An Umbrella Painting

How close is "too close for comfort"? I don´t believe there is a limit here on Ipanema in the sand along the raging Atlantic in Rio. This beach is even more crowded than the thousands of apartment complexes that line it. Colorful umbrellas pounded into the sand would paint the entirety of the scene from a bird´s eye view. Only pockets of sand would show. Miles and miles of beach - miles and miles of striped chairs and thonged bottoms. The smell of burning skin and cigarettes is juxtaposed by the fresh watermelon being sold from a tray on top of a man´s brow and by the warm salty sea air that wafts across the sand every once in a while. Posing in the sun and shouting at the few clouds when they conceal it, these people have no problem being almost naked, inches away from strangers. A young woman sprawls in her chair facing away from the sea, towards the sun, while an enormous octogenarian arranges his speedo a foot and a half away from her on his water-facing foldup. When I stand to go for a dip, my skin dripping with sweat, I realize that I may not be able to even find a way through the people to the water. I tiptoe between empty coconuts with straws hanging out of them, sunscreen, beer cozies, legs, breasts and back hair, to finally find the waves. They are powerful waves here, and each wave is full of more people.

Two Countries, Both Alike in Dignity

Dear Thailand,
She´s with me now. She may not have her own place yet but the place she is in has a maid who makes her scrumptious breakfasts every morning before work. She may work 48 hours a week with only a 15 minute break, alongside only Portuguese speakers, covered in gourmet food and espresso, but she´s learning a ton about food. My people are richer. My people have a variety of different faces. My people live high-style. Our national futbol team is the best in the world. Nay, in the universe. I have more land mass. I´m hilly - even if she does have to walk up and down my hills huffing and puffing the whole way to work. My horizons are gorgeous. My currency is strong. My government works as hard as its people. I´ve got Pele, and Gizelle. My streets are clean, without dog shit. My lines are straight, my streets are paved, and my buildings are solid. The dogs here are domesticated, and well fed. I´ve got Carrefour too. And big shopping malls - and not only in my capital city. I know, neither of us have involved ourselves in wars, but socialism works better than a fluctuating constitutional monarchy. You may have the best beaches in the world, but I´ve got beaches too!! So she´s not staying with me as long as she did with you, I´ve the Amazon.
Yours, Brazil
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Dear Brazil,
Say all you want, she loves me more.
Yours, Thailand

Futbol ao Rio

This afternoon, Peter and I took a walk along Rio's Lago Rodrigo de Freitas. On the way back to our flat, we got the feeling that something was happening here in Rio de Janeiro. Something big. Along the square crack-tiled sidewalks, we began to hear it. First, someone was dribbling the ball, (low, calm hum), then the ball was crossed, (dull roar), then someone shot the ball, (stark, white silence), and finally, the ball hit the back net, (screams, shouts, explosions, fog horns, bombs, har horns, blood-curdling and toe curling NOISE). Fireworks went off in the distance. I felt like I was actually at the game. I had to stop and look around me to see if I was in fact there. But the sidewalks were empty. I looked upwards through the labyrinth of the canopy to the apartment buildings above. Yes, the windows were open - voices blurting out of them. I glance back at Christ the Redeemer, and even he had a look of glee in his eyes. We turn a corner to see an open faced pub - overflowing with people. Inside, all facing the enormous flat-screens, a mob of raised hands, raised glasses, flashing flesh, grown men crying fat tears of joy. Women, men, children, dogs, everyone and everything in this city can feel that a goal has been scored. Even the enormous waves crash up against the beach a little harder for that minute or two of aftermath. Some sort of melody comes from the loud hubub - it takes me a few seconds to decipher it... and there it is : "Olè, olè olè olè....."