Kids, the title says it all, or most of it.
But friends, I had a really rotten day the other day. I wanted to murder someone, or myself, because of a number of reasons (including the ever-present condition of not being able to find the damn colon on my keyboard, so pretend there’s a colon here) heat wave, lack of aircon, close living quarters, cats, having no control over my lunches (ie, rice and beans during a heat wave), the fact that Brasilian salad isn’t salad but rather old undressed lettuce and anemic tomatoes, the other fact that I was getting inquisitioned and side-eyed for taking second helpings of ‘salad’ instead of rice and beans at lunch. Etc. etc. etc. It was all too much for a girl to bear.
However, I don’t stay unhappy for long, and the heat wave brove, so I am back my usual jovial self. Here’s some things that have been on my mind now that I am feeling less aggravated(COLON)
- Found a Brasilian to listen to Television and watch L’Age d’Or with! Didn’t expect that I would succeed in finding someone here with the same random tastes I have. So–hooray.
- The country’s obsession with panettone. Granted, this is getting less pronounced the further away we get from Christmas, but it’s still baffling to me. It’s a Christmas bread, but it’s really just everywhere around here. Panettone, in all the grocery stores! Panettone, in a themed subway shop of its very own! Panettone, on all the tables and in all the kitchen of random people I visit! Just when I thought that maybe I was making too much of a big deal about this, I sat back and started watching novela the other week. One scene was in a kitchen. PANETTONE ON THE KITCHEN TABLE! Yes, Big Panettone has a firm stranglehold on Brasil–to the point where they are winning big product placement in Globo Novelas. Or so I imagine. I asked Ma why everyone liked panettone around here, and she seemed super nonplussed. ‘Maybe because it’s really easy to make?’ she ventured. But panettone is actually sort of a pain in the ass to make. ‘Oh, then I don’t know.’ So…yeah.
- I think some dude in a car called me rapaz the other day when I crossed the street, which sort of translates to ‘boy’ or ‘bro’ or something–but definitely masculine. Then again, it could have been a figment of my imagination. In other news, this other dude sat down next to me on a bench while I was waiting for the bus today coming home from work–I almost never get to just flop down because I’m always running to catch the bus so I was really looking forward to enjoying my time just staring around–and started, I don’t even know, hitting on me. His main objective was impaired by the vital fact that I could barely understand him, though. He kept insisting I was Italian or something, and he was super inquisitive, so I just asked questions back. ‘What?’ ‘What do you think?’ ‘Why Italian?’ But mainly I just gave him really confused and annoyed looks because I was tired and he was sitting really close and I had no interest in telling him anything. He kept telling me to go somewhere across the street with him. Nothing doing, dude. I may look Italian (?) but I’m not stupid.
- I have found heaven, and heaven is in Centro, past baixo Augusta coming from Paulista way, in Bar Estadao. It’s called pernil, and it’s sort of a pig leg thing. Do yourself a favor and look at the pictures of this food marvel. The best news for me–and for everyone in the world, really–is that this place has been open for ages and also never closes. So (hint hint) if you come and visit me, I will take you there, possibly multiple times. Many thanks to my aforementioned Television-listening, surrealist-film-watching, Brasilian-author-recommending friend Gera for taking me there for the first time. I wanted to take a picture of this pork (!)-farofa (!)-rice-potatoey goodness, but I was too busy eating.
- On that note, I very well may (fingers crossed) be moving out this week to somewhere that’s not an hour away from work in good traffic. Don’t get me wrong–an hour’s commute is actually a short commute here, and it’s not the worst. I work in the evenings though, and so I have to leave before rush hour even starts, which results in a lot of wasted time in a lot of random cafes, waiting around for classes to start. My hopefully future roommate is training to be a helicopter pilot and has an insanely smooth voice. He’s a friend of my friend’s best friend, which is how these things work.
- I’ve been trying to speak a lot more Portuguese with a lot more people. This means…talking with random security guys at banks (key phrase Eu nao sou recepcionista! = I am not a receptionist!), getting to know the people who work in the reception of my building (key phrase Se Deus quiser = if God wills it), and basically bumbling around asking people to repeat things and smiling sheepishly. People like Gera and my future roomie, who don’t really speak much English with me, are forcing me to get more agile with the language, and to pick up more slang. My favorites are(COLON) sei la (which I’m not sure actually literally makes sense in Portuguese, but it means ‘I don’t know’), tipo (which means ‘type’–used like we use ‘like’), and negocio (which means ‘business,’ and people use it if they are searching for a word they don’t know or can’t remember).
- This week in funny building names I bring you…Edificio Royal Place.
- Lastly, I have a theory. Allison, you’ll be thrilled. Here goes. The older Brasilian men get, the more they look like Jorge Ben Jor. If anyone wanted to assassinate the great legend himself, I posit, it would be extremely difficult because, well, I have personally seen about a billion old men on the sidewalk who could work as his body double. No joke. Jorge Ben Jor at my bus stop, Jorge Ben Jor in a wheelchair chilling on Paulista, whatever. It’s definitely JBJ, too–he has that just generic enough look. You would never see a billion older men running around looking like Gilberto Gil, for example. (See reference pictures.) So anyway, that’s something I keep noticing around these parts. The closer to God, the closer to Jorge Ben Jor.
Ma just said the words ‘cheeseburger with cheddar’ and now I have saudades.