I spent most of the week at the farm, revisting old sights. Most everything is exactly the same as I remember it, save for a new fence, some new dogs, and a big new house thing. The little town nearby, aracariguama, has grown a lot, but I don't think anyone but the mayor cares. I'm basically falling into the same routine as every visit: See the same things, note changes, and pass time with my family, none of which have changed. It's almost scary. They've built these roles for themselves, these roles that they're comfortable with, and fitted themselves into them. I know exactly how they will react to everything, pretty much. It forms such a closed microcosm that it almost suffocates me; Don't these people learn and grow and change? I look back on who I was four years ago-the last time I was here-and compare him to me, and we are not the same person. I feel that High school changed me radically. But here, here nothing's really new. I wonder if it's adolescence that causes it or isolation...kinda goes back to Joyce's view on an artist's develpment from Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man. Can we really grow and learn and create, when restricted to these goddamn little niches we create for ourselves? I see it, but in seeing it, I continually form myself into my own preferred stereotype, the cynical onlooker, but the fact still remains that I'm fitting myself into a mold that anyone else could jump into. I see my family here, I see cliques back home, and I think to myself: This is what keeps conservatism going. It's so comfortable to show up and jump into the smart, funny, awkward oldest grandson, and go about life like I've been here for the past 4 years. And easy on everyone else. But goddamn, I gotta think about this. Change it somehow; it doesn't feel right...
On another note, I'm back in Sao Paulo. Today was the gay pride parade, the biggest one in the world. 3 million people came to participate, and driving around at night I could see the aftermath of it....looks kinda like Austin. Crazy longhorns. Also, I watched a play today, called "The day the pope was kidnapped," in the theater that's right in the mall. It was pretty damn good: the script was a tad lacking, but the acting was top-notch, especially considering the venue. They showed some commercials before the show, on this shitty projector, and I thought, damn, this is the grindhouse experience. I recommend the play to anyone who cares, it's pretty funny.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Monday, June 4, 2007
My first day in Brazil
I haven't been to the Houston airport in 4 years. Avoided the place like the plague. Never been there before without getting a huge headache and wanting to kill puppies, especially since 9/11 and them wanting to build the brand-new terminal E, which I had never seen. So, imagine my surprise when, after a good 15 minutes of driving in suspicious circles following signs some idiots had put on roads that crossed over themselves two, three, four times, the driver pulled up to a very modern looking building and stopped, saying in half-english that this was the famous new terminal E. There wasn't a single line inside: a very good first impression on the part of the George Bush Intercontinental Airport staff. So, after paying three regretable dollars to get one of them push-carts I got all the luggage on it and wheeled it to the continental desk whereat a very nice asian girl helped my neurotic mother get it all checked in. Wonderful. But that wast the easy part: I hadn't gotten through security yet. Again, there wasn´t a line there, but I still had to go through all the shenanegans. I took all the contents out of my pockets, put them in a basket and stepped through.
"Shoes, sir."
Everything froze. I looked up and saw this security guard glaring at me. It was as if the rest of the airport had faded into the background and left onstage were this Gorrila of a man and I. I didn't understand: shoes? This man wanted my shoes ? Why? They're not particularly nice, it must be said. He kept glaring at me, exerting the full authority of his dredlocks and plastic badge. I froze like a deer in headlights.
"Put your shoes through the x-ray, sir."
Well, with that cleared up, the now infamous shoes were indeed x-rayed and put back onto my eager feet, and my mother and I, now clearly marked not-terrorists, were on our way to gate E-4. On the way I stopped by a Borders, looking again for that damn book no one seems to carry, found the had joined the aforementioned club, and left; I stopped by the restrooms and for the first time heard what it sounds like for a grown man to actually use a stall for a number 2; and I had dinner at the panda express, but instantly regretted doing so after seeing how dissappointing the food looked when on the other side of that screen that separates customers from it when ordering it. When finally the gate was reached, it was packed of smug-looking Brazilians, all waiting for the same damn flight. Standing became a necessity due to lack of seats. Normally you tell yourself, standing is not so bad, you're going to be sitting for the next 9 and a half hours. Whatever optimist part of your brain that thinks these thoughts ought to be found by MRI and promptly lobotomised; standing for an hour and half is not fun regardless your disposition. But eventually I did get on the plane and sat down-Window seat!- and the plane took off.
The in-flight entertainment is worse than I remembered it. They had one movie that was watchable, that Shooter, starring Mark Whalberg. I saw that, with those painful, biting ear-bud things they give you that literally attempt to cut your ears off. The movie was decent. I was expecting passable drama about a hunter, I got far-fetched action-thriller about presidential assassination. Woo. I watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest on my iPod, and listened to Dark Side of the Moon. I couldn't sleep. I busied myself for the rest of the trip opening and closing the window, with the full light of the sunrise flashing at other sleeping passengers, over and over again.
Finally, the plane made its descent. Once we broke the cloud layer-and it was damn cloudy yesterday-I saw the full scope of the city. Those who have never been to Tokyo or Mexico City wouldn't understand the scope of Sao Paulo. The city stretches, from a kilometer in the air, as far as the eye can see. You see hundreds, thousands of buildings crawling over the hills, with no apparent sense to their layout. The skyscrapers form more than a dozen skylines all over. To my knowledge, the city has no "downtown" simply because there is no center: The city is infinite. And, as the plane descends farther, and the building gain in resolution you begin to see the living conditions of the 19 million people here. Something like 80% of the city is slums, I think, and you don't know what these slums are like. Favelas, they are called. Jesus, it hurts to look at them: Five slabs of concrete make walls and roof, for those that are lucky. Some are mere erections of cardboard, and millions of people live there. Makes the crime rate almost make sense.
At last, I got off the damn plane, got our luggage, and went out to meet the family. Except for my cousins' physical appearance, these people have not changed one bit in 4 years. It scared me, to be honest. I expected to feel a bit left out, not having seen them in so long, but I fit right in to the designated place I somewhat regretably left. I quickly readjusted to their various quirks-and to having FIVE of my moms around now-four aunts and my grandma- but my uncles are all pretty cool, my cousins are very friendly, and my grandfather is probably the epidemy of awesome. I drove back in his supposedly new pickup, though it looked at least two years old and was completly scratched on every surface. Driving to my grandma's house I saw the various trademarks of companies that had been repressed into inaccessible memory: TAM, Habib's, Bob's. I still need to readjust to the modern culture here. My aunt Marcia and uncle Pedro are living at my grandma's now. They got a dog, an adorable little beagle. Napoleon, they call him. I had the usual breakfast: french bread with baloney. Then came the sitting around and listening to my mother give her side to various anecdotes of the past two years, making my dad and brother out to be neanderthals and skiping over what I did probably for the same reason.
All in all, I think it's alright being back. I did miss these people. But I can seldom wait to get to my grandpa's farm. I'll write more later. Ciao.
"Shoes, sir."
Everything froze. I looked up and saw this security guard glaring at me. It was as if the rest of the airport had faded into the background and left onstage were this Gorrila of a man and I. I didn't understand: shoes? This man wanted my shoes ? Why? They're not particularly nice, it must be said. He kept glaring at me, exerting the full authority of his dredlocks and plastic badge. I froze like a deer in headlights.
"Put your shoes through the x-ray, sir."
Well, with that cleared up, the now infamous shoes were indeed x-rayed and put back onto my eager feet, and my mother and I, now clearly marked not-terrorists, were on our way to gate E-4. On the way I stopped by a Borders, looking again for that damn book no one seems to carry, found the had joined the aforementioned club, and left; I stopped by the restrooms and for the first time heard what it sounds like for a grown man to actually use a stall for a number 2; and I had dinner at the panda express, but instantly regretted doing so after seeing how dissappointing the food looked when on the other side of that screen that separates customers from it when ordering it. When finally the gate was reached, it was packed of smug-looking Brazilians, all waiting for the same damn flight. Standing became a necessity due to lack of seats. Normally you tell yourself, standing is not so bad, you're going to be sitting for the next 9 and a half hours. Whatever optimist part of your brain that thinks these thoughts ought to be found by MRI and promptly lobotomised; standing for an hour and half is not fun regardless your disposition. But eventually I did get on the plane and sat down-Window seat!- and the plane took off.
The in-flight entertainment is worse than I remembered it. They had one movie that was watchable, that Shooter, starring Mark Whalberg. I saw that, with those painful, biting ear-bud things they give you that literally attempt to cut your ears off. The movie was decent. I was expecting passable drama about a hunter, I got far-fetched action-thriller about presidential assassination. Woo. I watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest on my iPod, and listened to Dark Side of the Moon. I couldn't sleep. I busied myself for the rest of the trip opening and closing the window, with the full light of the sunrise flashing at other sleeping passengers, over and over again.
Finally, the plane made its descent. Once we broke the cloud layer-and it was damn cloudy yesterday-I saw the full scope of the city. Those who have never been to Tokyo or Mexico City wouldn't understand the scope of Sao Paulo. The city stretches, from a kilometer in the air, as far as the eye can see. You see hundreds, thousands of buildings crawling over the hills, with no apparent sense to their layout. The skyscrapers form more than a dozen skylines all over. To my knowledge, the city has no "downtown" simply because there is no center: The city is infinite. And, as the plane descends farther, and the building gain in resolution you begin to see the living conditions of the 19 million people here. Something like 80% of the city is slums, I think, and you don't know what these slums are like. Favelas, they are called. Jesus, it hurts to look at them: Five slabs of concrete make walls and roof, for those that are lucky. Some are mere erections of cardboard, and millions of people live there. Makes the crime rate almost make sense.
At last, I got off the damn plane, got our luggage, and went out to meet the family. Except for my cousins' physical appearance, these people have not changed one bit in 4 years. It scared me, to be honest. I expected to feel a bit left out, not having seen them in so long, but I fit right in to the designated place I somewhat regretably left. I quickly readjusted to their various quirks-and to having FIVE of my moms around now-four aunts and my grandma- but my uncles are all pretty cool, my cousins are very friendly, and my grandfather is probably the epidemy of awesome. I drove back in his supposedly new pickup, though it looked at least two years old and was completly scratched on every surface. Driving to my grandma's house I saw the various trademarks of companies that had been repressed into inaccessible memory: TAM, Habib's, Bob's. I still need to readjust to the modern culture here. My aunt Marcia and uncle Pedro are living at my grandma's now. They got a dog, an adorable little beagle. Napoleon, they call him. I had the usual breakfast: french bread with baloney. Then came the sitting around and listening to my mother give her side to various anecdotes of the past two years, making my dad and brother out to be neanderthals and skiping over what I did probably for the same reason.
All in all, I think it's alright being back. I did miss these people. But I can seldom wait to get to my grandpa's farm. I'll write more later. Ciao.
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