Blog da Arara

La playa, la playa...

2009-10-30T17:02:00.003-04:00

Well, if you read me, you know that sooner or later something irresistible is going to happen to me on a Miami bus. And it always does. I was in South Beach this afternoon and this gorgeous girl got on the local shuttle wearing nothing but a bikini. To be truthful, she was boarding the bus and trying to cover up at the same time. Inevitably, she caught the attention of a flock of old birds of the "entonce" clan. One of them started to exclaim "la playa, la playa" while the others proceeded to tsk, tsk, and otherwise manifest their disapproval. Something similar happened to me many moons ago on the island of St. Croix. We had just arrived from Boston on a very hot July day (whilst up North we had been sleeping under a blanket until a few days prior to the trip...) and I didn't know that it wasn't kosher to go food shopping in beach attire. So, off I went after some groceries clad in my lovely Java Wraps shorts. All of a sudden, I noticed this big, black lady following me around the aisle mumbling "beach at Pueblo, beach at Pueblo," this being the name of a major supermarket chain based in Puerto Rico. I learned a lesson that day: no matter in how many countries you have lived, the cultural faux pas may take place in your own backyard, so to speak.

The beach here is NOT at Pueblo, but right behind my building. At six-thirty in the morning I was pretty much alone with this bird. Java Wraps was a great clothing store in Christiansted. I hope it's still there.

It's All Peachy...and Fui...

2009-10-23T15:41:00.005-04:00

I've been terribly quiet for several weeks and for a good reason: after publishing a Brazilian journal based on this blog, I've lost my voice. Not in the literal sense, but figuratively. I've received a couple of e-mails, though, that made me decide to write one last (maybe penultimate?) time. One came from a former Peace Corps volunteer who had written many months ago asking for a recipe. Sally wanted to make sugary sun-dried peaches in the traditional manner of Pelotas, Rio Grande do Sul. I had found a recipe for her and responded with a caveat: this is going to be a complicated process...I never thought she'd actually go for it, but guess what? I'll let you read about it in her own words:

Guess what....I DID make the passas de pessego--but I only used 12 peaches. It wasn't easy to remove the seed and still keep the peach intact. It took a little practice and a lot of patience. But, I did it. The sugar water baths proved interesting. I did some guessing here. But, this, too, worked. Then came the sunshine part. The first three days I did have sun and then the clouds rolled in. I had the peaches on a glass top table with a glass storm window over them--propped up on fruit baskets. Little containers of water were at the base of the table legs to keep the ants away. I had been through this procedure when making sunshine strawberry preserves--so I knew the routine. Anyway, it was great fun watching the peaches change over time. I would bring them in at night (we have raccoons in the neighborhood) and turn them over. The process worked and the peaches turned out extremely well. I did put them in a dehydrator for a few hours towards the end to make sure they were dry enough. That was really because some days were not so sunny. And, so, I have 12 (whoops) 11 peaches (I ate one). They are really good. So, thanks for sending me the recipe. Bet you thought I wouldn't do it!!!

The other e-mail was from a friend in Brazil who was rushing out the door to go to the airport, but wanted to tell me something before she left. To say goodbye, she used a word, a verb, that I'd seen used before in this context: fui. The past tense of ir, Portuguese for "to go." I guess it's the more economical equivalent of "I'm outta here." So, fui...

Here are Sally's sugary peaches. And my "Blog da Arara" book is available for purchase at www.blurb.com.

PS - I'm in love with Portuguese fados and want to go to Lisbon now. Wish I could write fui here, too!

Life in a Tropical Depression

2009-08-18T16:37:00.002-04:00

I'm suffering from a phenomenon that I had completely forgotten about: cabin fever. But this isn't winter in Massachusetts or central Ohio; rather, it's summer in Miami. But, but, you migh ask, didn't you USE to live there? Well, yeah, but in those days I had a regular job. I spent my days in a freezing museum, complaining about the cold, wrapped in the only sweater I kept when I moved to South Florida. I wasn't cooped up alone in an apartment, turning into a chair potato in front of my laptop. This city is not exactly the cultural capital of the world from November through May, but in the summer I guess they assume that your brain is too fried for anything above beach reading or elementary-school-level blockbusters. This means I can't even go to the movies (the films I'm interested in seem to play exclusively at the University of Miami and I don't have a car). The cherry on the cake of the dumbing down of the neighborhood: they're closing our Surfside library. Or what's left of it, since they're operating right now out of what looks like a container and most of the books are in storage. Good job, guys!

Naturally, my thoughts turn to Rio and its cultural centers and world-class free museum exhibitions, the art cinema houses cum bookstore and café in the lobby, the fabulous concerts and shows. Year-round brainy stuff to do, mind you, and especially in the summer, which is not as long as ours, but equally scorching. But, that comes with a price, as anyone knows who's lived there or reads O Globo Online with a breakfast cup of espresso: the shady or better, dark, side of my favorite city. I'll give you one scary statistic: in the past two and a half years there have been more than 18,000 violent deaths in the State of Rio, 530 occurred as a result of an armed robbery. I suspect that a very high percentage of those happened in the capital. I remember a woman who was killed one night as she stopped her car at a busy intersection in the fashionable neighborhood of Leblon. She was taking off her watch to give to the young man when he shot her. When people ask me if it's safe to travel to Rio, I always tell them to take the usual precautions. What else am I supposed to say? I'm unscathed, even though stuff like this was going on all around me. Am I just exceptionally lucky? Anyway, my friend Ellen in Pennsylvania and I were discussing this subject the other day. Is there a cultured city in this world with a decent climate (meaning temperate, no snow and ice, please, and no sweaters in August either, before someone mentions Vancouver, Canada) and a safe environment? Perhaps Melbourne, Australia?

In order to keep my kind of tropical depression at bay, I'm volunteering at the Wolfsonian Museum as of tomorrow. I'm helping with the new exhibition opening in October, "Styled for the Road: The Art of Automobile Design, 1908-1948." Can't wait to see if they are featuring my dad's Plymouth...And, before I forget, I'm taking a coat and my beautiful wool scarf from Rio Grande do Sul (pictured here) with me. You can read about it in "Around Brazil in Four and a Half Hours."

Of Julia Child and Cod Fish Balls

2009-08-02T16:24:00.007-04:00

I think I can honestly say that I haven't cooked in over a decade. You see, I don't call tossing a salad or scrambling eggs or making vegetable soup or even occasionally roasting potatoes with rosemary in the oven for myself 'cooking.' Not really. I do, on the other hand, have wonderful memories of cooking for my family, friends, and students all those years ago in Boston. Not that I was ever a great cook, but I loved having people over and feeding them, so I worked very hard at perfecting a few recipes and can proudly write that I made a mean feijoada and pudim de leite and passion fruit mousse and...well, cod fish balls. And this is where Julia Child comes in. But how, you may ask? Well, I went to the movies last night and saw the preview for "Julie & Julia." So, I remembered...When I first met Julia Child I didn't know who she was; this was in the early seventies and I had just arrived in Cambridge, Mass. from Costa Rica. She gave a cooking class at MIT in the lobby of 77 Massachusetts Avenue; she said she was going to teach us to make a proper omelette, since it was something easy to prepare and you could throw almost anything into it and make a meal out of it. She didn't see why students couldn't eat decent food...She proceeded to chop some tomatoes and ask us if we knew why men were better cooks than women. She had been talking all the while and at this point we were in stitches (That day I found out firsthand that Julia was a total ham). She told us it was because men were not afraid, they grabbed the knife and dice, dice, dice, chop, chop, chop. You get the picture. Years later, I added a little step she recommended in a recipe called "Aunt Priscilla's Codfish Balls" to my Brazilian one and have never since tasted a better bolinho de bacalhau.

I saw Julia a second and last time before I left Boston almost exactly 20 years later. I went to a button shop downtown near Filene's and in she walked with a friend. She seemed a bit frail and not as tall, but that unmistakable voice was as strong as ever. At that point, my daughter was moving to Europe, my marriage was on the rocks, and the cooking was, pardon the pun, on the back burner. The recipes survived, though, and were collected (during the years I lived in Ohio) on the website I created to keep in touch with my birth country.

This is more or less the story I told my daughter and her friend when we left the theater. So, now you know what Julia has to do with cod fish balls, which, technically, are Portuguese, but have become a Brazilian food par excellence. If you ever find yourself in Rio de Janeiro, there are a few bars that serve cod fish balls that rival, but not equal, my own: Jobi in Leblon and Bacalhau do Rei in Gávea are two that come to mind.

Coincidentally, a few minutes ago I clicked on the link to a blog from Rio I like very much and saw pictures of some of my favorite foods...ah, I DO envy you, Constance!

Perhaps I Should've Chosen 'Happy?'

2009-07-23T17:02:00.008-04:00

Two quite ordinary events this week produced a tsunami of saudade in me. You know, the kind where you're in danger of drowning in your own tears. The first was a message from my oldest friend in Rio. She ran into the woman who had been her first roommate; they hadn't seen each other in decades; Lu now lives close-by in the very same neighborhood of Leblon. They spent hours catching up; first in a restaurant with the very auspicious name of Santa Satisfação, then in one of the best cafés in Rio. I too have been trying to reconnect with people that I care for, but no one has leisure time to waste on face to face exchanges; my daughter suggested I try Facebook instead. Besides, they wouldn't let us just sit there, would they, American wait staff? Except perhaps, maybe, at Starbucks? (I need to try an experiment at my local French bistro: how long can I last with one cup of espresso?) I'm almost forgetting the second reason why I've got the mopes: a CD came in the mail. My beautiful friend Marcos Sacramento smiles at me from the cover photograph, clearly asking, "What the hell are you doing so far away, woman?"

Did you ever go to www.happyplanetindex.com to see how different countries rate? Brazil is number nine, near the top; the U.S. ranks down there at 114th place. It's not what I originally thought, though, they're not measuring smiles or human warmth. Of course, if those were to be two of the criteria, Brazil would definitely be among the 'happiest' nations. It's been a source of amazement to me that people who seem to be eternally swimming against the current are capable of so much joy in their daily lives. Eye-contact, a smile, a greeting, the friendliness of strangers. I miss that very much. I'm still scratching my head, in any case, and my Brazilian friends are equally baffled. Considering the general state of affairs in Brazil, how could it place so high in this index? Well, read the report and see if it makes sense to you. I can see why we're not doing too well up here; that's obvious even to me.

Meanwhile, I try for what I can get and enjoy it fully. I found organic blackberries and cherries at the supermarket. And the other morning, I went to the beach at 6:30 to photograph the sunrise. This is what I brought back (plus about 40 mosquito bites on my legs, but hey...).

PS - I'm still picking up trash on the beach twice a day and (especially after a storm) have found some pretty disgusting items. Alas, no more dollar bills!

Red, White, Blue, Yellow, Green...

2009-07-04T19:13:00.006-04:00

Having missed Independence Day celebrations for the past four years, I was looking forward to this day with anticipation. Actually, I was anticipating a hot dog and a hamburger, you know. Food that you wouldn't catch me eating on any other day of the year! What I got (at a friend's picnic) was rice and curry, boniatos, sushi, and hummus and pita chips. So, I feel like I went to the amusement park and had to pass on cotton candy. Anyway, I got home wishing I had peanut butter and white bread in my cupboards. Too proud to go scrounge from my neighbors, as my friend Ellen just wrote, I made myself a tuna fish sandwich. With French bread, of course. For dessert? All I could find was a chocolate croissant.

Well, at least the weather is holding up and if it keeps like this I'll be able to watch the fireworks. I have my fingers really crossed!

Happy 4th of July, everyone!

The photograph here is of jilós, a veggie I've only seen in Brazil (so far!).

On Becoming Real

2009-06-30T16:36:00.003-04:00

Tomorrow this little guy in the photograph and I are turning 65. I've decided to begin this post with a quote from "The Velveteen Rabbit," which I confess I've never read (the book). Even if my bunny is made of terrycloth and reminds me of an old bathrobe. It's the answer to the rabbit's question "When do you become REAL?" and I think it applies to people too.

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

As you can imagine, we've been through a lot the two of us, but, miraculously, we've both managed to keep our eyes. Through severe myopia and strabismus and early-onset cataracts surgery (me) and ten years spent hidden away inside an old armchair in my parents' home (him). Yes, I lost my rabbit when I was about five and found it again at fifteen. Have been carrying him around with me ever since. At this point, we go together like "The Blue Danube" and that PanAm flight to the space station in "2001." Perfectly suited for each other. His cotton loops and my head covering are still hanging in there, thank goodness. At this point in life, thinning hair scares me more than death. And I take care that we don't get shabby either, except where it can't be helped (I'm afraid we've become a tad deaf, somewhat faded, and so on). We strive for stylish still, as best as we can. So, when will WE become REAL?

The miniature Ritz Carlton beach chair I expropriated from my friend's desk at The Wolfsonian museum in South Beach years ago. The white beach bag came from a lingerie boutique at the Shopping Leblon in Rio de Janeiro. They tied that with a ribbon onto a little shopping bag. Brazilians are simply fantastic with attractive packaging...The picture was taken on a table at the back of my building when I moved in and we had perfect blue skies.

Jetsam and Flotsam

2009-06-23T13:44:00.004-04:00

This little post is subtitled "Where Do All the Plastic Caps Come From?" There, I've asked the question. If you know the answer, at least regarding Miami-Dade County, please leave a comment!

In all the years I spent in Brazil I almost never went to the beach. The one exception was Fernando de Noronha. The reason being that I got completely spoiled by numerous diving and beach-bumming vacations on the British Virgin Islands. I hated the beaches in Rio; way too crowded and littered for my taste and, lately, much too chaotic and noisy. Thanks to the utter lack of city management over the past several years, a number of industrious and enterprising cariocas were able to helter-skelter take over the sands. They rent beach chairs and umbrellas and let you run a tab for cold beer, coconut water, and even food, if I remember right (you just wave your hand and they'll bring it to you). That wouldn't be so bad if they hadn't started offering free (and very refreshing, I grant you) showers, illegally pumping water from artesian wells, using deafening and polluting gasoline motors! I'll let you imagine what happens to the groundwater below.

Anyway, I'm pretty pleased with the quiet and quite deserted beach here, with the exception of the ubiquitous trash. You can't get away from this sad evidence of what humankind has been doing to the planet. I try to pick up what I can every day in the small stretch of beach I call my own. So far, I've found a disposable diaper, a long piece of fabric with large staples still attached to it (I assume it was once a boat curtain?), dangerous pieces of glass, an assortment of plastic bottles, and a ton of plastic bottle caps. Usually, feeling virtuous (yeah, yeah, I'm taking liberties with Ovid here!) is its own reward, but today I actually got paid one dollar for my efforts. I even took a picture of my bounty!

The title was inspired by something I read in "The Riddle of the Sands." One of the main characters was very fond of throwing overboard everything he didn't want or need. I know the book was written in 1903, but I still can't forgive him!

Singing the Praises of a Singer

2009-06-16T14:06:00.005-04:00

I don't think I can even make my way through the first two verses of "Happy Birthday to You" without going out of tune. And I can't remember anything more excruciatingly painful (besides the visits to our dentist) than my piano lessons as a little girl. But, that never kept me from developing a deep love and appreciation of music, especially Brazilian sounds. And I have a dear friend in Rio who, pardonnez-moi le cliché, sings like a bird. I've heard that birds actually don't "sing," but be that as it may, Marcos is a beautiful, privileged, sensitive, funny, enchanting, (I'm running on with my adjectives here, but you get the picture) interpreter. He also has a knack for repertoire like no other singer of his generation. I've sung his praises many times before, but now that he has a new CD fresh off the presses, I thought it might be a good opportunity for another show of my undying love and support.

Meanwhile, I've been walking around my new town of Surfside, trying to look conspicuously like a recently-arrived foreigner. For that, besides appearing (genuinely) lost most of the time and enquiring of passing strangers the location of the Post Office and the closest café (mercifully, there's a French one, no less!), I've enlisted my small collection of Brazilian souvenirs, like these marvelous capim dourado bracelets. They're incredible conversation pieces, as you can imagine, and I hope they'll help me make some new friends! If you've watched an American reality show featuring the Brazilian state of Tocantins, take it from me: it's all b.....Been there, done that, camping by a splendid, pristine river, climbing up mesas to take in breathtaking views, etc. All that, at 61 years old! Anyway, that's where all these gorgeous pieces of costume jewelry come from.

Marcos' new CD, "Na Cabeça", is available through Biscoito Fino in Rio. He's currently on a European tour. Check his website for cities and dates.

Marcos Sacramento Photo Credit: Edu Monteiro

Miami Beach Bum Says "Bom Dia!"

2009-06-11T18:36:00.004-04:00

After going AWOL for several weeks, the prima donna in the post below has been spotted atop a coconut palm on a beach a few miles north of Miami. And no, there are no immediate plans to return to the forested hills of Rio. Que pena!

Well, there are good things and bad things about being transplanted to the U.S. One upsetting detail: no one looks you in the eye and smiles (or very few people do). One very positive aspect: things still seem to work with a certain degree of efficiency here. I could even be daring and affirm that, in certain ways, they have improved considerably in four years. Take my broadband provider, for instance. If you remember a post called "Killing Me Softly" from two years ago, you'll recall that my Brazilian ISP/cable company, NET, almost had me sitting on the floor crying like a helpless child...I'm pleased to note that it took one phone call on Wednesday for two very capable technicians to show up here on Thursday and have me up and running at hyperspeed in no time at all! Not being accustomed to such rapidity and competency, I confess that I was floored and could have kissed the two of them! But they were in and out in minutes...to their next appointment.

This photograph was taken out of my window. I'm lucky with views! And I have had help moving and settling in. A young man from Ohio with the most beautiful (hazel? My fault, I haven't had leisure to stare at his face...) eyes and three other dear friends have pitched in.

I do miss everyone in Brazil terribly. And the markets. The produce section of my supermarket is minimal. The remainder of the fabulously-stocked store is taken over by bagged, canned, boxed, or otherwise packaged foods with a long list of unedible ingredients. Yikes! But I've decided to take advantage of the spectacular beach for a few months, at least. Yesterday, there were tarpon feeding at some schools of fish that were swimming all around me. Looking straight ahead, somewhere beyond the horizon, it's the islands of the Bahamas. I sat on the beach mesmerized for about an hour envying the fish their freedom and watery world, wishing that it would be possible for me to just start swimming and go see what I'd find out there...

MIA...Our Correspondent in Brazil

2009-06-03T14:42:00.004-04:00

Our Brazilian correspondent went missing, after pecking at her laptop keyboard for a couple of years from the general vicinity of Corcovado Mountain in Rio. Last seen flying in a general northwesterly direction.

We'll keep you posted if the bird ever turns up again!

Trying to Live a Good Story

2009-05-12T16:56:00.004-04:00

I flew up to Miami a week ago. Brazil already seems like a place I left in a galaxy far, far away. At least, I feel like someone who fell to Earth; I get baffled reading labels at the supermarket, I get dizzy walking through the aisles at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Trying to figure out what to do with your life is difficult at any age, I guess, but I was hoping that by the time I got to be 65 I would know exactly what and where I wanted to be. Who, me? I'm a few weeks away from becoming a card-carrying member of Medicare and the puzzle is getting increasingly more difficult to figure out. So, once again, I've appropriated a line from a movie I liked very much to describe what's going on with me (the first phrase was Status Quo Vadis; once more, you're invited to try and guess which film...I'll give you a hint: it's by the same director). All I know for sure is that there is a story out there that I started to live a long, long time ago in a remote corner of Brazil and that I've been trying to make it a good one. And that, at the present moment, doesn't include worrying about microwave ovens and plasma TVs. And that is the only certainty I have. Everything else is a question mark.

This is the last photograph I took in Rio, out of the second bedroom window. Just saying goodbye for a while.

Carpamus Diem

2009-04-28T12:11:00.005-04:00

My beloved Latin professor would be very proud of his student, if he could see me conjugating verbs like I just walked out of the classroom (and not 40+ years later). For those of you who never sat through hours of "amo, amas, amat" and Ovid translations, this title means something like "let's enjoy life here and now." As a matter of fact, my first choice was "My Time Is Now" (as in the documentary about the sambista Paulinho da Viola), which is pretty close, but this way it becomes an invitation to all to enjoy the present time; in other words, the only time we've got.

I'm saying goodbye to all my friends and favorite foods (more or less simultaneously) and I think that both facts account for a spell of tummy ache: too many emotions and an overabundance of calories and caipirinhas...

If you want to take the collective pulse in Brazil, there's no better place than a bar, and, as you may have figured out from the previous paragraph, I've been to quite a few recently. The other night I couldn't help overhearing (no one could, this woman was shouting!) the following outburst against politicians: they're all liars, they're all involved in scandals or implicated in crimes. And she proceeded to name but a few of said public figures whose devious doings have graced print and broadcast news in the past couple of weeks (years?). We all looked in the direction of her table and one of my dinner companions had this comment: I apologize for saying this when we're all eating, but there's only one word to describe Brasília and that is "cesspool." Anyway, you get a general idea of the state of play; according to the newsweekly Veja and some TV commentators I've been listening to, the only (and obvious) democratic way out is through the vote; no one wants to see the Senate and Congress shut the doors, much less a return to military rule, God forbid! I see all this as a sign that the country is improving, becoming "more like the U.S." (if you read the previous post); if only Brazilians take advantage of technology (Twitter comes to mind!) to force transparency and decency down their representatives' collective throats, until they can be removed by ballot in 2010!

Any good news, you may ask? Oh, yeah! My favorite singer is releasing a new CD in May. I'm not supposed to say anything yet, but by all accounts it's a masterpiece! And, a dear friend from California has offered me his gorgeous apartment on the beach in Surfside, FL at a discounted rate...in the same general neighborhood where my daughter lives.

Now, if I can fit all my stuff in my suitcases this weekend, I'll be as happy as a puppy!

Brazil vs. USA

2009-04-18T09:39:00.002-04:00

Apart from the latest scandal du jour (someone just blew the whistle on congressmen who receive and distribute free airline tickets to family, friends, lovers, and television personalities for trips within Brazil and vacations abroad, paid for by the Brazilian taxpayers, I kid you not!), what is there to write about when moving anxiety threatens to overwhelm you? Well, I've been reading about the Summit of the Americas and President Obama...aaahhh, at last a breath of fresh air, especially when you compare him with the pathetic representatives of very old-news, very stale, leftist governments in South America. Impossible not to draw comparisons between the U.S. and Brazil, the two giants on these longitudes. And that reminds me of a few prophetic words my brother uttered, only half in jest, about three decades ago: "Brazil," he said, "is the country of the future not because it's going to become like the United States, but because the United States will become like Brazil." You know, I think I'm coming to the realization that he was right. Have you tried customer service in the U.S. lately? Getting pretty close to the way things are in Brazil. Traffic? Well, if you live in Miami, I don't even need to explain! Energy-efficient cars? Biofuels? Sounds awfully like Brazil to me! Bad roads? Well, we're getting there. Is this enough? On the other hand, as my sister-in-law said the other day: life in Brazil is so much better than when she first came here in the 1970s. And, in spite of all kinds of tiptoeing and dancing around by Lula's administration in dealings with Argentina, Bolivia (see the natural gas crisis), and Venezuela, I don't think you have to be a political analyst to feel, I'd say, almost hear, the resentment towards this nation. The thing is, Brazil has everything going for it, and if it doesn't really become "like the U.S.," it's because its leaders are wasting or have wasted, rather, a tremendous chance.

Changing subjects entirely, if you'd like a tip on a good book, I just finished reading "The Riddle of the Sands," by Erskine Childers. I bought it for ten reais!, a Penguin Popular Classics edition, at Livraria da Travessa in Ipanema. It's my favorite bookstore in the entire world, now that I haven't lived in Boston for years and years (and, in any case, I bet my old haunts are all gone, now that we all shop at Amazon.com). I don't know what I'm going to do when bookstores as we knew them disappear from the face of the Earth. Oh, but then I should be gone, too...not to worry, I guess! Back to this small volume: it's got spies and yachting up and down the foggy coasts of northern Germany and Holland one October about a hundred years ago. If you enjoy sailing, you'll love it!

Cheap & Chic Tip: I just visited the Havaianas flagship store in São Paulo. Every style is available and you can create your own, too. I wish they had paid me for this sort-of-advertisement with about ten pairs at least, but they didn't.

(En)Chanted Word

2009-04-04T16:12:00.012-04:00

This week it was my intention to write about the soap opera I have going on with the HSBC branch near me here in Rio. I had even picked a good title for the post; I was going to call it "Bank Robbers." But I'll leave this for the end, because fortunately I went to see a documentary about poetry in Brazilian song called "Palavra (En)Cantada," so my mind and emotions are much more happily engaged than in the past few days. This country has an embarrassment of riches when it comes to its lyricists, so much so that it's extremely difficult for anyone to pick out her/his favorite verses. Raise the question and you have food for long, animated discussions around any bar table; go to any show, be it Caetano Veloso or Cordão do Fogo Encantado, a hip-hop contest in Lapa or a popular fair in northeastern Brazil, and you'll hear pure poetry. And, of course, everywhere you go, people KNOW the words to dozens, if not hundreds, of songs.

I'm not sure if I really liked Helena Solberg's documentary (I loved her "Carmen Miranda: Bananas Is My Business" years ago), because I think it left out too much and at times it seems to lose its way. But there are some great moments (I particularly enjoyed the interviews with José Miguel Wisnik, BNegão, and Luiz Tatit) and it would be nice if it played in schools here, I think. And I hope it makes it to the U.S. The best thing for me was actually what someone wrote inspired by the film, and I'm going to make an attempt at translating/quoting him: "If Lula is indeed 'my man' as Obama says...I have my doubts. My vote goes to the songwriters of Brazil." Amen!

As far as the bank is concerned, this is what happened: Back in December I tried to get cash out of an ATM there. I got back a receipt saying something to the effect that the machine wasn't able to dispense the cash...but they took the money out of my account anyway. And don't want to give it back to me! This being a bank, and unfortunately a bank in Brazil, the telenovela is likely to go on for another three to four months. I hope it has a happy-ending, for my sake.

Bird of Passage

2009-03-22T20:58:00.003-04:00

I'm back in Rio for a last fling and I've been spending hours every morning sitting at a café with a few espressos and a pile of newspapers, just catching up. If I told you about the latest spectacular scandal in the Brazilian Senate or the gun battles between rival drug gangs in Copacabana today (it was a war zone down there; I know because one of my best friends had to run and throw herself on the floor and listen to machine gun fire for about twenty minutes) you wouldn't believe me anyway. So, instead, I'm writing about a sentence I read in today's edition of O Globo: nothing changes like the past. Isn't it perfect?

I've been thinking a lot about the years when I was growing up in Brazil and these memories and stories are coming back to me that must have been stored in some do-not-open-until-later-in-life compartment of my brain. I'm not sure at times if what I'm doing is really remembering or if I'm recalling what was later related to me, but there's this image of a little girl walking down the street around the corner of her house, because "she was leaving with the gypsies." I'm sure, though, that I remember sitting inside a large tent with Oriental carpets covering the grass on the field where they camped. My father was a country doctor, you see, and they were his patients (well, when they came by, every six months or so) and I would often go with him when he did his rounds. Clearly, my nomadic, migratory lifestyle has been on my mind lately!

This photograph was taken on the momentous occasion of my first carnaval party. And I'm dressed as a...gypsy, what else?

While in Miami, I got acquainted with my daughter's Blackberry Bold and realized that we humans are finally doing what our thumbs were designed for: texting messages. Have a wonderful week!

PS on Monday evening - Well, the war zone spread today to include my once peaceful neighborhood: heavy gun fire, stray bullet through a roof nearby, police helicopters circling above, schools closed, the works. It was like watching a movie except that it was for real. Next time you smoke a "harmless" joint or snort a harmful line of cocaine please take a moment to think about the millions of innocent people affected by your disgusting habits. What's really appalling, though, is that everywhere else life goes on as if nothing is happening...what is wrong with these people?

The Golden Girl

2009-02-28T14:40:00.002-05:00

I'm flying back to Miami on Tuesday. Tomorrow is Sunday, March 1st, my daughter's birthday, as well as Rio's 444th. Here's my present to all: an unforgettable summer sunset. Remember when I said I was making lists to help me decide whether to go or to stay? I mentioned the mind-boggling offerings of fruit at the market and the Atlantic forest up on the mountainside as very strong enticements to remain under the Christ's armpit. So far, the balance was tilting in favor of this marvelous city, but after last weekend's display of generalized bad behavior on the part of cariocas (who seem to have lost the capacity for civilized conduct: if you'd seen all the women with their panties down peeing behind every car parked on my street, you'd understand!), I'm afraid I'm rather glad to be throwing in the towel. So, off I go into the wild blue yonder with MIA as a final destination.

I read something very funny the other day: that women in Brazil don't get old, they become blondes. Since I'll not surrender to either old age or hair dyeing, I've found a compromise in a few bleached strands on the right side of my very short bangs. I find them a nice statement: this lady here is going down fighting a good fight! They also remind me of Dave Robicheaux, nickname Streak, one of my favorite characters in the mystery novel realm.

I must tell you that there were a few winners this carnaval: Rola Preguiçosa in Ipanema and Sovaco do Cristo near me, for instance. Tonight I'm going to watch the winning samba schools parade down the Sambadrome: last weekend I simply fell asleep in front of the TV; the regular parade is too long, too overblown these days. By the way, isn't Sambadrome an atrocious word? For a very ugly place, too, as far as I'm concerned...

Ah, what's golden about the girl besides the little band of vanilla-colored hair? Well, to begin with, I haven't lost a handbag or watch or cell phone or any piece of jewelry in all these months and I've only encountered one armed youth in a bus. Since I was seated right in front, as I was told to do as soon as I arrived here, he never did me any harm. The poor passengers in the back weren't as lucky! Plus, of course, I had the infinite pleasure of enjoying the company of countless lovely Brazilians and of visiting the four corners of this privileged country.

White Flag, My Love...It's Carnaval...

2009-02-22T08:37:00.010-05:00

So begin the lyrics to my all-time favorite carnaval song: a poignant, slow-motion marcha called "Bandeira Branca." I remember the first time I ever heard it: I was packing my suitcase in the early evening to fly back to the U.S. Strains of a rather melancholy, seemingly pleading song, came through the window in the voices of the crowd down in the streets below. I started to hum the melody along and then tried to make out the words: Bandeira branca, amor..."White flag, my love, I can't go on like this anymore, because of this longing for you that's taking over me, I ask for peace." I hope these lovers made up in the end, how could one resist such a melodious entreaty?

My carnaval has been a little busier than usual, because I have a guest this year, a young, lively Canadian woman come to see what's it all about. I took her out for a small taste of street revelry Thursday night. On Friday, we walked around the lagoon all the way to the meeting point for Rola Preguiçosa in Ipanema. I don't know if you recall the post I wrote about this last November, but they're the bloco that picked as their theme song a samba honoring President Obama. They called it "Get It Off Your Chest," in Portuguese a pun with the outgoing President's name: "Desem...BUSHe!" So, I got to belt it out along with the small crowd. And, yes, I got it off my chest once again, this time to the drumming of a bateria on a breezy, clear Rio night!

For those of you who would like to learn to sing Bandeira Branca for next year's carnaval parties, perhaps, here are the lyrics. It's included in "Sassaricando," a two-CD set with the best carnaval songs ever. You can pick it up next time you're in Brazil!

Bandeira branca, amor
Não posso mais
Pela saudade que me invade
Eu peço paz (BIS)

Saudade mal de amor, de amor
Saudade dor que dói demais
Vem meu amor
Bandeira branca, eu peço paz

This is a time for stolen kisses on the street, for falling in and out of love, but some carnaval romances seem to endure. O Globo today has a story about couples who met during carnaval...and stayed together. And Neguinho da Beija-Flor, the official singer for the superchamp samba school from Nilópolis, has received permission to get married at the Sambadrome tonight with President Lula and his wife Marisa as witnesses.

Last, but not least, the Ministry of Health is distributing tens of thousands of free condoms and there's a safe sex campaign directed at women over fifty...remember, better safe than sorry! Happy Carnaval!

The photos here are of the musicians come to grace my neighborhood street party with their incredible sounds this afternoon. The ladies belong to a fantastic all-woman orchestra called Orquestra Lunar.

I had to add two more pictures: you tell me if this isn't the best bloco..."Umbilical Cord," now dancing at the corner of my street: babies, pregnant women, current and future members and their proud dads!!

They Said I Came Back Americanized...

2009-02-13T10:50:00.007-05:00

No, not me! Carmen Miranda!! And that is the title of a song written for her by a couple of her buddies, when she came back to Brazil for the first time in 1940, a big Hollywood star and all. She wasn't treated so well by her compatriots, as you can imagine by this line. The lyrics are very humorous and full of barbs directed at her detractors. My friend Marcos Sacramento, who sings this samba like no one else but Carmen herself, is the main attraction at a series of celebrations in her honor tomorrow. Carmen is 100 years old this year, you see, or could have been, if the American star way of life hadn't killed her in 1955. I don't know how many people have any notion of who she really was or even a smidgen of an idea of how incredibly talented. Forget the bananas and assorted fruit on her head. This lady could sing! She was a hugely popular artist, a dazzling performer on radio and stage in Brazil, when Mr. Shubert whisked her away to fame and fortune abroad. She was also a fragile and generous woman: being The Brazilian Bombshell proved to be too much for her (not to mention what was going on in her love life). But she did become a music and fashion icon and remains one to this day, an inspiration to singers, bloggers (try Spinning in Air, best music blog ever), and shoe designers like Christian Louboutin.

The Carmen Miranda Museum in Rio is housed in the ugliest possible building on Avenida Rui Barbosa. But don't be discouraged, I think you'll enjoy your visit. It was one of the places my gringo husband had to see, when he first arrived here in 1978...Maybe someday someone will realize that she is worthy of so much more and they'll build a deservedly spectacular home for her platform shoes and utterly over-the-top hats. Meanwhile, you may get a taste online at Museu Carmen Miranda.

This biography by Ruy Castro is the best book I've read about Carmen Miranda so far. I don't think there's an English translation yet. If you understand Portuguese, the texts on the website, written by friends and people who remember her, make for a fascinating read too.

PS - Even that accent in the movies was fabricated in La La Land...She COULD speak English!

Gone Shopping in the Saara

2009-02-08T11:15:00.003-05:00

That's not a misspelling. I haven't been to the desert in Africa, but to a Mecca for shoppers in downtown Rio. The rather tongue-in-cheek acronym stands for Sociedade dos Amigos das Adjacências da Rua da Alfândega, an association of wholesalers, retailers, and restaurant owners, between Avenida Presidente Vargas and Praça Tiradentes. Originally, shop owners were Middle Eastern immigrants (in fact, people still go there to eat what Brazilians call "Arab" food): Lebanese, Palestinians, Syrians, Iraqis, and Jews. In fact, it's one of the few places on Earth, if not the only spot, where Christians, Muslims, and Jews are perfectly happy to work and live, do business and observe religious feasts side by side, in great harmony. These days, there's been an influx of newcomers from the Far East and the addition of one holiday; the Chinese New Year is now celebrated, along with Yom Kippur and Ramadan, and St. George, who's probably more popular here than in England!

Anyway, the Saara should be your destination for party articles and inexpensive carnaval costumes and masks; spices, perfumes, essences, and aromatic oils; dried flowers; dates and nuts; costume jewelry and fashionable (but throw away and disposable!) accessories; jeans at a fraction of what they cost in the shopping malls, and gorgeous fabrics. When Rio sizzles (like right now), it's best to go early in the morning on a weekday, but avoid Fridays like the plague.

Downtown Rio, or as it's affectionately known, "the city," is also the place to go to feed your soul. If it's a bit run-down and rough around the edges, due to years of neglect by the previous administration, it's still a treasure trove of museums, art galleries, and cultural spaces, and a great favorite of mine. Yesterday afternoon, I saw a fantastic exhibition called "Brasil Brasileiro" at the Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil. I thought it was very clever to divide the paintings into themes or modules: Our Land, Our People, Our Dreams, Our Struggles, and give each one a soundtrack, since the title of the show is borrowed from "Aquarela do Brasil" by Ary Barroso. And, as "there'll be music" is a given in this most musical of cities, why not end the day in company with two of its most charming and talented performers? Pictured here are the duo Nilze Carvalho and Marcos Sacramento, who brought the house down at the CCBB last night and, as usual, made me wish I didn't have to leave.

The traditional Brazilian fabrics called chitão were photographed at Casa Turunas in the Saara. They are being made into pillow covers for my new home in the U.S.

Here's a link to the Saturday evening performance on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuE-viltvHs&feature=related

"No Tempo do Nice" photo credit: Maria Braga

Walls of Selfishness

2009-02-02T16:22:00.007-05:00

I had heard of the Wailing Wall of Jerusalem and the Great Wall of China, who hasn't? But, according to Roberto Burle Marx (who was quoting a friend of his), there's also something called "la muraille des égoïstes," the wall of the selfish of Rio. That's what people were building on the Copacabana beachfront crescent at the time they were having this conversation. As you can see from this photograph, the French guy was right. If you live on the back streets, that lovely view might as well not be there. Unless you arrive one day and climb up the side of one of the many hills and build your makeshift home there (but this was much afterwards). These days though, how ironic, you may also be looking at prostitutes and crime from your floor-to-ceiling windows on Avenida Atlântica. Am I exaggerating? No, I just read the local papers (with a heart that gets heavier every month).

Brazilians have built these walls of egoism everywhere: a good, or I should say, bad example is Boa Viagem beach in Recife. I remember when I used to send my daughter off back into the sunshine after 3 p.m. Now you probably won't need a beach umbrella in the afternoon; the buildings provide the shade. You can google it for pictures and see what I mean.

Fortunately, there's still enough of unspoilt, undeveloped coast to last me to the end of my days. I don't mind sharing one of my favorite secret places in the Northeast: the tiny colonial gem called Penedo, near the mouth of the São Francisco River. There you can visit one of the most gorgeous (if not THE most beautiful) church in Brazil, Nossa Senhora da Corrente. Rent a boat with a square sail (you'll only see these here) and lose yourself in one of the deserted beaches where the mighty "Velho Chico" meets the ocean.

According to the papers that I insist on reading, in spite of what they do to my blood pressure, the number of favelas in Rio is nearing the astonishing one thousand mark! And, if you have the millions it takes, Urca, Leblon, Ipanema, and Lagoa are the places to look for that pied-à-terre in this tropical madhouse. As for me, and I keep repeating myself, I'll be picking the next as-remote-as-possible spot to visit.

Status Quo...Vadis?

2009-01-24T10:57:00.007-05:00

So to speak...My sister-in-law is coming from Sampa on Tuesday to see the Burle Marx retrospective (didn't I say it was worth a trip to Rio?). Jenny, who hails from Tasmania, also wants to go see "Australia" with me. Two decades ago she moved to the outskirts of Campinas and built herself a house, reminiscent of an Australian outback bungalow, with a row of eucalyptus trees in front. The rest of the garden was downright Brazilian: wide blade grass, pitangas, amoras, mangoes, and so on. The other day we were out taking pictures (she's a superb photographer) and I asked her if she didn't want to have a house again, a piece of land for her herbs and flowers (she's a green thumb). She gave me an emphatic "no!" And the main reason, she said, were the saúvas. For those of you unfamiliar with the delights of maintaining a garden in these latitudes, these insects are some of the largest and most voracious ants in the world. And, apparently, they simply refuse to go away, no matter what you try, short of a scorched earth policy (which kind of defeats the purpose). But where was I that I got here? Oh, I know. When I first came to Brazil my dream was to have a little house somewhere and be able to dig my fingers into soil once more and have my own tropical haven, steps away from the Atlantic forest. Pretty much what Burle Marx did at home and for countless moneyed people around here. Well, it didn't exactly turn out that way. Who knows where I'll end up next, but it's quite likely to be a condo again...oy, vey!

Speaking of going to the movies, I found the best candy in Brazil! Hurray! A little marvel called Bala Juquinha: it's chewy like a salt water taffy, but doesn't stick to your teeth; it's neither sweet nor sour and hits your tastebuds like yumm...Considering it's been majorly popular since the fifties, it beats me why I'd never heard of it until the other day. Better late than never; I intend to make up for lost time. So, to "Australia" I'll go, armed with a handful of tutti-frutti Juquinhas, and I'll throw a few bagfuls into my suitcase next time. The company site claims that they export their candies and lollipops to 49 countries, including the U.S., so they must be available somewhere near us, but just in case...

And, if you can guess where I found the title for this post, I promise to mail you a bag of Juquinhas! It's a play on a very famous book title, but most importantly, it's a fitting description for this bird of passage's existence.

Photo Copyright: Balas Juquinha

Beam Me Back to Brigadoon, Scotty!

2009-01-18T10:36:00.008-05:00

No, not the one in the misty Highlands of Scotland, but an enchanted place of my own choosing. Can it be done, you think? I started mulling over this idea yesterday after I went downtown to see the "Roberto Burle Marx 100 Years" exhibition. I walked through spaces filled with paintings, paintings on fabric, glass sculptures, jewelry, gigantic tapestries, tile panels in myriad colors, drawings, models, until I found what I was looking for: his magnificent landscape designs. Then I sat quietly for a very long time, eyes riveted on large flat TV screens. It was closing time when I left the museum in a rather dreamy state. Oh, how I wish I could live surrounded by any one of those dozens of gardens he created for wealthy homeowners in Brazil and abroad.

Still on the subject of magical places, I've been taking an inventory of my visits to remote corners of Brazil. I've always said that what I like most about this country is the interior; I'm not particularly fond of cities here (apart from Rio and São Paulo). And I've decided that my favorite spot is the awe-inspiring wilderness called Jalapão, in the central-northern state of Tocantins. I remember the camp by a pristine river, the long treks through scrubland to see 30-meter high dunes or a waterfall that looked like a miniature Iguaçu, the 800-meter climb to the top of a mesa to take in the breathtaking view; and how cold the rain was, surprisingly. And the best part: less than one human being per square kilometer! Anyway, as we were walking out of the museum, my friend asked me: So, have you picked your garden yet? I told her I was just going home to get my checkbook... Seriously, though, if I can't have my private Burle Marx oasis, then perhaps take me back to this particular locale?

My photo credit: I was blissfully unaware that a young man from Brasília was taking photographs as I stood there. I wish I could credit him, but I didn't keep his e-mail and I don't remember his name. To see more of my own pics, go to Jalapão.

The Burle Marx show at the Paço Imperial runs through March 22 and it's worth a trip to Rio, I promise!

(Un)Dressing Your Age

2009-01-11T14:00:00.009-05:00

Summer has finally arrived in Rio and you know what that means (besides dodging dengue fever mosquitoes, that is): time to go hunting for the latest styles in bathing suits. (Before you ask, the hottest thing is a strapless top, sold on the beach in Ipanema, that you can mix and match with your favorite bottoms.) The task is relatively easy for the young sirens that inhabit the sands from Arpoador to Barra; it becomes increasingly more of a challenge if you are a woman of a certain age. This is true of all types of garments down here, by the way. I thought I was the only one with this problem, but the other day a friend of mine told me that she had instructed her sons and daughter not to shop for presents for her at such and such stores. These, I'll let you know, used to be our favorite haunts for years; we have now passed them on to the younger generation. And are at a loss as to where we go from here. I have the advantage of dividing my time between Brazil and the U.S., so I hit the stores there. But, where bikinis and such are concerned, we all know that there is only one place in the world to shop and that is right here. Fortunately, there are stores and designers that have women like us in mind when they create their masterpieces: we're older, yes, but small, thin, young-looking and, may I add, not lacking in flair or spunk. So, they make it possible for us to (un)dress our age. Before I forget, my daughter has express orders to chain me to the dining-room table if I ever commit the unpardonable sin of looking ridiculous, on or off the beach.

This adorable three-piece (two bottoms, one top, bought separately from a collection called MixXX Salinas) in the photograph is called a "sunkini" and was purchased at Salinas, where we have faithfully shopped for thirteen years now. And no, we don't get discounts for so generously advertising their creations.

We firmly believe we were the first to write about the Brazilian bikini on the Internet (in 1995). The rather tongue-in-cheek essay is still available on our site.

On further sartorial matters: Aren't you dying to know what Michelle will wear on January 20th? I can't wait for her to surprise and delight us!

You Can Blame the Blueberry Muffin

2009-01-04T13:57:00.005-05:00

Remember when I wrote bitching about Starbucks, comparing the chain stores to Brazilian cafés? Well, I visited Rio's very one and only this afternoon. And I plan to go back often. Blame it on the blueberry muffin, if you wish; it was light and loaded with purple fruit. But I have to tell you that they also make a near perfect espresso macchiato. And the coffee wasn't bitter like the ones I've tasted in Miami Beach. Otherwise, it's set up like any other Starbucks in the U.S., so if you find yourself here and homesick, the address is Shopping Leblon, first floor. By the way, of course there are blueberries in Brazil in the summer; they're called mirtilo in Portuguese and grown in the colder regions of the South. As far as I know, the only fruit Brazil doesn't boast are durian and cranberries.

The title for this post is a wink at a favorite film of mine, "My Blueberry Nights," directed by Wong Kar-Wai. If you missed it at the theaters, please rent the DVD. It's visually stunning and Natalie Portman plays a poker player that you wouldn't want to bet against. It also features blueberry pies, the only ones left over at the end of the day in Jude Law's diner. But, as he says to Norah Jones, "don't blame the blueberry pie." Meaning, "the guy who left you is a complete idiot." And you tell me if their kiss isn't the best you've ever seen in a movie!

Dropping back to Earth, Rio has a new mayor as of January 1. He promised a choque de ordem, something akin to Rudy Giuliani's zero tolerance policy, to clean up and reform the metropolis. I only uncrossed my fingers to type this text! His task is herculean, to say the least. His predecessor, who most people suspect of having an overpopulation of bats in the belfry, left a spectacular mess after twelve years in office (I wouldn't be able to tell you how or why he was reelected twice, but then, I could never figure out why Americans elected George W. Bush either). Anyway, I'll be reading the papers and watching for signs of improvement wherever I go in the next few weeks and will report back. The only thing I don't understand is why they replaced the director of the only public company that works in this city, the Comlurb. Public cleaning and waste disposal has been a tremendous success story. If cariocas weren't such pigs, Rio could easily be one of the cleanest and best maintained places on this planet! Kudos to the men and women in orange uniforms on the streets, parks and beaches. Everytime I see one of them, I feel like giving her/him a big hug and a warm "thank you!" Good job!

If you find this image disturbing, I'll remind you that these are two of dozens of street people who camp in the square in front of my building in a middle-class neighborhood, a few streets away from some of the fanciest mansions in Rio.