When the parade passes by….

Before the gun went off!

So, as a kid, my parents thought, WE thought parades were awesome. Reality check, parades kind of suck—Boring only until the clowns (scary clowns) came by with candy or you saw someone you actually knew in the parade (whom you made fun of later). I suppose one day, when my own kids are ever in a parade, I may enjoy one, however, I have never been a fan…..until I was in a parade in Brazil…..

Carnaval was upon us and we had made NO plans to do anything….no Sambadrome, no Rio, no costumes. Carnaval is the week before Lent, there isn’t a huge blowout on “Fat Tuesday” like in the states. I think Carnaval is the ONE event that comes to mind when people think of Brazil. I am under the impression that foreigners think Brazilians walk around in sequin thongs and wear feathered headpieces daily. I think outsiders expect drum beats surrounding their every move and Brazilians drink all day. Brazil would not be the 7th largest economy in the world if that were the case. The reality is everyone parties hard until the weekend after, then the city gets back to business as usual. I had asked friends “what is the best thing to do during Carnaval?” “Leave Brazil,” was the #1 answer. We had friends going to Argentina, Peru, anywhere but here…..hmmmm. I was thinking we were pretty much screwed.

The starting line!

An e-mail came thru inviting Jeff and I to a bloco. No freaking clue what a bloco was. Luckily, that week in Portuguese class, we received a lesson in blocos. A bloco is a parade you participate in. You and your friends ARE the parade. There are bands on buses, clowns (scary), kids in costumes, grown-ups in costumes, candy, AND people actually watch the parade. Mind you, in Brazil, the onlookers are usually drinking a beer (because it’s Carnaval), so the parade may be a little more interesting…..

Vase guy! I don’t quite know his inspiration……

Our Bloco was called the Bloco Esfarrapados or the Shabby Bloco. It started on the outskirts of the Jardims, a super chic part of town and went on for 3 or so km. This particular bloco usually attracted 50,000 participants.

The gun goes off!

We found the starting point and waited for the bloco to start. I have participated in over 30 athletic races in the past 7 or so years and I started to get that “at the start of the race” stomach jitters. Seriously! I felt like I was getting ready to run a half marathon, except I was wearing TOMS and had no proper “Lady Support” for the girls–but I had THAT feeling…..And the GUN went off…..the balloons were sent into the air and we were off…..yeah, kind of what you would expect “racing” with 50,000 people, didn’t move for about 5 minutes. Luckily, I hadn’t started my watch yet.

We walked, simple…and it was really fun! I didn’t bring the girls because I did not know what to expect, but next year they are coming! We walked, danced, sang, snagged candy, caught promotional crap thrown off the buses, laughed as we were sprayed with “snow” from naughty little kids, drank a beer and enjoyed all the chaos. A great way to EASE into Carnaval I must say.

My favorite thing about the bloco was watching the people watching us. Old women smiling, remembering a time they walked the bloco, kids scrambling from their doors to catch candy, waiters patiently taking care of their patrons wishing they were enjoying the festivities instead. A beautiful day to be in Brazil, a beautiful day to be with friends, a beautiful day for a shabby bloco…

Watching from above…

Real life happens when you think no one is looking….

Feb7

I have always had voyeuristic tendencies….As a kid, I used to love to watch families at the airport or people at the pool, especially if they were arguing, or my babysitter as she sat in the garage, sneaking a smoke and talking on the phone. As the mother of two athletes, I spend a lot of time in the car and do my fair share of looking when I should be driving…..people do some messed up stuff in their cars!!! I have seen the usual make-up putter-oners, shaving the facers, newspaper readers, pot smokers, and nose pickers. Once….I saw someone giving themselves a special “handshake”…..yeah, not cool……When I lived in Chicago during my undergrad, I used to loiter home to my apartment so I could look into the windows of the tony Lincoln Park brownstones, trying to get a glimpse of what their furniture looked like or who was in there. I feel there is something very intimate about looking in someone’s window—real life happens when you think no one is looking. These days, I just like to look out my 13th floor apartment windows…..sometimes with binoculars and sometimes without….I often wonder, “who is looking at me….”

This is the view from my kitchen window, the first view I have every morning.

Good Morning Brazil

It’s not very pretty….the airport, the grocery store, and restaurants galore. I love the walking culture of my neighborhood….I can walk to the grocery store, the gym, coffee, anywhere. We are lucky not to have any noise from the airport, however, we do hear the helicopter commuters as they buzz the building.

This is the view from the sala de almoço, otherwise known as the lunchroom…..never eaten lunch in here, btw…seriously though, we call it the “Weird Room.” I think we call it that because we’re not sure we’re supposed to be in here….

Nice view from the weird room

The best thing about this view are the PUPPIES who live in the apartment building you can see with the rounded porches. These little ones have been living there for about 3 weeks and they are so cute. Now, I do use the binoculars to watch them, however, watching mom and dad is better. Jeff and I have viewed what we call the “I don’t know why in the hell we got these two stupid dogs” conversations a couple of times already. Also, sometimes, the parents of the parents of the dogs (got that?) have to do puppy play time too—-they are not that into it. Little do they know, all they have to do is call my 10 year-old and I over and we would totally rock puppy play time!

This particular building also has quite a few porch worker-outers—-there are two treadmills and a stationary bike—I bet they have binoculars too…...”Yeah Honey, I’m going to go work-out”….sure….

These are two views from my front porch…..

….and the other

One side of the tracks….

On the left you see some residential homes, apartments and a covered soccer field. On the right you see some residential homes, apartments and a covered soccer field. Not really different, right…..

What you don’t see is the vast invisible socioeconomic divide….The right picture shows the Brazil with money—fancy apartments with doormen, gardeners, maids, drivers, helipads, tree-lined streets…..The left shows the “other” Brazil—favelas (ghettos), traffic, beggars, drug addicts, families collecting cardboard to sell for fifty cents a kilo….Not much separates the two, but they are worlds apart….

This is the view from my back porch…..

Not much to see here but people making dinner, kids playing in the parks below and families enjoying a swim. I call the large apartment on the left the Different Strokes apartment. I imagine fancy meals being served there and heads of state living in the penthouse. For all I know, someone living there is watching me, wondering why I spend so much time just looking….little do they know, I’m just watching real life in real-time….

Step 8

Jan29

“Closing time
One last call for alcohol so finish your whiskey or beer.
Closing time
You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”
-Semisonic

I made a New Years Goal (I don’t do resolutions) to write my blog once a week starting Monday (yesterday). I received a call Sunday night, my biological father had passed away. I decided then I was not capable of starting off the goal with a snarky recap of my days here in Brazil, but a little glimpse of my relationship with my father, Jay Michael Hilton (1944-2013).

My father was an alcoholic. I am guessing the drinking started in High School or college. He was a decorated athlete and very intelligent, however, like so many, he had a closet full of demons which turned the frat house drinking into a daily habit.

My father left our house when I was 11, so I have the most vivid memories of life at home. I remember a man who had a big laugh, beautiful brown eyes, and really tried to connect with me when he could. I also remember police escorts home at 1am, drunken mistakes he made we were pressured to ignore, and a man who was merciless at the dinner table. I recall people thinking he was an awesome guy, the guy who would buy a round at the bar or willing to go hunting anytime. I also recall, after these jovial events, the criticism and fear in our home. As the first born girl of three, I tried to be the quintessential daughter, however this was difficult. We were reminded on a regular basis we all should have been boys, named “John.”

I know my father, sans alcohol, could have always been an amazing person. I’m sure he even had some high points as an alcoholic. He had a successful career, up to a point, and tried to have successful relationships, just not so much with my mother, sisters, and I. He had a sister who loved him, daughters who desperately wanted to, and friends who wanted to help, some even walked away because they loved him…..

After he left we saw him very intermittently. A stay here or there when my mom went out of town. An awkward meal on a birthday or Christmas. We all attended his weddings (#2 & #3) and were hopeful these women could save him, God knows they tried. Alcohol had a grip on him…..

As I became an adult and had a family of my own, I forgave my father (between God and myself) and made the decision to wait for Step 8; “Make a list of all persons we have harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all.” That was his in. One step 8 call or letter to myself, my sisters or my mother and I would embrace him with open arms. That call or letter would let me know he was truly invested in his recovery and loved us. Imagine, he finally loved us more than alcohol….
never got the call…
he never got back in…..

As I write I am reminded of one instance I made him truly proud. New Years Eve, 1976 (may have been ‘75) I asked my father to quit smoking. He took the cigarettes and threw them into the fireplace. Every year after that, until he left, he reminded me that I was the one who encouraged him to quit and I would get a great big bear hug. Sitting here, I can feel that hug….Dad, I hope you found peace….

“GOD, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Living ONE DAY AT A TIME, enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship as the pathway to peace. Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it. Trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His Will, that I may be reasonably happy in this life, and supremely happy with Him forever in the next.”
-The Serenity Prayer

If you or someone you love is powerless over alcohol, please contact Alcoholics Anonymous. www.aa.org

Language barrier or breakthrough…..

Oct16

We are the world…..yeah, right…..

The most frustrating thing to date about living in Brazil is the language barrier. Imagine being dropped off on Mars, granted you could live there, and expected to prosper. My situation seems less drastic, however, sometimes I think Mars would be easier—they would just make me their slave and life would be predictable…..

There is a loneliness I did not expect when you are the “foreigner.” I am flattered when people speak to me in Portuguese because I THINK they think I’m Brazilian—fat chance. I did not realize I would stick out that much, but I seem to scream, “AMERICA.” The blond highlights, American branded clothing, sharp facial features, the only person who sweats at the gym, flat butt….. I did have an Argentinean woman tell me she thought I was Dutch, because the family is so tall and she was 75% correct, the kids and the hubby are, not me—-100% western Euro in the house. So what happens when you look the part of the outsider? You are treated like one…..

I started Rosetta Stone before we moved, in an effort to learn a bit of Portuguese. FYI, just BUYING it, does not a fluent speaker make…..I did some of the lessons but appreciate it SO much more now that I actually hear it every day and have somewhat of an understanding. On top of RS, I am taking class twice a week in a group. I am the dumbest student in the class…..really…..Post-graduate degree my ass, this is the hardest thing I have ever studied. I have learned in my old age that I am a VISUAL learner period and I am now learning an auditory subject—say what? Seriously, if I were getting a grade, I think I would be getting a D, oh, and I think I annoy the others in the class because I suck. The teacher tried to make a “special” class for myself and a couple of my other dumb gringo pals, but it fell through—-so, the “smarties” are stuck with me and it causes great anxiety for me every Tuesday and Thursday from 9:45-11 am.

This experience has been a training in empathy for sure. I have been annoyed by those who don’t speak MY language in MY country and now, well, I’m the one not speaking YOUR language in YOUR country….or so I thought…..

I have really been trying to do all the normal things I used to do in the states; grocery shop, farmers market, gym, dry cleaners, etc….it helps me use my meager language skills and maybe will help me get a life. I usually apologize up front to every native speaker, “Desclupe, meu Portuguese e terrivel.” (Sorry, my Portuguese is terrible) Most often the response is “Esta tudo bem” (It’s fine) and they speak louder and slower. Rarely, but on occasion, people are total tools and either completely ignore me OR roll their eyeballs, universal sign for, “I don’t get paid enough to deal with this lady.”

Today was ‘pick up the dry cleaning’ day and the husband told me I could do it. Lucky me…..So after Portuguese class I stopped at the shop, walked in, greetings, handed her the receipt and had to ask a question about a shirt I wanted mended, oh crap, here we go, “Desclupe, eu nao falo Portuguese (Sorry, I really don’t speak Portuguese) and they start laughing…..So, I start laughing…..She tells me my Portuguese is great and I should keep speaking, so I actually was able to tell her about the shirt. She wants to fix it right there and I say, “Amanha e bom” (tomorrow is fine). She laughs again and says, Voce no fala, eh?! (You don’t speak, huh?!). I left feeling like I had created fire, language breakthrough….thank you Lord….Eu falo….

An American girl walks into a Brazilian Gym…..

Sep18

If you have an aversion to panty lines, read on. If you have no interest in reading about them, skip this post and go buy some thongs, because if you have no interest in reading about them, you don’t own any….or you are Brazilian….and mom, I’m not writing about flip-flops…..

I have always belonged to a gym. My first membership was to the Chicago Bally’s Health Club, otherwise known as “pick me up, I’m wearin’ a thong” central. It was the early 90’s and the thong leotard was BIG! I had 6-7 of them in amazing colors that nature never intended and the remnants of an 80’s spira- wrap perm to add texture. I took step aerobics, cardio jam, and ab blaster classes. Believe it or not, I used to go to happy hour with my co-workers on Friday and then go to step aerobics with a beer buzz. That was how committed to fitness I was.

When we moved to Brazil, I told my husband we needed a gym, pronto. I started working out at the gym at his office (See, Who are the people in my neighborhood for a review) but it was so lonely and I began talking to the equipment, and they were answering me back. After some brief research (huh, which one is closest to the apartment) we found our gym, however, no pool and the cost was twice what we were paying in the states, however, still less than drug addiction and therapy (so I exaggerated my need a bit much…).

We walk into our new gym and what do I see—-PANTY LINES EVERYWHERE! We are talking, granny panty lines, almost thong panty lines, panties you can see thru the spandex, ALL BRAZILIAN WOMEN WEAR UNDERWARE TO WORKOUT! I could not stop looking and pointing out to my husband all the lines I was seeing—He had already discovered this in the 2 ½ months he lived here prior to our arrival and he was over it, but me, no way—all I could look at were Brazilian bumbums!!! Now, I need to point out, as a very white, chemically enhanced blond with little social filter and a perpetual WTH look on my face, I believe I may have been making somewhat of a spectacle of myself. I was dumfounded…..

So, I ask Brazilian Julie (my awesome friend and to guide to all things Brazil), “What’s up with the panty lines?” ‘What do you mean,” she says. “Um, American women don’t wear underwear to work out,” my reply. Julie asks, “Why?”

Why don’t we, I wondered….and did I just give away secured intel to the women of Brazil? I think it has everything to do with panty lines. The more I think about it, the sillier it seems—-we all wear underwear, so why do we want to hide it so badly…..Do we really want people to think we aren’t wearing underwear….?

I know why we don’t when we work out, or should I say, I know why I don’t…..Years ago, some of you may remember, I ran 18 miles on a treadmill. It was raining and I was training for a marathon and I didn’t want to get wet. I was wearing a thong under my spandex. Let’s just say I am done with that monkey business. Also, American made athletic apparel for women is specifically made for us to go commando. Have you EVER seen panty lines on a LuLu Lemon model, NO! Go ahead, check for yourself…..

I had Julie shopping on LuLuLemon.com in a nanosecond (hey, LuLu, that’s two references, show me some love!). Julie explained that Brazilian athletic wear is not made for women to go commando. BTW, she really liked LuLu (3^rd reference).

I have more to report, butt that is all for now……

I want to ride my bicycle; I want to ride my bike…..

Aug29

Jeff and I and our two bikes going down the elevator, kind of like a clown car, but better

This is dedicated to Laurel, Kim, Darlene, Christina, and the other amazing REAL cyclists who put up with me on the roads of Sonoma and Napa counties. I ONLY rode because of your company. Seriously, I’m still not sure I like riding a bike…! I’m pretty sure this is not news to you…..

Back in Sonoma County I was an amateur cyclist, a VERY amateur cyclist at best. I started riding because I got hit in the head with a brick one day and when I woke up, I believed I was a triathlete. Now, triathlon is a totally different blog, but let’s just say I received a lot of medals that said “Participant.” I raced triathlon JUST to make other people look good…..let’s get back to the cycling…..

I continued to ride because I truly enjoyed the people I rode with. I like to think they kept asking me because they enjoyed my company as well, however, I think they just needed someone’s ass to kick every week, so they brought me along—to kick my ass.

My husband and I packed our bikes to Brazil and truly thought we would not ride again, ever. Personally, I was kind of hoping the bikes would fall off the boat and then I could use the insurance money for my tummy tuck, but the bikes made it along with the trainer (for those of you who don’t ride, a trainer holds your bike stationary so you can ride and watch movies and eat pizza and play video games while you ride your bike in your living room). Oh happy day….

So what do we see when we arrive……cyclists! Here they ride everywhere—even on the freeway…..

Freeway cycling harmony

In Sonoma/Napa there is a continual battle between cyclists and automobiles, a kind of “which came first the chicken or the egg” debate on who owns the road. Here there is a harmony between cyclists and drivers. They share a feeling of equality, but I really think that the drivers don’t have time to stop and pick up a dead body, so they leave the cyclists alone.

We soon learned folks ride other places than on the freeway, can I hear another, yay…… Every Sunday (Domingo) the city of Sao Paulo closes a lane of road all over the city for cyclists. You can go just about anywhere on a bike on Sunday. I’d like to see the great city of Chicago try this….too much carnage to even think about….

We ventured out on Sunday. Luckily, I can ride fast enough as not to get robbed because we have a sketchy part of the hood to go thru to reach the main drag. On the main road we could ride about a quarter of a kilometer then have to stop at a stoplight—this was great for me, cycling a quarter of a km at a time is my kind of biking. We got in a good groove whereas we are hitting the lights so they are green and actually rode a full km. We really wanted to get to the Marginal (stinky river I have written about before) because there is a great flat riding path to follow with no stops. Jeff throws down some Portuguese to another rider and next thing we know, we have a tour guide. Said cyclist, Maarten, is German/Brazilian speaks 41 languages and is thrilled to show us how to ride in Sao Paulo. Maarten is about 6’5 and is riding a mountain bike. We are cruising at 18-22 mph, this man was an OX!

I am in awe of the kindness here in Brazil. Back in Sonoma County, riders are sometimes too busy sizing up bikes, components, kits, to really think about how blessed they are to ride in one of the most beautiful places on earth—In Sao Paulo, its ugly and smells bad sometimes, and people are just happy to ride on Sunday. My favorite sight of the day was this man on a POS bike with an old school boom box attached to his bike with a bungee cord. We passed him 3-4 times and he was riding happy.

Domingo, a beautiful day, great company, our first 25 miles behind us and home by 10:30 am. Not a fast ride but a good ride. Thank you Maarten, Sao Paulo, and the amazing spirit…

I’m free, maybe……

Aug7

Mother, you will be glad to know my Not Without My Daughter life may come to an end. (Just to let you kind readers know, my mother thinks I’m kind of being held hostage. I’m not. Do not send help, just kosher salt)

MY CAR IS HERE AND PLATED!

That means I get to drive…..down there…..

I have made reference to driving in Sao Paulo, but I need to tell you the rules. Here they are in order of importance:

1. Do not even think of sitting in an intersection.

2. Do not sit in a cross walk. This one I just don’t get, NO ONE stops for pedestrians, but don’t even think about sitting in a cross walk???

3. Do not run over anyone.

That’s it—3 easy rules and I am scared, very scared….

First super scary thing are lines on the road are merely suggestions. If your car is bigger than a VW, you won’t fit in the lines anyway so you are exempt, but most people drive thru the lines like a 2 year-old colors. It looks like a scene from “Worlds Worst Car Chases” every day.

Second super scary thing are the 4-way stops, or their lack of….I have NEVER seen a 4-way stop, however, there are 2-ways but what for??? Most intersections have nothing….4 cars may get to the intersection at the same time and the one whose driver has the biggest balls (sorry Mom) wins. I do not have any balls so I imagine it will take me 4 hours to go a block or 2….

Third super scary thing is no neat grid system with the design of roads here like in the great city of Chicago. Evidently the Portuguese who conquered Brazil decided to make the roads difficult to navigate, therefore, no one could escape indentured servitude. GPS navigation is a joke. My husbands GPS loves to tell him, in her sexy British accent, to continually turn the wrong way onto one-way streets—-I hope she has a bloody good laugh. AND because of all the wayward one-way streets, if you pass, say, a store you want to go to, you have to go 6 km out of your way to get back. Yesterday, for example, we passed the grocery store and got a wonderful view, for the children, of “Crack Alley.” Awesome, kind of like Disneyland……Bad Disneyland……

I know what all the men are thinking, “Sounds AWESOME!” Seriously guys, it’s like a real life, no joke, video driving game. Out of nowhere a guy with a cart full of bricks my come barreling into you or the guy to the right of you may decide to turn left IN FRONT OF YOU! Most of you would love this! I know my husband does and he drives stick!

Now, I know what all the women are thinking, “Get a driver silly!”

I’m a big girl now, I get to drive….

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