Brazil : Day one.

(DISCLAIMER: after writing this post, I realized that I had completely misjudged both the people mentioned and the situation altogether. I decided to post it anyways at it has proven to be quite an obvious lesson for me. Please read on to the very end...)

Brasil: Day one.

Note to self: when you arrange for the young, hot, Brazilian actor (with whom you had a short-lived fling a few months prior) to pick you up from the airport and something doesn’t feel quite right . . . LISTEN TO YOUR INTUITION.

I don’t really know what I was expecting, I mean, a parade would have been great but I would have settled for him at least being there when I - oh I don’t know - ARRIVED COMPLETELY ALONE IN A FOREIGN LAND WITH MY WHOLE LIFE PACKED INTO SUITCASES.

So, yeah, I was pissed, then I figured he was just on South America time, so I waited an hour… then I got a little panicky and called my friend’s family who lives in São Paulo – they said that they could come get me in a couple of hours and to hang tight and they would try to call this mystery boy. About 15 minutes later he and a friend came sauntering up – to give you a visual – wild curls, a trimmed beard, beaded necklace, slight white bell-bottoms and white converse. The 70’s version of my dad had come to gather me at the airport (this being said, he, like my father in the 70's was still ridiculously good-looking). I was happy to see him and his friend (who I could only assume would be providing transportation for me and my life on wheels)

My Brazilian appeared less happy to see me than I was hoping for and after receiving a frantic call from my friend’s mom, and since I didn’t call myself, he joked that everyone in São Paulo had his cell number except for me. Not being able to sling clever banter in this foreign tongue, I slapped him on the arm like a third grader. Yup, real mature. This Portuguese feels about as comfortable as a hole in the head and I’ve been reduced to expressing myself through playground antics.

The ride back to “Santo Andre” which is where these guys live and study theatre was looong. And since they did very little to engage poor, exhausted, struggling me in conversation, I finally pretended to be asleep. When we got to their town we stopped so that they could eat – oh, as an afterthought I was asked to join them… What?

It was buffet style and they served themselves and sat down. It would have been so nice if one of them were to have stuck by me and explained to the foreigner what the hell half these dishes were, or at least from what planet they hailed. Also it would have been a nice little tid-bit to know that the check is paid at the cashier stand on the way out before I looked at the woman at the counter with a blank stare forcing money into her hand when all she’s obligated to do is pour my juice. Embarassing.

So I ate my meal in silence while they joked a mile a minute about their theatre friends and rehearsals and blah blah blah – I just flew half way around the world, but apparently that is not nearly as exciting.

So not off to the greatest start for my Brazilian adventure and I’m sorry to say the worst was yet to come. We arrived at his house. It’s your typical South American two-bedroom shack. Tile floors throughout (in my experience South Americans do not believe in carpets as they are both hot and impossible to keep clean) I get no introduction to the house, so I look around, I notice there is no living room and the second bedroom belongs to his two female roommates. I can only assume that means I’m either cramming myself into his twin bed with him or sleeping on the concrete in the backyard underneath the underwear hanging on the drying line. All I know is that my libido has been severely wounded from this whole re-introduction and if he thinks those condoms casually sitting on his desk have any chance of being put to use he is sorely, sorely mistaken.

So I begged the Brazilians to drop me off at an internet café on their way to rehearsal (to which I was not allowed as they are in a very “critical point” in the rehearsal process) Fine with me, I was dying to connect with someone that cared weather or not I made it safely to this country. After some words of encouragement from my sister and a chat with my Paulista friend who promised me that she would pull strings and get me out of this pueblo by Monday at the latest… I headed back to my impending doom.

All I wanted to do after all of this madness was take a long hot shower… I should have remembered, however, that those among other luxuries, are incredibly hard to come by in South America. The shower in this place has a switch on the shower-head for two temperature settings “Verão and Inverno” – “Summer and Winter.” Apparently, since it never drops below 70 degrees here, the “Winter” setting provides you with just above freezing water, which I can only assume would be “piping hot” to any born and bred Brazilian. My American ass, however, shivered through my shower and rushed to put on as many layers as I could dig out of my suitcase.

Silver lining, silver lining, silver lining… oh, ok, on the way home I stopped to pick up some bottled water and snacks and after the cashier rang me up (and I silently praised her for making no attempt to converse with me) I handed her 20 Reais – and I was struck to see the number $13.73 pop up on the screen as my change.

As long as I can remember my family has had these set of numbers 1, 3, & 7 that have followed us around like a sign or a beacon of hope… after everything I’ve been through so far, I took it for just that and breathed a sigh of relief that things would be looking up from here.

Then I began the walk home, where I was honked at at every intersection and nearly mowed down three times on residential streets where apparently the game “hit the pedestrian” is a local favorite.

Ah yes, my month in Brazil has begun – Saude!