In the clearing stands a ...

March 16, 2013

Four shirts, two pair of pants, socks, a sweatshirt, gloves, wool-lined winter coat and I still shiver uncontrollably in minus a bizillion degrees outdoors while walking Tyrus around the streets of buzzing downtown St Paul. Needless to say it is tricky to transition to Minnesota winter.  From eighty plus degrees to minus seven makes me envy to cat parked by the heat vent in the hall.

Surrounded by three big energetic dogs, four lively cats (one who adores beer and another tosses around limes from the counter) four blanketed horses and giving and supportive family…what could be a better haven?

Dogged tired so I will make this short and to the point…brushed my teeth, washed face and hands and came back to bed only to find the Boxer in my spot on the pillow!

Snowy roads and incommunicado day.  Tomorrow has already arrived so I push aside my furry friend to get some much needed REM sleep!

Task at Hand

March 15, 2013

Bitter tears stream down my tired and dampen the spirits face aged with long wakeful travels. My intention of working extended and break my back laborious hours in the glorious productive fields with inventive farmers never came to fruition. Many months of detailed preparation, communication with contacts regarding integral seasonal timing, sorted complicated transportation and gratis room and board fizzled, disappeared in the blink of an accident on a slippery slope. The intense grief appears out of the blue and I couldn’t be more grieved at the loss of my unrequited dream.

In front of me lies the challenge of maneuvering our survivor level wage rate employment prospects riddled with rejection and discouragement. Unless of course I manage to greet the chance of work for trade in another field entirely, one that doesn’t require long hours on the balls of my feet nor an expertise in fresh mud-ridden produce. The lay of the land of opportunity, our streets paved with gold that await my positive thinking approach, a Super Woman’s stance of confidence and professional foot attire to support my lumpish left foot is imperative. All is available in the Land of the Home and the Free!

The grueling task of a search and rescue operation discovering the guarded skills and talents I packed away for future use those many months ago before accepting my ex-pat mission is at hand. I cannot possibly manage without the devoted support of my multitude of friends and family whom spew resources and suggestions I open-mindedly consider unless of course I stew in my stubbornness and dig in my heels with resistance.

I could be a pilot, astronaut, firefighter, brain surgeon, circus clown, golf cart driver, go go dancer, life guard, writer, professional basketball player, renter of wheelchairs at the Mall, street sweeper, Global Globe Award decision maker, fashion model, Geriatric Care Manager, photographer, tiger attendant at the zoo. The sky is the limit. My mind whirls with the chance to discover the particular posts that will reflect who I am now and what I am capable of.  

Now, if only I could shake the inability to recognize objects (visual agnosia) like the patient in The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. Guess I will go back to bed!

Beat it home

March 14, 2013

The last minute scramble to the airport by a good-looking, taciturn dark-skinned cabbie who dropped me in a hurry at the inconsistent airport commercial bus stop was a feat in and of itself. Upon arrival none of the numerous attendants were certain of Air Canada’s check-in desk locale so I raced around from one end of the terminal to the other with a heavily loaded cart to land at the destination in time for my flight. Guzzle water from my smart green reusable container as I wait my turn at the security checkpoint, taking in the various passengers kissing their hosts, family members, and lovers goodbye. I politely nod in agreement, it is difficult to grasp the multitude of sensations passing through my heart and soul as I quiver with sweat from the OJ Simpson journey and anticipation of the loss of my adopted country. I had to be content with a silent farewell to those whom touched me in my just shy of six weeks mission.

The flight to Toronto Pearson was a sordid affair with wailing children, a vomiting woman, men bantering in enthusiastic voices as though no one was sitting within earshot. The annoying announcements in three languages interrupted my three full-length films throughout the night. Who can sleep in such commotion and non-conforming seats? My aching stomach battled with the once fresh vegetarian meal so I staggered up and down the football field aisle to the restroom far too many times to keep track. At least I paid attention to the suggestion I wouldn’t like the coffee by the charming male flight attendant and drank cup after cup of sweet juice, hot bitter tea, and water from the petroleum based single use plastic water bottle. The ten hour plus flight passed like a child awaiting Christmas in July and I was dog-tired upon our pre-sunrise arrival.

A week dried cranberry scone and diluted cup of Seattle’s Best coffee woke me up long enough to walk the long distance to the newly revised Customs System. Step One scans the boarding pass and then a long wait with a disgruntled group while unbeknownst to me, Customs employees scrounge through my bags looking for illegal paraphernalia. Step Two allows the agent to scan my Passport and I enter into the slot to speak with the chatty Step Three Customs gent. Off I go along the corridors to Security where I pass the water guzzling, shoe shunning, metal stripping, ziplock bag stuffing, computer juggling passengers through X-ray to my gate.

I have to leave the warm building to climb the metal stairs to my seat on the small plane parked at the last possible gate on the planet. It is too cold for my light summer jacket, yoga pants and snazzy painted tennis shoes. I long for the fuzzy boots, scarves, wool coats and gloves glued to the rest of the brilliant passengers. No one is up for sharing.

My head bobbles as I manage to stay awake long enough to read bits of my hardback book I can’t recall the subject of, from one paragraph to another. An hour and 53 minutes and we are in Minneapolis. My bags pop off the conveyor belt and I stupidly ask the woman next to me where I need to take my luggage for a Customs search. Apparently as I waited in Pearson Airport, they were passing inspection!

Snow, freezing temps and long hugs from Taelor and my friends brings me back to the reality of my life before fields on the farm, fractured bones, lengthy conversations over platters of sustenance and relationships that will last my lifetime.

Brigadeiros are coming

March 13, 2013

Feliz Aniversario Max!

The two little recent huggable and kissable men in my life woke up as I did and stormed down the stairs to say goodbye. I was afraid I wouldn’t have the chance to give them my fond farewells since they were overtired and went to bed kicking and screaming last night. But there they were, smiling and loveable bright and early to tell me to come back soon.

Carpooled in with Katia and, per her usual schedule, had shockingly high octane coffee in a thimble and a cheese roll bigger than my head for breakfast at the little café ‘round the corner from her office. We struggled with my over-packed luggage to the taxi stand and eventually a guy showed up in a marked cab to bring me to my destination that, from my trusty ipod, looked “just around the bend.” As we drove around and around several blocks, making turns this way and that as the meter ticked-on I got angry, muttering about the R$17 missed turn so he admitted it was his fault and he charged me a flat rate. I was squirming in the back, controlling my upset in my per-usual angst in a cab with the meter running and running…don’t know how the big city people cope!

Hitched a ride into downtown with my friend, Guilerme on his way into town (he decided to take a cab today for some odd reason so I got to practice my taxi calming skills once again) and they dropped me off at the Metro Station (Se.) I am forever asking a million people which way to the this, that, or the other and I get a different response every time. Brasilians, like most people, like to be helpful and blurt out seemingly exact directions whether they know or not. It is a great game of who looks like they REALLY know as they are pointing, gesturing and nodding in earnest.

Toodled around the main drag, side streets, back alleys while out on a search-and-rescue for a real leather (not those synthetics made in CHINA) purse for my favorite daughter. I never did find the color nor shape she was requesting so I bought a few other things just to make the trip worth my while, sat and nibbled more cheese rolls (this time they were the size of a nickel in diameter and were 7 for R$1) slurping a singeing hot coffee and watching the shoppers go by. There were a lot of sets of police officers in and around the area, dressed in tight grey uniforms with black shiny boots and official badges on their arms.

Careening around the Metro maze and hopping on several lines before submerging into the heat of the day and wide open streets of bustling Sao Paulo. People sleeping off to the side with bare feet the size of bear claws and tattered clothing, face turned towards the crowd in a trusting snore. One woman wore a tattered flattened box over the top as a filmy blanket. She looked relatively peaceful in her impoverished state.

I am caring for the wee ones tonight while one parent is off to a party and the other has class in town. Already shared my plethora of photos on the ipod for the now four year old (his birthday was Sunday before last) and I got the lowdown on his party, presents and was able to sample the left over brigadeiros. They are yummy rolls made of chocolate, coconut, and something-or-other rolled in sprinkles or bald! The adults swarm the tables and have their elbows sharpened when the brigaderos arrive so you have to be quick!

Age Old Story

March 12, 2013

Happy Birthday Seppo!

Fresh homemade orange swirl cake and French rolls from the bakery sit prettily on the organized breakfast table, rich coffee prepared in the pot, mango jelly, sweet butter, powdered milk in the can, and silverware perched on the folded napkin. Who will prepare all of this for me when I arrive home? No, I have not taken any of this for granted!

Wow, boy energy is sooo different than girls. They run around like wound-up toys, flop around on the couches, cry at the drop of a hat for reasons unknown, provoke one another, viciously smack, spew grape juice all over grandma’s white blouse and hide under the pillow to suck their thumbs (hated to share with the parents that I sucked my thumb until the first grade!) as well as succumbing to cuddles, kisses and extended sweets from the crowd of admirers. From the farm in October to this particular apartment, I have been exposed to boys. I wonder what gender my grandchild/children will be!

Two more than full-time working parents (Fa left the house at 3:45 this morning, Katia at 6:30 and will arrive after 7:30pm,) two complete sets of grandparents, a great grandma, one capable nanny and a jolly maid, a handful of various subject teachers, and swimming and karate instructors all manage the complicated care of these two young lads.

The baba is asking me what I am writing about, I tell her my story is generally about family relationships and the fact that things are slowly changing here in Brasil, especially in this enormous city. I go on to explain how the children and elders are usually physically separated from one another. Families spread across the country or perhaps worlds apart. Children back home go to school generally from 9-2:30 and sometimes have after school activities but not a full-time babysitter like her. I could only describe the daycare facilities, home care and after school programs and cost from a million years ago when I was the single mother of a little girl. Carolina is incredulous!

There are already several nursing homes in the city of Sao Paulo and surrounding area and it is a swiftly growing industry, unfortunately. Oodles of medications and a longer lifespan increase the accountability of family care. What would have been a shocking shift in elder care will soon sadly become run-of-the-mill.

Hit the Mall again, thinking I would surprise my darling daughter with a purse, after a long walk in the sun, thru the dangerous shady streets of the favella and asking a gazillion people, I found the Shopping Center! Close inspection of the purse revealed a “Made in China” label and the fabric is a darned close to leather polyester! Toured the Mall since I had made the treacherous journey, risking my life and self-doubt and ended up with a magazine. Wow, made it home alive!

The favella looks like cardboard boxes stacked on top of one another, thin clothes lines strung over slabs of concrete with shirts, shorts and well-worn socks hanging in despair. Faded and stained couches, spring-less chairs and mostly black strewn garbage bags cover the sidewalks so I had to skirt into the street. Young teens rambled along since there are two gigantic schools along the main streets, yelling and kids noises drifting from the concrete buildings with high walls and prison-like sinisterly energy. I startled as a man came up behind me then passed around my body, clomping in barely-holding-it-together black clumps resembling shoes. I felt badly, probably looked like I was going to jump outta my pasty white skin yet he didn’t even glance in my direction. The women trudging up the hill once I arrived in the safe, rich neighborhood were clearly maids on their way home from a day of eat-off-the-floor sanitizing, toothbrush-in-the-gaps cleaning, questionable cooking, piles of used-just-once laundry, chasing after little to big children and getting in a cell  phone call or two in between long desperate breaths.

My feet are perched up on the suede sofa and I am thinking about motivating and getting the ice cream out of the freezer. It has been calling my name since I left the Shopping Mall.

Boy Toys

March 11, 2013

Hosted in one of the most prestigious neighborhoods in the city of Sao Paulo which happens to be separated from the second largest favella in the area by two wide lanes. The dichotomy of Brasil.

The Disney Channel is on in the apartment all the time and the shows are in English so the children hear the language and learn to pronounce words correctly. Or as good as an animated figure can generate! The boys whine when I speak in Portuguese and ask me to switch to English I assume so they can practice. The little one, who is two, complains the most. He seems to understand everything I say and yet doesn’t respond in English often. It is difficult to explain to them that I prefer to speak in Portuguese while I am in their country, even if it is far from perfect!

The shopping mall “mom” took me to after her short shift at work (she is a Administrative Assistant for a one-man realty show) is close by. We meander the relatively empty Center with paid parking, take the time to eat a flaky palmetto torte and have a rip-my-guts-out cup of sugar with coffee. “Mom” insists I place my slim purse gripped on my lap as we sit to chat. As most malls around the world, the prices are outrageous. We jump from shop to shop searching for the perfect backpack purse for my daughter. I shoot photos of one I thought she would like to attach to an email her this evening.

While we are in a chatchkey jewelry store, “mom” tells the story of a robber who broke into her house thru the electronic gate (the street guard, like Sergeant Schultz knows “Nothing, nothing!”) The family jewels were swiped, along with dollars she was saving for her daughter’s trip to D.C. She described the designers and types of stones and cut to the three wide-eyed clerks with skin-tight tops. Because of this horrific experience, “mom” no longer purchases genuine precious stones, it makes her ill to think of what she lost. A lot of the pieces were handed down from her grandmother, snatched in the rush to leave the country in a panic.

I share my own sad tale of being robbed in our Port Townsend home then having generous friends anonymously replace some of the cash, slipped it in my purse during a meeting which I only discovered when I returned home. I cried in gladness and for my close friends compassion and generosity. I believe “mom” understood my story or perhaps the glazed look isn’t in sympathy!

The vampire shop clerks race to greet us at the entryway of each store hoping for a sale. The minimum wage here is R$755 ($1.962 less in today’s dollars) per month for a forty hour week yet I am not sure how they are paid, considering their behavior, I would say it is based on commission. A slight glance to the right brings down the purse from the high shelf to show me the compartments and features. Vanna White unzips, twists the handles and places it on her slender shoulder to present the full picture. Most are dressed casually and are in their early 20’s wearing a lot of make-up and over eager attitude. Ugh, I hate shopping, especially at the Mall!

“Mom” turns us around and around the parking lot looking for the car and then again to search and rescue the EXIT. Back at the spacious apartment, the boys greet us at the door with huge hugs and kisses for avo. It is so wonderful to realize they have the ability to be with their grandparents every week. They love going to her house to wreak havoc on her plants, scrounge in the cupboards for Frosted Flakes or anything that resembles sweets. The last time we were there they ate multi-colored sprinkles from a cup.

The electricity went out so I was unable to finish my Blog and Post it until today.

Grannie brings grapes

March 10, 2013

An early trip to Sao Paulo after a short night of sleep, too much beer and strawberry dessert. Can’t describe the folks at the airport since I was far too tired to think. Crept along with my cane and fumbled up the stairs to my seat. The 48 minute flight flew by so I didn’t have a chance to sleep. Drat!

The stiff sitting next to me never breathed a word during the short flight except to reject the hard coated peanuts and request an orange juice from the beverage cart. The trim crisp flight attendant with twin purple circles under her eyes (I suspect a recent visit to the plastic surgeon) and stingy counterpart whom I didn’t have the courage to ask for a second serving of bagged nuts since he sternly grimaced at one of the other passengers who suggested she wanted a full can of juice versus the standard shot. My professionally-attired seat mate studied and marked a lengthy document and snoozed for 32 minutes, give or take, while we soared above the clouds. I don’t know what I did with my time except that I felt very parched and, though unprovoked, completely disgruntled.

Two young and boisterous boys, 2 and 5 year olds came to collect me at the airport with their fairly tall, pale-complected serious and handsome dad. I was sure I’d sent a message from the airport clearly stating that the plane was delayed yet they never received it. The lanky boys who are obvious descendants of their father balanced on either side of him like an oreo. The ankle-biters kept up their chatter from the back seat the entire route home. This neighborhood, Fabio assures me, is a taxi ride to shopping, parks safe enough to walk in, restaurants and bars, nothing but a shanty-town on the opposite side of the busy street within walking distance. As he is explaining the wondrous features of the surrounding area, Tiago, the eldest is yammering for a fish after I had asked him if they have any pets at home. "No? Not even a fish?"…that set him off. "I want a fish, just a little fish!"

Green Hulk figures, Superman, Spiderman, Legos, blocks, trucks, small blue, red, yellow and green plastic table and matching chairs, puzzles, games and such breed in the corner of the vast livingroom.

Incredible lunch menu with grilled veggies and tofu while we chatted about this that and the other. Being around young boys is always a bit unsettling. They romp, run, scramble to climb on people’s backs, futz with video games, glue themselves to the tv screen, ignore pleadings for hugs and don’t show much interest in my pics of beasts from my trip stretching from the farm on, hit one another, hide things, eat on the run and are very loveable.

The older of the two is in a bi-lingual school. His English skills are incredible. Sitting in the back seat he blurted out “Great! I couldn’t be better!” Highly doubt he knew what the hell he was saying but I had to laugh out loud in earnest. Everyone learns “The book is on the table” and is a standard interjection when discussing language class.

Grandma is an immigrant from Italy. She is a perfect box with a silvery grey top. Light blue floral mumu fluttered about her as she scrutinized me with a dare. Her entire family escaped the Western Front regime and she has never fully recovered. An obvious stubborn decision to not speak fluent Portuguese makes her isolated and lonely after many friends have died or moved away. Kaka is lonely and forlorn. Her daughter, Fabio's son-in-law, is concerned about her mother's future and rapidly diminishing facilities. Mom is stubborn and insists upon cooking for herself and not allowing hired help to sleep over in her beds. Syvia asks me how the aging infrastructure world works in the United States. In my opinion it is on shaky ground as well. Forgetting herself seems to come naturally to grandmother though she did remember the grapes!