Sexy and the City

I’m not sure that a fluffy movie like this one particularly merits my return to blogging in Brazil, but it’s a good a start as any.

Last night the Bruno and I went to see the Sex and the City movie in the new shopping mall that just opened down the street from us on Pompeia.  We weren’t actively planning to see it, but it was starting 10 minutes after we arrived, was something we would eventually watch anyway, and it wasn’t Indiana Jones.

First, a word about the mall. It’s called Bourbon. I’m sure this is some snobby reference to royal family, but for me it conjures images of my favorite home state beverage, so right from the start it earned points with me.

Then, there was the ridiculous parking deck that sent us spiraling around 6 or 7 flights before it would release us to park–this made me go “Whee!” and the B go “I’m going to be sick”.  The cinema is a PlayArte, which means they will mostly show more independent films (but I guess with the occasional blockbuster to pay the bills) and is apparently the first IMAX in Brazil.

The icing on the cake, though, was the pipoca doce (sweet popcorn).  Neither of us are huge fans of sweet popcorn, but we used to always get a really good one at a certain cinema back in Lisbon and now frequently get nostalgic about it.  Remember when life was easy? Yeah, it was because of the pipoca doce.  Remember when we never got sick? Yeah, that sweet pipoca doce. Remember when we were making mad cash?  Oh, pipoca doce! Remember when your feet didn’t smell?  Sigh, Pipoca doce. Remember when we loved each other? Yeah, it was that pipoca doce.  (OK, a slight exaggeration) It is possible to get the sweet stuff here, but it’s always coated in some hideously artificial looking red dye and just isn’t the same.  So we were pleasantly surprised to see golden, genetically-modified popcorn at the Bourbon that tasted just like the real deal, which we did half-and-half with the salty.  That right there is reason enough to go back.

The title of the movie was listed as “Sexy and the City” which I immediately made a crack about.  Bruno adds “y” to the end of most English words that end in a hard consonant, yet removes it from English words that are actually supposed to have it. Examples: Groovy becomes Groove, Crazy becomes Craze, Movie becomes Move, and Rock becomes Rocky, Ice becomes Icey, and, apparently to the kid working at the mall, Sex becomes Sexy.

I should say that I’m not a huge fan of the show. I honestly didn’t ever watch it until it went into syndication, and can barely remember the character names.  I could see how a lot of women in Brazil could get excited about it since Sao Paulo has a lot of very rich women who love brands and who love being ladies. It was basically a long episode with a LOT of product placement and advertising and some laughs. Obviously working in advertising, this bothered Bruno less than me. I think he was bothered more by the amount a thick makeup all the characters were sporting. I also thought it was weird when Jennifer Hudson showed up as the only black girl in the whole movie.  In the end all the ladies go back to their men, except, umm, the older one who loves sex… what is her name? Bruno pointed out that the only man who treated his lady friend well and didn’t cheat or stand her up was the one who got dumped, and for this reason he strives to be the biggest jerk possible. Oh, he’s a funny boy.

De volta

Riding the bus in Maceió

Originally uploaded by zoë_alexandra

Time to get this blog back in action. Here’s a little video I shot from the bus in Maceió.

Live Music hell

This is one thing I just can’t get used to about living in São Paulo. Third largest city in the world and the only live music acts we can pull in are has-been metal bands, or maybe $500-a-seat tickets for Chaka Khan or Hilary Duff.

Thu	04/10/08		New York Dolls		Clash Club
Thu	04/10/08		Riders On The Storm		HSBC Brasil
Thu	04/10/08		Riders On The Storm		Tom Brasil
Sun	04/13/08		Within Temptation		Espaco Lux
Sun	04/20/08		Gamma Ray		CrediCard Hall
Sun	04/20/08		Helloween		CrediCard Hall
Wed	04/30/08		Groove Armada		CrediCard Hall
Fri	05/02/08		Jeremy Camp		Via Funchal
Wed	05/07/08		John Pizzarelli		Bourbon Street Music Club
Thu	05/08/08		John Pizzarelli		Bourbon Street Music Club
Thu	05/08/08		Behemoth		Hangar 110
Fri	05/09/08		John Pizzarelli		Bourbon Street Music Club
Fri	05/09/08		Whitesnake		CrediCard Hall
Sat	05/10/08		John Pizzarelli		Bourbon Street Music Club
Wed	05/14/08		Bootleg Beatles		CrediCard Hall
Fri	05/16/08		Queensryche		CrediCard Hall
Sat	05/17/08		Misfits		TBA
Sun	05/18/08		MxPx		Espacio Das Americas
Thu	06/12/08		Joey Belladonna		Manifesto Bar
Fri	06/20/08		Kaskade		Pacha Club
Sat	06/28/08		Joe Lynn Turner		Manifesto Bar
Sat	09/27/08		Alan Parsons Live Project		Tom Brasil
Fri	10/24/08		Esperanza Spalding		Auditorio Do Ibirapuera
Sat	11/29/08		Comeback Kid		Hangar 110
Sat	11/29/08		Crime In Stereo		Hangar 110
Sat	11/29/08		Shai Hulud		Hangar 110

I love Dolly Parton

In a statement, DOLLY said: “I know I have been breaking my neck and bending over backwards trying to get my new Backwoods Barbie CD and world tour together, but I didn’t mean to hurt myself doing it! But hey, you try wagging these puppies around a while and see if you don’t have back problems. Seriously though, the doctors said I will be good as new in a few weeks, and I can’t wait to get back out there. See you soon, Dolly.”

Hospital

A couple weeks ago I got strep throat. I don’t think I’ve had that since I was about 8. Actually, I’m just guessing, since I don’t really remember ever having it. So, the fact that I’m not 8 anymore, it’s summer, and I don’t know anyone else who was sick means the whole thing came out of no where. I might have an idea of where it came from, though that would be an entirely different entry that will probably never make it to this blog.

Going from, “Ow, my throat hurts” to “I’m going to die any moment” in less than a 24-hour period, this was a rapid hit. I hadn’t ever thought of what I would do if I had to go to the doctor, and had little desire or ability to get out of my bed and walk around looking for a doctor in the rain by the time it came to realizing that’s what I needed. Finally the Bruno played saint and said he was going to take me to the hospital, and he picked me up after work and took me to the emergency room because it’s free. Free. Can you believe it? We got there before the rush and I only waited an hour to see a doctor, who looked around a little and said I had a bacterial throat infection.

Everything was going fine, the doctor thought I was Brazilian and I was pleasingly smug that I didn’t invite Bruno to come into the office with me. Then I went for a “quick” penicillin injection, which ended up taking another 2 hours. There was a big group of student nurses observing and slowing everything down and finally it was my turn. I had to turn my naked butt to a semi-circle of 7 nursing students while the one hot one in the group jabbed a big needle in me. It all started fine, but then I started to get cold sweats and felt on the verge of fainting, right about the time the real nurse in the group starts yelling at the guy, “Faster, faster, you have to go faster, no, no, STOP now!” and about that moment I totally fell over on the floor, pants down. I should also explain here that this was not exactly a separate room, rather a curtained off corner of a waiting area full of people sucking on oxygen and taking IVs. So, the bottom part was totally open.

I wasn’t out more than a few seconds, but I caused quite a stir. And I managed to wake up right in the middle of the guy getting a serious talking-to from his teacher telling him he messed up. Another nurse came in to take my blood pressure and then asked me what it normally is. Seriously, lady, I just woke up. I have no idea, look at my chart, the doctor just took it!

I’m not exactly sure what the guy did wrong but he looked pretty down, and the only other time I’ve had a penicillin shot I was laying on my stomach, not bending over. But then I had to get the shot again, or rather the rest. The group of students left and I was told to wait a bit before I left, and in came another nurse. It seems there was a shift change. He said hello, asked my name, looked at my chart and started to prepare another shot. I said “Wait, wait. What did I just have?”. He was about to give me a second penicillin shot, and didn’t only because I made him go check. Then he told me to wait 10 more minutes to see if I had an allergic reaction. I sat down and a red, rash-covered man, scratching incessantly, sat in front of me and asked “You didn’t just get a penicillin shot, did you?”

I waited ten minutes and then he told me to wait more, but this time inside the little curtained area with him. I’m not sure if it’s normal for short, ugly nurses who originally seem gay but later give doubts to stroke the hair and faces of their patients and call them “gatinha” (literally little female cat, but means “hot girl”) and ask them if they live with their husbands. When the guy found out I was American it got a bit worse and he invited two more ugly male nurses to come meet me. “Hey, pretty girl, everything alright?” “Umm, clearly not if I’m being held against my will in the emergency room”. Finally he let me go after a doctor checked my blood pressure again. Makes for a funny, and totally free story.

Brasil

Over 4 months in Brazil and nary a blog entry. Why? Well, isn’t that a loaded question…

I spent October studying Portuguese for a month in a language school cramped into the second floor of a high-rise office building. More new people going in and out of my life. Did my Portuguese get better? Probably. Apart from studying, I spent the better part of my free (and occupied) time being utterly depressed and and emotionally-paralyzed. Not someone anyone would want to meet. This is what happens when a plan-obsessed, control-freak girl from a small town is faced with one of the largest cities in the world, surrounded by a language she thought she spoke, but is actually totally different, without any social network, and knowing one person, who is no shape to help her, while ALL her plans fall horribly apart. ALL of them. OK, maybe one thing went as I planned, and for that reason I wasn’t homeless while all this went down. But almost ALL of them. I hope to never repeat that month, and wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Feeling pretty beaten up, I then headed to the Northeast, where I started an internship at the same school’s branch in Maceió. I lived 5 blocks from the ocean and could see it from my window. Life was simple. I lived with a woman and her son, she made lots of beans and rice for me to eat, and I had a 2 minute walk to work every morning. I got more tan than I’ve ever been in my life. And my hair turned pretty blond, which made for an interesting combo. I spent every weekend on the beach, drank a lot of beer and coconut water on said beaches, watched a lot of surfing, hung out in a lesbian bar and listened to a lot of really good live music, listened to a lot of really bad music from car stereos and had crazy adventures with my friend Pedro. I met a lot of really fun people, and made a couple of lifelong friends.

For reasons that remained unclear to me as I sat here watching televised samba schools, I returned to Sao Paulo after New Year’s and have started working at the same school here. During Carnaval, the whole country has stopped working for 5 days, and there were lots of naked ladies and dancing and drunkenness and fun being had every where but here. Everyone I know was living it up in Olinda and Recife, where I would have gone had I stayed in Maceio. Instead, I was alone in my apartment, trying to figure out how summer in Brazil could be so cold and rainy. I was probably the only foreigner who didn’t travel.

All of this is making me sound pretty miserable, which is not my point. I actually love Brazil a whole lot. It’s totally different from anywhere I’ve ever lived. It is, however, a tough nut to crack, and I’ve personally set myself up for a pretty damn difficult task in deciding to try and live here. As I’ve said, this is, without a doubt, the most ridiculous thing that I have ever done, that sentence ending in either ‘-ly genius’ or ‘-ly stupid’ depending on the day. For pete’s sake, there are more than a thousand bus lines! What does that make me do? Give up? No. It just makes me want to conquer it. It may take awhile longer, but I’m not giving up that easily.

leaving

Obviously, it’s been a long time.  I’ll try to recap.  Several weeks ago I lost my benevolent neighbor’s internet connection when he not-so-benevolently password protected his wireless signal. 

I’ve been making doubtfully-successful attempts at writing my thesis, which mostly entailed photocopying anything containing the words ‘language’ or ’desire’ held in the Cambridge University library, then perusing those pages in the pea green ode-to-the-70s decor that is the Reading Room.  Despite what you may think, their library is not some Gothic and stained glass wooden marvel, but a mid-century industrial brick compound with low ceilings and poorly lit. 

 I temped for awhile as an office peon at a place I won’t name, but, well, is the press associated with the big university in Cambridge that publishes some of my least favorite EFL teaching materials.  There I made friends and got along well with the four Greek and Polish employees, and the woman from California who sat across from me.  The English pretended I wasn’t there, or became visibly uncomfortable whenever I approached them.  Naturally, then, I tried to approach them as often as possible. 

I went into London a few times and still don’t feel like I’ve ‘done’ London.  One day I met up with my dear friend Katie who lived in the tower with me last year in Angouleme and we spent most of the day talking in Pizza Hut.  I know.  Another time I forgot my wallet.  While this makes for a cheap day out, it also makes for a very thirsty and limited tourist experience.  Tate Modern didn’t impress me as much as I expected it to, but I was delighted to turn the corner and stumble across Joseph Beuys’ The Pack, a favorite of mine.  I wandered around Camden Market for hours, which I would have thought was the coolest thing ever when I was 16.

Throughout all of this my landlady has been a royal pain in the arse (as they spell it here) and between the painter who has taken 6 weeks to finish two small rooms and multiple prospective tenants (my roommate is being evicted because I’m moving out) there have been other people in my house nearly every day.  I don’t need to talk about it more than I already do,  so I won’t go into details.  But, Stuart and I have gotten closer during the ordeal and I look very forward to sharing a final pint with him at the pub around the corner after we sign off our lease Monday night!

And that’s it. 

I don’t plan on ever living in England again.  The weather makes me frustrated and the quality of life is not to my tastes.  Tuesday I’m flying out of this place.  Leaving Cambridge at 1:30 and arriving home over 24 hours later!

So maybe they’re not that polite…

This ruined my day:

I spent most of the day in the Cambridge University Library (you know, that other university in town) working on a paper.  The walk back to the center of town involves a long pathway for bikes and pedestrians that cuts behind the colleges and crosses the river.  Any day of the week the path is pretty full of people, but on a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon it was packed.  A large family was walking toward me so I moved a few steps to their right to get out of their way.  All of a sudden *WHAM*, a woman on a bike runs full speed into my left arm from behind.  I drop my bag of books and she sort of runs into, and then onto the retaining wall next to us.  I turned around and said ‘Oh, geez.  Sorry about that’, as she struggled to pull her bike off the wall.  In a completely sincere and friendly-sounding tone she said ‘Oh that’s alright’ and laughed.  I picked up my bag and, seeing that she was still trying to get back onto her bike, I said again ‘Sorry about that, are you okay?’  This time she said ‘Well, don’t give me any help or anything’.  It didn’t register right away what she had said and by the time I figured it out, she rode off and said ‘Stupid bitch…’

So, here’s the deal.  I love bikes and riding bikes.  I think it’s great that there are so  many cyclists in Cambridge.  But, if you’re in a congested area, SLOW DOWN.  Or, maybe even get off your bike and just walk until the pedestrians clear out.  And I’m glad she didn’t hurt me, or my laptop that I was carrying.  And finally, if you’re going to call me a bitch, say it to my face and not while you’re riding away after pretending to be nice to me.

Ugh.

Humor me…

Because I’m a total language nerd…

Yesterday afternoon I was reading a book entitled Bilingual Couples Talk: The discursive construction of hybridity (because who doesn’t find hybridity construction analysis in discourse analytical study thrilling?) and I came across an anecdote that really got my head in a buzz. Now I’m going to share it with you because, seriously, y’all don’t know ALL the excitement in my world that you’re missing out on.

So, apparently there is a group of peoples (Tucanoan) living primarily in Colombia and somewhat in Brazil who have a big taboo against endogamy (in-marriage). This taboo, however, goes way beyond your everyday incest taboo against marrying your cousin or your sibling. They have to choose a spouse from another group, and group membership is defined by the language you speak. And once they’re married, they don’t choose one partner’s language over another, or even carry out their relationship bilingually. Instead, each person continues to speak his or her own langauge to each other, therefore understanding their spouse’s langauge, but never speaking it. Their children then become fluent in both languages, but retain the group membership of their father. This dual-linguality is maintained throughout their lives.

I just blew your minds, didn’t I?

Ducks

Those of you who know me, know that I do not like birds. It borders on a phobia. But, my fear is simultaneously mixed with a severe disdain. They’re pointy, move too quickly, and are not to be trusted. You will never see me feeding pigeons out of my hand in Venice. And try to convince me that ostriches aren’ts just mean. I prefer my fauna to be of the cuddly variety.

Birds seem to know my feelings and like to taunt me as often as possible by getting unnecessarily close to me and appearing in unlikely locations. Like when I was 15 and watching Sgt Bilko in the Corbin $2 cinema and a scruffy, ugly, vermin-infested baby bird came trotting up the aisle, directly towards my feet, where it made camp. And the employees just said “Oh yeah, they come in through the roof. We can’t do anything about it.” (note: this may have been the same cinema that posted a ‘No Guns Inside the Theatre” sign)

The other day we had a spontaneous cook-out in one of Cambridge’s many parks, next to a particularly foul canal. There were various ducks around, and it soon became obvious that not only were they getting closer, but they were staring directly at me, honing in. Yesterday I left my house to walk down the street to the convenience store and had to stop right in the middle of the sidewalk because, and I’m sure of this, one of those ducks from the park was sitting silently, almost waiting for me. There is no reason for a lone duck to be anywhere near my street. There are no lakes nearby. Suddenly, this duck squawked and flew low off the ground, about five inches from my knees. I’m sure any witnesses got a pretty good laugh because I screamed and jumped in the air. I got to the convenience store, bought my stamps and as I walked toward the exit, the automatic door slid open and in strutted the duck…

Because this convenience store happens to share space with a Subway, here’s a little joke from one of my favorite comedians, Mitch Hedberg (thanks for reminding me of this Laura):

I was in Downtown Boise, Idaho, and I saw a duck, and I knew the duck was lost, ‘cuz ducks ain’t s’posed to be downtown. There’s nothin’ for ‘em there. So I went to a Subway sandwich shop, I said, “Let me have a bun.” But she wouldn’t sell me just the bun, she said that I had to have something on it. She told me it’s against regulations for Subway to sell just the bun. I guess the two halves ain’t supposed to touch. So I said, “Alright, well, put some lettuce on it,” which she did. She said, “That’ll be $1.75.” I said, “It’s for a duck.” And they said, “Alright, well, that is free.” See, I did not know that. Ducks eat for free at Subway! Had I known that, I would have ordered a much larger sandwich. “Let me have the Steak Fajita Sub – but don’t bother ringing it up, it’s for a duck!