A Bowl of Ants

If I were diplomatic, I'd say Brazil has brought me into closer communion with nature; since I'm not, I'll just say I've grown exceptionally tolerant of bugs-- although, not really by choice. The construction of most buildings (except the really new or really ritzy ones) encourages a general buggy paradise around the city of Rio: windows rarely have screens, most bathroom and kitchen floors have drains that go straight to the sewer and nothing is properly sealed. In the US, it's a seasonal thing. Here, with temperatures only diverging about 30 degrees fahrenheit across all seasons, pests are perhaps the most enthusiastic of all Brazilian citizens.

Mosquitoes- These guys are truly the spawns of Satan. I hate mosquitoes with a passion. Unfortunately, they love and adore me. I've woken up in the morning to just about a dozen bites across my body. No area is off-limits-- feet, hands, face, neck, arms, legs, butt...I've seen it all. Of all Brazilian bugs, nothing enrages me like mosquitoes. I've gone so far as to do research to figure out how to deter these suckers from getting cozy with. I run a fan all night, I spray myself generously with Off! about 3 times a day and I try to wear long pants as much as possible but even those things can't eliminate the midnight snacks that are my big toes.

Roaches- Oh, the cockroach. I was never properly acquainted with them until Brazil. Thanks to our kitty, we wake up to about 3-4 dead roaches per day. They hiss, they fly and they hang out in the nastiest of the nasty places around town. I've seen people stop in the middle of the street as a little family of these suckers walks by. They clearly feel at home here and no one is ever shocked to see them show up at a party, a restaurant or in the shower. I'm really unfazed by them now. I think it would actually freak me out a lot to see them in the US but here, it's just par for the course.

Gnats- In my experience, gnats are something that occasionally build up if you have old bananas or other squishy fruits in a bowl. Once you toss the fruit, they disappear. Not here. Gnats are constantly in the kitchen. We can't get rid of them. No amount of cleaning or vigilance about food seems to make any difference. They congregate on everything-- pots, pans, drying dishes in the rack, the walls, the TV antenna, lights- everything! I've literally seen them having sex on the rim of my coffee cup in the morning. It's insane. In the summer, it becomes like a cloud you have to wave through to get to the fridge. Plus, there are no bug sprays made for gnats so nothing works. Yeah, fun stuff.

Ants- Last, but not least-- ants. These guys are also a constant preoccupation in Brazil. Nothing sweet can ever be kept anywhere but in the fridge-- granola, sugar, juice, bread, cookies, chocolate milk powder, etc. They also seem to migrate incredibly fast. I've found ants in purses that were hanging up on my bedroom wall because I left gum or cough-drops inside (still wrapped-- they get under the wrapper). I'm less bothered by ants, I guess. They don't bite (at least not the local variety), sting or cause any kind of pain. They're just annoying. I admit, I've continued eating something even after noticing a few ants. I literally had a bowl of cereal once that had ants floating in it (just a couple). Whatever. Some cultures actually consider them a delicacy. Who am I to turn my nose up at the caviar of the jungle?

Aside from these four major categories, there are an innumerable amount of bees, beetles, wasps, slugs, maggots and assorted creepy-crawlies that make life in Brazil interesting. I'm by no means a bug fan but one must simply "migrate, adapt or die", as they say. Because, one thing is for sure, the bugs aren't going anywhere.

Until next time...

So much time, so little to do

I officially have 35 days (5 weeks) left of research here in Rio and....I'm bored. For any other grad student researcher on fellowship, that- what I said just now- it's a mortal sin. But, so help me god, I am. I'm bored. Maybe I'm overly-confident, right? Missing something. I thought so but, after telling my advisors all the work I've already done and asking for leads, they had very little to suggest. So, am I a dynamo-researcher? A genius? Unfortunately, no.

I've learned a few things during my time researching abroad. Strangely enough, very few of those few things have actually been research-related. (Again, MAJOR sin just committed there.) Mostly, I've finally figured out what kind of worker I am. This might sound like no big deal but, let me tell you, that's a make it or break it piece of information in the academic world. Once I return to the US, I'll be entering the, "You-should-know-how-to-do-this-by-now-so-just-do-it" phase. No guidance, no deadlines, no one telling you what to do or how it should be done. Just me....and about 300 blank pages waiting to be filled with magic.

Naturally, the thought of that kind of self-motivating, long-term project often scares the bejeezus out of most people-- including me. In fact, more students drop out at the writing phase than at any other point, according to a study at Amherst College. The author states that students fail to recognize PhD programs as having two separate phases: coursework and writing. Students also fail to realize that stellar performance in the first does not guarantee success in the second. They test your abilities and stamina on two very different levels.

So, this brings me back to my original question: am I a genius for being "done" early? No. Not at all. I've discovered, to my surprise, that I'm a slow and steady worker. I do a few hours a day (generally 4-5) but I do every day, almost without fail. At first, I felt bad about my type. I have grad student friends here in Rio and also in the US that are power-through people; the kind that will work 8, 10, 12 hours a day on something, seemingly without exhaustion, until it's done. I was that person in college. As an undergrad, as long as I kept up with readings, homework,etc., I could write a term paper in one night; I could cram for a final in one day. I thought I was just "good" at school. So, what did I do? I went to graduate school, like an idiot.

***Graduate school is not for people who are "good" at undergrad. Did you hear me potential grad school applicants who want to delay the "real world" because the economy and the job market are bad????? DO NOT DO IT. You will waste your time, your advisor's time and lots of department money that could be much better spent. ***

Now that I've discovered my graduate school working "type", what does that mean? Well, apparently, it means work less. Yes, I said it-- another BIG sin. Well, actually, not a sin. Just a phrase that's easily misinterpreted. According to The Thesis Whisperer, if you set aside a small window per day (every day) that you will be 100% devoted and focused on writing your dissertation, you can get huge chunks done in a shorter period of time. So--eliminate the other innumerable hours of email checking, Facebook updating, Pinterest pinning, and blog writing-- and what are you left with? Work. She even suggests as little as 2 hours a day! Amazing, right? It's so counter-intuitive but basically boils down to quality over quantity. She also says to write fast and only re-write slow. Just like ripping off a band-aid.

These theories appear to be proven to work and are widely supported. Psychologist Paul Silvia's book How to Write a Lot, warns against the power-through, "binge writing" methods of some academics. He suggests being an obsessive scheduler; set aside a few hours, 2-3, per day that are strictly for writing. It's also important to know at what time of day you are at your "peak performance". Apparently, I've stumbled into the self-awareness necessary to complete both my research and my dissertation writing. Now that the first part is coming to a conclusion, I just have to draw up a battle plan for writing when I get back to the US. Willy Wonka was actually completely correct when he said, "So much time, so little to do!" Go figure.

Until next time...

Lost in Translation

One thing that never fails to make me giggle here in Brazil is the creative (and often hilariously inappropriate) use of English. T-shirt sayings, store names, brands, you name it-- Brazilians think a little dose of English makes just about anything cooler or more interesting. While some people speak amazingly well, the average use of foreign languages is a bit shaky. Lucky for me, this misuse is often extremely entertaining. Here are just a few of my favorites:

Store names in English:

Mr. Cat (shoe store)

Pink Box (yogurt place...no lie...couldn't make this up)

Enjoy (clothing store)

Rape (clothing store....they clearly have no idea)

Snake Pit (music store)

Folic (clothing store....like the acid?whuh?)

Jungle 44 (furniture store)

Cribb (clothing store)

Between (children's clothing store)

T-shirt sayings:

"I think of you in cool hours"

"The mustache made me do it"

"Wicked oils"

"Snatch sports" (seriously???)

"Exit boy" (hmmm...)

"Arpoador- son of a beach"

"Oh my dog!"

"Carpe diem flavah!"

"Anti" (so, you're just against...everything?)

"It's all about me dude. Have the best blast!"

"It's not too late to love you; to save the water; to save the forest"

"The South Butt" (Had the same logo as the North Face...almost peed my pants when I saw it)

"Pretty kitty pink girl love" (WTF?)

It makes me want to start a business that imports nonsense shirts in English to Brazil and nonsense shirts in Portuguese to the U.S. I could be a billionaire! Why, oh, why am I still in school?? hahaha

Until next time...

The Beginning of the End

As I'm sitting at the Charlotte International Airport waiting to board my flight back to Brazil for the last time in probably a long time, it's all starting to hit me. This is the last time I'll be going to Brazil as a resident. I live there now but never will again. If I ever get to go back, I'll be nothing more than a tourist, which is odd. I imagine it will kinda be like running into an ex that you lived with. You can never pretend to not have shared what you shared together. It will be awkward and bittersweet. I'm returning for the very last chunk of my research time in Rio (exactly 8 weeks). My husband and I weren't nearly as teary or heartbroken as we said our goodbyes this time. Two months is no sweat! It will literally be over before we know it.

I've become a veteran of this US-Brazil route with US Airways. I always fly BNA to CLT to GIG. I always arrive at Gate E33. I always leave out of the lovely Gate D13. I always leave around 10:30pm and arrive exactly 12 hours later. I always get a celebratory Starbucks Caramel Macchiato when I arrive in Charlotte. And I always guiltily inhale a Burger King value meal before I leave Charlotte for Rio. I'm always sad when I leave the US and I'm always sad to leave Brazil as well-- as strange as that sounds. I feel like-- after 5 years (consecutively) of going there for at least 2 months-- I think it will feel strange to not be there at all next year. For better or for worse, Brazil and I are connected forever and always.

So, as I enter into these last 8 weeks of life and research in one of the most fascinating, frustrating, beautiful and violent nations on earth, I am happy. I'm so lucky to have been able to learn about Brazil and its people so intimately. I'm happy I've had the experience of really living in another country (it's always been on my bucket list). And I'm happy that I'm returning to a group of friends that I enjoy so much. There are still plenty of wild adventures to cram in before I'm gone for good. Stay tuned!

Until next time...

When in Spandexland...

I like to think of myself as a pretty health conscious person. I work out regularly, I try to eat right, I get enough sleep, I try to drink lots of water, etc. I can't say that my motivation is physical appearance, I've always been rather skinny; I just like to think that I'll live to 100 with my health and sanity intact and there's really only one way to do that-- take care of yourself. In any case, I'm familiar with gym culture in the United States. The men who groan loudly and then slam weights on the floor, the stinky people, the super hot people looking for a date, the old people with the walking farts on the treadmill....I thought I'd seen it all.

Going to the gym- any gym- in Rio is a sociological experiment I encourage anyone to undertake. As I've eluded before, Rio (as a beach city) has a bit of the L.A. arrogance and a lot of the West Coast preoccupation with appearance. In sum, cariocas (people who live in Rio) love the gym, adore the gym, worship at the altar of all that is gym.

My first day at the gym near my house was, in my mind, very typical. I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair back, put on an old t-shirt, running shorts and sneakers and walked a few blocks to go workout. I arrived at the gym, passed through the turnstiles and immediately realized I'd made a mistake. On the line of treadmills that flank the entrance into the gym were some of the best dressed and most attractive women I've ever seen. At 9am, these women were in full makeup, their hair was loose and flowing, and they were wearing the most ridiculously hot workout clothes ever. I was officially the schmuck of the gym that morning.

I thought perhaps it was merely the women at the front (the kind that want to be seen "working out" from passersby) that looked so amazing. Wrong. During my workout, I was slowly transported to a veritable 1980s Land of workout gear and musical selections. "Lets Get Physical" by Olivia Newton John actually came on over the surround sound speakers. Women were wearing neon colors, high-top sneakers and tube socks....yes, TUBE SOCKS. But nothing could compare to the spandex. Oh, the spandex. I saw colors, cuts and prints beyond my wildest imagination. Leopard print, calf-length pants with a bright orange halter top, white socks to the knee and shiny green kicks? Absolutely acceptable. A one-piece spandex suit with a print mimicking Impressionist brush strokes with a huge bow on the butt? Fashion forward and fabulous! I was clearly out of my league.

While I was dazzled by the fashionable hard-bodies that continually entered, I was less impressed with the "workout ethic" around me. People were not working out. They were doing everything EXCEPT working out. And forget sweating. Why mess up my hair and makeup? That's just crazy talk. And talk they did. Women leisurely strolling at a 1.0 on the treadmill (while I waited to use it), casually chatted with their girlfriends on the neighboring treadmill.

"...so I said to her, why don't you just leave him? You're still young! You need to be happy."
"That is so true. I was telling my sister the same thing the other day. Her husband is just so...."

Men laying on the weight benches with their feet propped up recapped the recent soccer game with their spotter buddies.

"....absolute shit! Seriously man, I don't know what he was thinking."
"No, no, no. He had no choice. I mean, if I were him, I would've..."

It was a an impenetrable wall of mindless chatter all around me. People SAT on machines, people STOOD by the water fountains, people LEANED on the stair rail....it was insane! I thought I could simply power through it all. I trucked through my whole routine but, inevitably, someone would suck me into a mindless conversation as I (very unsexily) sweated my brains out.

Running on the treadmill: (looking at the TV in front of us) Do you really think that the U.S. economy will be able to recover after this downturn? I think America is on the way down. Don't you?

Working my tricepts: Where are you from? Santa Catarina? No, wait. Don't tell me....Argentina?

Doing crunches: You are so lucky you are young! Look at all the fat on my ass! Seriously, look at it. I used to have a nice little ass like you when I was 20-something...

AGHHHH!!!! Leave me alone! I just want to wear myself out in peace! I want to be free to get sweaty, look ugly and have no one pay attention to me, damnit!! Is that too much to ask?

Yes.

So, I've slowly and reluctantly found myself adapting to my strange surroundings. I have indeed purchased spandex. Quite a bit, actually. And I wear makeup....(sigh)...but only powder and concealer...ok, some mascara too. Oh the shame! And....I talk to people. I chat with the guy who first showed me around, I chat with the front desk girls, I chat with the women in the cool-down room. It's ridiculous. I'm ridiculous. But what can you do? When in Spandexland, one can only slap on a headband, pick out that annoying wedgie, be on guard for camel-toe and keep singing along to the 80s pop music.

Until next time...

The Hunt for Boston Cremes

One thing that has surprised me about my time outside of the U.S. is the sudden, urgent desire to eat certain foods. These foods are, usually, things that I know to be nearly impossible to find in Brazil or so out-of-the-way and expensive that it's only worth getting once. I can't help it, though. I get obsessed and check every webpage, ask every neighbor and read every restaurant review I can find just to get that certain "fix". Anyone who knows me, understands my love affair with food. I like to think that I'm a pretty healthy eater. However, my cravings here have channeled the junkiest of American-style junk food. I'm not sure what this says about me, my body or my mental state but, it's been interesting to discover what things are truly "international" and what just doesn't translate across cultures.

Some easy-to-find comfort foods:

KFC- I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE fried chicken. Luckily, KFC has taken hold in Rio and doesn't appear to be letting go anytime soon. And with all the fatty sides I want!

McDonalds- The most international of national fast food chains, this place is almost as easy to find in Rio as it is at home. Hamburgers and fries are so, so common.

Ice cream- Brazilians have an insane sweet tooth. You can find tons of places with a plethora of flavors that still haven't been dreamt of in the U.S.-- sweet corn flavor in a waffle cone, anyone? It's super tasty.


Some you-will-spend-your-life-searching-for-the-real-thing-in-Rio comfort foods:

Mexican food- Ironic, yes I know. Brazilians simply don't get the beauty of tortilla chips, fresh salsa picante, guacamole and sour cream. Forget about Chipotle-style burritos and quesadillas on the cheap. There are Mexican food places but the salsa is more like ketchup and not spicy, the guacamole is runny and the sour cream is more toward heavy cream. All in all, very unsatisfying and supremely disappointing.

Doughnuts- This has been my latest quest. For some reason, I have been absolutely dying for a Krispy Kreme-style glazed doughnut. I was shocked to discover that Brazilians-- the lovers of all things sweet-- are not even aware of the fatty goodness of a good doughnut! After a great deal of research, I found one place, ONE, in the whole city that had them. A kiosk in the malls in Tijuca and Barra called Cafe Donuts. While I failed in my search for a simple, glazed doughnut, I did manage to have a passable Boston Creme. It was enough to hold me over until my next U.S. visit.

Bagels- Again, for a nation that adores bread in almost all shapes, sizes and flavors-- no bagels? Really? Out of all the hundreds of cafes in the city, not one sells bagels-- and forget about cream cheese. Lox? You're dreaming. I recently found a blog that gave me hope; Daily Life In Rio mentions the existence of one place that claims to have bagels. I'll have to check it out and judge for myself. Often, places here say that they "have" something but, when it arrives, it's far from the real thing.

While Brazilian food is undeniably yummy, sometimes you just want a little taste of home, you know? I'm off to get a bucket of Original Recipe and a gallon of Neopolitan! Woo hoo!

Until next time...

Vomit, X-rays and Patience

There are many things I could say about Brazilians as a people but one thing is for sure, they are patient. Brazilians wait in some of the most outrageous, incredible and ridiculous lines I've ever seen. They wait in long lines for everything-- paying bills at the post office, doing transactions at the bank, anything having to do with the government, etc. Most Brazilians also wait several hours for even the most routine medical attention.

Recently, I was able to experience this last example firsthand. For the past week, I've been battling a terrible gripe (flu). I can't remember the last time a cold had me so messed up for so long. Finally, I gave in and decided to go to the doctor. However, being a poor grad student on a (very) limited fellowship abroad, I opted to give the public health system a try. Brazil has a dual system of healthcare-- public and private. All citizens are entitled to completely free healthcare under the public branch (that dirty word, socialism). Those who can afford to opt out and receive private healthcare usually do, which considerably lessens the strain on public facilities. My previous experiences with Brazilian healthcare have all been in the private sector which is first-rate in every way. I had no idea what to expect from a public place.

Since my condition was not an emergency or very serious, I chose to go to an UPA. These facilities can be compared to something like an Urgent Care Clinic in the U.S. Generally, they operate 24 hours and specialize in minor procedures-- most serious, emergency cases are transferred to the nearest hospital. I scoped out the place the night before and asked the receptionist a few questions...

I'm a foreigner, can I still be treated here? --Yes, of course.

Do I have to pay to see the doctor? --No.

For blood work? --No.

For prescriptions? --No, we have an in-house pharmacy.

So, it's all free?? --Yes, of course. Where are you from anyway?

The U.S. --Oooooh, that explains it. I've heard a lot about how it is there.

Yeah, it's probably all true.

(looking around at the full and over-flowing waiting area)

So, how long is the wait usually?-- (smile) I couldn't really say.

You can't or you don't know? --Don't know. It's always different. But it's never fast.

I see. Is there a better time to come? --Early. Really early.

Like, 6am? -- No, like 2 or 3am.

Oh, ok.

I decided to come back the next day, bring a book, pack a snack and just wait like a good Brazilian would. I got there around 11am (I'm REALLY not a morning person, especially when I'm sick). I went to reception, they checked me in and then told me to wait to be called to another desk to get registered. I sat in the front of the room and immediately noticed that huge flat-screen TVs were being used to indicate who was next in line to see the doctor. A person's name would flash on the screen and a tinny, computer voice would call their name out loud. Beneath the name, the room they were supposed to go to would be written out and spoken as well. Cool system, very efficient. Unfortunately, the computer voice was not used to foreign names. When my turn came, the voice simply said a few syllables from my name and then called out where to go. It sounded something like: Neee-cooo--eh--Mah--ree--Caaah--eeew. Somehow the last syllable of my name received the most emphasis. A resounding "eeeeeewwww" echoed through the room as I jumped up ashamedly to register at a desk in the back of the room.

After about 5 minutes of giving my full name, showing my U.S. driver's license, relaying my address, phone number and fielding the normal questions that follow, "Ohhhh, you're an American?", I was done. I sat back down and waited for the next step-- an intake evaluation with a nurse. As I sat back down, I took a look around to see who my fellow sick-os were. The vast majority of the room (which was about half full) were elderly patients or sick children with exhausted-looking parents. The room was long and rectangular with the usual fluorescent medical lighting. The adult patients ranged from the clearly homeless to several that appeared pretty well dressed. All in all, a very mixed bag. The staff was brusque but friendly and they seemed to all be working diligently. Most people were watching a large TV on the side wall that was broadcasting daytime shows on cable. After quickly taking in the room, I pulled out my eReader and started Water for Elephants. A few pages in, I noticed the distinct smell of pee. To my left, an elderly man was seated beside me and I quickly ID'd him as the source of the unpleasant odor. I changed seats.

My next seat was equally ill-chosen (not that there were many open places); I was stuck behind a lady that was coughing like she had consumption (and not covering her mouth) and beside an old lady that, out of the blue, decided to fill me in on her condition. She persisted in asking my advice although I tried to emphasize as much as possible how I was not, in fact, a doctor but a patient like her. I finally managed to shrug my shoulders enough times to satisfy her and returned to my book. About an hour or so later, I was called by the computer ("eeeeewww") to meet with a nurse.

The nurse did a standard intake evaluation on me (about 10 minutes total). She asked me my age, nationality, habits, symptoms, existing conditions, etc. Then, she checked my blood pressure and looked in my mouth and ears. Finally, she asked me how tall I was and how much I weighed. Ummmm, oopsy. Hadn't thought of this. Brazil's on the metric system so, I apologetically said, "I don't know" to both questions. She enjoyed a long, inquisitive frown and then said, "What do you mean?", with an emphatic "Are you dumb or something?" tone. I explained my funny conundrum (which she did not find funny) and she huffed. This meant she had to do extra work-- weighing and measuring me. This did not please her. But she did it and then turned me loose, informing me that my next stop would (finally) be a doctor.

I decided to use the restroom before I sat down again. I went to reception and asked where the bathrooms were. I walked down the indicated hallway and entered the ladies room. Of the two stalls in the bathroom, one was empty. I opened the door and was greeted by a technicolor display of vomit. Orangey-streaked-with-red (blood?) vomit was splayed across the toilet seat and up the wall behind the toilet. Ok, no, no, no. I waited to use the next stall; praying 1) it wasn't as bad as that, and 2) that no one walked in and tried to use the vomity one, thinking I did it or something. I peed quickly and....oh, great. No soap in the dispenser and no paper towels either. Thank god for anti-bacterial gel! Never leave home without it.

Traumatized, I returned to my seat. Maybe 10 minutes later, two men come running into the UPA. One is supporting the other--- who's holding a rag to his head as blood streams down his neck onto the front of his shirt. They're immediately taken to registration as I eavesdrop to get the story. Bloody guy is a roofer and works with his brother (the guy who brought him in). Brother guy accidentally dropped something off the roof onto bloody guy's head, who was on the ground at the time. Bloody guy gets rushed to the "sutures" room (how ominous does that sound?). In the blink of an eye, the "Grey's Anatomy" moment was over.

An hour and a half later (and halfway through my book), I get "eeewww"ed to go see the doctor. My lady doctor was pretty and young, which surprised me somehow. She re-capped the information from my intake and asked me a few more questions about my condition. She told me she wanted me to get an X-ray to help her diagnose what the problem was. This also surprised me a bit. She promised me it would be really fast and the room was right down the hall. I went to the room and got called in by the tech-- who was a young, attractive guy. Oh, great! Here I am getting a chest X-ray....wait, shit! I have an underwire bra on! Does that mean I have to take it off? How do I say that? Is that weird? A thousand things start running through my head. I'm barely listening to the guy as he tells me to remove my earrings and any clips I might have in my hair. Finally, I get the gumption to ask him about the bra. He gave me a "WTF?" look and said (deadpan) "Unless you're gonna put it on your head, there shouldn't be a problem". It was then my turn to give a funny look. He figured it out what the miscommunication was right away and said, "It's a head X-ray. Your doctor ordered a head X-ray. To check your sinuses." Ooooohhhh!

While I blushed for being the idiot I am, he quickly did the X-ray and told me to go back to my doctor. Upon return, she looked at the scans and concluded I didn't have a sinus infection, bronchitis or pneumonia. Simply put, I just had a bad case of allergies. Almost four hours, four "stations", half a book, two granola bars and two X-rays later....I had my diagnosis and a mild antihistamine medication. But it was all free.

I'm certainly not an expert in healthcare so, it's difficult to evaluate my experience with a "socialist", "universal" system like Brazil's. In terms of time, it was a total bitch. Conditions were....eh, basically what you'd find in an emergency room in the U.S. The nurses, physicians and techs seemed competent and interested, at least somewhat, in my well-being. You can't beat the cost, of course. However, it did make me wonder how things would've gone had my condition been more serious. Would the facilities have been sufficient? Would the care have been what I needed? In the end, there's no way to know. I do know, now that I've seen the other side of the coin, is that it wasn't bad. In any case, all Brazilians have some access to care so, in that way, they've already got one up on us. Hopefully, the future will see some changes for the U.S. system; we just need to be patient :)

Until next time...

The Wheels on the Bus

When I was a little girl and my parents had trouble getting me to go to sleep, they would put me in my car seat and drive me around the neighborhood. The way they tell it, it worked like a charm. So well, in fact, that I was nervous to start driving when I turned 16-- for fear I would fall asleep behind the wheel.

This anecdote about my childhood must be the explanation for what I'm about to tell you: I love riding the bus in Rio. I mean love. When I'm having a bad day or want to relax, I hop on a circular and just ride around the city. I try to memorize the routes and guess what street we're going to pass next. I like being able to tell what neighborhood I'm in without looking at signs. I love the steady, rumbling vibration when there's no traffic. And I ADORE the way the bus drivers turn into absolute speed demon maniacs when traffic gets really heavy. It's as close to a roller-coaster as a person can get here in Brazil. I've seen bus drivers pull up to a curb so fast and so tight that the hubcaps actually produced sparks as they hit the sidewalk. It was fantastic!

You just can't beat public transportation in Rio. The metro, while faster, is more expensive and completely sem graça (lacking charm). There's nothing to see, nothing to do and no one talks. On a bus, you get a free tour of the whole city, it's cheap and people are often very chatty. Plus, at any given bus stop, you will get bombarded by buses arriving every minute and going to all kinds of exotic places like: Jardim de Allah, Rio Comprido, Avenida das Americas, etc.

Plenty of naysayers like to mention how “dangerous” the buses are. Personally, I’ve never seen anything even remotely sketchy on a bus. Metro stops, however, are a special kind of creepy at night when they’re empty. There are always taxis, of course, but what grad student on fellowship can take a cab everywhere? Not this one!

In the U.S., public transportation—particularly city buses—have a bad reputation. And rightly so. They are full of weirdoes who smell and talk to themselves. Plus, they only run every 30-60 minutes! How crazy is that? The U.S. should take a lesson from Brazil and we Americans need to start taking the bus. Only heavy patronage will change the sad state of American buses. Until then, I’m going to take full advantage while I’m way down below the Equator. Roll on!

Until next time…

Hitting the Streets

Now that the weather in Rio has finally hit perfect, I've been trying to get out as much as possible. Luckily, the fall/winter here is packed with holidays and events. My current favorite for June is Musica no Museu (Music in the Musem). Here's a shot from inside the Museu da Justica. This trio played a fun assortment of samba, pagode and bossa nova favorites. The series features classical as well as main stream music and takes places in museums all over the city. It's been a great experience to get acquainted with unfamiliar corners of Rio.

I've also been shopping! Normally, this isn't a "getting out" activity but, in Downtown Rio, it's all outside. The Saara street market is a must see for all tourists, Brazil enthusiasts, students, Brazilians from other states, etc. An amazing array of goods (at bargain prices) are contained within just the few blocks between the Central, Presidente Vargas and Uruguiana metro stops. As a historian, I totally "nerded" out when I realized that this area is also the historic commercial district. I walked along streets where abolitionist newspapers were founded, Portuguese merchants used to hawk their wares and where slaves used to go to purchase kilos of rice and beans for their masters. Crazy! This is the market today....

Speaking of "history" and getting "out, I recently participated in a very historic day for Rio and for Brazil as a nation. The very first mass same-sex wedding in the country AND the largest on record in the world. The world! Let me tell you, it felt momentous. The bullpen of journalists was unruly and overflowing; several reporters broke out to capture a few surreal moments. Let me set the stage for you: the place is practically dripping with rainbows-- walls, guests, participants, etc.-- and the ceremony opens with a Richard Marx song sung by Jane di Castro, a 7 foot drag queen. Oh yes!

It calms down a bit after then. A few politicians and activists who made same-sex marriage legal in Brazil say their piece. Then, finally, the couples come down the aisle! An assortment of gay men, lesbians and transgender individuals marched happily by us and took their seats at the front of a long, conference-style room. Each couple was given an abbreviated version of vows in which they each had to simply respond sim (yes). However, most couples took this moment (literally only a moment) amidst a day of being lumped together to express their uniqueness. Some made jokes and had funny responses to the judge's somber recitation of the vows. Others were very emotional and succinctly relayed love stories-- sometimes decades long-- as proof of their profound commitment. A few were downright dirty-- French kissing passionately long before being pronounced. The rest were simply giddy, as any bride/groom should be on their big day. The excitement and support of the families was amazing and I was teary-eyed several times during the ceremony.

I'm sure some people may read this and disagree with the whole thing-- from either a political and/or religious angle. To those people, I just want to say: it was a room FULL of love. Not just love but Love. The kind you feel at any straight wedding. The kind that's holy and blessed by deities. The kind that makes you feel happy to be alive and hopeful for the future. I'm not an expert on God but I seriously doubt he rejects any kind of love. Just sayin'.

Until next time....

The Season of Euphoria

If anyone out there is still following my blog, you'll have noticed that I've REALLY fallen off the wagon lately. This is my attempt to get back into the swing of things. At the end of May, I took my first trip back to the US since January. I spent 2.5 glorious weeks with my loving husband and awesome family. Being home was a lot like being on a sugar high. I just wanted more and more and more. I was gluttonous for "Americana". I ate everything in sight, listened to country music, cooked every recipe for comfort food I know, met with every friend in town and watched a ton of daytime TV. When I got back in Brazil, I "crashed". I felt lazy, sad and unmotivated. It took me about a week to really get going again. The change in weather between my two residences has reached extreme, opposite levels again. It was sunny, humid and intensely hot (mid-90s every day) in the South while, here in Rio, it's cool and overcast most days (dipping down into the 60s at night). I had to sleep fully clothed for a few nights before I bought some extra blankets.

I'm at a bit of a crossroads in my Brazil experience. I'm rapidly approaching the halfway mark in my time here, which is causing me to evaluate how it's gone so far. I've realized something about my relationship with this place. I LOVE Rio in the winter (now) and I HATE it in the summer. I have the opposite of "season depression". The colder it gets here, the more euphoric I feel. It seems appropriate that my emotional attachment reflects the huge contradictions that make Brazil...well, Brazil.

Now that I'm officially in the "season of love", I'm living it up. Tonight, I went to a free samba concert downtown at the Centro Cultural da Justica (part of the fall/winter series "Musica no Museu" or Music in the Museum) on the historic Avenida Rio Branco. At night, it's a part of the city that truly awes me. It's so beautiful! In the early twentieth century, city architects and intellectuals decided to make the city more "modern" and mo

deled it's sprawling avenues and classical buildings after those in Paris. The effect, even today, is thrilling. Here are a few shots I took with wide-eyed wonder....

This is the Theatro Municipal (Municipal Theatre); the crowning jewel of downtown Rio in it's newly-renovated glory.

Adjacent, we have the Camara Municipal (City Hall) building...

And, finally, the Biblioteca Nacional (National Library).

People were dressed up and rushing to the theatre, I was comfortably wrapped in a sweater and a cool wind was wafting the smell of caramel popcorn through the plaza. In sum, it was a perfect evening. Now, I'm at home with a nice cup of jasmine green tea and, for the first time in a long time, I'm happy to be in Brazil.

Everybody Plays the Fool

At the beginning of this month, I decided I wanted to try something radical, different. My Portuguese teacher suggested enrolling in a class of some kind to meet regular Brazilians and do something besides work in the archive all day every day. I agreed. She directed me towards an African dance class in the very hippie Gloria neighborhood. My teacher happened to already be in the class and was friends with the instructor (who, incidentally, is a nationally-recognized, professional dancer who has appeared in movies and everything). It sounded like a great plan.

On the first day of class, I was all nerves. I`ve NEVER taken a dance class of any kind in my whole life. This was going to be an experience. The place is actually a capoeira center but they allow Valéria (the dance teacher) to use the space. And it`s a very small space-- with no air-conditioning. There are about 6 girls in the class. Together, we look a bit like a United Colors of Benetton ad. I obviously occupy the light end of the spectrum, there´s a girl from São Paulo who´s a bit olivey, a girl from the Northeast who´s a nutty brown, a super-beautiful mixed-race girl (who happens to be an amateur dancer), another amateur dancer with flawless black skin and a shy, chubby girl who´s almost ebony-colored.

Class began with a typical warm-up-- stretching, balancing, slow movements. Then, Valéria got totally possessed by the booming African drums and rhythmic chanting of her CDs. The woman is a phenomenon-- and completely out of control. I´d never seen a human body do the things that she did. It seemed like each muscle in her stomach and her butt had a mind of its own. She threw her head side to side while thoughtlessly stepping, sliding, jumping and bouncing along. I quickly realized that American culture is NOT a dancing culture. These women-- even the ones who were not dancers-- seemed to gravitate toward the beat. I mercilessly stomped it to death, just trying to keep up. Forget graceful, I was just trying to figure out what the heck was going on.

Valéria patiently re-positioned my hands, arms, head, back, legs and booty. She constantly told me, "stop thinking, just go!!" Obviously, this woman doesn´t know me. All I could do was think during her class. Think about my feet, think about my awkwardness, think about how big an idiot I was making of myself. Then, I thought about a New Year´s resolution I made before I left the U.S. (yes, sometimes people actually take those seriously). I promised myself to have more fun, be silly and think like a kid. I tried to imagine how different the class would be if we were all elementary students. It would be louder, of course, and no one would be trying to look like they had it all together. They would just be running around happily and feeling the music-- which is basically what dancing is supposed to be. I figured I´d give it a shot. To hell with being an adult, to hell with "getting it right", to hell with looking completely stupid...I´m just gonna let it go. So I did. I flapped my arms the wrong way, I missed steps and bumped into the other girls but I was smiling the whole damn time. Towards the end of the class, Valéria actually started saying, "ISSO!" ("That´s it!") as I passed by.

After class, I paid for a month in advance. I´ve been taking the class ever since. While it would be nice to say that I´m SO much better, that just isn´t true. I´m stiff, I lose count constantly and I don´t have a fraction of the grace some of the other girls have. But it´s fun. And it keeps me grounded, I think. There´s something very freeing in knowing that once a week for 90 minutes you´re going to make a total ass of yourself-- and that´s okay. The world won´t end. I´m not less intelligent or less of a professional. Besides, like The Spinners sang, "Everybody plays the fool, sometimes/ There´s no exception to the rule".

Until next time...

Taking Time to Smell the (Fill in the Blank)

As I've mentioned in previous entries, I walk a lot here in Rio. It's really an unavoidable fact of life in Brazil. While walking, I find myself thinking. Sometimes it's productive (how to organize my thesis chapters, etc.) but mostly it's just nonsense. The other day I was walking along, minding my business, when I was suddenly assaulted by the most horrific smell ever. My inability to place that smell, much to my dismay, led to me to think about smells in general.

Smell is, for me, the most fascinating of the senses. It's the only one directly tied to another sense (taste) and it's been scientifically connected to memory, happiness and love. And, from a literary standpoint, it's the hardest sensory experience to replicate with words. I don't know about other people, but smell ties me to place more than anything else. For example, there are smells that I will forever associate with the place I grew up, my grandparents' house, my parents' house, Nashville and Brazil. Brazil, and Rio in particular, offers a unique mixture of aromas.

Positive Smells:

Anyone who has lived or even visited Brazil in the summer knows that the smell of ripe mangos (or almost any other tropical fruit) is just about strong enough to cross a street and punch you out. The smell of the beach here drifts into the city for at least 2 blocks in Copacabana, Ipanema and Leblon. The vast number of bakeries and confectionery shops in the city adds bread and sugar to the lost list of smells. Strange as it may sound, construction sites smell great to me--- freshly cut wood, freshly turned earth, metal tools-- so, the building boom around here has been very enjoyable. Freshly laundered sheets flapping on lines in the sun and the hot, steamy smell of soapy laundry mat exhaust is nice too. The libraries and archives here, like most places filled with old books, smell awesome to me; ancient binding glue mixed with aging paper equals awesomeness.

Negative Smells:

Clogged and over-running gutters full of cigarette butts, leaves, garbage and dirt baking in the sun. Icky. Open or loosely closed sewer covers let out all kinds of nastiness into the air-- especially when it's hot. Car/bus/taxi exhaust (while not as bad as in the US-- fuel is mixed with other things-- some public transport runs on natural gas....you can imagine, I'm sure). Doggy poop-- there's no "pick up after your dog" law here....and there are a LOT of dogs. Fun times. Body odor. Oh lord. Some people just don't believe in deodorant and it makes me sad. Mold/mildew. We're currently in a muggy, humid, rainy period and it seems like everything--- towels, clothes, sheets, furniture-- gets moldy easily.

So, all in all, this city is a virtual cacophony of smells-- good and bad. Some are enough to make you naseous and others make your mouth water. What's my point in all this? Well, I've never cared for the phrase, "stop and smell the roses". Personally, I think roses smell like feet. I've never liked them. I prefer to advocate that people simply stop and smell. Smelling is really very sensual. You have to stop, breathe deeply and concentrate to identify a smell. Smelling things is sort of the epitome of living in the present. I'm trying to do a bit more of that. Taking things as they come, enjoying the little things and being content with reality.

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, the one smell--above all others-- that I will forever associate with Rio/Brazil is: the pipoca (popcorn)/churros cart. Ohhhh....the delicious combination of salty and sweet that drifts from those carts can make me hungry even after I've just eaten a huge meal. It's uncanny. Mixing buttery popcorn and caramel popcorn into a big ball of fatty goodness is one of life's greatest pleasures; perfect in it's unhealthy simplicity. And the churros-- fried sticks of dough stuffed with chocolate or dulce de leite and rolled in sugar-- are the food of the gods, pure and simple. On the note, I wish everyone a day of interesting and enjoyable smells!

Until next time...

Carnival, Samba and Going Green

Last week I was able to experience one of the most talked about, written about and sung about aspects of Brazilian culture-- Carnival. Aside from my understanding of Carnival from a purely academic perspective, I had no idea what to expect. Frankly, I was rather nervous. The American version of this celebration-- Mardi Gras-- is far from what I would call a good time. Small people like me tend to get stepped on and shoved (not to mention getting beer spilled on you) in large, rowdy crowds; which is why I generally avoid large crowds in the U.S. So, giving myself over to the euphoria of Carnival was a bit of a conundrum.

I must say that I was very pleasantly surprised. Brazilians were, for the most part, on their best behavior and genuinely in a good mood. The blocos (street parties with live music and dancing) that I attended were very family-oriented. It was common to see whole families dressed up in silly costumes and out partying together all day long (grandparents, parents and kids). It looked a bit like Halloween with beer, dancing and loud music. I only saw a few people who were really drunk. Most looked pleasantly buzzed and totally functional. The streets were very crowded and most people were shoulder-to-shoulder with total strangers but no fights broke out and no one seemed to get hassled.

The samba that I saw people doing was pretty incredible. It was mostly a simple shuffle step/march but there were definitely a few people with serious talent in the crowd. For those unfamiliar with samba, it's the traditional dance for Carnival in Rio. I don't want to bore people with the history of the festival and the dance so, here are some links if anyone feels curious to know more or wants to see what it all looks like:

Basic Samba Steps

Advanced Parade-Style Samba

A Narrated History of Carnival (they're talking about the Caribbean but most holds true for Brazil too; just insert Portuguese instead of Spanish or French people)

Street Bloco Carnival Parties

After a week of food, drink, merriment and a visit from my husband, I was feeling pretty good. Then, I kinda crashed. I've been on such a sad, lazy kick recently, I can't even explain it. I just don't feel like doing anything. To cheer myself up a bit, I decided to treat myself to a spray tan. As per an earlier post, being as insanely white as I am in this country makes me feel rather self-conscious. I figured that a little (skin healthy) tan would boost my self-esteem at least temporarily.

There's literally one place in the whole city that offers a spray tan. The price was a whopping $120 reais (roughly $70 USD) but I thought I would at least try it once. The ladies at the clinic were very friendly and seemed quite professional. The girl in charge of spray tanning told me to strip down and stand in a little tent they had in the room. She sprayed me...a

lot. I've done spray tanning in the U.S. many times and this was the equivalent of about 2.5 regular tans there. I had flashes of the "Friends" episode where Ross gets spray tanned 3 times on one side of his body but figured they knew what they were doing. I had to stand in the room in front of a big fan for 15 minutes while women came in and out for other procedu

res. Oh, Brazil-- you really are determined to make me REALLY comfortable with my body. I gingerly got dressed and got back on the subway to go home. I excitedly showed my roommate how dark I'd gotten and explained that it would even out after I took a shower in a few hours. I decided to do some work on my laptop and sat in my room for a bit. Only after getting up to go to the bathroom did I notice something was wrong. In the bathroom mirror, I lifted my dress to look at myself....and I had turned green. Yes, green. I'm not entirely sure but, I think the blue cotton dress I was wearing (after entering into contact with my freshly-painted skin) bled dye. I'm literally a drab, military kinda green from my knees up to my shoulders, following the lines of the dress. The rest of me is a strange reddish-brown color. A reaction from...? All in all, I look about as far from "natural" as a person can get. Figures!

So, yes, I'm green. And, yes, I've learned my lesson. Be happy with your natural skin color.....because there's always something weirder. After 5 days, I'll go back to being a super-white American and I'm really okay with that.

Until next time...

Happy Endings?

I LOVE massages. Pretty much anyone who knows me has heard me extol the virtues of a good masseuse. Since my life here in Rio has been mostly work and very little play, I decided (after a very, very delayed paycheck) to treat myself. So, I began by plugging (in Portuguese) "massage" and "Rio" into an online search engine. Oopsy. Needless to say, my naive search returned a mountain of X-rated results. Many places promising your money back if you don't receive a "happy ending". Okaaaay, definitely not what I'm looking for. I tried again....and again....and again. Still nothing but pop-up ads with naked chicks and innuendos about "hot rocks". I finally had legitimate results after searching the Brazilian version of the yellowpages.

The problem was, no place listed a website-- just a name and (usually) a cell number. Creepy. I decided maybe searching "spa" might be a better way to go. Instantly, I found a really nice website for "Spa G", located in a nice neighborhood. Finally! I wrote down the address and figured I'd swing by the next day, since it was on my way.

As soon as I stepped into the "spa", I knew I'd made a mistake. Don't get me wrong, it was beautiful inside. And offered a huge list of awesome-sounding services. Unfortunately, I wasn't the "desired" clientele. After exchanging greetings, the man at the front desk gave me a strange look. He just stared at me with a mixture of amusement, annoyance and pity. The silence made me uncomfortable and I started to ask a question but two very buff men wearing only towels (fresh out of the steam room) walked past me, hand-in-hand, interrupting my train of thought. Ohhhhhhhhh, got it. I looked at the front desk guy, smiled and said, "This isn't my kind of place, is it?" He smiled back (totally amused now) and said, "No, sweetie. This is not your kind of place." I thanked him and-- honestly disappointed-- walked out. Duh??!!! I'm an idiot. It's even called "Spa G"....damnit. Crap. Now I have to start searching all over again!

A bit gun-shy from the experience, I figured I should give up the search for a bit. So, two weeks passed. Then, coincidentally, I got a tip from an acquaintance about a friend of hers who just happens to be a masseuse! Ding-ding-ding! I got the info and made an appointment.

So, today was my appointment. I must admit, even for a seasoned massage veteran like myself, it was a surprising experience. It started out normal enough. We chatted, she asked me about problem areas, habits, etc. She showed me the room and told me to undress, blah, blah, blah. I was barely listening-- soooo excited to start. As soon as she walked out, I started peeling off my clothes and laid stomach-down on the table. Suddenly, I realized there was no sheet. Nothing to cover my super-white booty. Hmmm, ok. Whatever, I can roll with it. She comes in, puts on music and starts rubbing my shoulders. I'm just in heaven. YAY! My brain wonders off into la-la land. Then, through the fog, I hear her tell me to roll over. As I start to roll I think, "Wait....um....no sheet...?" Now I'm fully conscious and equally self-conscious. I open my eyes and ask if I could have a sheet or something. She looks at me funny like "ok, weirdo" but gives me a small towel to cover the girls. Ok, I'm fine again. Do, do, do, do....rub, rub, rub. Happy place.

Then....she removed the towel and rubbed my boobs. Yup. Boobs. Just like she was massaging my hands or my feet. No big deal. Very matter-of-fact. No lie. I was in total shock. I've easily had 20-30 massages in my life, never has this occurred. It wasn't sexual at all but I was completely freaked out. She rubbed my stomach and my butt with equal candor and efficiency. In my head I'm going "omg, omg, omg....don't fart....don't giggle....don't like it too much....act like you don't care!!" the whole time but, frankly, I felt pretty awesome afterwards. It was a great massage, if not rather invasive compared to the American version. I never realized how uncomfortable I was with my body until I encountered someone who wasn't. I've never felt like such a prude in my life. I still haven't decided if I'll go back again. It might take a little while to work through the trauma that has been massage here in Brazil, haha....

Until next time...

Embracing Whiteness

A strange cocktail of European genes has given me a rather unusual set of physical characteristics. I'm very short, I have brown, curly hair, blue eyes and I'm EXTREMELY white. Not the romantic, peaches & cream complexion kinda white; I'm the white-as-a-wall-to-the-point-of-transparent kind of pale. If I get cold, those nearby can literally count my veins. It's borderline disturbing. On top of that, I have a mess of freckles all over my body. Despite vain attempts to get tan (or even pinkish, for that matter), my skin simply burns, peels and returns to it's stubborn state of pasty. As a teenager, it was my most embarassing feature--- which unfortunately included my whole body. Over the years, I've experimented with every kind of skin-color altering avenue. Self-tanning creams, sprays, tanning booths and, most recently, airbrush spray tans. Why do I mention all this? Well, because in the U.S. I'm just "really white". Here in Brazil, I'm a total freakshow.

Brazil's history of racial mixture is evident on the faces of every person I pass in street every day. As a scholar of race, I know that, in reality, Brazilians range from ebony black to my color white. However, the vast majority fall into a middle, brownish category. It's beautiful to see. Dark hair, dark eyes and varying shades of moreno (brown) make the stereotypical Brazilian "type" an international symbol of sex appeal. I am intensely jealous. We are currently in the summer season (preparing for Carnival) and showing skin is definitely in. Short shorts, tank tops, flip flops and breezy summer dresses are all around. Unfortunately, I am forced to suffer in the heat of the day with long pants and closed-toed shoes for fear of exposing my stare-inducing whiteness.

You think I'm exaggerating? I literally get stared at every day because of the color of my skin. Not polite, quick glances....long, intense, full-body-scanning stares. I'm weird....I do not belong and that's obvious. It starts to wear on you after a while. At first, I didn't realize it was SUCH a big deal. Then, it slowly dawned on me. Oh.....that's why no one wants to sit beside me on the bus or the subway...I'm too white.

This is not to say that being white is completely awful. It truly does have surprising advantages. Since I speak Portuguese fluently, I'm often treated like a VIP, I get to speak with high-level individuals that I'm sure the average Brazilian would have trouble contacting and I'm constantly given "passes" and considerations that I know darker-skinned Brazilians would be denied-- despite being a poor student. I can walk into any hotel, expensive apartment building, ritzy restaurant, exclusive club and no one will ask me who I am, what I'm doing there or if I have ID. It's assumed. However, the reverse is also true. I'm often perceived to be an oddity, a source of judgement, racist, a source of income and a spoiled, privileged brat.

I'm not quite sure what to make of all this yet. In the U.S., to be honest, the color of my skin never really crossed my mind. It's not the "free ticket" to privilege that it is here and it's also not something that made me feel ostracized. I think-- to a small degree-- I have learned a bit about what it must have been like to be African-American in the U.S. in the past. I'm the majority in the U.S. but here, I'm a very distinct minority. A minority that has very clearly-defined stereotypes and incites very specific reactions from the majority. Movies, advertising and everyone I see around me do not reflect my physical reality nor my cultural identity. My "type" is not beautiful or desirable. It's truly been a fascinating way to experience and discover race and racism. Race was simply a social phenomena that I studied as an intellectual in the U.S.--- here, it's a part of my daily life. I'm trying to "embrace my whiteness", so to speak. I am attempting to be okay with myself, despite the way I'm seen by those around me. At times, I curse my genetics; wishing desperately to be brown or black or green or anything but white. Those other colors, of course, are not mine and never will be. Race is a tricky concept in any country and here in Brazil there is no shortage of complications-- as I've been learning.

Until next time...

Long Distance Love

Spending a holiday in a foreign country is a strange experience. Valentine's Day, despite being an internationally-celebrated day, falls on different days in other countries. Although today (Feb. 14th) isValentine's Day in the U.S., in Brazil it's June 12th. So, today I celebrated by myself....in my head. It makes you feel a little bit crazy to walk into a department store and not see little red hearts, boxes of chocolates and love-inspired greeting cards everywhere.

On top of that, it was the first holiday (and a rather important one for couples) the husband and I are spending apart. I'm not gonna lie-- it sucked. A lot. We tried to compensate. He sent me roses at my apartment, I sent him a card and some personalized candy, but it just wasn't the same. It wasn't even close. Because, well, let's face it-- it's a holiday about LOVE and the long distance version of love is a poor substitute for the day-to-day kind. Days like today really make me question what the hell I'm doing here and if it's really worth it. Being utterly and completely alone on Valentine's Day (when I have a perfectly good valentine) has really

brought out the girl in me. I am totally depressed.

I have never been the kind of girl who got homesick. I love my parents but I was excited to go away to college, move out, study abroad and re-locate to state over 500 miles away. I didn't ever miss the boyfriends I had during those years. I would have fun, check in and never think twice about it. The "missing" never interfered with being away from the familiar. When I met my husband, it destroyed me. I'm a sad, little bag of homesickness now. This whole situation is new territory for me. I've never felt this miserable while in the midst of an adventure. I'm now a sappy, overly-romantic cheeseball who cries during movies, while listening to songs and....at pretty much anything remotely emotional. My body literally feels achy because I miss him so much. I tried to rationalize it all away with all the good reasons for me being here, how it won't last forever, how it really isn't THAT big a deal (it's just a day), etc. No good. My brain was talking but the rest of me wasn't listening. I used to look down on "girly-girls" who talked like that; those girls were silly, stupid and pathetic for not "having a life" outside of some guy. And now I'm one of them. Ain't life something?

I feel like I should be tougher. I'm an adult, a grown woman, an academic, a professional, an educated person, a logical thinker!!! Not that I want to resist feeling it, I just never anticipated how overwhelming and incapacitating missing the one you love could be. Going through the motions of each day feels exhausting. I've found some great things and I'm making good progress with my work but...I just don't care. That shocks me. NOTHING else matters to me. It's lovely and confusing at the same time. Knowing that you can love someone so much-- FEEL so much-- is incredible; however, feeling like I can't function without constant infusions like an IV drip has revealed a whole new, extremely vulnerable, side of me that I wasn't prepared to deal with on this trip. Against my will, my time here is rapidly becoming a psychological adventure as well as an educational one.

Until next time...

Tough Love

(Above: "The Brazilian Circus- Here, YOU are the clown!")

My relationship with Brazil is like any other; it has ups and downs. The last three weeks have been the most challenging I've ever faced here. While adjusting to life in a new country is inevitably hard, it just seems like EVERYTHING has been going wrong at the same time. First, my flight got cancelled and re-scheduled. Then, after arriving, I went to get cash from the ATM but it kept saying "invalid PIN number". I had to virtually max out all my credit cards while waiting for my bank to re-set my PIN number and for my first grant disbursement to go through.

Things just went downhill from there: my cellphone wouldn't work, I couldn't find the right adapter to charge my laptop, I got knocked down by a burly dude while trying to board the subway, I got lost and missed an interview with someone, I got treated like a nuisance at EVERY establishment I entered (even when I spent a lot of money), I got tongue-tied trying to order at a restaurant, I couldn't figure out the paperwork to change my VISA, I was faced with the daunting task of acquiring a Brazilian ID, my landlord flagrantly broke our rental agreement knowing I have no way to fight back, etc. My poor husband has been bearing the brunt of my overseas misfortune. He's the one that had to go into the bank and plead on my behalf, he's the one who had to send an urgent Western Union so I wouldn't go completely broke and he's the one who has had to listen to me rant over Skype about all my problems. I've been so wrapped up in keeping my head above water and trying to stay sane that I've really taken his help for granted lately. I'm trying to make it up to him now.

The Western Union issue has been a perfect example of how huge my adjustment to Brazilian life will be. It was such a simple thing but became so ridiculously complicated that I nursed a burning hatred for Brazil, Brazilians and everything about my stay here for several days. I haven't felt calm and objective enough to blog about what happened until now. Brazilians have an odd and infuriating tendency to be selectively rigid about rules. Bureaucratic processes in Brazil are insanely difficult, expensive and confusing. Even a simple thing like cashing a W.U. money transfer took me 2 whole days! I went to the first bank (which was listed on their webpage as a W.U. client) and was told, after taking a number and waiting for an hour,that they "don't do that". Ok, fine. I went to the second bank and waited another hour only to be told that they "just started" doing those and "didn't know how yet" so, weren't willing to try. Getting angry. Third bank went like this --

"We can't cash that unless you have an account with us".

"But I'm a foreigner. I can't have an account with you. Money transfers are for INTERNATIONAL currency exchanges....that's why they were invented! You don't NEED an account!"

"I'm sorry. If you want to open an account with us then we can help you."

"How long would that take?"

"About a week or so."

"A WEEK? Forget it." (stomp, stomp, stomp)

Finally, I went to a Western Union office in Copacabana; figuring, surely THEY can cash this. I get there, show my passport, give them the transfer number and am told "this isn't you". WHAT?? They wouldn't cash the transfer because my "middle name" was missing and they couldn't verify that I was who I said I was. By this point, I've had it. My feet hurt, I'm totally drenched in sweat, I'm out of money and I'm raging. I got into an argument with the dude at the window and he promptly turned me away, advising me to add my middle name to the transfer account. I promptly called him a nasty name, advised him to go someplace unpleasant and stormed out. Not proud of myself but, after a whole day of craziness and idiotic excuses, I lost it.

Immediately after getting home, I called my husband and let loose-- re-telling the whole story and including every expletive known to man. He obligingly went to the local office and added my middle name so I could try again the next day. Long story short, I finally got money but it was a battle. Having to struggle for every single thing is easily my least favorite part of life in Brazil. By comparison, the U.S. seems so efficient, customer-friendly and reliable. No country is perfect, of course, but these last few weeks have been a crash course in Brazilian imperfections.

The honeymoon phase of my relationship with this country has undoubtedly ended. I'm having a hard time remembering all the things that I love about it. Surely, over time, I will come back around but, for now, I'm working through all the "tough love" I've been dealt. Intellectually, I already knew all these things about Brazil and Latin America-- the intricate bureaucracy, the dog-eat-dog mentality and rough and tumble nature of city life here.

That's the most annoying part, I think. I walked into the party knowing who would be there and yet was still surprised when I was right! If anything, these experiences have re-inforced my belief that all academics-- or anyone with a genuine interest in understanding another culture-- needs to physically live in it. It's easy to read in a book that Latin America has suffered and continually suffers from a lack of infrastructure and rampant legal impunity. It's entirely different to drive on streets with massive potholes that will never be fixed or to get your purse stolen and have no legal recourse whatsoever. When you FEEL these things personally, they aren't easily forgotten. Lesson learned. Now, I just need to re-learn the beauty of the way things are here. It's not impossible but will surely take a bit longer than before. And, of course, it could always be worse (knock on wood).

Until next time...

A Day in the Life (part 2)

Although I never intended to live what could conceivably be called an "alternate lifestyle", I find myself in exactly such a situation. I am a historian. What does that mean? I like people and their life stories and how those lives interact with bigger things-- governments, nations, laws, etc. Historians, different from sociologists and anthropologists, deal primarily with people who are already dead. (Hence, the history part.) The way in which historians uncover the lives of people already deceased (our methodology) is the use of primary documentation. What is primary documentation? Papers, letters and other things written by the person of interest or people around them, during the time in which they were alive (ex. a photograph of a document I've been using; hard to read? I know!). These are typically collected and housed in an archive. Archives have different jurisdictions-- some are national, state, municipal, etc. This means that books, the internet and all other easily-accessed forms of information are virtually useless to historians hoping to write an original piece of work (except as reference points, footnotes and general guides to what has already been done). A dissertation, aside from being the final test of a potential Ph.D, is also supposed to be their "debut" into academic society, so to speak. Therefore, the research and writing of a dissertation is rigorous and, eventually, supposed to become a person's first professional publication (a book).

For historians like myself (those drawn to foreign countries), this inevitably requires primary document research IN the country of interest. I've lost count on how many times people have asked me why I can't just do the research from the US? Or online? Let me assure you, if that were possible, I would certainly jump at the chance to sleep in my own bed, be around my loving husband and work from home. However, Latin America tends to be a particularly difficult area of specialization in this regard. Despite currently being a stable democracy with a booming economy, Brazil (my area of focus) was once under a military dictatorship and, in the not-so-distant-past, was subject to an economy wildly out of control. The inflation rate in the 80s was in the triple and quadruple digit range. Brazil's historic instability has resulted in spotty interest (due to money) in historic preservation. Unlike the US, Brazil has very little of its history digitized and available remotely (online) to researchers. This means that people like me who have very specific questions that no one else has addressed before in history books MUST go and look at the papers in person to find the answers.

And here I am. Sitting in the kitchen of my tiny, Rio apartment (with no air conditioning) as the temperature soars to a suffocating 92F. I am one of the lucky ones (though the previous sentence doesn't sound like it). I was given money to go to Brazil, stay, live and do research until I have enough original information to write my dissertation-- big props to the US government for making that possible!! So, what the heck am I doing here besides sweating? In my previous post, I laid out an average day in my life here in Rio. But what exactly am I working on? Here's the quick & dirty version of what I hope to be my dissertation(vague enough that no one can "steal" it).

Brazil was the last country in the Western Hemisphere to abolish slavery (1888). Far outstripping others, Brazil imported the largest number of slaves from Africa (around 60%, or roughly 6 million--though these numbers are always in dispute). As a result, it is also a nation in which race (the color of one's skin) has played a complex and debatable role in social status/advancement. My dissertation will examine the way in which slaves and their descendants, once freed, integrated (or didn't) into society. Specifically, I want to look at the education of this group (broadly defining "education"). I'm hoping to prove that, in some ways, society was actually more permissive of slave/former slave advancement through education during the slavery era than after slavery was abolished. Sounds contradictory, right? That's the fun part!

I don't expect everyone to understand what I'm doing and why. I can't understand the thrill of being a stunt person, the pressure of being an ER doctor or the simple joys of being a stay-at-home-mom. That's not who I am but I respect them. It's disappointing when people don't respect my life choices in the same way. Indigant questions like, "How can you leave your husband for so long?" or (worse), "How can you LET her go so far away for so long?" are profoundly disrespectful. Perhaps if I were in the military, people wouldn't find my extended travel/work abroad to be so "strange" and unsettling. My husband and I made this decision together and we felt it was right-- like so many military families do every day. I can't help but feel that it's mainly a "gendered" concern. Meaning-- if my husband were the one who had to live and work abroad people would have less of a problem with it. As an educated, professional woman living in the 21st century who has always been told that she could be "whatever she wanted" and was "equal to a man", I find this extremely sad. Particularly because the harshest critics of my "alternate lifestyle" are primarily other women. I love what I do and yet I'm constantly put on the defensive about what the job entails. Hopefully, this blog-- detailing what it's really all about-- will help clear up some of these misunderstandings. Until next time...

A Day in the Life (part 1)

While, understandably, most people in my life have absolutely no idea what it is that I do, they do seem to maintain a respectful curiosity. I thought I would feed that curiosity a bit by describing a typical day here in Rio (pt.1) and then go into a bit more detail about what it is that I’m doing here (pt. 2). Get ready, ‘cause it’s a wild and super glamorous life I’m leading down here....(snort laugh)...

First, I get up anywhere between 7 and 8am. Ok, maybe more toward 7:30. Fine...8:15am is when I actually leave the bed. Brush my teeth, take a cold shower, get dressed, do my makeup and head out for breakfast. By the way, the cold shower might sound unpleasant but, trust me, when it’s already in the 80s by 9am, it feels great. I pick the least offensive and most comfortable shoes I can find to wear. The difficulty comes in choosing what to wear. The temperature of my day fluctuates anywhere from 95F to about 72F. Shorts? T-shirt? Light cardigan? It’s always a gamble. And then looking fashionable....forget about it.

Breakfast is always at a little café down the street called A Casa de Pão (The House of Bread). I order just about the same thing every day because it’s so damn tasty. A misto quente (a hot ham and cheese sandwich on a little French loaf), a cafezinho com leite (a little expresso with milk and sugar) and caju (cashew fruit) juice. Sometimes, if I’m feelin’ crazy, I’ll change out the caju juice for mango, orange or honeydew melon. Fifteen minutes later, I’m on my way.

After about 7-8 blocks, I’m at the subway. I pay my ida and volta (go/return) fares and elbow my way (literally) onto one of the super-packed, blissfully air-conditioned cars. I ride the metro for about 6 stops and then get off in the historic center of the city and head towards the Arquivo Nacional (National Archive) located across the street from a huge park. Once inside, the temperature drops into the low 70s for document preservation purposes. A nice archivist at the front desk named Rosanne greets me, I get a little “Researcher” name tag and head into “the pit”.

Ok, so it’s not even unofficially called “the pit” but, if you’ve ever been here, it’s a strangely appropriate nickname. The “pit” is a dark section of cage-like cubicles at which I spend almost 8 hours a day. Each cubicle has a little halogen lamp, an average-sized desktop, a wheely chair, a universal laptop outlet and that’s about it. It’s all very modern—burgundy and silver with exposed brick walls—but also rather cold. At the end of the room are metal shelves filled with packets of browned and yellowed paper, wrapped in white, waxy, acid-free paper and tied with twine. A very chatty archivist with gray hair and a rather rotund figure asks your name and directs you to your stack. The archive requires about 4 days, after you’ve already looked up the documents you want and submitted the paperwork, before you can touch anything. Even then, you have to wear latex gloves and, in some cases, a mask. After gleefully collecting your packet (one at a time), you can take it back to your workspace and begin working.

Wow! Insane, right? But wait, that’s not all!

As most of you know, my native language is English. Guess what language all my documents are in? Not English. Despite being fluent in Portuguese, trudging through hundreds and hundreds (no lie) of papers in a language that isn’t your own is exhausting. Add to it the fact that mine are almost all from the nineteen century (before typewriters). My comprehension of a document, not matter how important, is dependent on the handwriting of some notary from over a century ago. Most are fairly decent but some are downright atrocious. If the mold and bugs haven’t gotten to something already, I can generally understand about 90% of what’s written—on a very good day. Multiply that by 9 months and, technically, I need to have enough usable material to write a book (a dissertation is about the same length). Pressure? Yup. How’s that for living on the edge?

After about 6-8 hours of that (with a lunch break), I gather my things and head home. Stepping outside, I hit a wall of late afternoon heat (generally 90-95 this time of year) and walk towards the subway. Since most archives close around 5:30-6pm, I hit rush hour traffic every day. The metro is EXTREMELY full at the end of the work day. Usually, I wait for a train or two before one comes that isn’t already full to capacity. I squeeze my little self in and force my way out when I arrive at the Largo do Machado stop again. When I get home, the first thing I do is take another shower. Just that short amount of walking and heat exposure leaves me soaked with sweat. A quick rinse and a change of clothes makes it all better. Dinner is usually at an ao kilo (buffet style) restaurant called Gambinos at the nearby plaza.

Ahhh.....Brazilian food. I could write a whole blog just on my undying love of this very special Latin American cuisine. It’s not spicy like Mexican food (only in a few regions), like most people think. It’s generally a lot like American Soul Food. Collard greens, black beans, rice, sun-dried beef, sausage, seafood stews, lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, and, of course, lots of hot, crispy, French bread. Brazilians also drink a lot of coffee. Very strong, very black and usually with a ton of sugar. The best way to round out a good meal. Oh, and the desserts....brigadeiro, bolo de aipim, cocada, quindim, passion fruit mousse, etc. It’s a beautiful thing. Thank goodness I walk so much, I’d come home over 200 pounds if not.

The evenings are the toughest part. Chatting with the hubby, family and friends fills the void but the 3-4 hour time difference (I’m between the US and Europe) makes it complicated to orchestrate. I’ve been reading The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo but only half-heartedly. We don’t have a TV at home yet so, I’ve been in withdrawal a bit. It’s amazing how long the nights are without television! I dare anyone out there to try it for a week. You just don’t know what to do with yourself and you don’t have the energy to invent anything.

That’s all for now. Stay tuned for Part 2. Until then....