We All Are Strange

            My cousin and I were waiting outside a restaurant in my hometown Czestochowa, Poland. She was sipping on a coke when a middle-aged woman approached her and asked: "Could you pour some of that coke into my bottle? I am catching a train in a few minutes and I don't want to fall asleep on it." My cousin, in a very nonchalant kind of way, poured half of the contents of her bottle into the woman's and we watched her walk away in a swift step, determined not to miss her train. What we had just witnessed was probably the first incident of sharing a coca-cola, not out of a debilitating hunger or thirst, but in order to keep awake. It is not uncommon practice to share bread, water or... wine, if we want to be traditional and Christian, but sharing of a coke, now that was just something else.

            At that same place I also got to experience the opposite of the above amicable human interaction. Although Czestochowa welcomes endless pilgrimages throughout the whole summer, there are still very few restaurants offering quality food at reasonable prices. It just so happened that, aside from pilgrims, that day the entire non-working population of Czestochowa made their way to the Monastery for a mass for a special celebration of the Virgin Mary. As we waited on a table, I couldn't help but notice that we and all the other desperately hungry people stood around the place like vultures eyeing all the guests and assessing how much time they would need to free the table. After some 40 minutes of waiting we noticed that a group of young people that had just come in was trying to cut us out of the queue. With my stomach growling violently I could not ignore that and so I went up to them and said: "Sorry, guys, but we've been waiting here much longer and the first free table will be OURS." I stood there expecting a storm of words, prepared to fire back, and yet no words were spoken. The one girl that had listened to my proclamation stood there motionless grilling me with her indifferent eyes. Suddenly I became confused. My comment carried with it an obligation to repent, confess guilt and ask forgiveness and instead I was only getting indifference? What lack of tact! I traced my steps back to where my cousin was standing all the while trying and failing at concealing the fact that I suddenly found myself feeling old. This kind of indifference I did not understand. Luckily the situation resolved itself without a need for a fight because two different parties happened to get up at the same time. The girl did not even glance at me when she took her seat while I couldn't make myself disregard the whole incident and enjoy my meal. As I delved into a plateful of shawarma, it became clear to me that I posed no problem to her whatsoever and that, of course, annoyed me even more.

             Finally, on the eve of my return flight to New York, I insisted on taking the train from Czestochowa to Warsaw. Sure it would have been much more convenient to get a ride there, but there is really nothing like a train ride. First off, it is the only form of ground transportation that I can handle without getting nauseous, which brings me to my second point, namely that I am able to spend that time reading and, possibly, being productive. Thirdly, I like the thrill of meeting new people out of mere chance and it matters not whether I get to talk to them or not. My experience has been that you always come across something odd and that something is what makes the trip memorable. This time was no different. As I sat down across a middle-aged man with a few teeth left in his mouth, a strong stench of alcohol and a beer in his hand, I knew there would be a story out of that encounter. Normally I would have tried to change compartments, but I was traveling with an overloaded suitcase and, to my surprise, the man sounded quite coherent despite his level of intoxication, which made me think he was of no threat. After his few attempts at a conversation (with that I do try to be careful; a drunk man might interpret a polite chit-chat as a flirt and I was far from wanting to put myself in that situation) he stretched himself on all the four seats and began snoring in no time.

             Meanwhile, two young guys sat right outside our compartment and began watching me with overt intensity. It felt awkward to have two pairs of eyes on me while I was trying to read, but I did make sure to ignore them long enough so as to discourage whatever they planned on achieving. Some two hours into the travel, the beer man woke up, asked if he could smoke in there, when I denied him that pleasure, he left, came back, asked what day it was and then sat across from me for a few minutes. After that he opened the door and spoke to my two private observers: "Gentlemen, this lady over here is traveling to Warsaw with me. If she wants some excitement there, she will find it no problem. So please be so kind as to f*** off." He shut the door and lied back down to take another nap. This time I looked over at those guys hardly managing not to burst out laughing. They were beet red and, soon after, gone. For a moment I considered clarifying how I had nothing to do with this toothless drunk who had just proclaimed himself my bodyguard or, worse yet, a boyfriend, but then I wanted those guys to have a memorable trip as well.

The Magic of Forró

             Before boomboxes, CD players, IPods and such, my exposure to music was limited to sing-along family gatherings and house parties. My parents usually had to drag me to those reunions because I did prefer to organize my own time and play with my friends, but I always ended up enjoying myself and refusing to return home afterwards. Grandma, on the paternal side, was the initiator and the main voice in the singing that made an indispensable part of every party: birthdays, holidays, and just your regular weekend get togethers. I always marveled at how many songs she had memorized and how she managed to have others sing along with her. The main attraction of those parties was certainly the fact that we all shared in the cooking, the eating, the singing and the cleaning afterwards.

            Only now do I see how important this little tradition was and how much we have lost when we replaced the sound of our own voices with portable machines that do the job for us. I wish there were a recording of my family singing together because now it seems practically impossible to reproduce the experience with some people being gone, others dispersed around the world, others yet unwilling to come and sit together with the family. It saddens me deeply to see something so nurturing go and so I vow to myself to never stop singing and to bring my family together as much as possible without any regard for old grudges or hurt pride.


            What incited this reminiscing was a party that a group of friends and I attended in Ilha Bela. It was June and, appropriately, the happening was called "Festa junina." This is the month designated as a celebration saints and, especially, of São João (St. John) and, for that occasion, Brazilians engage in what they call Forró. When asked what the word meant, my friend Marcelo suggested: "Forró - like 'For All,' but pronounced by a Brazilian." I found the idea clever and hilarious all at the same time, but made sure to research it further because something told me the explanation was rather far-fetched.

             The one thing that checked off was the fact that the party had its door open to everyone: children, youngsters, adults, elderly and even us, gringos. And to make the point of its indiscriminate character, it was organized in the courtyard of a middle school among multi-colored walls and the students' artwork. This was the most pleasant academic structure and environment that I had ever encountered in my life and what a great space for a dance party! It made it that much easier for everyone to unwind and even regress a bit.

            Returning to the label though, I looked up Forró and it does list "For All" as one of the possible influences. Apparently in the 19oos, the English engineers that were hired to work on a railroad up in the North of Brazil tended to organize parties either only for the workers or "For All." A more plausible explanation though is that the term is a derivative of forrobodó, or a "great party." Finally, Wikipedia also suggests that it might come from the engine number "40" (four-oh) that the English railroad engineers kept on repeating as they worked. Bottom line, it is uncertain who coined the term and based on what, nonetheless, the name stuck and it has been used widely to denominate the style of music and the type of party.

             It took some time to get used to the sounds of accordion, zabumba (bass drum) and triangle played by three very original looking fellows (notice the picture), but soon enough the music took me back to those house parties and the Polish folklore. The accordion especially made me think of my friend's dad who would always bring it out and unfold and fold its bellows filling the room with a robust sound. There was something very rustic and yet very comforting about the accordion. As I hopped around in a circle holding hands with complete strangers, I was suddenly back in my grandma's house and, for all I knew, the language I was hearing was Polish and all these people were my family and friends who have gathered to celebrate yet another birthday.

For an interesting explanation of forró look up:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GcwKEGzpy-E&feature=related

And for music you must check out Luis Gonzaga, the master of forró. I found a great podcast on ITunes called brazilianbeatz. DJ Vivo (haha) compiles all types of Brazilian music and makes it accessible for free!

Those Cows Were Really Looking at Me!

            All my yoga teachers have stressed the importance of giving up meat if you were serious about achieving corporeal and mental balance. Having already had eliminated a lot of things from my diet since my celiac disease diagnosis, I decided to pay little attention to the yogis' recommendation, especially that I was planning a trip to Brazil and a visit to a churrascaria was quite inevitable.
            While in Sao Paulo, I dined at several of those meat meccas indulging shamelessly in the prime cuts that I was being offered. Now, just a quick word about what kind of dining this is: it is pigging out. Before you even get a chance to settle down, plates start filling up the table in a manner so swift, you barely get a chance to reflect on it or protest. If this is what you wanted, then you are certainly in the right place. My experience, however, has proven to me that, no matter how starved you happen to be or how much you love food, at some point you will begin to feel a rising frustration as dishes multiply in front of your eyes, meat incessantly circles around you, and more a more food enters your mouth. Suddenly you will find yourself gasping for air and hissing at the staff to just leave you alone! But, hey, maybe it is the right price to pay for volunteering to blindly patronize the meat business.

            One weekend we decided to go to Brotas, a place known for rafting and other outdoors 
activities. The first day I was talked into going on a 26-mile bicycle tour around the area. Throughout the trail we encountered many different animals. We took pictures of them and went on our way. Right when the sun was about to set, we arrived at the peak of a hill where a big herd of cows began running our way. They were not aggressive, rather contemplative and curious. They ran only until a certain point and then just stopped observing us from the distance with those charcoal eyes. There was so much pain in that look, so much disappointment, but also a trace of hope. Here we were - the encounter between the killer and its prey with each of the parties having the possibility of becoming one or the other. Suddenly the picture from the churrascaria with the cows body partitioned for consumption popped in my head and it became evident that we were the ones with blood on our hands. These majestic animals, in turn, were giving us a moment to reflect, a moment to redeem ourselves.

            We left the scene embarrassed and, finally, it became clear what my yoga instructors were trying to convey all this time. How I wished I would have listened then.

Off-road in Ilha Bela, Brazil

When we got to Ilha Bela, an island off of the coast of Sao Paulo state, I looked around and, noticing so many pickup trucks and four by fours, I concluded, "the Midwest at its best." Soon enough though I was more than grateful to be sitting in one of those. Ilha Bela, apart from its fantastic sailing conditions and impressive natural beauty, is a destination for off-road riding. The trail takes you on a 2.5-hour drive (under good weather conditions) through the jungle-covered mountains in order to arrive at a breathtaking beach, Castelhanos.

Now, when the locals caution that you need a 4 by 4, they know what they are talking about, especially if it has rained recently. We were lucky enough to make that trip with Marcelo, the owner of the pousada where we stayed; lucky because his car was equipped for that kind of riding and because Marcelo was an experienced driver. He let us enjoy the beach well after sunset despite knowing what the return trip would bring. Let's just say that some twenty minutes into the trail, we found some 5 cars hopelessly stuck in the mud. To help them out, all of us in the car had to step out and walk in complete darkness. We found ourselves falling into thigh-deep pits or slipping uncontrollably on the mud. The good thing was everyone kept their spirits high, especially with the amount of beer that was going around.

Two hours into this pushing and pulling of other cars and then of ours, we looked at the clock on the dashboard, then at each other and laughed hysterically. Two and a half hours had passed and we were nowhere near the top of the mountain. All this time we had deluded ourselves that we'd make it back in time for dinner. At that point, it looked like we'd be lucky to get back at all that night. Marcello was the Angel sent from the above, the Good Samaritan, the Savior for all those bigger-than-life dudes who thought their skillful driving could get their lousy cars through hell.

YES!

Brazilian people do not like disappointing. In theory, it is a nice gesture on their part because they will go out of their way to see the person satisfied. The problem arises, however, when they do not understand what they are being told or asked and yet they offer to help. They are extremely good at making the person feel taken care of until the very last moment when they try ending the conversation with an assurance that makes no sense whatsoever.

Yesterday, for example, I arrived at the hotel in the center norte part of Sao Paulo, starving after the long overnight flight and so I measured my options – should I call room service and in my rusty Portuguese explain my gluten allergy or should I instead go down to the reception and let someone there place an order for me in their native Portuguese after I have explained everything to them in English? I opted for the latter. The young man smiling at me with a mouthful of braces seemed to understand what I was telling him – “I would like to ask you a favor. I cannot eat gluten and I am trying to order some food. Could you call the restaurant and ask which dishes are safe for me?” His response: “Yes.” I thought things were going well so I stood there expecting him to make the phone call while he also stood there looking at me as if I had not finished my request. I decided to change my approach. I opened the menu and pointed to two dishes: “Could you call the restaurant to check if these two contain gluten?” He looked at the menu, then at me and responded with a question: “Gluten?” Then he took the menu from me reading the ingredients in the dishes out loud and concluded: “No, there is no gluten, Mrs.” “Oh, this is going to be harder than I thought,” I said to myself. Then I returned to my first question and stressed the part about calling the chef. He finally picked up the phone. Apparently the dishes were safe and as he put down the receiver he promised to have the food delivered in 30 minutes. I was not convinced, but I did return to my room.

Fifty minutes later I decided to inquire what was taking so long. “Do you speak English?” – I asked the man from room service. “No,” – he replied and waited. “Is there someone who does?” – I decided not to give up. I heard some commotion and then another man picked up the phone. “Hello. I am waiting on my order. It’s been 50 minutes. Do you know if it’s ready?” – I assumed he already saw my room number. “Yes,” – he answered. The previous experience with a short yes and no made me want to make sure he understood what the conversation was about. “Room 1518. Is there food coming up?” He thought for a second and corrected himself, “No.” This was going extremely well! I guessed it wasn’t the best time to make no-gluten requests so instead I just ordered the same thing again and made a mental note not to miss the regular meal hours at the restaurant downstairs – they were buffet style.

I do have to stress the fact that I do not expect people to speak English wherever I go. In fact, I wanted to come here to learn the language and, whenever possible, I do resort to my Portuguese of a 5-year-old with little shame. The only reason I find these experiences funny and maybe a bit frustrating is because they demonstrate how culture does not really translate into another language. What I mean by that is that when Brazilians say - “Yes,” despite having no clue of what they are agreeing for, they do it out of politeness. To an English speaker, however, and I mean a North American English speaker, the affirmation translates into: a) they just understood what they were told and/or asked, b) they agreed to do whatever needed to be done. The language that both parties used might have been the same and yet there was no communication. Now that’s a real challenge for language teachers!

Run Off That Cliff, Why Don't You?

There is nothing in the world I fear and hate more than the feeling of falling. Although many of my friends, my sister included, have assured me that skydiving does not provoke that sensation of all your organs coming up to your throat, I refuse to believe them. You submit your body to gravity's force and you don't feel that you're falling? Please! That said, I still have no idea how I let my husband's colleague talk me into doing hang gliding in Rio de Janeiro. Was I slow in connecting that this too would produce that queasy feeling I so despise?

The funny thing is I was the only one in the group that knew exactly how this was going to go down. The people into whose hands you decide to entrust your life take you to the top of the mountain where they strap you, give you instructions and repeat a million times that you have to run on that ramp at top speed. They make sure you run off that cliff, not jump, but really, what difference does it make? Either way you are told to surrender your common sense and hope that, at the end, you will still be standing in one piece.

To add insult to injury, right before our turn, someone landed in a tree. The wind had suddenly picked up and things didn't go as planned. As a result, we were stalled for some time as a precaution. They assured us the person was fine, but we looked at each other unconvinced and even more petrified. I kept telling myself that there was still time to bail out. Our instructors must have known that beforehand because they did not ask for any money upfront. Something in me though was up for the challenge and so I ran, not jumped and immediately experienced the awful sensation, a bodily reaction to the obvious - you're falling, you know?

Fortunately, the feeling lasted only a second and then the gliding began. The wind was still strong and there were moments of sweaty hands, closed eyes and quiet prayers. Exactly at a moment like that, the guy to whom I was strapped decided to answer his phone. He was navigating with one hand! My eyes were suddenly open wide open scanning the area below us; what if we fall here or there? How much will it hurt? What are my chances of surviving? Oh god, the feeling of falling!

When he finally manage to maneuver us down onto the beach, I wanted to slap him in the face. I considered it, but then just thanked him and walked away. After all, I was still in one piece and we were safely on the ground. The one benefit from this experience is that I can disprove the theory of combatting your fears if you confront them. I'm still scared of falling and the hang gliding only strengthened that fear.