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....

Foot Fetish

One thing I always look forward to while in Brazil is walking. My grandfather was a big believer in the benefits of walking for health and, since coming back here, I agree. I didn't realize how ridiculously out of shape I was until I tried to walk about 2 miles in my "comfy" sandals. Not only did I huff and puff and sweat the whole way but my feet looked like ground beef by the time I got home. Which made me wonder: with all the walking that Brazilians do, HOW are they so obsessed with uncomfortable shoes?

As most women will tell you, what you wear on your feet is extremely important. We make sacrifices of comfort every day for the sake of that sexy pointy-toe pump, that cute

strappy sandal or that modern ballet flat; after about fifty steps, each of those makes our feet cry out in pain. Luckily, we are a car-loving culture. We drive EVERYWHERE. To the corner store, to the kid's bus stop down the street and even to the mailbox. We hardly ever walk. So, wearing those awesome (yet excruciating) shoes isn't such a big deal.

Brazilian women, on the other hand, don't seem to have gotten the podiatry memo. I have never seen so many women in adorably horrifying shoe contraptions. I've seen women running to catch a city bus in broad

daylight (and in otherwise casual attire) with sparkly stilettos on. They wear heels everywhere: to the mall, to work, to the grocery store, to the post office...everywhere. Clearly, these women are masocistic. Or perhaps they simply can't feel their feet anymore. Either way, I can't keep up. Literally. I've tried to wear Brazilian shoes and walk the way Brazilian women do for as long as they do. And then I can't walk for two days after that. Yet another way in which I am so clearly a gringa (foreigner). It's truly a genetic miracle that these women are standing, walking at such a quick pace and still swinging their hips like pros without bursting into tears.

Perhaps the most mystifying aspect of the Brazilian female's shoe fetish a

re the surfaces they walk on. Rio is a big city with miles and miles of concrete, asphalt and the emblematic black and white cobblestone streets. However, street repairs are infrequent, uneven and, in many places, completely non-existent. Here comes the double-bonus challenge to all you lily-footed American girls, try walking on THIS in stilettos. I guarantee you'd die from a broken neck in 2 blocks...

This raises the obvious question-- WHY are Brazilian women so into shoes? Especially when Brazilian men seem truly not to care. At first glance, one would assume it's simply a love of shoes. There are shoe stores on almost every major street and the price of women's shoes is atrocious. It could only be love, right? Wrong. Brazilian women are exceedingly concerned with their appearance and shoes just happen to be one insanely illogically aspect of an over-arching (excuse the pun) beauty fanaticism.

I've often compared Rio to New York City and that is in many ways a fair comparison-- real estate prices are heavily inflated, population density is high and wages/costs are some of the highest in the country. However, Rio is more easily compared to Los Angeles in terms of beauty. It remains one of the top cities in the world for plastic surgery and other general expenditures on belleza (Portuguese for "beauty"). [Here are some stats to prove it: Beauty in Brazil.] Hair products, hair salons, nail salons and body waxing (most famously the "Brazilian bikini wax") are just a few of the requirements of Brazilian femininity. I've only been here a few days and my nails were so bad that a random woman at a restaurant literally suggested a good place to get a manicure! While getting the manicure, my manicurist repeatedly scolded me for letting my cuticles become such a "big mess" and joked how badly "in need" I was. There's definitely a tangible pressure here to be beautiful.

As I trudge home tonight with my shabby sneakers, baggy shorts and shaggy-short hair, I'm sure I'll see a few women sporting stylish ponytails and cute mini-backpacks while stepping out of a gym wearing...you guessed it...heels. Until next time...

Back in the (Sweaty) Saddle Again

Being back in Rio de Janeiro is kinda like visiting an old friend. Granted, it's an old friend that smells a little, sweats a lot, has dirty fingernails and generally talks too loud. Despite all that, I just know we'll be friends for life. There's something about this place that calls to wanderlust in most people, I think. That's probably why it's one of the top destinations in the world for expats.

This is my fourth time in Brazil, my third time in Rio and it will be my longest stay ever (9 months). I decided to begin this blog as a way of passing the time. I'm also admittedly filling the homesick void and giving those back home a sense of what it's like to really LIVE in a foreign country. Brazil can certainly be conceived of as an exotic, tropical location of beautiful people, hard to pronounce fruits and perfect beaches. It is also, however, a country like any other-- full of history, struggling with inconsistencies and rife with problems.

When asked about it, I like to say that Brazil is a country that's easy to like but very hard to love. Mostly, this blog will be about my love/hate relationship with this complex and exciting place. I'll incorporate a little human interest, a little history and a little travel narrative-- just to keep everyone from getting too bored.

I've dubbed this new blog, "The Year of Two Summers". While at the height of winter in my hometown , Rio is currently entering the apex of summer. I will be traveling back and forth periodically and will, therefore, experience two summers in 2011. You could also say that, technically, the temperatures here in summer and in fall are almost indistiguishable. Basically, all heat and humidity ALL the time. So, this entry will be devoted to sweat; yes, sweat.

For a native Northerner like myself, dealing with the heat is and will be a particularly difficult hurdle. Daily temperatures in the 90s with a UV index of +10 and humidity reaching roughly 50-60% (if not higher), combined with sparse amounts of air conditioning equal a virtual hell for Yankees. Most Brazilians snub air conditioning at home-- claiming to not even feel the heat. I find this completely unbelievable and rather twisted.

As a result, profuse amounts of sweat are a daily reality. Surprisingly, the vast majority of Brazilians smell rather nice (due to a booming industry of body sprays, strong deodorants/anti-perspirants and shampoos). Unfortunately, traveling by bus during the afternoon hours inevitably leads to stinky encounters of the first kind. I've had sweaty armpits in my face, sweaty bums on my back and sweaty hands on my hands. It's a struggle to surpress my scream and run away reflex in these moments-- I HATE feeling sweaty. However, everyone else seems not to be bothered in the slightest.

Bodily contact, despite the moistness of the general population, is not diminished at all in the summer. Brazilians are extremely comfortable with their bodies, which is an enviable trait. In the same vein, they are shockingly comfortable with MY body as well; which takes some getting used to. Hugs, kisses, PDAs and widespread touchy-feeliness reign supreme here. If you aren't prepared to (at some point), be bear-hugged by a rather hairy man with prominent pit stains, you are in the wrong country, my friend!

As a result, Brazilians are what can be considered (even by Americans) as excessive bathers. Most people here take 2-3 short showers a day. Many consider this fondness for water to be an indigenous legacy. Supposedly, when the Portuguese arrived in Rio, they noted the extreme bathing habits of native cariocas (residents of Rio de Janeiro) and found them to be quite "primitive". This was in contrast, of course, to European beliefs that bathing was dangerous and could potentially cause death; so, most Portuguese sailors bathed annually-- yes, ANNUALLY. I'm going to go be a good little indian and take a bath now before I completely melt! Until next time...