Angra dos Reis - A side trip to paradise

In a tremendous stroke of luck for me, Thiago apparently runs with a crowd of fellas who, with their assets combined, are worth several billion (for us plebs, that is in fact million with a b in front of it). As a wedding gift, one of his friends sent us to his villa for 2 days in the paradise known as "Angra dos Reis", which translates to Inlet of the Kings, definitely worthy of the name.

Not only did we get the villa all to ourselves, but a charming staff of 4, who waited on us hand and foot with such gracious kindness. One of the staff happened to be the captain of the private Magnum 39" yacht which we'd be cruising on for the next two days. So gleefully not kidding about any of this!

Here we are at regular cruise speed, not even "hitting the metal," as Thiago observed. My face is flapping in the wind like how you see sky divers on TV, or when you put your hands through those new Dyson AirBlade hand dryers that are popping up in food court bathrooms these days...Like any of you ladies, I am always appalled by how ripply and loose the skin on my hands appears and I get so tempted to stay and watch the next gal put her hands through to see if it's as bad as mine. I glance over at Thiago, which was an immediate mistake because the wind whipped through the side of my mouth and strings of saliva swung across my face at about 120km per hour. My eardrums are fluttering with the intensity of a hummingbird on crack. For such a sexy looking boat, it's hard to look hot while traveling at warp-speed.

Flapping cheeks and saliva alike, at first I revel with child-like delight...then comes pain. I clap my hands over my ears to mitigate the intense pressure generated by powerful thrust of the twin Mercury diesel engines. I am reminded of my dad, always stuffing wads of tissue in his ears as my mom led us on what he referred to as "recreational forced marches" along the beach in the winter -- an allusion  to WWII Russian Jewish history...a bit dramatic in retrospect.

We arrive in "Lagoa Verde" --Green Lagoon. It is unexpectedly sunny for the weather report we heard (a plus), but with a strong wind from the southeast. Lagoa Verde lives up to its name. The water appears impossibly green. We are the only boat there. Thiago and I swim like fish in the verdant sea. Palm trees sway. The day is beautiful. Beleza. 

"Are there whales here?"

"No," Thiago replies.


"How 'bout dolphins?" I inquire.

"Not really."

"Why not? There are so many fish. It would be really easy for dolphins to live here. Why aren't there dolphins?"

"I don't know. Ask them."

Pragmatic to the core, Thiago is unwilling to oblige my unsophisticated banter when he is in relaxation mode.

The anchor finally catches, prompting our captain to toss us a life-preserver tethered to the boat so we don't blow too far away from the boat due to all the wind. Despite enjoying the breathtaking serenity of this tropical heaven, the tops of the rippling waves blow off onto our faces, sending torrents of salt water into our mouths. Our captain keeps delivering ice cold beers for us to drink as we float in the green chop. I turn my heard to say something to Thiago. The wind once again blows strings of saliva out of my mouth like a rabid Komodo dragon on a Discovery Channel special. Thiago laughs, but the same thing happens to him. Without talking, we agree not to talk...just drink.

We move along to "Dentist Beach", a white sand beach of unparalleled description. No surprise, the land was originally owned by a dentist. By now, high clouds have rolled in, as the weather forecast had earlier suggested. It is still pure splendor.

Thiago, knowing the extent of my insane body image issues, tells me that we are really lucky to to be here on Monday with overcast skies (though still completely brilliant for this Vancouverite), because, "'Dentist Beach' is normally an .... ......"

"A what?" I couldn't hear him.

"An _____ _________" he says back.

I still couldn't make it out, then "Oh...hahah...an ASS PARADE!"

Apparently Angra dos Reis first attracts money, and thusly attracts girls. Confident, ass-wielding girls.

My ass happens to be sufficiently swathed in what would seem like trousers by Brazilian standards, but is unquestionably considered a bikini by Canadian sensibilities, a rather nice one at that...kudos to my life-saving friend Laura. More pictures to come (from the shoulders up...gotta save something for the imagination :-)

We return to the villa, tuck in a superb dinner at the dining table that was beautifully prepared for us in anticipation of our arrival, and retreat to the lounge to drink vodkas and mango juice on the giant white chaise sofas. Discussing politics and history, it is a day that can't be beat...until the 1 liter duty free bottle beats us, and we head to bed by 8:30, with a promise to show it who's boss the following night when we haven't had so much sun.

I wake up to use the bathroom around 10pm, and I realize that some unknown nocturnal creature has perched itself in the cushy foliage outside the bathroom window. How do I know it's there? Whatever it is, it's shrieking the most desperate, god-forsaken call for a mate. How on earth could anything be attracted to that awful sound?

Then, suddenly, I realized why there are no dolphins in Angra do Reis...the Ass Parade. Dolphins probably take one look at the Ass Parade and think, "What the hell? How are they trying to get mates going around like that? Okay...forget the fishes, moving on!"

 

Christ the Redeemer

 

The silver Peugot snaked through the dense Tijuca forest. Thiago, expertly negotiating aged and narrow cobble stone roads, zig zagged up the switchbacks on the steep mountainside with an attractive confidence. I caught a glimpse of the statue and almost begged him to stop so I could take a picture through the trees almost 1000 feet below. Not exactly a practical idea, so I waited.

Thiago's dad, Napoleão, was unable to join us on this blistering, crystal-clear day as he had a funeral to attend. So, the 3 of us parked at the base of the monument, unsure about how to go about buying a ticket to get to the top. At one point in time, a rail car heaved the swarms of visitors up to the viewing platform. A local schister tried to lead us up to the train tracks where a reasonably official-looking sign promised that this was the place to buy tickets to the top. Being quite aware of the abundance of schisters in Brazil, we weren't convinced that taking the train was such a good idea. Back down to the parking lot, we decided to follow a team of breathtakingly attractive Argentinian soccer players to the ticket booth. Well, they were attractive until I realized that they were all carrying Dior murses. I'm pretty sure I don't need to define it, but just in case, a murse is a man purse. Just use your pockets...sheesh.

Finally we get our tickets and I enthusiastically march up the countless stairs (no, there hasn't been a train in decades). I was desperate to burn off some calories. Thiago's mom is a food pusher, and it is really hard to say no. She is the type of lady who can't sit down and eat her own meal because she's so busy running back and forth to the kitchen until the entire contents of the cabinets and fridge is on the table in front of me and I've tried everything...twice...and then there is dessert...

Huffing, but trying not to show it, I reach the top of the winding stone staircase. We later realized there was both an escalator and elevator, but I think the stairs are part of the charm, and the breathless adrenaline head rush you get from bounding up a dozen flight of stairs really helps the euphoric state of mind one experiences when admiring one of the 7 modern wonders of the world.

Speaking of wonders, I wonder how Big J got up there in the first place. He's huge. I still don't actually know, but it's amazing just the same. For now, I'll say it was a miracle. Or indentured labor...just a guess.

More pictures to come!

Downtown Rio de Janeiro

 Thiago’s parents had some business to take care of in Downtown Rio de Janeiro, far away from the cushy, insulated life of Barra de Tijuca (the elite suburb of Rio). We piled into the car and headed along the coast for one of the most beautiful seaside drives I have ever been on. We passed all the famous beaches, I saw the statue of Christ high up on a mountain to the left, and marveled at the rolling blue sea to the right. As a perfect accoutrement to our journey, the soundtrack was my Dad’s epic record “Ptarmigan” that he had given to Napoleão, along with two of his other CD’s, Northstream and After All, which we enjoyed on the way home. Both Thiago’s parents just loved the music and think that dad has an incredible voice and brilliant musicianship.

Once we reached the downtown business sector of Rio, we parked (and remembered where this time), enjoyed the ease of not having to push our own elevator button, and agreed to meet together at 3pm in order to beat the rush hour traffic back to Barra de Tijuca (which is pronounced Bah-ha da Ti-shjoo-cah, but is spoken impossibly fast for non-Portuguese speakers to say properly).

Thiago and I did an ad hoc historical walking tour of Rio by ourselves, enjoying the 16th Century architecture, archaeological sites, imperial settlement and subsequent colonial history which is very well documented in public buildings, and admiring the vast baroque Catholic churches that punctuate nearly every street corner, not unlike Starbucks in Vancouver.

We eventually found our way to the unparalleled “Confeitaria Colombo”, an incredible patisserie-type venue which featured every kind of sweet and savory pastry and confection one could ever imagine. It is the oldest establishment of its type in Rio, dating over 100 years (1884). Thiago ordered a brilliant selection of delicacies for us to sample, which was the perfect lunch. I soaked in the ambiance of the space, imagining the stories and stature of the patrons of such an establishment over the years.

As we were ready to leave, we discovered that it was raining heavily and people were crowding under the awnings of the businesses lining the narrow Rua Gonçalves Dias. “Wait here and don’t move”, Thiago instructed me. “I’m going to buy an umbrella”. Thinking he’d be gone for at least 20 minutes in a wild goose chase for an umbrella, soaking himself in pursuit to keep me dry during the tropical rainstorm, I admired how chivalrous my husband can be. Less than 5 minutes later, more like 3 minutes later, he returned with a giant navy and green tartan golf umbrella and a big smile on his face. “Wow! You’re good, Thiago!” I swooned. “

“I had to act fast,” he replied.


Apparently he knew that vendors wait for days with caches of umbrellas stored under their stalls, hoping for rainstorms knowing that desperate clients are willing to pay any price not to get soaked when the clouds open up. Within 10-15 minutes, all the umbrellas in town are sold and the vendors call it an early day and pack up their kiosks to head back to wherever they call home.

Slightly less chivalrous than I thought, but I was glad not to get soaked!

I don't know how Brazilians are so slim...the food don't stop coming!

More eating

I have never seen Thiago more enthusiastic and rearing to go in the morning than I did this next day. He literally bounced out of bed like an antelope shouting “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Emy had prepared an incredible 5 course breakfast for us. Her food is muito delicioso!!! I can't wait to learn some new recipes and make them when I get back to Vancouver. Then Napoleão drove us to Thiago's friend Demetrius's 2 story penthouse across the street from the beach. It was so amazing and beautiful, I can't believe it. He was really nice and he is hosting a party for Thiago on Thursday.

After visiting with him, he drove us to “Barra Grill”, a churrascaria Brazilian BBQ restaurant. We met Thiago’s other friends Raphael, and Vitor and Bee. We had to wait a long time for the table, but it was really worth the wait. I have never seen so much food in my life. It was like Samba restaurant in Vancouver times a million. The meat was out of this world, and the salad bar featured the most interesting flavours and dishes. I especially liked the salmon in passion fruit sauce and a shreaded crab mixture which Thiago can't remember the name of. Just like my mom advised, I ate just a little piece of everything so I could enjoy the flavours but not overindulge...unlike poor Thiago, who had to get rolled back to the house and was unable to eat anything else for the rest of the day. We had a 3 hour nap to help our digestion, haha, then Thiago's mom made me another delicious dinner, which Thiago couldn't eat, even though she made his favourite chicken wings.

Now we are watching TV and having a quiet evening together. Obama is in Rio, so his activities are all over the news and I think I have his speech to the Brazilian people memorized in both English and Portuguese. Ok, that might be a slight exaggeration, but I could give a decent summary of it, anyway. I am also enjoying my book that Laura chose called, “The Glass Castle”, for our next book club meeting at the end of April. I highly recommend it!

Tomorrow we will get another early start with a lighter breakfast, then go for a long walk (to burn off all those calories we've been consuming here...the food just doesn't stop, and Thiago's mom put so much effort into preparing these marvelous dishes I couldn't bear not to eat them and hurt her feelings). And in the evening we will have Thiago's long awaited oxtail stew. Napoleão will join us and we will give them the photo albums that I had prepared as gifts for his parents.

I will post more pictures from this day once we track down the camera cord that has gone astray...

First evening in Rio

We are having a spectacular time here in Rio. Yesterday evening I was too tired to go out with Thiago so I stayed with his mom, Emy, and we had a wonderful evening together. Amazingly, we were able to communicate quite well. She took me on what was allegedly to be a “short” walk after dinner. Thinking that it would just be a little scoot around her condo complex to get the lay of the land, I asked if I should just wear the flip flops I had on. Apparently, yes, that was what she would be wearing. We started by walking to the fruit and vegetable market near her house where I encountered a plethora of fruits I had never seen or heard of before. While I was examining the interesting produce, Emy had thoughtfully arranged for the little shop boy to cut and prepare a sample of all the exotic fruits for me to try. I had not thought to bring hand sanitizer with me, and while I should have been excited to explore the new flavors, I was plagued by the question of when the shop boy had last washed his hands as he enthusiastically handed me the delicious morsels he had prepared. However, my germaphobic anxiety melted away as I savored the tropical paradise in my mouth.


Next, Emy gave me the grand tour of the neighbourhood, showing me Thiago’s old high school, his old barber shop, the place he had his first job, where her ESL school is, and so on. Then we walked across a main road to a really fancy shopping mall, where the grand tour continued. They have very elegant and expensive stores in this region of Rio. As Thiago told me, Barra de Tijuca is a paradise for the Nouveau Riche, and they like to show off their affluence with pricey couture. As a word of caution, unless you yourself belong to the category of “nouveau riche”, don’t go to Brazil to buy clothes. For example, my Tommy Hilfiger polo shirt, which I paid a modest $16 for at the Seattle Premium Outlets, goes for a staggering $235 Reis (which is about $200CDN). Shoes that you would buy for $20-40 at Payless Shoes retail for $99 here.

By this time, Emy and I had covered some serious ground and my feet, which have been babied by soft, furry boots all winter long, had already developed huge bubbling blisters between my toes. Not wanting to complain, I simply adjusted the position of my feet in the flip flops, which resulted in a second set of blisters, just a centimeter higher than the first ones by the time we got back home. That’s another thing I would recommend before leaving for a tropical vacation during the winter/spring season, practice wearing flip flops or sandals for a few weeks before you go to prevent the surprisingly crippling discomfort of such a small flesh wound.

Arriving in Rio, what an adventure!!!

It took five connecting flights and 30 hours to arrive in Rio de Janeiro. The lineup for customs was an excellent introduction to Brazilian inefficiency, but finally I made it through. Amazingly, all my baggage managed to arrive despite the 5-leg journey, thank you Air Canada. Thiago and I called his father, Napoleão to let him know that we had arrived. Unfortunately, he went to the wrong terminal and had been waiting for us for a long time. Finally he arrived and we had a wonderful first meeting. He is funny and reminds me a lot of my Grandpa Paul in his mannerisms. Because Napoleão had come to the wrong terminal, he also parked in the lot that was furthest away. Being so happy to see us, he insisted on pushing our baggage cart the nearly 1 km to the other terminal.



We took our baggage cart on one of those moving sidewalks, but as we tried to disembark the rolling walkway, the cart was too heavy to make it over the edge, and we got stuck with all our suitcases and bags falling off around us. People behind us starting dog piling into our massive stack of bags, and some people in suits tried to vault themselves over the pieces of scattered luggage, without success. Fortunately, someone further back pushed the emergency stop button and we were able to regain control of the situation, and wisely decided to ditch the cart each taking one suitcase and bag to drag behind us.


When we finally got to the parkade, wouldn’t you know it, but we couldn’t find the car. We searched and searched, with our suitcase wheels bobbing up and down over the cobble stoned garage…yes, cobble stones (particularly cobbly, I must say). We gave up searching, went back to the elevator (all elevators in Brazil have attendants to save passengers the enormous inconvenience of having to push a button), and asked the lady where the “blue lot” was. According to her there was no “blue lot”, but we could try getting off on the second floor of the parkade. Skunked again. The well-armed security guard also denied any knowledge of a “blue lot”, but suggested that there may be a blue lot at the smaller regional airport. No, Napoleão had definitely parked at this airport.


Despite the escapade of the missing car, I found the parking garage another hilarious example of Brazilian mayhem. Cars were seemingly parked in any available place and position, whether it was a designated space or not. Cars had driven up on the median and defying all geometric conventions, managed to parallel park between two support columns, all the while, tearing up the cobble stones and making a huge mess. Dozens of cars had been parked this way. Given Brazil’s well-known penchant for profiteering, the Tom Jobim Airport in Rio de Janeiro has clearly not yet caught onto the racketeering of airport parking tickets. Finally we found the elusive “blue lot”. Despite being painted with an obvious blue stripe, the lot was properly called “Ipanema lot”, not the “blue lot”, as one would logically think, thereby explaining everybody’s inability to acknowledge the existence of any “blue lot” at this airport.


Well-intentioned Napoleão opened the trunk of his Peugeot hatchback and pondered for a moment about how to handle the fact that it was already full of cardboard boxes and various items. In a decisive moment of “let’s just get the hell outta here”, Thiago tossed them into the parking lot for someone else to deal with. Problem solved. We piled our stuff in the car and off we went!

Married in Benin

It is unbearably hot on the 10^th floor of the Pavillon Marie-Alphonse Parent. My window is open and I am trying to get a cross-breeze flowing through my room by keeping the door propped open with an extra chair. I brush some hair from my face, and my fingers glide effortlessly over the viscous layer of sweat on my forehead. A knock on my open door startles me from my hazy afternoon news fix. A man from Benin introduces himself en français, and proceeds to ask me a question that I did not understand. ‘Plus lentement, s.v.p’, I respond timidly. He repeats himself, and I still do not understand. Thankfully, another girl walks by and he asks her the question, she responds, he says goodbye to me, and I go back to my article on www.bbc.co.uk .

About an hour later (and several degrees cooler in my room), the man returns and asks me if I would have dinner with him that evening. ‘Mais, je parle un peu francais seulement’ I reply. Apparently this was not a problem. We walk to the campus pub and have some pizza. After only 2 or 3 minutes of talking, it becomes obvious that he can speak less English than I can speak French.At last! I finally find myself in a situation where switching to English is not an option, I am really out to sea now! Only minutes after my premature exhilaration of jumping on the français bandwagon I realize that I have exhausted the extent of my conversational ability. Once he finished asking the basic questions: where are you from, why are you learning French, what do you do for work, what did you study, how old are you, what activities do you enjoy etc, I could no longer understand what he was talking about.Language anxiety kicks in and suddenly I understand nothing.

Despite many warnings, I utilize the "oui" strategy for participating in conversation. Questions and statements are flying my way, and I smile, nod, and say “oui” in as many different inflections and tones as possible in order to diversify my current range of communication. Evidently there are good reasons why one should not rely on the “oui” method of language anxiety compensation. As I walk past another table on my way to the bathroom, a girl from the Explore program who is wearing a yellow wrist band says, “Hey, you don’t really speak French, eh? I think you should probably stop saying ‘oui’ right now because I am pretty your new friend asked you if you’d ever consider the following: Moving to Benin, adopting his 11 year old son, and getting married; to which you replied “Mais, oui!”

No wonder he picked up the bill!!!

My Dear Friend Bethany Pearce

My dear friend, you are like a big orchestra in my life. When I am with you I feel deep ambient, resonating music that seems to move life itself along this strange new, exciting road. Your music leads to places where no path exists and crescendos of faith leap about greenly highlighting possibilities in which to tread armed only with deep curiosity and love. When my mind wanders, I often find it residing in thoughts of you radiating a chirpy connection with all the happy little birds as they warm their dusty, travelled feathers in the never ending story of the sun. You are the dearest. I choose yours to be the sound track of my life.

Here's another blurry one just for fun

Rhythm Nation: Carifesta in Port of Spain
September 30th, 2006

Blurry Stories

It just occured to me that a lot of the photos that I take are blurry.

For some reason it doesn't bother me very much. As a matter of fact, I actually really like blurry photos for some reason. I feel like the motion of the photos tells a more interesting story. I enjoy finding spaces that are blurry and finding out the stories that exist in the borderlands between 'there' and 'not quite there'. The electricity that is captured during uncommunicatable moments of motion forms the skeleton of untold stories of people and places in my mind. I am so unsettled for periods in my life, and I often feel unable to locate the source of these feelings of needing a change of environment for my headspace. I would like to live my life in such way that I can put words together to create an 'authentic relica' of my experiences of blurriness.

Dialectics of A New World Order: Bjork

In an improbable vocal combination of power and swagger, fresh Canadian air exhales through her Aeolian pipes. Raw notes extend and crash with the practiced perfection of being an Icelandic feather. Swirling black lilies, indeed. Bjork knows the boundaries of weird and treads along the warm, muddy path of revolution.

VITALITY

Well, it's been about 3 weeks since I bought my Jack Lalanne Power Juicer (as seen on TV...you know you've watched the infomercials!) Well, as hokey as a 90 year old man in a red jumpsuit doing one armed push ups may seem, the power juicer turns out to be a pretty great investment. It juices pretty much anything, and surprisingly, the weirdest veggie combinations that I have tried are actually pretty good.

The only thing that I failed to consider was this:

If you only consume liquids, you will only eliminate....liquids. This is a rookie juicer mistake! After a rather traumatizing event involving none other than BEET JUICE (Dwight Schrute's breakfast of champions), I have realized THERE IS A REASON WE NEED TO EAT SOLID FOOD!!!!

I wish Jack Lalanne would have mentioned that in his infomercial!!! That, and "Don't worry, you're not hemorrhaging rectally, it's probably just the BEET JUICE"

In other news, as per Jack Lalanne's promise, I finally have the vitality of a 25 year old!!!

Wait a sec, I'm only 23! Jaaaaackkkkk!!!!

And by the way, Jack's doing push ups on what looks like carpet...so is it really that impressive? I'm just saying...