataforma, the taxi driver suggested a cool place. He drove us to Barbarella. There were pretty girls there. Caparinhas, too.
One pole dancer was especially hot.
Eventually, though, I had to head out. Chris stayed, so I had the opportunity to walk back down Avenida Atlantico, repeating much of my evening constitutional. Occasionally, I made forays into less noisy, less central streets. I didn’t feel threatened at all. There was no danger. It was fun. Hell, I’d been in town only twenty four hours, and already I was a native. I felt pretty familiar in my surroundings, and wouldn’t have minded being more so.
Rio is so cool. I wanted to write all about it by the time I got back, but was way too exhausted. I hit the bed and slept for nine hours.

2001-07-03T20:27:00.000-04:00

The Tour leader concerned me, because of her heavy accent. It frustrated me that I might have to learn about the city in Portuguese. It felt no better when she began the tour, introducing herself and speaking of all the great things available in Rio – all in that foreign tongue.
Luckily, she switched off. “Good afternoon. I am Marta…”
I saw a grander scope of the city than I had walking, though we did drive far on Avenida Atlantico, my early-morning stomping grounds. Ahead of us, I saw, was the mountain that had defeated me, the infamous Corcovado.
“Ahead of us,” Marta told us in Portuguese and in English, “Is the two brothers mountain range, because they are so close together.”
She pointed at my mountains: two peaks with one jutting at a thirty-degree angle.
“To our right is the famous Corcovado, upon which rests the Cristo.”
I looked to our right, saw Christ just hanging out, spread-eagle waiting for me.
Shit. I’d been climbing up the wrong mountain. There’s symbolism in there somewhere, but I couldn’t think of it at the time.
I learned other things, too. Rio was the capital of the governments of Brazil for over a hundred years, though in 1960 lost the honor to Brasilia. They have the largest futbol stadium in the world, which, inexplicably, we passed by. Worse, we stopped, to take pictures outside its locked gates.
The city was beautiful. If the office were in Rio, I’d likely regret my decision not to move south. I really loved the waves, the women, the wondrous mountain ranges… Thinking of Sao Paulo almost hurt.
We hit the Church of St. Sebastian, the patron saint of Rio. What’s the full name of the city? Sao Sebastiao do Rio de Janeiro? Something like that.
We saw a Samba School, one of the millions of groups of kids practicing their dancing for Mardis Gras. It was early in the season, but still, they were good. Kids dancing. I like it.
We ended up taking a tram up to Pao de Acucar, or Sugarloaf mountain. It’s one of the best views of the city, and requires two separate trams to reach it. The doors opened at the top before our car stopped swinging, and we had stumble our way out, to see a culminatory view of the city.
It was beautiful. We could see Corcovado and the Christ, we could see the crescent of Copacabana, and we could see my hotel, about the tallest building on the strip. I saw the airport we landed on and the long bridge that takes us away from the wonderful city. I understood everything about Rio. Marta was a good tourguide.
As the sun went down, it got pretty cold. One of the girls in my tourgroup began to shiver, so I took off my overshirt, and we began talking. Her sister Maria joined us, and she was cute. The ride down was fun, as they were very excited, and talked rapid Spanish. Spanish is a trillion times easier to understand that the local tongue, so I joined in the conversation as best I could.
They said they were hitting Corcovado the next day. I said I’d see them there.
The bus took us all back to our respective hotels, and I saw the name Othon, so jumped out. Of course, it was the first in a chain of Othons, but I was in Copacabana, a part I hadn’t seen yet, and I appreciated the time I had to walk. Maybe by the time I reached the hotel, Chris would be up, and I could go to sleep.
When I got back, it was closing in on dinner time.

2001-07-02T20:27:00.000-04:00

I woke up early enough for the complimentary buffet breakfast. I drink rarely, but I’ve been drinking pretty regularly during this meta-vacation of mine. Maybe it’s a chance to reinvent myself – or something. Anyhow, with such frequent frequent drinking (this country’s a bad influence), I’m see patterns where I’d never noticed them before. When I drink, I get up earlier than usual, almost as an attempt to test and prove that there are no negative after-effects from the alcohol. I got up around eight and went to breakfast, which was all right.
From breakfast, I walked to the beach. My hotel, the Othon Rio Palace, is right across from the boardwalk, so the only thing involved in the process was dodging traffic until I could hear the waves and sift through sand under my feet.
I just wanted to see what I could see, so I figured I’d walk for a little bit.
I started aimless, just heading away from the sun. It was only nine o’clock, and the sun beat down beautifully. I went down the crescent shape of Copacabana, then continued through Ipanema, the next beach over. By that time, I was an hour away from the hotel, and all for a brief walk in the park.
The views were breathtaking. The architecture alone is pretty damned cool, but its’ merely a reflection on the natural goods. Rolling hills and scenic mountains are available in just about every direction. And, of course, the head makes everyone near naked. While, at the start of my trip, it was mostly old people and families, as time went on and I escaped Copacabana, the quality of street-fare improved demonstrably.
The next beach community the boardwalk passed through was Leblon. There, I sat down, studied my tourbook, and learned about the places I’d passed and the places I could go. Eventually, I pressed on.
Reaching the end of the cool beach strip, I found myself at the foot of one of the thousands of mountains in the neighborhood. The one before me had imposed an gargantuan presence on my entire seaside excursion. It had a gorgeous pair of peaks, one sticking straight up, one crookedly jutting jutting 30 degrees off. I figured it must be Corcovado. Cursory glancing at my book showed me that Corcovado meant crooked man, which had to be this mountain. At the top, according to the book, was Cristo, a gigantic statue of everybody’s favorite deity (all right, everybody Christian’s favorite deity). The book said it was only a three-mile vertical climb to reach it. Sounded feasible.
Still, to verify, I walked up to an elder on the street and said, “Senor, Corcovado?” and I pointed.
“Eh?” He said.
“Corcovado,” I pointed again, and added, “Aqui?”
He nodded and gave me the thumbs up, leaving me to say “Obrigado.”
I have so gone native.
The streets I walked where shaded and cool, but much of my trek were at 45 degree inclines, which fatigued me pretty quickly. Still, I felt pretty cool, questing for god in such a physical way. It felt real. It felt sincere. It felt exhausting.
“There’s a poem in here somewhere,” I said into my trusty tape recorder, before shiftily hiding it lest anyone see.
I could feel my legs growing through leaps and bounds. This was an impressive voyage, even for one with calves as large as mine. By the end of the day, I was sure, they’d be big as boulders – big boulders, I should say…
Some days into my walk, I reached a gated park. It was my destination. I hadn’t seen any signs yet, but this had to be the way to the holy place. I had faith; this was perfect. Still, when in doubt…
“Senor,” I said to a man on the street, pointing into the park, “Corcovado?”
“Si,” he said, giving me the thumbs up and pointing to the park, “Corcovado.”
“Obrigado,” I said, and entered the gate.
The steps up were immediately steep, and all the support I had was a rope guard rail. Eventually, the rope petered out, and I had to continue ascending heavenward, sometimes climbing the steps on all fours.
Until there were no steps. I continued on a small path, amazed at the intensity of this inadvertent pilgrimage.
“This is so cool,” I thought, “I am all alone.” With all the trees overhanging, there was no direct sunlight, and no other people around. I could be raped and killed on this path and no one would know until my absence on the internet was noticed.
“I am so cool,” I thought, “Most people would take a bus, or a train up the height, but only the truly faithful and devoted would trek up like this.” All I have is my faith to take me up to see the giant Jesus, where I fully expected him to tell me that he, and not his religion, was right, and Yahweh is the Almighty.
My faith was truly tested, however, when the trail disappeared.
It wasn’t so bad; I looked up, and could see the sky. I must be nearing the top of this incredible height, if sun could be seen. So I just forded through weeds and trees and other flora, until I reached the top.
And t here I saw the actual mountain.
Apparently, I could now see, I was on the crooked jutting mountain I’d seen all the way from Copacabana. The actual height that must house the Cristo, that was still some ways up. And I didn’t even see how far down I’d have to climb, to climb back up on the right side…
“Oh, fuck it,” I said, “I give up.”
But even giving up wasn’t too easy. I had a pretty severe climb back down, assuming I could even find my trail again.
It was only around eleven thirty at this point. I had many hours of sunlight left, and the hounds wouldn’t get me for some time yet. Still, I was getting agoraphobic, and was ready to hit the beach – and a shower, and maybe a nap. I bushwhacked my way to some downward trail, though not at all the one I’d come in on.
Eventually, in descent, I began to hear music, and soon after, in the middle of my jungle retreat, I found a tennis court. It was gated, but no one seemed to mind as I snuck my way under a barbed wire fence. I walked past the guard, through the door, and headed down the mountain side.
About ten minutes further down the city streets, I saw the last old man who directed me.
“Corcovado?” he gave me a thumbs up, “Dereito!” And he laughed and laughed.
Bastard locals. Well, all right, I laughed, too.
Down the road and back to Leblon, only, instead of the beach, I walked on a nearby avenue. I needed to get some liquid and, safe bet, it would be cheaper away from beachfront property.
I bought several drinks with my tried-and-true ignorance-is-bliss approach.
When I left the market, an old man approached me. He gave me his card. His name was Ezekiel, and he was from Israel. Well, originally from Brazil, but grew up in Israel. He recognized me as a Jew, and offered me cheap rentals for my next stay in Rio.
“Well, I’ll definitely be back,” I said.
We spoke a little Spanish. There were some words I didn’t understand, but we got along all right. He told me of some better beaches to try, and left me to return to my hotel, exhausted, but pleased at all I had seen and experienced so soon into my trip. Chris probably wasn’t even up yet.
When I got to my room, there was a note under my door, reading, “Your tour of Pao de Acucar begins at 2.05.”
I had no idea who the note was from. If I were properly paranoid, I’d have suspected a traditional carioca kidnapping. But maybe I got too much sun or something. I checked my watched. It was one thirty.
I showered, shaved, and made myself pretty for the upcoming tour.

2001-07-02T13:41:00.000-04:00

I got a call in the hotel room.
“I don’t know,” Chris said, “Does your room look kind of dodgy?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, looking at the orange brick walls, the bright yellow & blue sheets, the geometric pattern paintings and the bright bright fluorescent lights, “But it’s HUGE! Compared to my cell in Sao Paulo, this is great!”
“I guess,” Chris said, “So, uh, what’s the plan?”
I shrugged – which, into the phone – was not particularly useful.
“I don’t know. I don’t know Rio at all,” I said.
Not entirely true. I was staring intently, both out of the airplane window, then out of the cab window. I saw the beach, I saw the shiny cross on the top of the hill, I saw beautiful architecture and lovely beaches. I already liked what I saw. This weekend in Rio was going to be great.
“Well, I’ll take a shower,” Chris said, “Then we’ll go downstairs.”
“Sounds good,” I said.

By the time we met up, it was the next day, around one in the morning. The concierge explained that hereabouts in Copacabana, most cool places were already closing up, but that seedier establishments were still available.,
“But you don’t want to go to a place like Help,” he said.
As Chris and I left the hotel, we agreed. “Help it is.”
“This is a major prostitute hangout,” Chris explained on the walk.
“Really?” I asked. The girls were all smiling, giving come-hither looks. Either I’d worn my really good aftershave, or they were professionals. I don’t have a really good aftershave.
We sat in the outside bar and ordered Caparinhas.
It was balmy at 20 degrees Celsius, and this was night at the beginning of their winter. Off-season.
“You are very beautiful,” the woman at the table across said to me, “I would like to shave your heard.”
I was actually do for a cut. I’d brought my equipment to shave over the weekend.
“May we join you?” the woman said, and Chris beckoned them over.
The one who spoke to me was Rosemary, and she had excellent English. Selga, who spoke to Chris, was not so familiar with our language. Both had make-up pancaked on and were not the youngest or prettiest girls in sight.
“I don’t speak perfectly,” Rosemary said, “People still get confused when I talk. When I say ‘angry,’ they hear hungry. When I say ‘bed,’ they hear head. People confused six with sex.” Then she licked her lips.
We all talked for a while, and Rosemary began explaining her history. “I am from Minas Gerais,” she explained, “The Northern state. I was on my own when I was five.”
She had to eat bugs. She had to survive, by any means possible. Now, at forty something (she volunteered that she was thirty eight, so you figure something more should be added), she’s had five kids, some of whom she still needs to support.
“I’m not proud of my life,” she said, “and sometimes, I don’t make enough money to get home. I have to sleep out here.”
Looking out into the darkness, I said, “The beach seems really nice.”
“The beach is very dangerous at night. There are gangs.”
“Oh,” I said, turned to Chris, and charged, “What have you gotten me into?”
“I would like to shave your head,” Rosemary said again.
“Well, I’m really tired,” I said, “I’m not much of a drinker, and I’m already seeing three of you.”
She laughed.
“But, I want to make sure you can get home,” so I passed over a fifty reais note. She and Selga had been sitting with us for over two hours. She deserved something for her time.
“I’m going to go into Help,” Chris said, “You want to come?”
“Not thanks,” I said, “I’m gonna get back to the room. We’ll reconvene tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
Rosemary offered to walk me back to my hotel, because it was so dangerous. On the way, a couple of children – eight, nine years old – approached, and asked for money.
“Nao,” I said, “Nao, obrigado.”
Eventually the kids skulked off, and Rosemary laughed.
“They said you were like ice,” she said.
“Of course,” I agreed.
Rosemary kissed me good night, and I prepared for my adventures the next day.

2001-07-02T08:16:00.000-04:00

AIRPLANES

I do not fly often.
I do not frequently sit in fluorescent lounges with overpriced peanuts and tepid beers.
I do not regularly bind myself to a chair while waiting interminably for take-off.
I do not glance at windows, awaiting action, as a matter of course.
It is not every day that I pay hundreds of dollars to taxi round a runway, anticipating some greater motion.
I do not often feel such pressure across my face, my chest, my beery bladder.
Nor do I consistently press said head to the window, watching as we peed, staring as we lift, gaping as we climb.
It isn’t all the time that I break the clouds, see the wind beneath the wings, feel the power than my people have so successfully propagated.
I do not generally giggle.
I almost never fly, plunge into the sky, see the world from on high.
I do not often fly.
So it’s always new.

2001-07-02T08:11:00.000-04:00

Gustavo and I have been eating lunch together each day. I have nothing against a regular dining companion, but I spend most of my day with the guy – and, anyway, he should be socializing with the others, people who will be useful to him in the coming months. Also, he and I have gone to a succession of what amount to salad bars, carnocentric, but not too dissimilar from a sit-down Korean deli.
So I’ve been trying to find ways to bring other people into the fold.
Unfortunately, all the analysts were out to lunch when we set forth on our dining adventure. I asked one of the assistants, the beautiful Liza, if she wanted to join us.
“I know you just came in to work a few minutes, probably from lunch, but you should come eat with us.”
OK, inviting Liza was probably more for me than Gustavo.
She declined, of course, so my trainee and I went to the elevator alone
where we saw George, the Brazil office’s Chief Financial Officer.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
He pantomimed eating, and I said, “Anyplace interesting? Show us around, Gustavo’s new to the building, and I’m new to the country.”
“Do you like Japanese?” He asked.
I nodded, “I like sushi and tempura,” I said.
“I know a place.”
We went to the sub-basement, where the worker’s cars lay in waiting. We three entered the steely beast, and climbed the steep incline up to the light. It’s probably a 40-degree upward trek, and every ride I’ve had coming out of the garage and into the street seems to be a roller coaster just beginning.
“How do you like Sao Paulo?” George asked me.
“Except for the language thing,” I said, “I like it a lot.”
“If you were here for a year, you’d get used to it.”
“I’m sure. Samuel tells me he came here at fifteen, and learned the language within a year. Me, I’m no good with languages, outside of English.”
We parked in a lot – the first I’ve seen in Sao Paulo. The lot led directly into a gigantic glass ziggurat structure, entitled ,despite its silver sheet, Eldorado.
“You’ve heard of Eldorado?” Gustavo asked.
I didn’t know if he meant the mythical city, or this mall, but either way, I nodded.
George, the senior of us three in terms of age and local experience, lead us up several escalators. This mall was big. This mall was big by US standards – well, by New York standards (we’re not really known for our indoor malls). It made Iguatemi, on my way to work – the first mall in Brazil – look small and antiquated by comparison. Eldorado was a MALL.
As we rode our way skyward, I noticed the downward escalators were all stalled.
“Is this because of the power rationing?” I asked Gustavo. He nodded. I wasn’t sure if he understood.
We reached the place. The sign outside said SUSHI BUFFET – R$20.00. The exchange rate is around two thirty to the dollar, so this particular all-you-can-eat experience would run me back less than ten bucks. Life is good here, south of the continental border.
“This is good for you?” George asked again.
I nodded vociferously. Why would they assume that, I from the center of the world, would not be aware of everything they had to offer?
I practically skipped my way in.

“Sushi is very expensive in New York, isn’t it?” George asked.
The City was a point of commonality for all of us. Gustavo had spent several months on the Upper East Side, interning at Saatchi & Saatchi some years back. I’d seen George around CL’s office now and then.
I said yes. “I don’t really know why. I know New York’s a port city, but there isn’t much fishing in the Hudson River. I imagine they have to import fish.”
But that wouldn’t explain, I realized, shy Sao Paulo, a completely land-bound city – and far more polluted than New York – would have such cheap fish-stuffs.
Later, it occurred to me. There are at least 200,000 Japanese in Sao Paulo; it’s the largest such colonial presence outside the islands. There’s probably a bigger call for sushi hereabouts than the upper crust in New York. Still not 100% on that explanation, but it’s my working hypothesis.
It wasn’t all sushi. There were a variety of tempuras, some rice dishes, some salad items I couldn’t recognize (there’s a pretty popular green fleshy vegetable I keep picking up. I don’t particularly like it – but it is different), and more.
“Delicious,” I said, gazing out the window at the best view of Sao Paulo I’d seen.
“You know,” I continued, “Most cities – except New York – have a single skyline. Sao Paulo has skyline after skyline.”
Of course, the tallest building is less than fifty stories. I work on the thirty seventh floor of the CL building in the US. It could be the largest building in Sao Paulo.
“Are you American?” George asked.
“Born and bred in New York,” I corrected. It’s not quite the same thing.
“Next week,” George said, “We have to go out for rodizio. I know a place. It’s very nice.”
I chuckled in my chair. “Oh, all right.” I said.
When the check came, it was less than 65 reais. Amazing. That would be about the cost of buffet sushi for one in New York. George took the check, and waved away my money. “It’s on me.”
“Wow!” I said, “I should’ve eaten more…”
After we left, George suggested we stop for traditional Brazilian coffee.
“I don’t drink coffee,” I said, “But sure!”
We got it at a little café in the mall. You put enough cream and sugar on something, it can taste pretty good. I gulped down the espresso cup size, and smiled.
“Delicious.”
The drink itself wasn’t, of course, but the whole experience was.
So, I got Gustavo to socialize some, and I got to go someplace different.
OK, the whole thing was probably more for me than Gustavo…

2001-06-29T19:04:00.000-04:00

OK, maybe one...After getting out of work WAY too late, I trudged back to the hotel, and realized, I needed to DO something. I needed to be out and about – needed to eat something, needed to be part of the world. So I dropped off the lion’s share of my stuff and hit the elevator, where I saw Chris going down.
“Where are you off to?” I asked.
“Going to meet some friends for drinks. You?”
“Gonna scare up some food.”
“You just missed the kitchen here. They close at eleven.”
I forgot that the hotel had room service.
“Oh. Well, that’s not seeing the city, being part of the world.”
“Oh. Want to go off for some drinks?”
“Oh, all right,” I said.
“It is a nightclub, though. Maybe you should change?”
“What?” I said, “Well, maybe I´ll pass. You have a good time.”
We went our separate ways.
Me? I wandered around the neighborhood, looking for dinner.
I circled some of the streets where I´d seen buffets, but wasn’t sure that was what I wanted.
I built up enough of a sweat on side streets, and then found a sit-down pizza place.
“Hm,” I said, “Brazilian pizza. All right…”
The place was Italian-themed. Brazil has a reasonable Italian population. German and Japanese, too. Makes you wonder who won the war in this continent.
The menu was outside, so I could decide if I could understand enough to make a good decision. I saw bacon and I saw champignons, and, though I couldn’t remember exactly what that translated into, I was willing to give it a shot.
I went in to the almost empty place, and sat down.
I’ve close to mastered this idiot look on my face, to ensure that nobody expects much of me here. The waiter immediately knew to pantomime.
After looking at the menu, I ordered my bacon and champignon pizza, and, when asked, “Beber?” I answered, “Caparinha!”
“Pinga?” He said. I nodded.
Two other tables in the place were seated, but otherwise empty. I´d missed the dinner rush.
The drink came. I mixed, crushed, and downed it.
The pizza came, and was served to me in quarters.
Champignon, apparently, are thin mushrooms. Either that or olives. Who knew?
The waiter kept on coming back to serve slice after slice of pizza to me, while I smiled and said, “Obrigado.”
Soon after, I paid the check and walked over to McDonald´s for my delicious fried pies.
“Five minutes,” the one server speaking English told me, so I walked about, making sure to put one Caparinha-soaked stepped before t he other, and returned for my pies.
Walking back to the hotel – just a block or two away – I realized that I had a genuine Paulistano evening. Again.

2001-06-29T17:17:00.000-04:00

Unfortunately, because of a plane to Rio in an hour or two, I can't talk about my ordering bacon and mushroom pizza last night, or my incredible foray into Eldorado this afternoon, and the all-you-can-eat sushi (for free {sort of}], or flirting with girls in the office, or a just general all-around cool time.
I guess I'll have to footnote those for later.
Next stop: RIO DE JANEIRO!

2001-06-28T15:28:00.000-04:00

Last night, for the first time since arrival, I watched television. I got out of work fairly late, and was so nauseous from the combination of food & drink of the last twenty four hours that I figured I could spend the night in.
So I got home, and figured, for a minute or two before getting to my novel, I’d watch some TV.
Most of the stations were in Portuguese. I anticipated that, though. I figured I could use the TV to gua\ge meaning, especially if I could figure out closed captions.
I couldn’t figure out closed captions, though, and worse, while the commercials were somewhat informative, very few shows on had text boxes for me to read, thus understanding the words. Moreover, almost everything on was a talk show, or a news show, and they focussed exclusively on heads on a screen, saying things. It was like I was on the street, ignorant as ever. The television did NOT prove to be a good learning tool. There was a fat man celebrating his 100th show – or his 100th month, or 100th week, or something. I heard him say “obrigado,” which even I know means “thank you. “
There were three stations with animation. One of them in English. There were actually four or five stations with English. One of them featured this show about New Jersey! It was called La Familia Sopranos, and it seemed really cool, with violence and sex and everything American. I wonder if I can get a satellite hookup to see it in New York...

2001-06-28T14:20:00.000-04:00

I am reading a novel about cryptology – something about breaking codes – in World War II.
It’s slow going, because it’s a big book, and I haven’t been reading as much as I normally would. But I have been reading at nights, in the morning, over the weekends… when I have a chance, I like to give my eyes a break from staring at computer squiggles all day and focus on something else, like ink squiggles.
So, I’m plodding through Cryptonomicon, which I chose because of it’s size and how much I read in my last work-related trip. But maybe there’s something else to it. Maybe I was subconsciously thinking about the language barrier, and how much everything is a matter of decoding.
I didn’t think, coming to Sao Paulo, I’d have such difficulty communicating. I assumed that English would be far more dominant than it is. I’ve met many people who speak my tongue, but only in the upper classes, only those educated. When I traveled to Greece fifteen years ago, everybody spoke English for the tourist business. Same with Jamaica and Tijuana, years before. When I went to Hong Kong a couple years back, I was in a former British colony, so all the natives had at least a passing familiarity with English. It is now apparent that this is my first experience with a culture not entirely dependent on US dollars – and thus, the US language. Because of this language barrier, every sentence I hear, every sentence I speak, involves some fair amount of decoding. When people around me say anything, I pick up mostly noise, and desperately try to find any meaning within. When I talk, I try to be as clear and slow as possible, so even those who have my language are not quite so taxed. It’s all about decoding noise into comprehensible information. It’s not a natural, subconscious communication; it’s all very much thought-out.
The process is fairly exhausting, which is my primary reason for homesickness, but at least I understand it.
The thing is, I’ve been thinking about language as codes for far longer than I’ve been reading this novel, or staying in Brazil.
As long as I’ve been considering entering the field of editing, I’ve been worried about the copy-editing marks, which I have only vague knowledge of. I know how to make a sentence right, but I don’t know how to tell anyone that. It’s decoding my knowledge into the proper language of marks.
More recently, I’ve been talking about becoming a financial editor, which is not just dealing with the language of editing, but the language of money, in which I am far from conversant. The language of thrift, well, that I wrote. This stuff about PE and EBITDA and target value and currency exchanges and so on? Well, I’me beginning to learn. But it’s still a code I haven’t cracked.
So what does this all mean? Maybe my subconscious has led me to this book, so I can be more aware of my need to learn how to translate these various forms of noise into digestable information.
Or maybe I just liked the cover.

2001-06-27T20:28:00.000-04:00

Imbibing a ton of water after drinking may stop the hangover, but it gets you up early and often, draining the fluid as necessary.
At six o’clock, I started my day, shaving my head with the Mach 3 razor I bought my second day in town, cutting myself not once. I went downstairs, paid for my room (the hotel wants weekly payments, and I have no problem with that), and got some continental breakfast, including pao de queso, the delightful cheese-bread. The small pieces I had this morning were the worst I’ve had in town, but it’s like what they say about oral sex: “Even bad head’s pretty good.”
Even though I was an early riser and avoided an understandable headache, I still felt slow and achey all day.
“You know what you need the day after drinking?” Carlos said, “Rodizio.”
“Oh, god,” I said, “Today?”
“Come on!” he said, “Marcos is in, and Eduardo…”
“You’re trying to kill me,” I said.
Still, a few hours later, and lunchtime, and off we went in Carlos’ car to drive a mile or so for a rodizio place called Montana Grill.
“How far do you live from the office?” I asked.
“About a ten minute walk,” he replied.
“In THIS traffic?”
We entered the banquet hall to the sights and sounds of rushed service. Waiters dashed across the floor with spits of meat, offering them to table after table. Women sped with desert carts. Boys carried baskets with rolls and fried onions and bananas and potatoes, oh my.
We have rodizio in New York. We call it – I called it, before I became enlightened – churascarria. Churascarria refers to barbecued meat, and rodizio refers to the dizzying pace and speed of delivery in this excitingly altered buffet format.
“I hope you have an appetite,” Marcos said.
“I hope we don’t hit any bumps on the way home?”
“Do you speak any Portuguese?” Eduardo asked me.
“The only word I’ve understood anyone say is ‘beber’.”
They laughed at that.
In New York’s churascarrias, I race the servers. As they come around with type after type of meat on a spit, I make a point to accept everything once, and those that I truly like twice. At the Montana Grill, I didn’t have a chance. The food blasted onto my plate so fast, I couldn’t keep up at all.
They warned me to pace myself. I tried. I did end up accepting every cut of meat offered, though. Some twice.
“You have to try this one,” Carlos said.
“This one is good,” Eduardo added.
“What about desert?” Marcos asked.
I felt very sick near the end, but food is like what they say about oral sex: “Too much head? There’s no such thing!”
They hosted me nicely, guiding me through the process. I must say, the Montana Grill rodizio was not dramatically difference from what I’ve experienced in New York, though the food was more plentiful and the price more affordable. I paid R$22, which is probably less than ten dollars.
“How much would that cost you in New York?” Eduardo asked.
“About twenty two dollars,” I said.
He clapped me on the back.
I maintained my composure.
Surprisingly, my binge in daylight and my binge at night didn’t seem to impact on one another. I did all right.
I had a lot of fun.
I am living a life of excess.

2001-06-27T08:37:00.000-04:00

“Brazilian women are the most beautiful in the world!”
There’s even less reason to say this now than the last time, since I’ve had substantially less contact with the women. But I’ve had an equal amount of contact with the alcohol and, outside of work, I’ve had a maximum amount of contact with the English speakers.
Chris, my editor, whose birthday the 26th is, was going off to drinks with Carlos Constantini, the only drinker in the research group, the only singleton in the research group, the only link Chris and I had to native Sao Paulo. With Chris invited for the occasion, then, by extension, so was I.
After we finished the day – at the end of which I took Gustavo out of his seat to do his job at hyperspeed – Chris and I cabbed to Porta Luna, where Carlos sat in the lap of old friends.
I recognized Alexander and Raul, from my two previous drinking adventures, and a bunch of other people inconveniently speaking their owned damned mother tongue.
We sat, Carlos and others wished Chris well, and we ordered Caparinhas.
Caparinha is made, traditionally from crushed lime mixed with sugar, added to the liquor, which, when down traditionally, is some sugar cane extract called (I’m going on phonetics, not correct spelling) Cashasa or Pinga.
I learned about this last night from my new friends, none of whose names I recall.
“Drink! Drink!” Alexander, sitting central at our elongated table said.
“What do I drink this time?” I asked. After my first Caparinha, which I grimaced through as I do all fine liquors, I got one made from a more bitter fruit called Lima Persia.
“We’ll make a drinker out of you yet!” Alexander called.
Chris sat talking to Carlos and me, while I began to be pulled towards other conversations. The better-educated people all speak English quite admirably – though, with greater alcohol consumption, tongues loosened.
So did mine. After a shot of Pinga and my office mates departing, I spoke to a lovely young Argentine girl, and I presented her with my Spanish, “Hablo espanol solamente un poco, pero mucho a mi portoguese.”
I still don’t know how correct it was, but I could make myself understood.
“How do you like the Pinga?” a really hot second generation Korean-Brazilian asked.
“Right now,” I said, quite importantly, “I feel no pain. Tomorrow, I’ll let you know!”
As the evening wore on, the Italian-Brazilian who, in my head, is named Ivan, began telling me about his death metal loves.
“Sepulchra?” I asked.
He stared quizzically, until decoding. "Sepultura!”
“I’ve heard of them. They’re more thrash than death metal, right?”
And we were off.
“You don’t have to keep up with us,” Ivan said.
“I couldn’t if I tried.”
Reinforced for me was how everybody is from somewhere else.
“The most expensive visa to forge,” Ivan told me, “Is to Brazil. Because here, you can be from anywhere! Everybody fits in in Sao Paulo.”
I practically screamed at him, “Hello! New York?”
Everybody agreed.
The beautiful women were seated with us, but at the other end of the table. The three lovely ladies I met with Alex last week showed up, but I was wedged in with my new friends to go over and impress them with my wit.
By the evening’s end, though, I was prepared to pass out cards.
“If you ever come to New York,” I said, particularly to the hot Korean girl, “Look me up.”
Everyone said they would.
By twelve thirty, we left Porta Luna, and, since it was just a block or two from my hotel, I stumbled back. As always, I held my box-cutter in my pocket, but was less prepared to use it than usual. I was so filled with love, because, after all, I was in the city where everybody fit in – and not only that, but in a country with the most beautiful women in the world.

2001-06-26T08:25:00.000-04:00

There are gates around everything.
Samuel said, “This is a great country. There are three things wrong with it: salaries, security, and traffic. But otherwise, it’s a great place to live. And the women are beautiful.”
“I got no arguments,” I said. It seems to be a point of national pride, the women. And I’ll agree; there’re lots of hot women around. I used to compare my college town to New York: “I think there are more attractive women per square inch in Northampton than New York,” I said, “but in New York, there are more square inches.” Sao Paulo, with an evening population of 18 million, should put New York to shame. And it does. I have a theory as to why I’m impressed with the women here – for another time. Because that’s the benefit that Samuel spoke of. Right now, I’m thinking of the detriments.
Salaries in Brazil, apparently, are not high on an international scale. “They can’t compare to New York or London’s,” Samuel said. No surprise there. New York and London are financial capitals. I imagine they pay better than most places. Sao Paulo is, no matter what you call it, still third world. “Still,” Samuel continued, “You can live well here.” Seeing how far my reais are taking me, I continue to agree.
And I’ve seen for myself traffic jam after traffic jam. The city’s awful for driver’s, and, as Gustavo’s friend will attest to, awful for crashers. It’s a dangerous city to travel in.
The security, though, is a subtler issue.
I’ve been in town for over a week, and the worst I’ve seen is an aggressive bum who very assertively asked for money. Soon after, I got a series of more servile homeless, so it clearly was not par for the course. Still, walking the streets, I’ve seen that every apartment building has a security guard and every home has a gate. Often dogs. And tree coverage. I don’t know if they’re worried about burglars, pirates, snipers, or what, but security is an issue in this burg.
I find it hard to reconcile, because it seems that Sao Paulo is pretty friendly. You make eye contact with someone on the street, they hold your gaze. You look around town, and people comment to you. Granted, they may be saying, “Watch where you’re going, freak.” I don’t know. The tone suggests that this is a nice place to hang out.
But there are gates around everything.

2001-06-25T20:20:00.000-04:00

Gustavo had to leave early on Friday. He got a call, he hung up, he went for a glass of water, and he told me: “My best friend, she is dead.”
“What? I’m sorry. How’d it happen?”
“How you say…” he said, “Car crash.”
Well, that’s how you say it, all right.
The roads look really manic in Sao Paulo, and just the night before, I’d gotten a ride home from a man who was slurring. “Unlike America, we drink and drive.”
Now I was hearing of repercussions.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, “Do you have to go?”
He did, which, on the one hand, is no problem, because, of course, I know how to do his job. I mean, it’s what I do, right?
But, as the day wore on, I thought about it. I thought about how I’ve been looking for an excuse to stop going to my chiropractor, and my trip to Brazil was just the break I needed to not return. I thought how sometimes, you come up with some lame rationale, like washing your hair or breeding your cat, just to not go out with someone who’s feelings you just don’t want to hurt.
Anyway, I wondered if Gustavo was coming back on Monday.
He did, though, and was very sorry about his friend, but he’s a spiritualist (some cult that might represent a quarter of the population), which gives some kind of refreshing sense of the afterlife. We talked about it over lunch today.
The country is not as catholic as I thought. My sense was this was not a good place to make Jesus jokes, and I’m still not ready to try, but I’m getting the sense that this country is as freewheeling about its gods as it seems to be about most else.
I kinda like that.
More, though, I kinda like that Gustavo hasn’t bailed out. I’m almost looking forward to being unemployed.

2001-06-25T20:07:00.000-04:00

I think the trick is to play the idiot.
Almost all of the interactions I’ve tried have been in stores, and I feel more comfortable at the slower ones, where there’s little business. When I try to say something, I invariably fuck it up, and the catch is that I care.
I don’t like fucking up. I never want to be caught short.
Maybe it’s time to give that up. There’s not one person here who will mean anything to me in a couple of weeks. The very worst that can happen is that people in the office (the only ones who matter on a day-to-day basis) think less of me, and I don’t think that’ll happen. They all already know I’m a moron in this foreign land; I’ve said so often enough.
In any case, the best I’ve done in making myself understood has been pointing, and saying nothing. Playing the idiot mute has been my strongest stand at communicating. It didn’t do me well at the high-fallutin restaurant I went to the other day, where they refused to give me a bill. But on the streets it seems to work fine.
And maybe I should pantomime more.
We’ll see how it goes.

2001-06-24T17:50:00.000-04:00

This weekend, I was a tourist.
My last several trips – vacation last year around the Northeast, and Hong Kong the year before – have been subjects of some small amount of shame. Despite my desire to be something of an adventurous soul, I constantly fear that I am homebody. I worry, when I travel, that I don’t do enough, see enough, experience enough. I don’t necessarily know what I’d want to do, see or experience, but I feel I should be out there, doing it.
So, when I woke up at the crack of noon (hotels always block out sunlight far better than my apartment does. Someday, I should invest in shades), I pulled out my tourbook, a library copy of Fodor’s Brazil, and saw what I could see.
I recognized that a mile or two away was Ibirapuera Park, what Fodor’s advises you do on the third day if you have only three days to see Sao Paulo. I was embarrassed to be going backwards, but it was the closest location, and I wanted to walk (in this town, it seems my only form of exercise).
Ibirapuera Park is likened to a smaller Central Park, and the winter weather was a blistering fifty something, so I figured a park might be a good starting point for the day.
With only the map in my book, small, vague and non-descript, to guide me, I found the park. From the first glance – at what seemed to my untrained eye, a Babylonian-style sculpture interpretation of the voyage to the New World, I was impressed.
The park was beautiful, and very much like my own local Central Park. A controlled environment, the park has biking and jogging paths around the perimeter and crossing the interior, with skate punks and children all about. About every ten feet sat a concession salesperson, with sodas and chips and Gatorade, which is apparently popular hereabouts.
I sat in the sun and I sat in the shade, and I read, and, when the occasional vendor came to me to ask me to buy, I would mutter, “No. Nao. Sinto.”
At this rate. I could have a first grader’s vocabulary in only three years.
Eventually, feeling too sedentary, I headed North, aiming to hit Liberdad, where Fodor’s said a good tour was available. Up hilly streets I went, following signs to Liberdad, buying drinks along the way, generally making it on my own in the strange new world.
Somehow, I got further than Liberdad, to Centro, which is the old business district – like Wall Street. I started at Praca de Se, a gigantic church under construction, walked through a dirty dank park and viewed another one, where more ignoble youth practiced their skate board drills. Apparently, this is one of the infamous spaces where the police use particularly emphatic methods to ensure that kids don’t make a habit of hanging around. Didn’t seem to be working.
The tallest buildings are in Centro, including the black and disturbing Edificia Italia, the tallest building in the city. I opted not to go to the top, based on ominous feelings about it from the bottom.
At the Teatro Municipal, whose doors were closed, I glanced at Fodor’s to get my bearings. Apparently, I was smack-dab in the middle of what I should do if I had only ONE day in Sao Paulo. Across the street, according to my book was the Mappin shopping center, but the word emblazoned everywhere was Extra.
In front of the shopping center was the biggest poster of Che Guavara I’d seen around town yet, and before it, thumping a text with a Castrovian beard and moustache, was what I can only assume was a communist. Circling a thirty-yard perimeter, he entertained the shoppers, and shocked the uninitiated (me) with sporadic smacks to his thick, leather-bound book. I went up close to watch him, and, seeing a baldie in cut-offs, he must have thought me sympathetic to the cause, because he yelled at me for a good thirty seconds. If only he knew I was here, working for the Man. A drunkard shadowed the pinko, whether mocking or supporting him; whether countering or part of the show, I have no idea.
The surrounding streets were blocked off for shopping vendors, much like Orchard Street in New York. Every twelve feet or so, I sold the same merchandise (cheap underwear, pirated CD, belts, jackets) sold by different vendors. I kept my knapsack at my side, just as I would in New York.
Passing the area, I found myself on Avenida Ipiranga, which, if I read my tourbook right, would lead me down towards Faria Lima, my homebase. Since it was getting darker by the minute, I figured I should at least be on the way home.
I followed Ipiranga past hotels and bars, which slowly became some kind of blue-collar district, closed for the weekend. Think the pier north of South Street Seaport – I did. I kept going until I reached Avenida Paulista, the central social street of the town, which my book told me, I was supposed to hit on my SECOND day in town. I was pretty tired by this point, having walked perhaps five or six miles by this point, so I took a seat, saw what I was supposed to see on this main thoroughfare, then hit Rue da Consolacao, opting to pick Av. Paulista up another day.
It was fully dark, so there wasn’t much left to see. I kept going on the Consalacao until it changed names, I got lost, and found myself on a cemetery strip. I found my way back as soon as I could.
Eventually, my road wound its way back to Faria Lima, as I’d hoped it would, and I felt fairly proud that I’d navigated my way around the circuitous streets. On Faria Lima, I found myself near the office, so decided to pop in for some water and some e-access.
Upon leaving, I went the precise path I take back to my hotel, but went just past my hotel to one of Fodor’s most-recommended restaurants, Baby Beef Rubiyat. I’d hoped the dining would be Chrascarria, Rodizo style, one of my favorite ways to eat, but it wasn’t. It was just choice beef, served quickly. The menu was partially in English, though, and it did come recommended, so I figured I should check it out.
The steak was phenomenal. The french fries were somehow air puffs, well seasoned. They were effectively potato chips, but presented (rightfully so) as a delicacy. The service was phenomenal, and they kept offering me more and more. But no check. I had to ask three times, wait about half an hour for the check. I’m guessing it was because I finished my meal and wanted to go. No drinks, no coffee, no dessert. I had my steak and was done. I wonder if they’ll let me back in.
I went home, and, full of meat, soon went to sleep.
Sunday was more of the same, repeating much of the route from the day before, but on different streets. I walked the entire Av. Paulista strip before heading towards Centro.
Avenida Paulista features many of the cultural centers, including several museums that I saw. When I say ‘Saw,’ I mean ‘Passed by,’ because, really, why should I pretend to be cultured now. Having worked across the street from MOMA for three years hasn’t given me any aesthetic sense, why should this?
I stopped off for more snacks along the way, finding increasing number of ways to play the mute. I don’t like this life of the linguistically challenged. When next I travel, I will either crash-course in language, or, more likely, fax the nation and insist that, at least for the tenure of my stay, they speak English.
I got cheese bread from one hole-in-the-wall vendor – they’re almost all holes-in-the-wall. For a country with so much space, most of the stores seem especially small, and fairly open. They seem quaint. It’s not bad, it’s just different – which, on second thought, probably means bad.
Anyhow, the sun’s gone down in Sao Paulo, a day that ran temperatures from 15 to 21 Celsius. I’m sweaty again, and my legs really hurt. I’m kinda glad tomorrow’s the start of the workweek, so I won’t be quite so tired.

2001-06-23T19:37:00.000-04:00

I went down for a nap on Friday night, and woke up around ten thirty, well past my hook-up point with Chris. He wasn’t downstairs, and I’d suddenly become too ashamed to follow through with my plan, reading in my room until I fell asleep early. I fell asleep too early to even make a go of that.
Slightly refreshed by my nap, I got on the road.
Avenida Brigaderio Faria Lima, where my hotel resides, is a major street. I’m familiar with a patch of it, as the office is on the same road. I opted to go off the beaten path, however, and look for something new.
I don’t know what it is I was looking for, and I’m not too sure what I found. I went on sidestreets for a little while, and saw intimate bars and restaurants all over the place. There was a small strip with Bingo parlors. Everywhere I went, there were people on the streets, going out and about.
I went into Pao do Acucar, one of the larger supermarket chains. This one said it was 24-hour, and, while I didn’t recognize all of the brands, it was not substantially different from a market in the US. It was not a supermarket by New York standards, and it certainly wasn’t a supermarket by New Jersey standards. Still, I could get a soda.
Out of the market, I made a left – or maybe a right – and went down one avenue for a while, before beginning to wonder where this was taking me. By my estimates, my path would take me parallel to Faria Lima, getting me close to the office. Time progressed though, and populated areas got sparser, and I recognized less and less, and I got a little anxious.
There were no high stakes, really, because, I knew, I had enough money to take a cab home from anywhere in the city. And, as always when I’m not on my bike, I had box-cutter with me, near my palm, prepared for bloody conquest. I did begin to wish, though, that I had a copy of my passport, and not the original.
Finally, though, I found myself on a familiar-sounding street, Avenida Brasil. Soon I found myself in a downtown kind of neighborhood, with various young, cool types going into clubs. I explored for a while, walked down streets, looked for food, built up a sweat. Finally, by around twelve thirty, I decided it was time to go home.
After a few minutes, I found a cab depot, and, having practiced pronunciation, said, “Faria Lima e Rua Amaury.”
“Eh?” The driver asked.
“Uh…” I said, suddenly worried, “Faria Lima e Ru. Rua, rua Amaury?”
He seemed confused. Defeated, I pulled out a matchbook from the hotel.
As we drove, I vaguely got my bearings. I saw places I’d just walked passed, and recognized how I could, conceivably, have ended up back there, eventually. Might have taken me a few days, but…
I was home by one, sweaty and very much the world-weary explorer.

2001-06-23T19:02:00.000-04:00

Ricardo gave Chris and me a ride back to our hotel, and as we walked to the elevator, Chris asked if I was up for anything that night.
“I don’t think so,” I said, “I’m kind of worn out from last night.”
“Man, this is the weekend in Sao Paulo! You have to do something!”
I felt tired, with a headache, and somewhere in the middle of the day, found myself too week to cope with the exhausting environment. If I ever travel again, I will make a stab at learning the language in advance. Hong Kong spoiled me.
“What’d you have in mind?” I grumbled.
“Dunno,” he said. Chris has only been in town a couple of weeks longer than me, though, with years in Hong Kong and Australia preceding this, he’s a seasoned expat. “You fancy the seedy side of town?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “I like to see, but I don’t do most the seedy things.”
“Morality?” Chris asked.
“No,” I said, “I think it’s about control. I don’t drink or do drugs because of the possible results.”
“And ladies of the evening?” Chris asked, as the elevator arrived.
“Oh no,” I replied, “No. You don’t know what’s gonna happen, with diseases, and back rooms…”
“But that’s the thrill, isn’t it? Not quite knowing if you’re going to survive the experience…”
“Yeah, not for me. We’ll talk about it in an hour?”
“Sure,” Chris said.
We never did hook up.

2001-06-22T16:23:00.000-04:00

“Brazilian women are the most beautiful in the world!”
I say that, of course, because I am drunk, having worked to fulfill the minimum at what purports to be one of the top clubs in one of the best party towns in the world.
I’ve just arrived back from The Bar, in I-don’t-know-what neighborhood, but it’s the kind of bar that would be located in the warehouse district of Sixth Avenue in the teens in New York. It’s the kind of club I’d never go to.
Chris picked me up around ten fifteen, to go to a party that our mutual acquaintance (friends of Carlos – one of our analysts) Alex hooked us up with. He directed the taxi driver to the Bar. I don’t remember the name of the street he recited from a piece of paper. We waited on line, and talked of poetry, and the work day, and the kind of elitist scene that would only let people in who were on a list, and how lucky we were to have been put on said list.
I let Chris serve as point man in all things, since he’s been in Brazil for about a month, and has taken several Portuguese lessons. All I have learned in my four Brazilian days is how to look charming while shrugging my shoulders, presenting as sincere an ignorance as ever I’ve felt.
He got us into the bar, with an explanation that we’d have to purchase thirty dollars worth of product, minimum, through the night for having the honor of being in the prestigious club. Honestly, in many ways, I’ve been in better. Bigger clubs, more exclusive clubs, clubs that didn’t let everyone in, if they waited long enough, clubs that required a greater mandatory charge from its patrons. But this club was better. This club had Brazilian women
It didn’t take us long to find Alex, who’d kindly added our names to the list.
“Hey,” he said, “Let me introduce you to Claudia, the birthday girl.”
Brazilians, like their forbears, the Portuguese, greet the opposite sex by kissing both cheeks, or just one. The short, beautiful Asiatic Claudia, whose party I was attending, kissed my cheek, and I, tasting foundation, kissed hers. I muttered congratulations, which I think she didn’t hear, and continued my circle jerk with Alex and Chris.
“What are you drinking?” Chris asked, “You have to drink Caipirinha.”
Caipirinha is one of the native drinks of Brazil. As I see it, it’s a mixed concoction, with a bitter, strong grain alcohol, hampered by lime and sugar. That’s what is supposed to make it tasty. From my experience earlier in the week, it failed.
“Caipirinha it is!” I exclaimed, and went to the bar to order.
“Caipirinha!” I called, imagining myself a drunken German tourist.
I drank the bitter limey stuff, and chatted with editor and my host. Alex wore a plaid button-down shirt under a sleeveless sweater. A native born Japanese-Brazilian, he speaks perfect English and played host during our time at the Bar.
Three of his friends came about, two of them beautiful, one not bad. I kissed each of them on the cheek, as per custom. The most beautiful told me of her year in New York.
“I loved it. I will be back,” she said, “as soon as I finish college.”
“I wish I had a card to give you,” I said.
She was drinking a strawberry Caipirinha, and, after she gave me a sip of hers, I was helpless before the drink’s charm.
The conversation was stunted, of course. The middle and upper class, it seems, has more English than your average guy on the street. But still, few have enough for my charm and wit to come flying through. And certainly, in a club setting, I can be only so charming and witty. The women left after a few minutes, while I looked wistfully after them.
Raul, whom I met and drank with on Tuesday night, joined us.
We talked, and Alex asked after my web address, because he’d unsuccessfully searched for my site the other day. I offered him access, and glanced around the spacious club.
“Most clubs in Brazil are wall to wall people,” he said, stretching his arms out, touching no one.
“It’s quite a huge city,” I offered as support.
I’ve still only seen a few city blocks, but I’m simply amazed that the city doesn’t seem denser than it is. Sao Paulo follows Los Angeles’ model, wide and flat, without so many skyscrapers. The tallest building in the city is 41 stories high.
“What do you think of the local talent?” Chris asked.
“I wish they could understand me,” I said, “But then again, I don’t think they ever would.”
Hot girls everywhere. I had another drink.
Chris and I somehow disengaged from our new friends, and wandered about, talking to each other. I found myself increasingly unsteady, decreasingly intelligent. More and more, I felt like a very ugly American.
I didn’t do anything wrong, but I certainly didn’t feel in control.
This is why I don’t drink.
Chris and I returned to our friends, who were standing about, talking to each other. It occurred to me that I might not be the only fish out of water at the Bar.
Around one o’clock, Alex begged off.
Around two, Raul offered us a ride home. We left the slick club, paying for our drinks, staring at more hot chicks, then wildly drove down empty streets to Rua Amaury, where my hotel lies. Chris and I thanked Raul, and I said I hoped to see him again. See With the guys, I can be as smooth as necessary.
It was a good night, I think, and I think I’ll remember that. Another thing I’m pretty sure I’ll remember is this:
The first line above.

2001-06-22T14:48:00.000-04:00

It took me leaving my homeland to again find one of the best foods in America.
The other night, I tried McDonald's.
"Yeah," I said, "McDonald's. THAT's why I came to Brazil."
Christiane, the office manager, suggested that Mickey D's is different than in the US, and, really I didn't see any place better to pick up some light fare, so I got myself some Chicken McNuggets and a strawberry pie.
I used to love the little Apple Pies at McD's, back when they were fried and crispy. Now they're all baked and... healthy? Well, allegedly, healthier.
I miss the real stuff.
The strawberry pie was the real stuff. Deep fried and delicious.
I am so glad to have discovered it. It's not really a piece of my home, but it is something...

2001-06-22T09:12:00.000-04:00

As we closed in on the end of the day, around seven forty five, an assistant came flashing into our area to tell us that they were turning power off in the building, so we had better finish up.
We were still a good half an hour away from shutting down the shop, so Chris asked, “At what time?”
“Seven thirty.”
Fifteen minutes ago.
“Power should be back up at nine,” he offered
By nine – roughly – there was a party to attend, and, really, I didn’t relish the thought of returning to the office so late to do a job that, in so many ways, I dislike.
I’ve found in the training process much about my job that I enjoy. I enjoy understanding an increasing amount of the research I produce, enjoy picking up analyst’s ideas, finding flaws in their language, being able to fix it. I enjoy looking at tables and being able to shape them, fix them, discard and add as necessary or as I see fit. I enjoy the speed, the pace, the energy, of rushing to finish. I enjoy a lot of what I do. This may well be my favorite job, and I’ll miss it.
The hours, of course, I’ve hated from the start.
I’d never had a deadline so effectively enforced before. The force of Brazil’s power rationing all around us, we rushed to pump out the Daily. Chris was in the middle of editing the last submission, and I was watching Gustavo format the stories we’d received. I was updating e-mail lists, just sent from New York so I could show Gustavo who to send what to.
With the threat upon us, I took over the production process, apologizing to Gustavo. “You’ve been doing great, but I need to pump this out.”
While Chris finished editing, I looked over what Gustavo had done, mostly good work, and tightened and reshaped. There were any number of things that I’d left flawed for Chris to discover, so they work out an effective production relationship, but I removed all of them, because time was of essence.
The pace, always joyous had become rapturous.
I saved rapidly, in case power suddenly shut off. I didn’t want to lose what we’d done. I put my flash-camera around my neck, in case the lights went out and we needed to find our way down darkened stairs. I packed up the laptop I’d borrowed for the hotel nights. I anticipated whatever eventualities I could to lighten the load if it get went dark.
A month or so ago, we produced a report about the Brazilian power sector, entitled Power down. I didn’t read it, but I could tell that, like California, the entire country faces an energy crisis. I was told the other day that the ATMs have a curfew, after which the electricity is shut off. I was racing again the government, the power sector, and time, all at once.
Samuel, the sole tech-man in the office, had anticipated such problems. He told me that there was a back-up generator, producing two hour’s power, to get through any blackouts. I didn’t know if that would work under these conditions. I wasn’t sure if we were working with backup power or not. I sped through the job, and I did it well.
We got out by eight fifteen.

2001-06-22T08:26:00.000-04:00

Gustavo, my trainee, must really need money. He doesn’t seem to mind the days that are running close to twelve hours, the endless stream of descriptions of responsibility, the chaotic work environment, and his unfettered ignorance of the markets. In dealing with him, I am simply astonished how much I have learned. I feel, in certain ways, I could do Chris’ job. I could do it today. I could do it well. I should be an editor, I think, but that’s not the point. The point is, Gustavo.
Gustavo’s last name is Liedtke, which is not a typical Brazilian name. His mother is French and his father is German. He’s in his early thirties. I harbor light suspicions that she was vichy, and he was a nazi defector, escapiong the collapse of the Third Reich. How do you ask that that kind of a question?
One of the people Gustavo seems to get along with is the office’s IT guru, Samuel Bosnic. I’d been in contact with him over the years in New York. Over the phone, I always imagined him to be a small reedy man. He’s not. He’s big,. He’s powerful. He could break me in half like an onion (an onion that broke really easily. I think, though, after he broke me, he might cry). His family moved to Brazil from Yugoslavia. They run some kind of liquor import business.
My first night out drinking at Porta Luna, I met two of Carlos’ friends, Raul, and Alex. Alex’s family is Japanese, I believe, and Ru’s is Japanese and German (another axis connection?). Their families each moved to Brazil for the financial opportunties.
And I meet all these people, all perfectly reasonable foreigners, and I wonder, if they’re families were emigrating somewhere, why didn’t they sail to the land of opportunity? Why didn’t they go to America?
But, as I stand in the largest city in South America, the financial capital of LatAm, I realize that they did.

2001-06-21T09:16:00.000-04:00

I was told/warned certain things about Sao Paulo. Two in particular stick with me, this morning.
I was told that everybody had a decent command of the English language, and I was told not to drink the water.
The first person I spoke to off the plane had no English whatsoever, which bade ill of the first rumor. Every other native seemed to bear out the falsehood of the initial claim. The only people I’ve seen/spoken to who have reasonable mastery of the only tongue that matters are in the business world – those in my office are fairly fluent, and their friends in other offices speak well, too.
But in each store, on every street, nobody seems to understand what I do.
Of course, I’m the ugly American, expecting everyone to bend willow-weak in my direction. For I am a mighty oak, who stands strong against all currents, ignoring all trends, all deviations. I need change in no way for no one. Only problem is, right now, this oak is surrounded by some fucking strong willows.
I didn’t realize just how dependent I am on language skills. I mean, I knew, for communication, for making people understand me, I’d need the words. But I’m stuck in other ways. It’s taken me two days to recognize that PUXE means pull, and, I think it’s EMPURE that means push. I totally would have reversed them. Even the alphabet and the numbers are pronounced differently, so when I tell Gustavo to type and E, he types an I. If I were to take a taxi to an address, I couldn’t successfully pronounce the numbers of the address. I’d have to hand the paper. And thank god all cashiers have digital displays, so I can read how much I owe.
So far, as an ugly American, I’m having some trouble among the natives. I realize I’m going to have to pick more of the local tongue to get along, learn a sense of pronunciation, which, like french, exists solely to confound foreigners.
Damn these people; don’t they know who I am?
I was also told by numerous sources not to drink the water. Never having suffered from any form of dysentery (I was only in Tijuana for a day), I’ve avoided the tap, but not religiously.
After drinking Tuesday night, I did what I always do after any alcohol enters my system, which is drink liter after liter of water. Because I hadn’t been to a store, though, all that was available was tap (Well, also some expensive cups of water in the honor bar. I don’t know if the company would cover that).
The tap it was.
Sol all of Wednesday, my stomach was doing strange things. Mild things, really, rumbling and queasing, but enough to inform me that buying bottled water might be a useful strategy after all.
I’ve been warned one more thing, since I’ve arrived here in Sao Paulo. Several people have told me not to carry too much money with me – for fear of criminals.
So far, in terms of what I’ve been told, the accuracy ratio has been two to one.

2001-06-20T16:11:00.000-04:00

They love me in Brazil.
Two days in to my trip, I got an opportunity to experience something.
“When will you be done today?” Carlos Constantini, one of my analysts, asked.
“Well, yesterday, we left at” I turned to Gustavo, “eight thirty?”
My replacement nodded solemnly.
“But today, I figure it’ll only be nine, nine thirty.”
Carlos laughed. “Let me tell you where I’ll be.”
I did, and he did, when he left around seven thirty.
Chris and I worked late into the night, while Gustavo watched. He’ll pick it all up eventually, I hope. I hope, more, that it doesn’t matter to me, that I’ll have moved onto something better at the end of my time of CLSA. I hope that this job is the stepping stone into the future, rather than something I’ll look bitterly back on as my past.
Training Gustavo was better today. It was another day of him looking over my shoulder as I did my job, which involved a lot, since the computer still isn’t functioning the way it should. Mostly, Gustavo saw a harried, non-stop job. I can’t imagine why he’d keep it.
At lunch, he explained. In his accented English, he told me, “Last night, I worked until one o’clock.”
“On what?” I asked, afraid he was somehow studying some of my working files.
“An advertising assignment, with my partner.”
“Oh,” I said, “You’ve been working at your own agency?”
“Yes,” he said, “And, I like it, but I decided I needed money.”
I nodded, understanding.
The day ended around the same time as yesterday’s, with Chris asking, “So, Gustavo, do you want to go out for drinks?”
Gustavo had to beg off. He’s a nice man, my age, very artistic, very polite. He had plans.
“You, Jon?”
“Sure!”
We went off to meet Carlos. We walked four or five blocks to a hole in the wall (so far, I’ve seen LOTS of holes in walls) with a series of suits drinking by the bar, and a series of babes at the bar. Carlos was nowhere in sight.
As Chris, a four-week veteran to Brazil, tried to acclimate, recognize where we should go, I stared at ladies, thinking, “Couldn’t we stay here?” knowing full well that the language barrier was insurmountable.
As Chris returned to me with instructions, I asked, “Where to?”
“To a cab,” he explained, “The place isn’t that far, but we’ll get there quicker.”
We hit a taxi, and Chris, with his exceedingly limited Portuguese, directed the cabbie to another club of Faria Lima.
“So, mate,” he asked as the car got rolling, “What do you think-“
“About Gustavo? He’ll pick it up.”
“Well, that’s all well and good. I meant your future.”
“Oh,” I said, and I told him. I told him how there were some options from Human Resources, how in G-Trade might have a space for me, and how things looked brighter. I didn’t mention Paine Webber, though I held their pen in my pocket.
“Well, it’s unfortunate,” he said, “I mean to say, had you moved to Brazil, it would certainly work financially, because, on your work visa, you wouldn’t be taxed at all, and they’d cover your living expenses for the first six months, so it’s all well and good.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking perhaps Gustavo wasn’t as set as an employee as I thought he was, “But, I gotta say, the language barrier, it’s pretty extreme. More than I’d thought.”
“Well, yes, you get used to it.”
“People have asked me,” I said, “About why I won’t move here. They look at me like I’m an idiot. I say that it’s about the poetry, but it’s bigger. Everything that makes me good, everything I like about myself, comes from my language skills. I’m quick, I’m fast, I’m witty, I’m literate. When I talk to the hard of hearing, it doesn’t come across. When I talk to non-English speakers, it doesn’t fly.”
“I think you’re selling yourself short, mate,” he said.
“They all say that. They ALL say that…”
We arrived.
Inside, Carlos sat with two friends, of Asian descent. I saw no problem with that; I’ve been to Hong Kong.
Each gave me his hand and his name. I took the hand, but immediately forgot the name. Bars are loud.
We had a good time. I started with some Johnnie Walker, then, at Carlos’ suggesting, got a Caparina, a national drink in Brazil.
“I’m a lightweight,” I explained, “I’m already past my limit.”
“You ARE a lightweight!” One of my new friends declaimed.
“So what do you think of Brazil so far?” Carlos asked.
“Well, I’ve been here two days, and I’ve had lunch, and a drink and a half. I can’t really say yet. Still, I gotta like it!”
We drank, we talked. Somehow, after my drinking was done, someone asked me about my poetry.
“Aha!” I said, and pulled out the sample copies I always carry. I knew I wouldn’t have been able to read well in the loud environment, so I opted to let my words speak for me.
They liked.
They loved.
Carlos, and one of the new guys asked to buy books.
“Well, they sell for five dollars American,” I said, “But I figure that translates to five Real, right?”
Carlos laughed, “You sure? Because that’s about two eighty – “
“Ah!” I said, “I’m the ugly American. I don’t know from your money.”
I promised to bring Carlos the books tomorrow, and my new friend the books the party I was invited to on Thursday.
I got along well with the people at the bar, and the language problem didn’t seem to plague as much. It’s a grand old city, Sao Paulo is.
Brazil seems to love me.

2001-06-20T15:24:00.000-04:00

It didn’t help.
My father’s sleeping pills did little to put me to sleep. They did a good deal to put me on edge and much more to make me groggy, but did I actually sleep from them? No.
Maybe it was the two Bailey’s bottles I drank in advance (Oh, relax; they were airplane bottles), and the Merlot I had with dinner. But all of those were finished two hours into the flight, and, ‘round midnight, I figured I should let it all hang out.
But I couldn’t. I got a catnap or two in the air, but hours past with greater anxiety. I woke up around three Brazil time (two EST) and didn’t find myself much exhausted until about six, an hour away from debarkation.
“This is unfair,” I said to me, “I’m expected at work in three hours. I’ll get to my hotel room with enough time to change my clothes, maybe nap for half an hour, then put in my first day in foreign country. This is not right. This is not good.”
I had asked to arrive on Saturday, so I could get acclimated. I had agreed to come to the office on Sunday, to see what the computer could do. There was no satisfaction on either front.
“No doubt,” I said to me, “Monday will be a wash.”
We landed at seven. I got my luggage by seven thirty. I glanced over at the duty free shop, and saw the cheapest bike sold was a hundred and eighty dollars. I guess that’s tax-free, right?
I already had too much luggage. I walked out, saw the guy with my name on a card, shook his hand, and let him take me for a ride.
The roads on Sao Paulo were roads. The only interesting things I noticed were Portuguese signs and bikes and pedestrians on the road. After forty-five minutes of silent wondering, and mentally composing Spanish sentences, I asked, “Is it legal for bikes to be on the highway?”
“Uh, no speak english,” he said, and then went on to answer my question, if my question was, ‘where do we go from here?’
I tried to watch how he traveled, as he negotiated traffic jams, and allowed scores of motorcycles to squeeze by him, and noticed several ambulances pass through completely blocked-up traffic. Sao Paulo, the second biggest city in the world, has a population twice and half again that of New York. They probably see their fair share of jams. I tried to watch, but kept on dozing off. We could well have gone in circle after circle. I hoped I didn’t have to pay him, since I hadn’t changed monies yet.
We didn’t reach my hotel until nine o’clock on the dot, exactly when I was supposed to arrive in the office. With no sleep.
I signed in, stopped off in my room, got out of my travel clothes and into my work fatigues, called the office to get directions, and headed on out.
“It’s a ten minute walk,” Chris told me over the phone, but you should take a cab.”
And, late as I was, I would have, if I had any reais. I figured I could pop into any bank and change money. It worked that way during my trip to Hong Kong…
The first bank I saw was one whose company I’ve seen under coverage at my firm, so I figured I should give them my business. I spoke to the very pretty bank teller. Well, I talked at the very pretty bank teller.
I showed her a hundred dollars, and said, “I’d like to transfer this into Brazilian currency, please.”
She said something to me. I’ll probably go to my grave figuring out what it was.
She pointed out the window, and I followed the path to another bank, with an ATM, which did me no good at all. All the instructions were in Portuguese, and I don’t know if the troubles I had were because my bank card was American, or because the screen was asking me what denominations I wanted.
Two bank machines later, I remembered: the office was ten minutes away. I was already on the proper street, Faria Lima. I’d just walk it.
On the way, I saw my bank, Citibank, and got myself some Brazilian money, about five hundred reais. I felt closer to human, with some workable currency.
Then, I saw the building I’d be spending the better part of the next three weeks, Brasilinvest, 1461 Faria Lima, the home of CLSA-BCN, my company.
A quick sigh of recognition, and I went in, showing my passport, gaining admission, going up the elevator. I had not spoken to anyone here who knew more than the most rudimentary English. Didn’t they know who I was?
Getting off on the twelfth floor, I told the receptionist who I was. As I was led to the Research Department, I tried to find some personal significance in my voyage leaving me off sat 12, but could see nothing.
“I’ll show you to Chris,” the beautiful receptionist said, and dropped me off with a tall thin man with no facial hair and a blokey way jumping up to say, “Jon!”
“I’m a little late,” I said.
The day began.

I met Gustavo, my replacement. About my height, with red hair and a beard and a soft demeanor, he seemed nice enough. With experience in graphic design for the advertising sector, it seemed likely he’d be more than able to fill my shoes. I didn’t care. I was moving on to bigger and better things, whether it be washing windows or biking as a messenger. ‘Good comes from all transitions,’ some namby-pamby new age optimist once told me. Who knows? Maybe I was wrong to shoot him…
We got down to checking the computer. As anticipated, no program worked up to specifications. I was in negotiations all day long with Samuel Bosnic, the sole IT man for CL in Sao Paulo. While Gustavo watched, and I yawned, Sam added files, worked through applications, fixed the computer, through much of the day.
“I brought this disk from New York,” I said, looking for my machine’s CD-drive.
“I’ll take it,” Sam said, “There is no CD-Rom for this computer.”
“Oh.”
Turns out my disk had no information on it. I’d spent several hours compiling the data on Friday, before leaving. Apparently, it was all for naught.
Luckily, I’d emailed to Sao Paulo the latest versions of the reports I’d been working on through Friday, so I could continue quickly on the Walmex report, the Bancomer report, and the daily Latin America Morning Line.
“This isn’t a fair introduction to you,” I told Gustavo, “This is hardly a representative day. Normally, I’m awake.”
Because I arrived late, I skipped lunch, snacking off of some leftovers from a meeting held earlier that day. I drank a fair amount of water. I spoke to all the analysts whom I have daily conversations with, but have only met once or twice. It was a sort of homecoming. I wondered if they know I’m out on my ass after I’ve finished training the new guy.
We finished work around eight thirty, which was really seven thirty, my time, which would have been a blessing if I’d had any sleep.
Chris and I took a hotel back to our cab, and went to our respective rooms.
I read for a few minutes, then went to sleep by about nine thirty.
I woke up at eleven thirty the next morning.
I was late for work.

2001-06-20T15:22:00.000-04:00

I am, by nature, and independent person.
Well, I try to be independent.
Well, I try to look independent.
It’s one of the most important things to me. I struggle to avoid depending on others, because I’m afraid, like Blanche DuBois, I’ll be raped and institutionalized by my brother-in-law.
Figuratively.
This need for autonomy comes into play in curious ways. I don’t borrow money, or incur any debts that I can’t immediately repay. I infrequently ask for help. I rarely take rides from friends, and I avoid public transportation, particularly the train.
I’m not claustrophobic, or under-groundaphobic, but I can’t stand the waiting, the arrival at a destination only when somebody else allows me to, and paying for that privilege. That’s one of the reasons I bike everywhere I can.
In any case, it makes flying something of a difficult proposition.
In a subway, at least, you have the option of getting off if you’re dissatisfied with the service, and the entire trip takes no more than an hour, ninety minutes tops. No such luck on a plane.
Still, to get to Brazil, a plane’s the only way to fly.
All that hit my head as JAL Flight 048 taxied around JFK for half an hour, after boarding thirty minutes late. Very frustrating aspects of what was already an overnight flight. We took off shortly after nine.
By eleven thirty, we passed America.
I decided to take one of my father’s sleeping pills, to be fresh for Day One of my exciting new adventure.
It didn’t help.