Bliss in Ouro Preto

Thickmetal church bells clanging. Redbougainvilla hanging. Curlyhaired babies tottering. Wrinklecheeked women smiling. RustyVolkswagens climbing. Cobbledavenues descending, rising, descending. Warmcool breezes combing. Tallcraggy mountains watching. Smokingstoneworkers selling. Chattingcraftswomen selling. BraziliansFrenchItalians inspecting, buying. Lazydogs lying. Redbluegreen windowsills bowing. Chocolatemilkshakes slurping. Sweetpopcorn popping. And I, sunglasswearing, reading, enjoying.

$2.50 per day

The bus is one of my most and least favorite parts of our tiny little world here in Belo. It gives me a chance to breathe, read, and prepare for a day – as well as unwind, sit quietly, and look forward to a solemn evening of literature, spaghetti, and film. But it also makes me anxious, annoyed, and amazed at the filth of the bus-riding public. I turned to page 237 of Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children,” and I was entranced. Even the crashing bumps couldn’t take my eyes from the rhythm of the left to right. Until a sneeze came upon the man sitting beside me. Rather than raising a hand to cover the exiting liquid, the nice man turned his face toward me and my midnight children, spraying the slime onto my forearm and page 237. I sat in the back seat one afternoon, squashed between two squishy women who must have forgotten to shower for the past fortnight. One of them, nearest the open window, was chewing on individually wrapped candies. The fruity smell coming from her pack would have made the situation a bit more pleasant had she not been throwing each wrapper out into the wind, out onto the already-litter-ridden passing streets. [At this point, I asked myself why there are so many Environmental Ministries in the world, why there are thousands of books and articles and documentaries out there warning about what is happening to our poor planet, why I spend so much time scrubbing out peanut butter jars, reusing shampoo bottles, warding off Styrofoam if there are people like this woman all over the world.] She seems to be enjoying her candy, though, which is wonderful. And, today, I sat three rows from a man who seemed to be texting a friend. Suddenly a noise came from his phone – extremely loud music. I figured it was just his obnoxious ringtone, but apparently he must have left his headphones at home, because he had decided to grace this Monday afternoon’s passangers with the high-pitched thumping sounds - not unlike that of two individuals having intercourse - of a Brazilian banda he fancies. No matter how many surprised looks I shot at Peter, or how many sharp glares I directed straight at the DJ, the “music” carried us all the way to our stop.

Conversations with Gizelle

This is a to-be-continued series of short, broken Portuguese conversations (translated into what they would sound like in English) I have had with my co-worker, Gizelle. Gizelle speaks absolutely no English; she has yet to even master “thank you.” Thus, we speak in her native tongue – or what we both know that I know of it. Gizelle and I work with vegetables, fruits, and greens. She has a photo album of the day she gave birth to her now 18-month-old daughter, Christiana, which she showed me not long ago. Quite graphic. To me, she looks like a stout, light-brown pear. She is exactly my age.

“You look like you’re in a good mood,” Gizelle says accusingly.
“I am,” I smile. She looks me up and down, slowly raising her eyebrows.

“What you do at night?” I ask Gizelle.
“Play games of video.”
“Oh! Video games!” I consider telling her my true thoughts on video games, but I don’t know the words in her language for waste of time or rot your brain. “What does your daughter do while you play?”
“I give her other controller, and turn the power off. She think she play.”

“How are you go to Argentina?” Gizelle wonders.
“Bus, then airplane.”
“Did you go on a bus to Brazil from your house in America?” I take a moment to catch myself. I wonder how long that would take. Three weeks?
“No, I fly in airplane.”

“What you do on your day off tomorrow?” Gizelle asks.
“Sleep, read, walk in park, call to my sister.”
“You talk to your family a lot. Dad Monday, sister Saturday. You are close. When talk to mom?” I consider lying. Telling her that I talk to her just as often, or that she’s always busy. But I sift through the words I know in Portuguese and realize I can probably get the truth across.
“When I had 11 years, mom : cancer.”
Gizelle looks confused.
“Mom of me,” I point to myself, “Is not here.”
Gizelle looks perplexed.
“Mom of me,” I point to my belly, “cancer.”
Gizelle starts to nod.
“Mom of me,” I point upwards, “does not have life. She is there.”
“Ah, yes. Sad,” she considers me for a moment. “The mom of my husband, does not have life also.”

“You like broccoli?” Gizelle asks, seeing me pop a stem into my mouth.
“Yes. Much.”
“I no like broccoli.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a vegetable. I no eat vegetables.”

“How long on bus from house Lisa to Graciliano in morning?” Gizelle inquires.
“15 minutes,” I answer. “How long on bus from house Gizelle?”
“One hour and half.”

Graciliano

Every morning, after emerging from the breathy, sleepy-eyed bus, Peter slides the carved wooden bench forward on Graciliano’s front deck so we can enter our day. The enormous black and white clock on the front wall dings 8:27. “Bom dia,” we say, nodding to all of the blackly dressed waiters and waitresses taking the chairs down. “Bom dia,” we say, smiling at the cleaners, splashing the marble floors soaked in soapy water. Our shoes wet, we carefully stomp up the silver-painted metal stairs – past the Mens and past the Ladies, into our kitchen. Our home away from home away from home. The glaring, fluorescent lights overhead shine along down the white tiled walls and the less-white tiles of the floor. My locker, third from the bottom and on the far right, opens with a small square key for which there is no need – it only holds my stinky white shirt and carrot-orange, strawberry-red, zucchini-green splotched apron. Cloth shower cap enclosing my pony-tail and Pumas enclosing my soon-to-be aching feet, I take a deep breath and dive in. The tower of ovens warms the entire upstairs, beginning our day with fresh bread aromas and fresh salmon jolts. Boiled sweet coffee, served with a ladle, is passed from hand to hand. I grill. I chop. I boil. I orchestrate my work onto giant white serving dishes. I garnish. The whole while, Portuguese is being yelled, laughed, and gritted through gossipy teeth. A society all its own, here in this kitchen – and to be a part of it, I have to listen carefully, learn quickly, and smile.

TravellingPhotos

There is a strip of light-colored wood that runs vertically along the wall separating our hallway and our kitchen in the apartment here in Belo Horizonte. I instinctively pulled out about 5 from the envelope of many I had taken to Thailand and repacked for this trip to Brazil.
The top left picture (because when I look at these pictures it's almost always like reading a book) is from a party the Chamberlain side of my family had in January of 2003 for my grandmother's 80th birthday. The party (and most other shindigs on this side) was held at my aunt Wendy's home in Mequon. The picture is of my dad and I sitting on her beige carpeted stairs. My hair is shoulder length and I'm wearing a red v-neck top. Dad is in his college professor look-alike attire: a wool sweater, collared shirt and dark tie. He's got a grimace on his face, like he just whispered some wise-ass secret into my ear, and my eyes are squinting closed, my teeth showing, my mouth wide open, cheeks pink, my body obviously convulsing with laughter - the kind I always share with him.
Next to this is a polaroid taken on the camera Peter gave me for Christmas in 2006 - a gift I treasured dearly, especially in large groups. My friend Carrie had a group of friends in college who would take polaroids of one another holding the photo of the previous subject in some creative position. In this photo, I had taken a picture of my sister, Colleen, holding a polaroid of my cousin, Gordy, at our annual Christmas Eve brunch. Gordy, in what we can make of his photo, is probably holding a picture of another, younger cousin, his expression goofy and inquisitive. "What sort of project is Lisa trying to accomplish here?" his smirk says. Colleen, with Gordy in her hand, has her eyebrows raised over her right shoulder, a half smile across her lips and a leafless tree stands in the window at her back. It's one of the most beautiful pictures I have of her.
Next, a black and white photo. It's creamwhite-rimmed corners are curling inwards, framing a young version of my mother's face. The tiny date on the edge of the photo reads "OCT" which gives reason for her turtle neck sweater. She must have not liked the photo because there is a small "x" written in pencil on the back, and I remember picking this one out of a series which I assumed were a set of Senior pictures her mother must have taken of her in their Richland Court home. The window to the left of her, out of the frame, casts a faint light on her soft, long hair and her clear complexion. She smiles, her near-perfect teeth shining, her small, straight nose wincing slightly at the attention she's being given, her large, mascara'd eyes focus on the floor. If this one got an "x," I wish I could have seen the chosen yearbook photo.
Next to mom sits another photo, this one set in Madison, during the summer of 2006. It was Peter's 23rd birthday, I remember, and we all wore neckties in his honor. My brother, Paul, who had moved away from Madison only a year or two prior to the photo, was visiting for a friend's bachelor party. The photo is of the two of us, (Paul and I) on the sidewalk with a very large woman in a white jumpsuit who had happened upon us while walking past and wanted in on the moment. She proudly holds up a peace sign while Paul and I both are bent over in laughter, mouths agape, our eyes wet and our foreheads sweaty.
Below these is a picture of 5 people outside of the Outback Steakhouse in Fox Point, on a bench facing the sun at sunset. I took this picture after my farewell dinner in late April, 2007, a few nights before I left for the Far East. I'm happy to have this photo - all of it's subjects bright blue eyes gazing at me as I insist on repeatedly clicking the button. From left to right, my dad's wife, Pat, her hair loosely up, a black blazer across her shoulders, and her hands folded upon her dark jeans; then Colleen, in a flowered top, her hands in an identical position as Pat's (I now realize that they all have their hands placed the same way); dad in the middle with a denim collared shirt unbuttoned with a light green shirt underneath, his glasses on, his bangs whisping across his widows peak in the early summer wind; Joanne (Paul's bride-to-be) sits to his left in a lilac blouse, her calm smile wide, her purse on her lap; and finally Paul, leaning forward in his white buttondown and a 5 o'clock shadow, giving one of the most genuine smiles I've ever seen in a picture of him. The cars in the parking lot behind my family are scattered, reflecting the orange sun in their windows, not privy to the fact that they would have a part in my stack of travelling photos.

It´s All Happening

take off, land
take off, land
tin-covered food
ear popping
up-right sleeping
suitcase dragging
slow, excruciating cab rides
fast, life-threatening cab rides
bus rides
wrong ways
labyrinth maps
hostels
hard pillows
hard water
sore feet
sleep. sleep. sleep.
Stella Artois, Beer Singha, Antarctica, Quilmes
bottles and bottles and bottles of water
strong coffee
dizzy digestion
ferrys, boats, tuk tuks
parks
"Oh, you`re American? Oh, you must be George Bush."
dripping with sweat and icy cold
world weary, fascinated
homesick, tantric
"What`s the time change?"
"What`s the exchange?"
Pound. Euro. Dollar. Baht. Dong. Real. Peso.
"No, I don´t want that t-shirt."
dreams of far faces
dirty clothes
dirty nails
beautiful sunsets
beautiful photos to send home:
cliffs, blue water, unaware natives
breathing deep
gravesites/monuments/histories unknown
Pöt passa Thai dai. Pode fala Portugues. Puedo hablar Español.
Where`s my passport?
Where`s my wallet?
Where`s my home?

Passing Afternoon (Iron & Wine)

This is my favorite song at the moment:

There are times that walk from you
Like some passing afternoon
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
And she chose a yard to burn
But the ground remembers her
Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms

There are things that drift away
Like our endless numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe
In the hymns her mother sings
Sunday pulls it's children from their piles of fallen leaves

There are sailing ships that pass
All our bodies in the grass
Springtime calls her children until she lets them go at last
And she's chosen where to be
Though she's lost her wedding ring
Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds

There are things we can't recall
Blind as night that finds us all
Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
But my hands remember hers
Rolling around the shaded ferns
Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned

There are names across the sea
Only now I do believe
Sometimes, with the window closed, she'll sit and think of me
But she'll mend his tattered clothes
And they'll kiss as if they know
A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone