Today, I was ripped off. It wasn't anything major, it wasn't anything serious, and it wasn't anything that should warrant more than a few minutes of annoyance.
Rather than taking the bus, I normally catch a van home from PUC. Normally, I really enjoy the experience (I'll probably write about them one of these days), and for the most part I enjoyed today's ride too--until the end that is. After standing for the majority of the ride, I gave the attendant my fare and squeezed my way through to a seat in the back row, (politely) stepping over a few people to get there. After a few more stops, the attendant came over and said something to me. I didn't catch what he'd said and just assumed he asked where I wanted to get off. I told him, "Teixera" and figured that was that.
That was not that.
He kept talking to me in rapid Portuguese, and I literally had no idea what he was saying. I eventually guessed that he was trying to tell me that I needed to pay--even though I'd given him the money ten minutes earlier. I tried to tell him, "eu ja paguei, I already paid," but he didn't believe me. More rapid Portuguese followed, and eventually we were at my stop. Rather than get into an argument with him--it would've been pointless given the language barrier--I paid him (again).
Sure, I was pretty ticked that he charged me twice. But objectively it wasn't a huge deal. The fare is R$ 2,20--about a buck twenty five--so really, it wasn't some grand economic hardship. I'm also pretty sure the guy just honestly forgot; I might be wrong, but I didn't get the sense that he was trying to legitimately screw me over. And since nothing like this has happened before (in fact, the opposite has, the attendants have given me too much change on more than one occasion), I don't have any reason to think that it'll happen again.
So why did it bother me so much?
I think it has something to do with the fact that this experience opened my eyes to just how vulnerable I am here. "Vulnerable" might be the wrong word in this context, but it was really unnerving to see just how little control I had in that situation. Any kind of interaction like that takes a certain amount of energy and the ability to be confrontational; since I'm generally a very non-confrontational person (even when I'm totally in my comfort zone), being in a stressful situation like that was just too much.
---
So, I took a break from this entry for a couple days before posting it. I totally got over this whole incident in a matter of hours, but I think what I said is still true. It's a deeply disturbing feeling to find yourself completely incapable of communication with another human being. When language fails, what can do you do?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Ode à Maré
Today, Dona Marta scolded Jazzmin and me for not speaking Portuguese. Why, she asked, did we come all the way to Brazil if we were going to speak English the whole time? Of course, she ignored the fact that I'd just had a conversation (in Portuguese) with the director of the favela youth program we were visiting, and the fact that every one else was speaking in English. I'm also not sure that speaking Portuguese with people whose (shaky) grasp of the language isn't any better than my own (equally shaky) abilities is really an effective learning strategy.
But chastising aside, Marta had a valid point: why did I come to Brazil?
To be perfectly honest, it was one of the most off-handed decisions I've made. I knew almost nothing about Brazil, had no real affinity for the country, and assumed Portuguese was just Spanish with a strange accent. So maybe the answer to that question isn't what's important here. I'm discovering that the reasons why I came to Brazil are drastically different from the reasons that I want to be here, the reasons that this place and its people fascinate, challenge, and captivate me.
The Vila Olímpica da Maré is a community center for the favela of Maré that specializes in after school programs for youth. As the name would suggest, a lot of their programming involves sports and athletics; however, the Vila Olímpica has a host of academic and artistic programs: ballet, capoeira, "street dancing,"and classical and folkloric music. Our time in the favela itself was limited to the three-minute drive from the highway to the Vila Olímpica, so I don't feel in anyway that I can speak to what life there is like, and I won't try.
What I can talk about are the amazing teachers and students I met--incredible people committed to finding a way of improving their community. The kids were incredible; from the adorable four-year-old ballerinas, to the six-year-old capoeira drummers, to the awkward preteens doing gymnastics, all of them were insanely talented. I have no doubt that they'll all accomplish great things with that talent, in whatever ways they can.
The moment that has stuck with me the most, and probably will stick with me for a long while to come, was a short recorder recital. The semi-circle of children, ranging in age from maybe five to thirteen, smiled shyly at the group of gringos assembled before them and began to play. I remember turning to Jazzmin and saying, "This is probably the most adorable thing I've ever seen." But once they started to play "Ode to Joy," I was literally holding back tears.
Maybe it's the song, maybe it's the message that I've attached to that song, or maybe I was just overly emotional today, but watching these children--who come from a place where drug dealers wield more power than elected officials and street signs and basic plumbing are rarities--watching them play that song meant so much to me. I started to sing along, quietly and to myself, and when they got to the line, "Alle Menschen werden Brüder. All men become brothers," I knew that this day would be one that I don't think I'll ever forget.
That sentiment, that assertion that, yes, we do share a common humanity, and, yes, that human family actually matters--that is what I'll take away from my time at the Vila Olímpica. I'll take away from this day what I learned from the dedicated individuals who bring that place alive: the knowledge that rising above poverty and oppression doesn't mean forgetting where you came from, and the firm belief that people, working together, can affect change in their own lives and in their own communities.
So, Dona Marta, I may not be speaking Portuguese as much as I should be, but believe me when I say I'm learning.
But chastising aside, Marta had a valid point: why did I come to Brazil?
To be perfectly honest, it was one of the most off-handed decisions I've made. I knew almost nothing about Brazil, had no real affinity for the country, and assumed Portuguese was just Spanish with a strange accent. So maybe the answer to that question isn't what's important here. I'm discovering that the reasons why I came to Brazil are drastically different from the reasons that I want to be here, the reasons that this place and its people fascinate, challenge, and captivate me.
The Vila Olímpica da Maré is a community center for the favela of Maré that specializes in after school programs for youth. As the name would suggest, a lot of their programming involves sports and athletics; however, the Vila Olímpica has a host of academic and artistic programs: ballet, capoeira, "street dancing,"and classical and folkloric music. Our time in the favela itself was limited to the three-minute drive from the highway to the Vila Olímpica, so I don't feel in anyway that I can speak to what life there is like, and I won't try.
What I can talk about are the amazing teachers and students I met--incredible people committed to finding a way of improving their community. The kids were incredible; from the adorable four-year-old ballerinas, to the six-year-old capoeira drummers, to the awkward preteens doing gymnastics, all of them were insanely talented. I have no doubt that they'll all accomplish great things with that talent, in whatever ways they can.
The moment that has stuck with me the most, and probably will stick with me for a long while to come, was a short recorder recital. The semi-circle of children, ranging in age from maybe five to thirteen, smiled shyly at the group of gringos assembled before them and began to play. I remember turning to Jazzmin and saying, "This is probably the most adorable thing I've ever seen." But once they started to play "Ode to Joy," I was literally holding back tears.
Maybe it's the song, maybe it's the message that I've attached to that song, or maybe I was just overly emotional today, but watching these children--who come from a place where drug dealers wield more power than elected officials and street signs and basic plumbing are rarities--watching them play that song meant so much to me. I started to sing along, quietly and to myself, and when they got to the line, "Alle Menschen werden Brüder. All men become brothers," I knew that this day would be one that I don't think I'll ever forget.
That sentiment, that assertion that, yes, we do share a common humanity, and, yes, that human family actually matters--that is what I'll take away from my time at the Vila Olímpica. I'll take away from this day what I learned from the dedicated individuals who bring that place alive: the knowledge that rising above poverty and oppression doesn't mean forgetting where you came from, and the firm belief that people, working together, can affect change in their own lives and in their own communities.
So, Dona Marta, I may not be speaking Portuguese as much as I should be, but believe me when I say I'm learning.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Os bichos
Quasi-prophetically, my father, who just happened to watch "Brazil's Deadliest Animals" shortly before my departure, warned me to stay as far away from the Amazon and the swarms of killer beasts that live there as humanly possible. While the Amazon is (literally) thousands of miles away and I have (so far) successfully avoided dying of animal-related causes, I have had some encounters with the local fauna worth writing home about.
The walk from the internet cafe where I procrastinate to the room in the apartment where I'm staying (and procrastinating) takes a total of two minutes. And yet, somehow, that two minute period was like a safari in miniature tonight. Dangling from the fence on the corner was a white caterpillar/larva thing. It was at least four inches long, and definitely as thick as my index finger. I assume it was some kind of moth larva, but I can't be sure, and, since my camera died, I have no photographic evidence. Just imagine something like this.
Then, as I turned away from the caterpillar, I see a bat swoop by. To put it delicately, I sort of freaked the fuck out. Not out of fear, but with childish excitement. Without going into the embarrassing details of my past, there was a period in my life when I was mildly obsessed with bats (they're the only mammals that can fly!!!)--so much so that I considered being chiropterist (look it up). I'd always be on the look out for bats whenever I was out at night, but every time I thought I saw one, my mom, intent on crushing my dreams, usually just said, "A bat? I think it was a pigeon." Once, I saw a bat trapped in the corner of a building at a zoo, but it was tiny and rather disappointing as far as bats go. So imagine my surprise tonight when a bat--bigger than a pigeon, smaller than a seagull--flies overhead. It was pretty damn cool.
There was also the cockroach that was chilling in my bathroom. After a minor skirmish, it was flushed down the toilet. No word yet as to whether or not that was against the bizarre Brazilian flushing rules.
Other animal related points of interest:
-All the birds here (with the exception of the hordes of pigeons) are really pretty!
-In Paraty, the packs of stray dogs that roamed the street begging for scraps and generally just following us around town were actually pretty cute--as was the Portuguese term for them: viralatas, literally "can turner," in reference to their upturning trash cans looking for food.
-In Rio, I have seen more lapdogs than I thought possible; most have pretty stylish haircuts, but I wonder how some of the furrier ones survive the Brazilian summer. Also, I saw a dog wearing shoes. Yes, a dog (i.e. an animal) wearing shoes (i.e. human footwear).
-I am fairly certain there is some form of rodent that lives in the attic over my bedroom. I hear strange scuttling noises, day and night. At first I was kind of freaked out; now, as long as it doesn't gnaw my face off as I sleep, I'm cool.
The walk from the internet cafe where I procrastinate to the room in the apartment where I'm staying (and procrastinating) takes a total of two minutes. And yet, somehow, that two minute period was like a safari in miniature tonight. Dangling from the fence on the corner was a white caterpillar/larva thing. It was at least four inches long, and definitely as thick as my index finger. I assume it was some kind of moth larva, but I can't be sure, and, since my camera died, I have no photographic evidence. Just imagine something like this.
Then, as I turned away from the caterpillar, I see a bat swoop by. To put it delicately, I sort of freaked the fuck out. Not out of fear, but with childish excitement. Without going into the embarrassing details of my past, there was a period in my life when I was mildly obsessed with bats (they're the only mammals that can fly!!!)--so much so that I considered being chiropterist (look it up). I'd always be on the look out for bats whenever I was out at night, but every time I thought I saw one, my mom, intent on crushing my dreams, usually just said, "A bat? I think it was a pigeon." Once, I saw a bat trapped in the corner of a building at a zoo, but it was tiny and rather disappointing as far as bats go. So imagine my surprise tonight when a bat--bigger than a pigeon, smaller than a seagull--flies overhead. It was pretty damn cool.
There was also the cockroach that was chilling in my bathroom. After a minor skirmish, it was flushed down the toilet. No word yet as to whether or not that was against the bizarre Brazilian flushing rules.
Other animal related points of interest:
-All the birds here (with the exception of the hordes of pigeons) are really pretty!
-In Paraty, the packs of stray dogs that roamed the street begging for scraps and generally just following us around town were actually pretty cute--as was the Portuguese term for them: viralatas, literally "can turner," in reference to their upturning trash cans looking for food.
-In Rio, I have seen more lapdogs than I thought possible; most have pretty stylish haircuts, but I wonder how some of the furrier ones survive the Brazilian summer. Also, I saw a dog wearing shoes. Yes, a dog (i.e. an animal) wearing shoes (i.e. human footwear).
-I am fairly certain there is some form of rodent that lives in the attic over my bedroom. I hear strange scuttling noises, day and night. At first I was kind of freaked out; now, as long as it doesn't gnaw my face off as I sleep, I'm cool.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Aqui, não.
The title of this post is something that Bete says to us a lot in class whenever we talk about differences between Brazil and the States. "Aqui, não. Not here." An example: "In the United States, there's hot water in the entire house because the water's warmed with gas. Aqui, não. There's usually only hot water in the bathroom, and when it's heated, it's all electric." I've had a lot of aqui, não moments since arriving in Brazil. Some are pretty mundane--jarring at first, definitely, but not hugely important in the broader scheme of things: Brazilian "mustard" and "ketchup" taste nothing like any condiment I've ever eaten; electric showers tend to be kind of spastic; toilet paper, despite the name, doesn't go in the toilet, and, as a result, bidets are a dime a dozen; driers are almost non-existent outside of the laundromat; everything is sweeter--everything.
It's these tiny things, though, that are the persistent, daily reminders that I'm out of my element, my comfort zone. The small things whose presence I take for granted are gone. Traveling makes you see that the minutiae that structures our daily lives, the seemingly trivial stuff we assume is a given--a can of Diet Coke will taste like this, a hamburger will look like that--none of it's as stable as we'd like to think. And that's so exciting. So much of what I'm interested in--academically, intellectually, politically--involves upsetting what we assume to be immutable laws of the universe, upending people's preconceptions and, hopefully, making space for new ways of looking at the world. And if a packet of Brazilian ketchup can do that, just imagine the possibilities.
Then there's the big stuff, the aqui, não's that have really made me think about this country and my own. Favelas, primarily black slums perched precariously on the granite mountains that jut up from Rio's sprawl, testify to the insanely unequal distribution of wealth that plagues Brazil. I might be off here, but the favela seems to be treated as a sort of government-sanctioned jurisdiction of poverty and violence. I definitely wasn't expecting to see, for example, bus lines running to "Favela Cidade de Deus." I don't know of anything I can really compare it to in the U.S. Place names in Southern California, let's say, can be just as loaded (Compton, Inglewood, South Central) as the names of Brazilian favelas (Cidade de Deus, Rocinha, Rio das Pedras), but I don't think I'd ever see city maps labelled "South Central Slums," or "Lennox Ghetto." In fact, there's a move to sanitize the cultural connotations of these city names--South Central is now "South Los Angeles," for example.
A couple days ago, we were lucky enough to hear a talk by Brazilian cultural expert Roberto da Matta. It was all about soccer and the incredibly important role that the sport plays in the lives of Brazilians. A big part of his argument was that soccer is the promise of equality, of competition waged on a (literal) level playing field in a country that's so stratified along socio-economic and racial lines. Brazilian culture, he said, "requires a king," someone who's on top, a defined hierarchy of people. While I usually get kind of uncomfortable with sweeping cultural analyses (Brazilian society is like this, American society is like that--despite the fact that both countries are comprised of hundreds of millions of people), I can't help but wonder if the favelas, for all the talk of reform and aid and leadership training for youth there, are a welcomed part of society. If Brazilians really do have some cultural need to see who's farther down on the ladder, they need only to look up to the terraces teetering on the hillsides throughout the city.
American society, undoubtedly just as stratified as its Brazilian counterpart (if not along the same lines) operates quite differently. Americans don't want to see the ladder at all--it's far easier to pretend that we've done away with it entirely. In fact, our cultural compulsion (and national delusion) is to believe that we don't have to re-enact the level playing field in the world of sports because we're actually living it. For Americans, it's easy to look at Rio's glaring poverty, inequality, and social injustice--literally thrust into the public eye by the topography of the earth itself--and think, "Aqui, não. Not here."
It's these tiny things, though, that are the persistent, daily reminders that I'm out of my element, my comfort zone. The small things whose presence I take for granted are gone. Traveling makes you see that the minutiae that structures our daily lives, the seemingly trivial stuff we assume is a given--a can of Diet Coke will taste like this, a hamburger will look like that--none of it's as stable as we'd like to think. And that's so exciting. So much of what I'm interested in--academically, intellectually, politically--involves upsetting what we assume to be immutable laws of the universe, upending people's preconceptions and, hopefully, making space for new ways of looking at the world. And if a packet of Brazilian ketchup can do that, just imagine the possibilities.
Then there's the big stuff, the aqui, não's that have really made me think about this country and my own. Favelas, primarily black slums perched precariously on the granite mountains that jut up from Rio's sprawl, testify to the insanely unequal distribution of wealth that plagues Brazil. I might be off here, but the favela seems to be treated as a sort of government-sanctioned jurisdiction of poverty and violence. I definitely wasn't expecting to see, for example, bus lines running to "Favela Cidade de Deus." I don't know of anything I can really compare it to in the U.S. Place names in Southern California, let's say, can be just as loaded (Compton, Inglewood, South Central) as the names of Brazilian favelas (Cidade de Deus, Rocinha, Rio das Pedras), but I don't think I'd ever see city maps labelled "South Central Slums," or "Lennox Ghetto." In fact, there's a move to sanitize the cultural connotations of these city names--South Central is now "South Los Angeles," for example.
A couple days ago, we were lucky enough to hear a talk by Brazilian cultural expert Roberto da Matta. It was all about soccer and the incredibly important role that the sport plays in the lives of Brazilians. A big part of his argument was that soccer is the promise of equality, of competition waged on a (literal) level playing field in a country that's so stratified along socio-economic and racial lines. Brazilian culture, he said, "requires a king," someone who's on top, a defined hierarchy of people. While I usually get kind of uncomfortable with sweeping cultural analyses (Brazilian society is like this, American society is like that--despite the fact that both countries are comprised of hundreds of millions of people), I can't help but wonder if the favelas, for all the talk of reform and aid and leadership training for youth there, are a welcomed part of society. If Brazilians really do have some cultural need to see who's farther down on the ladder, they need only to look up to the terraces teetering on the hillsides throughout the city.
American society, undoubtedly just as stratified as its Brazilian counterpart (if not along the same lines) operates quite differently. Americans don't want to see the ladder at all--it's far easier to pretend that we've done away with it entirely. In fact, our cultural compulsion (and national delusion) is to believe that we don't have to re-enact the level playing field in the world of sports because we're actually living it. For Americans, it's easy to look at Rio's glaring poverty, inequality, and social injustice--literally thrust into the public eye by the topography of the earth itself--and think, "Aqui, não. Not here."
A numerologista
Wow, so what was that 20-minute conversation I just had with my host mother even about?
There was the part where she told us about our astrological signs. Apparently, it's quite shocking that I'm a gemini since I'm so quiet--though that might have something to do with the fact that every time I try to talk she just ignores me and goes on with her explanations of the stars and the perfil humano. She said that geminis are intensely curious, obsessed with communication and knowing, and are skilled at expressing themselves. And while, yes, I do like to think that I have a faculty for self-expression and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, that also sounds like a pretty accurate description of most Yale students. She rattled off a bit more astrology--aquarians know what they want and get it, aries is the sign of people who are fearless, etc., etc. Then there was the awkwardly depressing part of the conversation where she told us that, because of her sign or her personality, "Eu nunca perco porque... I don't try," "I never lose because... I don't try" (Luba has a tendency to try to explain things in English, for emphasis or clarity).
After that (free!) sneak peek into what a numerological session with Luba must be like, she gave us some tips about how to stay safe when we go out. And by "gave us some tips," I mean, tried to scare us into never leaving the house. Probably her best advice for me was, "If you get into some kind of relationship, do it with someone from PUC, those girls are safe. Not like Todd, he was from Califo--Indianapoli--Indiana, he started dating a girl from a favela. I told him to get rid of her, but he just said, 'No, nothing will happen, you're just prejudiced.' And then he got mugged and they took his machine--it was a computer, it was... it was everything in one! And they took it all." So, if staying safe mostly consists of avoiding romantic interaction with women from the slums, I think I'll be alright. I don't mean to take her advice lightly, she did have some good points: keep your drinks with you at all times, don't take anything that strangers offer you (I guess I shouldn't tell her about the rando in Paraty who bought us all an endless supply of caipirinhas), go out in groups--the usual travel safety stuff.
Another interesting thing that came up in our talk, was her Brazilian love of novelas. She brought up basically every single novela that we talked about in class: Passione (set in Italy), the one set in India with crazy dancing and the cow worshipping, the one about the woman in a wheelchair, the other about cancer, and the one that tried to scare children away from drugs by showing graphic images of withdrawals and violence. Suffice it to say, novelas in Brazil are serious business. Maybe I'm ignorant, but I don't think All My Children is (was?) much of a venue for social critique.
There was the part where she told us about our astrological signs. Apparently, it's quite shocking that I'm a gemini since I'm so quiet--though that might have something to do with the fact that every time I try to talk she just ignores me and goes on with her explanations of the stars and the perfil humano. She said that geminis are intensely curious, obsessed with communication and knowing, and are skilled at expressing themselves. And while, yes, I do like to think that I have a faculty for self-expression and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, that also sounds like a pretty accurate description of most Yale students. She rattled off a bit more astrology--aquarians know what they want and get it, aries is the sign of people who are fearless, etc., etc. Then there was the awkwardly depressing part of the conversation where she told us that, because of her sign or her personality, "Eu nunca perco porque... I don't try," "I never lose because... I don't try" (Luba has a tendency to try to explain things in English, for emphasis or clarity).
After that (free!) sneak peek into what a numerological session with Luba must be like, she gave us some tips about how to stay safe when we go out. And by "gave us some tips," I mean, tried to scare us into never leaving the house. Probably her best advice for me was, "If you get into some kind of relationship, do it with someone from PUC, those girls are safe. Not like Todd, he was from Califo--Indianapoli--Indiana, he started dating a girl from a favela. I told him to get rid of her, but he just said, 'No, nothing will happen, you're just prejudiced.' And then he got mugged and they took his machine--it was a computer, it was... it was everything in one! And they took it all." So, if staying safe mostly consists of avoiding romantic interaction with women from the slums, I think I'll be alright. I don't mean to take her advice lightly, she did have some good points: keep your drinks with you at all times, don't take anything that strangers offer you (I guess I shouldn't tell her about the rando in Paraty who bought us all an endless supply of caipirinhas), go out in groups--the usual travel safety stuff.
Another interesting thing that came up in our talk, was her Brazilian love of novelas. She brought up basically every single novela that we talked about in class: Passione (set in Italy), the one set in India with crazy dancing and the cow worshipping, the one about the woman in a wheelchair, the other about cancer, and the one that tried to scare children away from drugs by showing graphic images of withdrawals and violence. Suffice it to say, novelas in Brazil are serious business. Maybe I'm ignorant, but I don't think All My Children is (was?) much of a venue for social critique.
Cidade Maravilhosa
I'm finally in Rio! This city's beautiful; I don't even know how to explain it. It's this awesome combination of metropolitan and tropical. Parts of it remind me a lot of LA (Westwood, Beverly Hills, etc.), but Rio's more urban and less car-fixated. But that's just my impression from the first few hours, I can't wait to get to know this place over the next month.
So, on to my homestay situation. I'll start with the good: I'm staying with another Yalie who's hellbent on learning Portuguese so I don't feel like I'll be speaking too much English, but it's nice to know that there's someone I can turn to if I need it. She's also a lot more outgoing than I am (i.e. she never stops talking), which is nice, because it's letting me settle in while also fending off any awkward silence or weird pauses in conversations with our host mother (I'll get to her in a second...). We're staying in Ipanema, of "A Garota de Ipanema" fame! All of the neighborhoods in the Zona Sul (the rich, beach area of the city) are nice, but Ipanema's beaches are supposed to be the best. More good stuff: Jazzmin's literally a 2-minute walk from where we're staying! Now for the great stuff: We're a seven minute walk from Le Boy, one of Rio's gay clubs and a 20-minute subway ride from The Week, the latest, gayest, and most up-scale in Rio's queer scene (or so I've been told). Not to mention the gay beach that's only a few blocks away (as well as the Posto 8, a stretch of beach popular among the younger, hotter, straight crowd). GLS (Gays, Lesbicas, e Simpatizantes) housing sure did not fail. Oh! I saw two guys holding hands in the "Hippy Market" that they set up in this plaza across the street from the apartment--I've been so deprived of queerness that it just made me super happy (even though one of them had some pretty gnarly adult onset acne...)
Okay, so now to my host mother... She's nice. But also insane. I'll break into a semi-stream-of-consciousness depiction of how we met her:
So we unload our suitcases and stand, nervously, outside of the gate to the apartment. A tiny woman appears, white pajama-like pants/leggings and a baggy orange sweater--I really dug her look, super bohemian--and glasses. She strolls out, looks at us, and then turns to the driver, "It's a boy and a girl? It was supposed to be two boys..." After some confusion (and mild terror), she kept saying she was supposed to have "Ryan and Edward not Ryan and Diandra!!!", she ultimately calms down and welcomes both of us into her home. Not gonna lie, she is one intense little woman. She offered us cake that she baked for a student that had been living with her for the past six months--he left this morning. She also told us how she cried for hours after he left... Then after a whirlwind tour of the (tiny) apartment where we'll be living for the next month, she tells us, "I don't look it, but I'm 60. I don't work outside the house, I live off of exchange students. So if you don't like it here and want to leave, let me know soon because I need the rent money." Um... Nice to meet you too? Then she sits us down and starts to ask how we're planning on paying her. That, too, was really scary because before we explained that we'd paid the university, I half-expected her to throw us out onto the street because we didn't have 950 reais on hand. Her super hip bohemian outfit has completely fallen apart by now--sweater off, faded Precious Memories t-shirt on, and the (horrifying) revelation that those "pajama-like pants/leggings" are actually see-through. While avoiding looking at her clearly-visible, sagging grandma panties and simultaneously trying to figure out how to work the (electrically heated) shower, we're also informed that we're not supposed to flush toilet paper down the toilet. What? Excuse me??? I know I sound like an ugly American, but that shit doesn't fly with me (pun only mildly intended). Admittedly, that was the rule at the Pousada, but I didn't actually follow it. But she was pretty adamant that any toilet paper in the toilet (god forbid) would lead to a 100 real plumber visit. This was also the point in the conversation where she awkwardly searched for the word "period" when she tried to tell Diandra not to flush tampons down the toilet--despite the fact that Diandra tried (multiple times) to interrupt the unbearably awkward anti-tampon-flushing lecture with assertions of, "Sim, senhora, eu entendo, não produtos femininos no vaso sanitário, entendo!"
Then came the explanation of her "work." She's a numerologist. And a kabbalah practitioner. She works, primarily, in "the human profile using numbers." I have no idea what that means. But her living room is filled with books about astrology, Greek myths, the Hebrew alphabet, and I Ching. And, she told us, we're not to interrupt her when she's with a client, but luckily she'll close the door (we have to enter through the back kitchen door so as to avoid being seen).
Alright, so that was a pretty lengthy and kind of overdramatic reaction, but it was definitely not what I was expecting. She really is nice and seems like she genuinely cares about the students living with her (though, that might be because we're her main source of income). I've had a couple of nice exchanges with her so far, especially after I gave her the Yale mug and postcards I bought her. (She was fascinated by the Hebrew letters on the Yale crest--she said they were good luck). And I could tell she wasn't from Rio from her accent (which made me ridiculously happy); she's from the Northeast, where some of their pronunciation is a lot more like Spanish than Carioca (from Rio de Janeiro) Portuguese. Unfortunately, she speaks English fairly well and sort of defaults to that when she thinks we don't understand but hopefully that's just for the beginning.
So, on to my homestay situation. I'll start with the good: I'm staying with another Yalie who's hellbent on learning Portuguese so I don't feel like I'll be speaking too much English, but it's nice to know that there's someone I can turn to if I need it. She's also a lot more outgoing than I am (i.e. she never stops talking), which is nice, because it's letting me settle in while also fending off any awkward silence or weird pauses in conversations with our host mother (I'll get to her in a second...). We're staying in Ipanema, of "A Garota de Ipanema" fame! All of the neighborhoods in the Zona Sul (the rich, beach area of the city) are nice, but Ipanema's beaches are supposed to be the best. More good stuff: Jazzmin's literally a 2-minute walk from where we're staying! Now for the great stuff: We're a seven minute walk from Le Boy, one of Rio's gay clubs and a 20-minute subway ride from The Week, the latest, gayest, and most up-scale in Rio's queer scene (or so I've been told). Not to mention the gay beach that's only a few blocks away (as well as the Posto 8, a stretch of beach popular among the younger, hotter, straight crowd). GLS (Gays, Lesbicas, e Simpatizantes) housing sure did not fail. Oh! I saw two guys holding hands in the "Hippy Market" that they set up in this plaza across the street from the apartment--I've been so deprived of queerness that it just made me super happy (even though one of them had some pretty gnarly adult onset acne...)
Okay, so now to my host mother... She's nice. But also insane. I'll break into a semi-stream-of-consciousness depiction of how we met her:
So we unload our suitcases and stand, nervously, outside of the gate to the apartment. A tiny woman appears, white pajama-like pants/leggings and a baggy orange sweater--I really dug her look, super bohemian--and glasses. She strolls out, looks at us, and then turns to the driver, "It's a boy and a girl? It was supposed to be two boys..." After some confusion (and mild terror), she kept saying she was supposed to have "Ryan and Edward not Ryan and Diandra!!!", she ultimately calms down and welcomes both of us into her home. Not gonna lie, she is one intense little woman. She offered us cake that she baked for a student that had been living with her for the past six months--he left this morning. She also told us how she cried for hours after he left... Then after a whirlwind tour of the (tiny) apartment where we'll be living for the next month, she tells us, "I don't look it, but I'm 60. I don't work outside the house, I live off of exchange students. So if you don't like it here and want to leave, let me know soon because I need the rent money." Um... Nice to meet you too? Then she sits us down and starts to ask how we're planning on paying her. That, too, was really scary because before we explained that we'd paid the university, I half-expected her to throw us out onto the street because we didn't have 950 reais on hand. Her super hip bohemian outfit has completely fallen apart by now--sweater off, faded Precious Memories t-shirt on, and the (horrifying) revelation that those "pajama-like pants/leggings" are actually see-through. While avoiding looking at her clearly-visible, sagging grandma panties and simultaneously trying to figure out how to work the (electrically heated) shower, we're also informed that we're not supposed to flush toilet paper down the toilet. What? Excuse me??? I know I sound like an ugly American, but that shit doesn't fly with me (pun only mildly intended). Admittedly, that was the rule at the Pousada, but I didn't actually follow it. But she was pretty adamant that any toilet paper in the toilet (god forbid) would lead to a 100 real plumber visit. This was also the point in the conversation where she awkwardly searched for the word "period" when she tried to tell Diandra not to flush tampons down the toilet--despite the fact that Diandra tried (multiple times) to interrupt the unbearably awkward anti-tampon-flushing lecture with assertions of, "Sim, senhora, eu entendo, não produtos femininos no vaso sanitário, entendo!"
Then came the explanation of her "work." She's a numerologist. And a kabbalah practitioner. She works, primarily, in "the human profile using numbers." I have no idea what that means. But her living room is filled with books about astrology, Greek myths, the Hebrew alphabet, and I Ching. And, she told us, we're not to interrupt her when she's with a client, but luckily she'll close the door (we have to enter through the back kitchen door so as to avoid being seen).
Alright, so that was a pretty lengthy and kind of overdramatic reaction, but it was definitely not what I was expecting. She really is nice and seems like she genuinely cares about the students living with her (though, that might be because we're her main source of income). I've had a couple of nice exchanges with her so far, especially after I gave her the Yale mug and postcards I bought her. (She was fascinated by the Hebrew letters on the Yale crest--she said they were good luck). And I could tell she wasn't from Rio from her accent (which made me ridiculously happy); she's from the Northeast, where some of their pronunciation is a lot more like Spanish than Carioca (from Rio de Janeiro) Portuguese. Unfortunately, she speaks English fairly well and sort of defaults to that when she thinks we don't understand but hopefully that's just for the beginning.
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