"I miss the way I took pleasure in small things..."

The quote is Neil Gaiman's, but also mine.

*******

The tea party is in a wooded cove to the right of the dirt road, to the left of jasmine-covered lattice.  A plastic table is strewn with pierogies and sugared strawberries, arranged over a yellow lace tablecloth.  Couch pillows spill over the garden chairs.  I am six and the paradise is mine.  I made it.  I made my dress too, out of silk scarves.  I tied the collection onto myself, finding comfort in the cold.  There is a road, somewhere.  A big road with fast cars.  I do not care.  I cannot hear their roar.  I take my teapot in pudge-hands and pour the liquid into flowers.  Their petals open to the warmth.  The ceramic burns, hotter and hotter.  I drop the pot.  It shatters into blaring horns.

Each shard transforms into a “sanspur,” hidden in the soil, burying into my foot.  It is Sunday.  I’m wearing the straight A dress and pantyhose and no shoes.  There are so many.  The burrs are a terrifying itch I cannot escape.  If I fall to the dirt, my body will be covered, if I stay still, they will dig deeper.  Shrieks spurt from my one-tooth-missing mouth; I hear boots pounding.  Daddy carries me to tarp-covered ground, rips the hose off my feet.  Each “sanspur” leaves a spot of blood.

The pain forces fingers to dig deep into the sand of Angel’s grave.  Mama says the eulogy.  A neighbor made the hole with “post-diggers.”  It’s my fault, the emptiness in the ground, the dirt in a pile.  I didn’t feed her, didn’t notice her stop.  She froze in a cage, stashed on a bookshelf.  When I found the dead potato, I wrapped her in the scarves that once made a dress, on a foggy morning far removed.  I cry, knowing she is still there, next to the well, feeding a tree.  I’ll unbury her soon, reclaim the silk, pull back my hair, buy a capybara.  He’ll grow old, visit the vet, die white-haired and happy, gnawing on the wood that Angel made. 

Forward

My whole life is waiting right there, on the edge of this year.  For the fourth year in a row, I will be in Europe, but this time, I don’t see myself coming back.  I am preparing to leave my home, and it is hard.  Every time I think about it, I feel so young.  I am a child, not ready to leave.  But I’m not ready to stay here either.  I want to see.  I want to fly. 

I’ve decided I will have a cat, for my birthday next year.  At that point, I will have been accepted to teach in France (confidence is key?).  My cat and I will live a blissful life fueled by baguette and fresh milk. 

Tomorrow, the first step in this process.  Not really the first, rather a long line of steps come to completion.  I will go to Atlanta to acquire my student visa and file for my long stay permit.  Then, two months from now when I am back in France, back in Grenoble, I will continue the process.

I have a job application to finish, that I am confident of.  I have a cover letter and resumes to send out to other schools, and I see everything hiding just behind the new year.

Ramblings from Rio

The night I wrote the following was a blur of emotions. I'd had an argument earlier in the day.  It still resonated in my ears.

I tried to sleep, but couldn't.  When this happens, the only thing to do is curl up in bed and rewatch "Breakfast at Tiffany's".  Yet I had exhausted it, watching the film twice in as many months.  On to the other option to cure the mean reds, "Midnight in Paris".

The opening scene of this movie is perfection.  It is idealized in the way that memories are.  The rain and the streets swept me back to traveling.  To being in Paris for the first time.  To the writing I hadn't been doing.

I rolled over and wrote the first thoughts that came to my mind.   It was a confusion of emotions, with my anger breaking through at times.  The things I didn't understand are evident, though not exactly articulated.  I tried to make sense of the confusion of group travel that I had never before experienced.

*****

Group adventures are different than solo ones. You are bound by those around you. Conversation is dictated, yes, but also the method of transportation and the activities. Instead of the glorious stumbling I am used to the surprise glances that show la Tour Eiffel and the Louvre, things here are planned in advance. Spontaneity doesn't exist, even the hour of dining is restricted by the desires of others.

I can't say I hate this.  My time here is an undeserved gift and I am here, in a glorious city I never imagine visiting. I have seen, up close, vistas I had never imagined. Walked in sand in a country impossible to me two years ago. Yet I am here. Longing to explore. But kept from it.

Rio is dangerous, you know. The favelas, they are armed. They have grenade and ground to air missiles..,  but actually, let's drive through Rocinho. You should, after all visit the favelas while here.

Let's go on a walk by the beach... Only you can't. It's dark. It's not a matter of being robbed, it's a matter of murder.  Though this rate is at the lowest it's been in years.

Don't you want to go to the beach. No, not really. I'd rather go shopping. But Rio isn't for that. If not for exploring different barrios, what is a city for. You can't stay cooped up, in a hotel with the view of a white washed wall. You can't keep looking from behind tinted windows. It's oppressive, only traveling in a group of 9 or 11. The freedom is gone, as you suffocate under a language that isn't
yours.

Yet still, from the snapshot I've seen, I love it here. More than any other place. It's not just the summer, it's the grown up beach, the international community you see, the transient quality that doesn't rely on Americans. It is unique, as lunch today tells.

A Marley enthusiast sang us bossa nova, while explaining world peace.  Children offered us gum, while we gave them food. A family of Dutch sat across from us. Their 11 blondes tempered by our array of Brazilians, Argentinians and myself. French walked by, babbling away.  Rich men in suits strolled by ripped and dirty street vendors. The clash was beautiful. Integrated and respectful.

Each monument shows a view. This is what the city is about.  Going to Cristo Redentor is not about the statue, it's about seeing Copacabana and Ipanema from afar, while marveling at the stadium and noticing the stables and horses trotting in the middle of the city.

The view from Cristo Redentor.

Pão de Açucar wasn't about the hills. It is walking along unlit paths, marveling at the lights, the expanse of the favela pouring over a mountain.

Pão de Açucar from the plane.

From every point in Rio, you look out, and you see the rest.  In a way that other places cannot compare.

The smallest one was Madeline...

This past month has been wonderfully full.  Days have been packed with French meetings and internship meetings, coffee and classes.  I had forgotten how beautiful a full schedule is, how refreshing it is to fall asleep exhausted.

On Friday I met with the directors of Impact and Launch, two scholarship programs unique to Wofford.  As we discussed the possibility of a photo shoot and how to convince 60 students to engage in bio-writing activities, I felt like an adult.  I was contributing in a new way.

I have worked with adults before, but it has always been as an assistant.  Me, being told what to do, when to do it.  As I collaborated on ideas, my position changed from one of a doer to that of a contributor.  As part of a team, words were bounced back at me, made better by their stint in another’s brain.

I came to the meeting with a task.  I needed 60 bios from busy students who are tired of answering emails and taking surveys.  There was no way that SurveyMonkey would give us what we wanted from the students.  How do we get students engaged?  What question needs to be asked.  We stumbled upon it.  How did you get from infancy to here?  It is open enough that students can read in to it. 

“For gypsies do not like to stay -
They only come to go away.” 
 Ludwig Bemelmans, Madeline and the Gypsies

Here as in, this room, on this day?  Here as in my emotional state?  Here as in my major?  The possibilities are endless, and the responses promise to be varied. 

As a member of Impact, I am now asking myself this question.  My bio will be next to all the others.  How did I get here?

I owe my love of adventure and baguettes to Madeline.  As the smallest in my class, Madeline’s own height appealed to me— as did her adventures.  She explored a beautiful city, one full of cafés and mishaps.  My child-mind saw the streets of Paris and never again considered the sidewalks of Jacksonville.  Since the age of 3, I have tried to find Paris.  Not just Paris the place, though I have come to love this, but Paris the idea.  Madeline’s Paris was a maze of streets melding into each other.  I try to find this, wherever I go.  Paris remains an idea, an idea I find every day hiding just behind the words of “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock” and just behind the bell tower of Wofford.   

Trying to find Paris.

There is a first attempt.  I think it is what we are looking for.  This is me in a paragraph.  It says more than the words. 

Literary Cats

I don’t really understand the idea of a yoga mantra, but I do have a verse of poetry I repeat to calm myself. 

Let us go then, you and I…

It’s “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock”.  I cannot get enough of this poem.  My first real paper was about it.  Since, I’ve written two more about the verses.  Nothing touches me in quite the same way.

I remember in high school, learning about Eliot’s love of cats.  I remember learning about characterization for the first time in this poem, learning about how the fog in the poem is actually a cat.

 ******

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,          

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,      

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,           

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,        

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,          

And seeing that it was a soft October night,   

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

*****

After reading the poem in high school, I knew I wanted a cat named Eliot.  Preferably orange, as I’d somewhat erroneously imagined the one in “Lovesong”.

As my literary knowledge grew, so did my collection of cats.  After reading The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald joined the ranks.  Then Hemmingway.

My real life collection now has all but Hemmingway.  As of this summer, an orange fluff of a cat happened upon my family as they explored the nearby river.  I heard tales of the orange cat via Viber, of how sweet he was, of his motorboat purr.  After returning from Brazil, I quickly renamed him Eliot, to my siblings’ dismay. The youngest still insists on calling him Fireheart… 

Obviously, I tried to work too diligently.

Eliot has chosen me as his own.  He follows me around the house, at a distance so I don’t notice.  I can never notice.  Because he takes his time, Eliot often finds himself confronted with a closed door.  He bats at the obstruction until the magic opens it (or we the humans get annoyed) and continues after me.  When we’re in the same room, he doesn’t want anything to do with me… That is until I’m busy.  When I’m reading, he pounces.  When I’m sleeping he attacks.  When I want to cuddle, he hides under the bed.

Ready to attack!

I’m still working on gaining his affection on my terms.  The first step has been feeding him, though this somewhat backfired this morning, when he was hungry and eager to eat in my room.  In the midst of my morning rush, I shoved him out, not wanting him to be locked in the room all day. I’ll see if he’s forgiven me after yoga tonight. 

Theodora the Tiny

My favorite thing about Brazil is, undoubtedly, Theodora.  Better known as Tiny (ok, known only by me as Tiny), she is 5 pounds of perfection.  I know that a country shouldn’t be judged by its… err wildlife, but this is definitely the exception. 

When I left for Brazil, I had no idea that Tiny would be in my future.  My first few weeks in Sao Paulo, I petitioned for a dog endlessly.  Just a foster pet.  Or a borrowed one.  Or a stolen one.  A lovely golden retriever often sat just up the street, as his owner drank beer.  Anyone who drinks beer doesn’t deserve a dog, you could see it in the retriever’s eyes.  He wanted to be my friend, to share the tiny apartment and go on walks, to eat burgers prepared especially for him and play in Ibirapuera. 

Needless to say, my thievery was denied me, as were all other attempts of adding a canine into my life.  I was miserable, until we traveled to the house in Itu and I met Tiny, the miniature Schnauzer of perfection.  Pepe’s cousin had just bought her.  She was all of six weeks old, if that, all play and sleep.  Theodora was still adjusting to her siblings, the sweet Milou, the jealous Keka, and Cory the Cat.  Milou and Keka more or less ignored Theo on the trip, and since, to be honest.  Cory, however, had an immediate connection, becoming Tiny’s playmate and instructor in all things cat.

Practice cuddling and nap time.

In Itu, Cory was still proving dominance.  Their favorite activity was wrestling, or, as Cory saw it, neck-biting opportunities.  Theo was less certain about this, but has since come around.  Cory has progressed to teaching Tiny a variety of important cat-skills: proper chasing and scratching techniques, how to adequately play with clinky-balls, and how to jump on tables.  For several months, Cory withheld couch-jumping skills, so he could have an area of respite from Theo’s incessant energy, but she has now reached the age of responsibility, and has been trusted with the wonders of couch life.

Unquestionably, Tiny was a little beacon of joy.  While Phoebe, the family dog, is darling, she has imprinted on Andrea and rejects all my attempts at affection and cuddles.  Tiny thrills at seeing me, or so I like to tell myself.  She eagerly greets me with licks and love.  Then we play.  We run around the apartment then, when we tire, it’s time for naps on the couch while watching “Game of Thrones”. 

Leaving her was almost as sad as leaving Pepe, as I know she is unlikely to remember me on my next visit.  I’ve learned that, since I’ve left, she has taken up night cuddling, which I am desperately sad to have missed.  

Blissfully happy in the company of my borrowed love.

Gremio, a football experience

This morning, the only Brazilian football team I am able to name made it onto BBC News, for the unsavory taunts thrown around at their most recent match.  After fans called an opposing player a “monkey” (A terribly popular Brazilian themed insult, it would seem.  Earlier this year, it was Europeans throwing around the insult, rather than Brazilians themselves.), the club has been blacklisted from Brazil’s main cup competition.  My experience at the Arena do Gremio was thankfully lacking in racial tensions; however, I still found much of note.

***************

Mustering up the proper amount of excitement for a soccer match borders on impossible. It's not just that the team isn't mine, nor that my relation to soccer began in June of this year for the World Cup. There's something more. The crush of people isn't exhilarating it's oppressive. The lines aren't met with the cheery attitude of the amusement park, rather something closer to dread. The game itself isn't horrible; yet it is, like all sports to me, terribly dull.

Yes, the air of the fans, marching in packs of shared heraldry is beautiful, but... They yell and they argue. They drink, then discard their trash on the ground.

Before entering the stadium area, when we were still along the interstate, we passed signage for Argentina and Uruguay. Whole countries within driving distance. Even having driven through Europe, it still amuses me, that here, so close to the border, countries are given the same amount of acknowledgment as a city up the way. Then we passed a horse, tied to a tree, a stones through from the interstate. He was young, skittish towards the traffic. Behind him stood poverty, boxes made of scraps and tin. After seeing the favela in Rio, this was painful.

We parked in a better area. Not a favela, not really. There were satellite dishes and walls made of plaster. Here, the people weren't given pity, the animals were. Dogs roamed around free. Healthy from afar, but up close, coughing, dying. Cats with swollen eyes perched on roofs, while their compatriots painfully mewed.

The residents were industrious. Offering their yards, or maybe their neighbors, for parking. One lady led us down the street, then passed us off to another man, who led us to another block, before instructing us to park on the sidewalk.

Exiting the neighborhood, a sea of blue and black striped jerseys met us, streaming towards the entrances. Police on horseback patrolled, as well as security guards in semi riot garb. The ticket booth on the east had lines for miles. The west side was just as bad. Both doubled within minutes. Thousands of people impatiently queuing 30 minutes before the game, then 15, 5, 45 after. By the end, the old and the parents of infants were booed for their preferential treatment.

I may have spent more time on Instagram than actually watching the game.

The game itself was un-eventful. Grêmio won 2 x 0.  We entered the stadium just in time to see the second goal.  I never caught the other team's name. The players of both teams seemed to fall at an extraordinary rate. Apparently it hurts less than being kicked by cleats. More interesting than the playing was the smell surrounding us. Sweet popcorn, I think. Though I never could place who was holding it.

Unable to find the sweet popcorn, I tried to hide my disappointment. 

The one without an ending

After three glorious months in Brazil, it’s back the crush of four literature courses, a philosophy course, two (hopefully) internships, and a job.

As I recount my stories of Brazil, I find it difficult to say, a week or two ago so-and-so happened.  The location is too separated, my life too different.  I haven’t processed I am only a week away from having sushi at the Colinas temakaria, searching out bunnies at the “Spider” park, and buying 80 reais worth of pesto to compensate for the pesto-less state of South Carolina.

For the first time after being abroad, I’m having to readjust to the US.  In France, the culture is too similar.  For the most part, Paris is New York, slightly smellier and with better pastry.  Paris offers a language I am comfortable with, customs that suit me, and the quiet anonymity of the city.

Sao Paulo is none of this.  No, it is, in a way.  You get lost among the people, but for me, it is not in the same manner.  My freedom is inhibited there.  Wandering is discouraged for safety’s sake and dining alone is an impossibility, as the menus present a challenge.  Being there during the World Cup was even more imposing.  I never experienced the supposed preparation for visitors I had anticipated.  I grant, a few restaurants boasted “foot to the letter” translations of offered items, but, as a whole, the World Cup meant loud, drunk, young Brazilians crowding the streets, setting off firecrackers, and relentlessly blowing on noisemakers, until the wee hours of morning.

The street, bereft of the oh-so-silent football spectators.

I had little interaction in Sao Paulo.  As I wasn’t taking courses, I spent my time at home, cleaning up after the inept maid.  Occasionally I went shopping, but the Dia was only a block away, and I never came to a point where I recognized the cashiers, as I later would in São José dos Campos.

The people I did meet, the friends and classmates of Pepe, were an incredibly traveled group, many preparing to spend years of their time abroad, studying in countries where they didn’t speak the language.  “Oh, I’ll learn when I’m there” was the most common response to my incredulity at their unworried attitude. 

I’ll learn when I’m there.  It does make sense, looking back.  In three months, without being in constant contact with Portuguese, I was able to go from barely understanding pleasantries, to following stories and dialogues about current affairs.  If this was possible for me, who conversed with everyone in English, how much more would one learn while sitting in classes and conducting affairs in another language.

************************

The Horrors of the French Marché

I remember the first market I saw in Paris.  I was heading to FNAC to buy a class book, when I saw it, on the corner of Rue de Rennes, close to Montparnasse.  

The market cleverly hides the horrors behind vegetables.

Because, I was hungry, per usual, I decided to poke around.  Within moments, I discovered the difference between the Whole Foods and the French marché.  The French know where their food comes from.  The market was rampant with chickens, feet and head still attached, feathers bedecking some.  

Example 1

This, I am happy to say, would never happen here.  Meat comes in sanitary packages, with no resemblance to the animal it once was, and this is how it should be.  Our meat definlety doesn’t come from the sweet chick or the lamb.  It springs preformed from the shelves of the store.

In Italy, this December, I made dinner for the family.  Chicken breasts and legs.  The breasts were good.  The legs and thighs put me off this form of chicken forever.  They had been improperly plucked.  I had to skin them, tiny feathers poking me, then…  I can’t think about it.  It was truly one of the worst moments I have ever had in the kitchen. 

Though my grocery store purchase in Italy was not nearly as gruesome as the headed and feathered chickens of the Parisian market, it made me wonder the same thing.  Are all of the people frequenting such places butchers?  One doesn’t come readily by the knowledge of beheading chickens and robbing them of their plumes.  It appears that the chickens are still in full possession of their innards, what of those? And what, exactly, does one do with the sheep faces?  They can’t possibly be edible can they?

They can't be... They really can't.

Why this fascination with animals in the whole?  I saw it around Place St. Michel, a tourist district.  On a spit, in a window, slowly turning was a whole rotisserie pig.  Snout firmly attached.  The French passed by without comment.   I stared in horror.  He was garishly displayed.  The proprietor of the store had bedecked his crackling nose with sunglasses. 

After that adventure, only Mexican food would do.  No questionable animals, just cheese and chips, both apparently bought in store rather than made in house.  This was a happy meal.  When I saw the butcher’s truck, loaded with sawed open carcasses, nothing would do but vegetarianism for a few days.

It's your luck that I'm not sharing that picture.  Shudders.