This is in Mercado Central and those rope-like coils are tobacco of some kind. I’ll write about Mercado Central another time but it is, doubtless, the coolest place in all of BH.
Mercado Central.
Mercado Central.
Cerveja. I love it.
A new friend (even if he is a Paulista), Ricky or Ricardo (I’m sure the spelling on that is dicey….sorry Ricky)
Carmen, another new friend, with beer and cigarettes (old friends).
Matias…”What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re so Average!”
We actually didn’t even go in this bar. We drank at the gas station next door. Yeah, seriously. Walked into the gas station bought some beers, opened them, drank them and smoked copious cigarettes right in the gas station parking lot. There were many others.
Cigarettes, food, new friends.
Dinner party for Hudson’s birthday at him and his wife’s (Maira) amazing place. They are awesome.
Steve and I on a hike behind Retiro das Pedras (where he lives).
Great little waterfalls and pools.
View of Retiro from the hike.
Steve “I’m a badass” Blanton.
Leo and one of his little pals. (Aurturo, I think)
My new little office. It’s my other favorite place in Brazil.
This is a dream come true. All praise and thanks be to Dudu.
Saidera: Last Drink or “one for the road” - From the word Saida meaning exit. There is never just one Saidera.
Gata: Female cat or hot girl
Pedreiro: Bricklayer - I especially like this one because I asked my friend Matias for a good (bad) working class Brazilian cigarette and he suggested (reluctantly) Derby. I grabbed a pack and they were sufficiently nasty and authentic but when I pulled them out at a party, Raphael, laughed and said, “Cigarro do Pedreiro!” Perfect.
Sala de estar: living room but directly translated (I think…wtf do I know?) as salon of the being.
There are a bunch of different Sala de ……. phrases. The Brazilians seem to do this a bunch. Instead of having 20 different words for things they just say blah blah of the blah blah.
Por exemplo. Another favorite
Fio de cabelo: hair
Fio dental: dental floss
Fio elétrico: electrical wire
I’m sorry I’m not putting much up here. I have a few things in the works but I’m finding myself working a little more than expected. I’ll take the work and take the money because I’ve got penty of time. I hope everyone is well and I miss some of you a whole fucking bunch and the rest of you quite a bit.
Ok, everything’s fine. I got a place to live for the next few months (a chance to get my bearings and learn the language). It’s in a great neighborhood (Sion, close to Savassi, if you’re wondering) with a great guy (Marcelo). It’s actually Eduardo’s room as he is in Angola for four months.
Sorry about yesterday’s post. I think I just had to bleed my vagina out a bit.
As promised, documentation of the paragliding adventure:
Leco, Steve and I arrived, late because this is Brasil and everyone is late, to a flurry of activity and Portuguese chatter. Ten people were standing on a cliff (a ridge, really); some drinking beers, some just watching the majesty of a man floating 300 meters out over the valley. Because we were late, there was little time for introductions and less time for safety instruction (not that I would understand it anyway). Leco gets strapped up and strapped in and I stood there wondering how I was going to communicate when things went bad.
I watched, with mild terror, as Leco abandoned me to the Portuguese gibberish. The Brasilian pilots, noticing my nervousness, kept repeating “Tranquilo” which according my dictionary means calm (duh), clear, easy, or certain. I felt none of those things.
Leco flies away.
Leco flies by. Note how I dropped the camera when they got close to the building. I think I subconsciously didn’t want to film Leco’s death.
They strapped me in and tried reassure me. Calm, clear, easy, certain. The guy in the red shirt in the pic above helped me get clipped and buckled and explained the process to me in rudimentary Portuguese. Hold (segurar) on here. Walk (andar) as the parachute fills with air and lift (levantar) my legs and fly away. Calm, clear, easy, certain. The pilot (Steve and I are sure they were saying bombeiro-firefighter or bombardeio-bombardment but we’re not certian. those don’t sound right) spoke no English. Fala nada. Speak nothing. We were not even on the cliff for more than 12 minutes and I was away.
We zigzagged back and forth along the edge of the ridge and it was marvelous. The wind, heated by the iron in the ground (this is the state of Minas Gerais - literally meaning general mines ) whips along the valley floor and up the slope of the ridge and into our parachute and up we fucking went. Calm, clear, easy, certain. After about 15 minutes of staying near the ridge (remember I have no idea what the fuck is going on - do we land back on the ridge? do we land on the valley floor? how long are we going to be up there?) we began to move out to the wide world; the really real world. 650 meters up and cruising along at about 40km/h. No shit.
Leco off in the distance. Again I stopped filming when Leco’s death seemed imminent.
After a bit I figured out that we were going to land way, way far away (3km, it turns out) from where we took off. As we started to descend, my pilot, emphatically repeated, “Levantar! Levantar!” and tapped my legs. I lifted my legs and we glided down and crashed through some bushes and slid our asses along the ground, somewhat ignobly but safely.
I was relived to be on the ground. And I was even more relived that about 100 meters from the landing sight was the coolest, tiny country bar with a few pilots and a few country people hanging out in it drinking beer.
These kids were parked out front in classic youth fashion. Miscreants. Teenagers. With big block Dodge. The world is the same everywhere.
I haven’t mentioned that Steve had been up on the ridge this whole time, patiently waiting his turn. And, not surprisingly, my favorite part of the whole adventure was hanging out down there at that awesome bar, drinking with these crazy Brasilians for hours while Steve and Leco drove up and down the ridge, shuttling the pilots and themselves.
View from the bar to the ridge.
Steve’s flight in.
I was fairly drunk when Steve came in for his landing. Living the dream, right? Right.
Steve’s landing.
So, what have we learned? I’m a big baby. Everything is not going to be ok, everything already is ok. And there could be worse ways to learn a foreign language.
Tchau!
Last night I lay in bed suffering from a mild heart attack flavored something like this: What….the….fuck….is….wrong….with….me…..?
You see, I moved to Brasil and I think i’m going to throw up. I don’t know how any of this shit works. Here are a few of my anxieties in outline form:
I don’t speak Portuguese and as smart and good with languages that I think I am, I’m not.
I won’t be able to find a place to live.
And when I find a place they won’t rent to me.
And when they do rent to me it won’t have anything in it. No refrigerator, no stove no nothing.
And if I can get that stuff it’ll be in a terrible neighborhood and my neighbor across the hall will kill me.
And you will all eulogize me as an adventurous bon vivant but god will know that I’m just a chickenshit.
And god’ll be pissed about a bunch of other shit, too.
I know this isn’t the best 2nd Brasil post but it is. It’s unfortunate because I’ve already done some amazing things. Including, but not limited to the following:
Hung out at a super cool bar until the wee hours of the morning, making new friends and enjoying old ones.
Jumped off a cliff with a parachute dragging behind me (ok, and a Brasiian dude attached to me) and paragliding way the fuck up. 650 meters they said. It’s hard to say because as you may have heard, I don’t fucking speak the Portuguese (pics and video to follow).
Was invited to a pasta party by the previously mentioned new friends and talked and drank and smoked until 8 am. I think i met the coolest people in all of Brasil.
A bike ride (a short one only to evidence that my bike arrived safely).
A swim (a short one only to evidence that I’m faster than Steve).
Amazing Feijoada at TiaRe’s.
The other day I tried to explain The Grey Album to a girl (they fucking love the Beatles down here and don’t know who the fuck Jay-Z is). She didn’t get it. Later when I explained that I just packed up and picked up and blasted down here, she gasped and said, “What’s her name?”
Those of you who know me well know that I actually don’t go home with girls very often. I keep them at arms length, flirty and fun, but going home alone is one of the many keys to my happiness. I love waitresses this way. It’s their job to flirt and I happily indulge. I flirt with my friend Annie. Fuck, I flirt with Oliver and Josh and Henri. It’s harmless and awesome because all of them know that I don’t want to fuck them. And it’s always more fun that way. I also love this about little girls (you can get self righteous about it if you want but you would clearly misunderstand my meaning). They are fun and flirty and charming with no misunderstanding. I have a new best friend and her name is Victoria.
The line of the night: TiaRe (pronounced chia-hey - Tia meaning Aunt and Re short for Regina) shouts from the back room, “Jay! Jay! Victoria wants you to come watch her in the bath!” As much as I may love to hear that from a lover or some random Brasiliera and have a night of passion and lusty nonsense; I would take the simple giggles and games and Portuguese lessons from Victoria anytime.
