Brazil Dispatch 10

May 29, 2007

At last I am caught up with travel reports and can write about our little corner of Brazil again.

In my last dispatch from Brazil I mentioned we were about to take the eye test and 'psychological test' for our Brazilian drivers licenses. Of course, we were very curious what a psychological test for driving might be. When we arrived we asked if there was an English version or, if not, could I ask questions if I did not understand some of the questions in Portuguese? The tester delayed the test 20 minutes deliberating with her higher-up, but I then convinced her to let me try since I could read OK. She then began handing out the tests: not psychological at all, nor was there a word of Portuguese to read - typical Northeast of Brazil non-logic to hold up the test for a non-reason. The test was actually a 'psycho technical' test for visual aptitude and concentration. I believe in lieu of requiring anyone to know the traffic rules, they rely on drivers' ability to see peripherally and concentrate on avoiding collisions. We 'passed' fine and actually got our licenses eventually, behind the third door; however, we came up with a sample written multiple choice test question of our own that we modestly believe would be more practical:

You are approaching a gigantic pot hole on a busy street. You:
A) Drive rapidly over the pothole, destroying your car's alignment
B) Swerve and shear your side rearview mirror off on the bus beside you
C) Swerve and hit the motorcycle that is speeding between car lanes
D) Swerve and hit the donkey-drawn wagon that is already using half your lane
E) Swerve and maim the innocent pedestrian
F) Swerve and maim the persimmon vendor

Our days have a definite rhythm of Newton's work, my projects, and breaking for meals! I have begun sewing 100 squares of Japanese indigo batik prints together for our bedspread. I tried to rent a sewing machine to no avail, so after Cornelia's (the maid's) friend's machine stopped sewing after 1-1/2 inches, and the nice alterations seamstress at a mall offered me the use of hers in the A.M. at the mall - but it was an old industrial model that only sews very fast - I decided to sew the quilt by hand. This, it turns out, is quite a delicious activity, probably simply because I have the time to do it and there's no deadline. I sit for hours on the porch, feeling like an inch-worm as I slowly stitch my way across the blue fields. Then I must walk on the beach and look far away to get my vision unblurred, stretch the cricks out of my neck, and ascend the nearest little dune so I can run down it with flailing arms (the fishermen usually don't turn around).

Or I walk along the dirt/sand roads around here to see the contrasts of elaborate houses, elegant apartments under construction, abandoned houses, piles of garbage, roads blocked with demolished tiles and bricks, and the beautiful sea peaking through block by block. I usually check to see if that guy with the bulls is returning them from some pasture by way of my path, since I always seem to be in red shorts or red tank top, and am convinced they will charge. (Marcos-the-caretaker: "Yes, red upsets them.") One time they rounded a corner coming right towards me; I turned on a dime and went around the next corner as fast as I could, short of running, which I imagined would inspire a stampede. The truth is, they lumber along the roads right past everyone - I just figure I'll be the exception!

We are charmed and appalled by the locals here in nearby Pium. Our favorite bar, "Jumanji" - the only local bar with 'ambiance' - is owned by a wiry, energetic woman named Erivana who has decorated its sprawling outdoor location with plants in tires, driftwood, and all sorts of found objects displayed very intentionally. The teenage waiter, Rodrigo, loves to move to the forró music they usually play on a DVD, which is sheltered from rain by a stick structure. He moves like a natural dancer, even when hopping to get a beer and bringing it to the table. Friday we caught him around in the back dancing away. Be still my heart! We nearly always have to correct the bill because we have been accidentally undercharged, and we're talkin' cheap already: 650 ml bottles of beer for $1.25 and $1.00 caipirinhas! They can't believe anyone would point out this undercharging discrepancy on a check, but we, if we alone, really hope Jumanji survives!

The boy we buy most of our produce from at the fair, Railson, is the only one of several vendors there who acts like we're 'regulars' after six months. He goes to school and studies English, but cannot say one word of it. The education here has been evaluated as nearly the worst in all of Brazil. Then there's the litter question. It is so painful to watch people throwing litter down as they walk or ride in cars and buses, or piling the garbage up on the corner of a lot or on the street. Even Marcos' two little girls, 5 and 6, threw their gum wrappers down (once!) in our yard when visiting him. There are some efforts against this flagrant habit, but parents are littering and no one is telling the children not to do it, so progress is slow.

Of course, one can see the astute and creative at work. Marcos, who can read a little, is a generally sharp person, though poorly educated. He knows how to fix the water meter and the electric shower, plus a host of repairs solved with twine and epoxy. He keeps us informed of local news: the garbage collectors are on strike; a motorcycle wiped out in the muddy groove next to Jumanji; the next-door neighbors we've never seen are building a vacation chalet on their property for their children. Marcos is also our nature expert, always knowing the whereabouts of the iguana and that she went away to lay eggs. He knew what the ants were up to when they spent some days and nights parading diagonally through our property, carrying lovely bits of green leaves and flower petals: they were destroying our red-flowering bush in front, slowly but surely! We were initially enchanted by this tiny, colorful parade and incredulous at the ants' perseverance over such a distance - 47 yards. Naturally, I was fantasizing about an underground fairy house for which this must be an interior design project. Luckily, Marcos also knew how to redirect them. He is sorely missing our idea of logic and deduction though, so communication usually seems strange!

I have a hammock project: reading James Joyce's Ulysses. It was on my shelf for 30 years and the writing is almost a century old, so I figured, like any good English major, it was time. I absolutely love it, though it is not easy. I resorted to Cliff Notes online (what could I do? My Nabokov's Lectures on Literature is in storage in NY), which I started out by reading after each chapter or 'episode.' Then I decided to read the notes prior to each chapter. After the particularly challenging episode 14 where Joyce begins in Old English and proceeds with phases of English through the centuries, ending with American slave dialect, I began reading the Cliff Notes before and after each chapter! So I have been meticulously traveling through Dublin in my hammock, retroactively recognizing the tremendous influences on some of my favorite modern literature. It is a wondrous piece of writing, so rich, and it requires plenty of time (not that I am a speed-reader, but that wouldn't work). I have taken the quite obnoxious liberty of parodying the novel below, primarily because one's mind does fly off into fanciful Ulysses mode while exposed to this 'stream of consciousness' writing, and besides, I can't resist this corny fun. The subject is the odyssey of our leaf-and-petal-toting ants:

"Blooms ballooning booming looming by the. Wall...red, scarlet, vermillion million millions white branco blank yellow amarillo amo amar amas Irish rose but mostly blightred. Carry carregando cargo. Schlep hoisthaul down a hall. A puddle. Kilarney on June 15, 1893 after the picnic when she stepped in the. Transport transform transubstantiate substantial amounts to the mound. João, Ned, Luis, Patrick, Nilton, Edison, Edilson, Milton, Fausto, Paddy, Moarir, (more air?) Vladimir, W.B., T.S., B.S., Marcel, Parnell, Nega, Jack, Marron, Mahoney, Honey, Molly, Maggie, Mina, Milly, Dilly, Maria, O' da Silva, Luciano, Shamus, O'Liveira. Rejoice! McCracken past the cracks, McMantis preying. Has anybody here seen Quel é? Leaves - Kelly green yellow lime parrot chartreuse quince absinthe bottle absent. Lemon celery shamrock clover emerald hunter umber under. Parade desfile file to defile. There's the corner sinister bend pillarpilaster plaster wall route root spp spp silence. Silent group after the service my shoes, Sears, Roebuck and Co. September 1903 were killing me, hole in black sock L.L. Bean, ingrowntoenail. Gait under the gate need to fix that lock but I have no key. Father, son, primo, second primo third primo twice removed one wandering Jew bearing a cross meeting meting out the burden weight waiting for the minute to enter the minute cavern singing. Defecation, resuscitation, sanitation, sanityvanity practical tactical tactile projectile of. Ants in the bed once, going for the potted meat. It was after she read that dime novel, Sins of the Fresh by E.Z. Rider. Here they come they are here here they go over and over march on marchons. Veni vini vexation. Non lo so, solo? No. So. Nighttown darkly but then face to face the haulers and the slackers and returnees and the lost disoriented, oriental, occidental accidental loss of bearings bearing loads or. No. Phantasmagoria. Destroy destruir strew leafing leaving naked branches blanched stems twigs reeds seeds spilled soil spoiled by toil. Travail, to no avail."
(Forgive me!)

We will continue to love this warm 'rainy season' - known as 'winter' to Marcos - without too much rain, just sort of a tintype look of sunshine through a grey filter in the early morning, and continuing shifts in color and contrasts to surprise and delight. For a few minutes today the sky above the horizon was actually darker than the ocean. Then it was sunny with clear blue sky and turquoise ocean, then the same but with darker water. Jumanji was open at 5:00 pm, we noticed, when we walked to the gas station, called o posto, "the post" for ice cream (to observe Memorial Day), but was closed at 8:15 pm when we went to have a beer. They are closed on Tuesdays, but the last two Mondays they were closed, so opened on Tuesday this week. Can you guess how many times we've driven there and found it closed? Very Pium!

Love,

Sandy

Amsterdam Reprise Dispatch

May 20, 2007


We had one more day and night back in Amsterdam. Our previous hostel reserved a room for us, though not on the first floor as before - but up three flights of illegally steep stairs. Newt was the luggage carrier, for which he acquired the nickname, 'Beastie.' The weather continued to be sidewalk café caliber.





Our friend, Jean Cristobal, met us at the Van Gogh Museum. What can I say about that man Vincent pouring his soul out in brush strokes for seven years? His passion, his heartbreak, his childlike love are all so raw and breathing from the canvases, I cannot be surrounded by them without weeping. Elise's first Van Gogh exhibit at a month-and-a-half old was the Fall 1984 Van Gogh retrospective at the Met. I could not contain myself then, either. [Do you remember, Dick Taylor, that we saw you there?] I cannot imagine anyone remaining unscathed by the experience of this fragile, earnest, fearless human expression - it not only speaks to me, but shouts and whimpers and beckons, as well.

I loved his words on the museum walls, and have already ordered the book of his correspondence with brother, Theo.

"The world concerns me only in so far as I feel a certain debt and duty towards it, because I have walked on the earth for thirty years, and out of gratitude want to leave some souvenir in the shape of drawings or pictures, not made to please a certain tendency in art, but to express a sincere human feeling. So this work is the aim--and through concentration upon that one idea, everything one does is simplified."

"The way to know life is to love many things."

I bought a poster at the Van Gogh museum for our dining room. The best part is, when you turn away from the poster, you see a red-flowering bush out our front door with yellow butterflies hovering. This is the sort of thing that makes my day!

I received several questions and comments from you, my little audience, regarding the Dutch people. Yes, they are all tall and good looking. They run a tight ship there, so one believes they could be precise, serious, stern? As tourists in Natal, they usually do not make eye contact. But then on our flight back they were a particularly gregarious and happy group among themselves. We approached a Dutch family last weekend on Ponta Negra Beach, and they were so friendly that we now have been offered a place to stay the next time we're in Holland! As one of you noted, "a hidden sense of humor is not the same as no sense of humor." And their country really works in so many ways.

We felt a little reluctant to leave Europe, where there is so much we adore, but we got over it the first morning back in Natal. The 'rainy season' had arrived, so the air had a yellow tinge, and the sea was almost black instead of the usual turquoise. Big cumulous clouds allowed the sun to peekthrough - very dramatic. But that palette and its shower lasted only a few minutes...then the sea and sky were a solid pale grey with a barely perceptible horizon between; then it was clear and sunny! This is paradise, with constantly shifting colors and lighting. And so far, not all that much rain! My hip socket was back to normal after one day on the plane and one day not walking for miles.

Love,
Sandy

P.S. Sometimes you e-mail me and comment about not having much news from your 'ordinary' lives, not full of leisurely beaches and travel like mine. Well, my life is a fantasy at the moment, but please believe me when I tell you that hearing stories from everyday life, raising the children, going to work - is totally romantic to me. My beloved children and family are far away and my beloved school is far away, and I long to hear about all of your lives. Please send me a story from your day sometimes. I will find it exotic, believe me!

Barcelona Dispatch

May 14, 2007

Our sojourn to Barcelona had rather inauspicious beginnings. We decided to go to the train station a couple of days in advance in Nice to buy our tickets, since our train would leave at 6:00 Friday morning. The ticket clerks were on strike and the ticket machines only accepted the European Union credit card or cash. After being directed twice to the same non-existent cash machine, we noticed the ticket machines did accept coins. The tickets to Barcelona cost 139 Euros and a 2-Euro coin is the largest denomination, so the next step would have been to schlep bags of coins from a bank to the station. It felt just like Natal! Newton realized he could buy tickets online, and was able to redeem them the next day via the clerks, who were back at their counters.

Soon after boarding the train, I emerged from the corridor to the car 'foyer' through the swinging door, leaving my right ring finger in the door behind me. It turned deep purple from the knuckle up and throbbed violently during the 12-hour trip. (Funny part is, it then lost all feeling even after the normal color returned and only now, back in Natal, does it hurt!) So we've settled in our seat, rambling along the Cote D'Azur, passing gorgeous fields, cypress trees (in Arles!), lovely buff-colored towns - the euphoria interrupted only by the relative violence of the deafening clamor of oncoming trains passing full speed a foot away. Well, I had closed my eyes to brace myself through one of these onslaughts when an even louder pop just about jumped me out of my skin and convinced me that I would open my eyes and find myself shot. Our glass window had shattered into a million pieces - still in place, thank God, in a lovely mosaic. We followed the lead of every passenger near us and cleared out of there.We changed trains in Avignon and again in a sleepy Spanish border town called Portbou, where we had a sunny sidewalk lunch of fresh sardines.

When we arrived in Barcelona at 6:00pm, we went to the 'Bohemia' hostel we had reserved months before online, only to discover they had lost our reservation. This was a holiday weekend in Catalonia (Sant Jordi's Day), so Steve, the nice Irish guy who manages the hostel, said he only had a tiny room with bunk beds and a shared bath and shower. He thought we might want to check some of the hotels in the neighborhood, but was pretty sure the city was booked up for the weekend. We wandered around for a couple of hours, confirming that there was not a room anywhere, now desperately grateful for our bunk beds with bath two corridors away. (Newton: "I'm too old for this."). Steve offered us an entire apartment he also manages (with triple balcony!) for the same price, after two nights in the bunks. Our Barcelona stay turned a corner then and everything coincidentally became magical from that point.

And much credit for the magic of Barcelona goes to Gaudí, the incomparable modernist architect, who designed from his bottomless imagination buildings right out of Through the Looking Glass! The sheer execution of his ideas is mind boggling, as is the fact the structures got built at all. We, and I include Newton, could not get enough of him! We roamed the organic fantasy of La Pedrera (Casa Mila 1907), the apartment/office complex that renders its corner one of the most famous in the world. Just imagine a building with no right angles - the walls curve into the ceilings! We got stiff necks studying the gargantuan Sacred Family cathedral, an unfinished work that is slated for completion (under the direction of another architect) by 2023. We ate up the details of Casa Batlló - a roof reminiscent of Gaudí's fixation with knights and dragons! This was a renovation, so does have some right angles, but look at what I called the "pea pod" lighting in a ceiling:

Gaudí speaks to me in so many ways!

Sunday we walked and walked: along the famous La Rambla, an unusually wide boulevard devoted exclusively to pedestrians, through the Bogueria food market, down to the old gothic quarter, and on and on. We sampled and bought goat cheeses and duck and olive paté at a weekend market outside the old Barcelona Cathedral for an upcoming picnic. Outdoor musicians along our route included a Cuban group playing their romantic fare, which prompted this old, distinguished couple to demonstrate their quite smooth ballroom

dancing for the crowd; a classical Spanish guitar player; a Brazilian playing

Bossa Nova on guitar, accompanied at one moment by a carillon of church bells; and a New Orleans jazz band with another inspired dancing couple. (Newton and I decided that if retirement finances don't pan out, we could move to Kazakhstan and do the samba in a plaza for coins in a hat.)

A sunny day on the top open deck of a sightseeing bus was a great boon to taking in this large, beautiful, crowded city, as well as a chance for my right hip socket to regroup. Next day we explored La Ribera neighborhood with the Picasso Museum, carting wine and our delicacies to the nearby 'Central Park' of Barcelona for our picnic. There a group of latter day hippies was gathered under a tree, one guy playing a clarinet and another guy playing a hauntingly beautiful instrument reminiscent of both a steel drum and the Balinese gamelan. (I later inquired: it is more or less a steel bowl, called a "hang" - pronounced 'haung' and available in Bern, Switzerland...I want one.) Picasso's work doesn't particularly speak to me, though his museum is fascinating and fun. La Ribera neighborhood is probably my favorite in the city. I love my collection of floor tile photos from the marvelous floors around town...yep, they speak to me!

We were flummoxed by the Catalan language, in which many menus are written. Luckily, there is a wonderful system by which individual tapas are numbered and an English legend supplied. The outdoor tapas bar across the street from Casa Batlló has a cloud-light chocolate cake confection with chocolate sauce for which reason alone I would return to Barcelona! We found the traditional Catalan food always interesting and delicious, with sauces and marinates that are in a class by themselves. We were big fans of Rioja wine. We made it home with four bottles, Brazilian Customs being much more curious about the 220-volt power drill Newton had purchased (our US 110-volt doesn't work in Natal). Newton used his Spanish everywhere, though without the lisping Castillian accent. We never tired of giggling over this accent, mature as we are, by which we came to affectionately call the city, "Bartha."

A brief return to Amsterdam to catch our charter flight home followed.

Love,

Sandy

Nice Dispatch

May 7, 2007


We landed in Nice on a Monday morning. The sun was shining brightly on the "La Cage aux Folles" architecture and the Mediterranean Sea. No one agreed on the appropriate dress for this summery transition from winter, so a range from tank tops to winter coats and scarves typified the passers by. Since this was the business trip portion of our journey, we stayed in a real hotel instead of a hostel.


Newton's company's trade show booth was experiencing a weird convergence of mishaps: the posters, literature, and supplies were reported delivered by Fedex, but were not there. Turns out they were delivered to the sports arena next door instead, but Fedex solved it in time for Tuesday morning's opening; the booth itself had only 1 out of 3 counters built, so the company had a few hours to add two more impromptu, though not to specs; the rental monitors for demonstrations got sent to another town, but were rerouted in time.


That did not keep us from having a wonderful company dinner together Monday evening, with an employee from the Czech Republic and two from New Jersey, including the new addition to CAST, Meredith, who is smart, sane, and lots of fun.


I had time to walk and wander all afternoon, including a sidewalk lunch of warm goat cheese salad and white wine...such respect these people have for a meal! The ingredients couldn't be finer or fresher, and the great care taken offers sustenance on a different level. Another matter was finding the antiques market, which after a very rude encounter I learned was only on Monday mornings. I came upon the Museum of Contemporary Art, but couldn't see where to enter amid some construction. Another rude encounter sent me in the right direction, only to learn it is closed on Mondays. I think Nice belongs more to the tourists, for which the natives are blatantly resentful, but then again, I also had encounters that were not rude! I closed the Portuguese section of my brain and unearthed the French section, after a 35-year hibernation. I was surprised when words came to me - they failed me completely the last time I was in France. Does this mean your brain kicks in again after a menopausal hiatus? Yea! I was distraught that the Matisse Museum was closed till June - something I had looked forward to - but was pleased to peruse the sunny canvas of Nice itself, again walking my hip to distraction uphill and down. The pebble beach had plenty of bathers out, including some startlingly old topless women. I do enjoy a country that never had Puritans land there! You'll notice these sights are not documented in photos because when I wander around on my own, I rarely carry the extra weight of the camera. Lunch in a crowded plaza was heavenly: salad Nicoise with the most gorgeous hunks of tuna (unfortunately, the canned tuna in Natal is better known as 'cat food'). I watched a little girl try to dance 'en pointe' in her sturdy sneakers.


The street names appear in both French and Nicoise, a Mediterranean language. The shopping is marvelous here. I got to accompany Meredith on her afternoon off to the incredible shops full of Provence fabrics along the Rue de Marché in the old city. These fabrics are impeccable design-wise and quality-wise, something to savor after my 27-year sojourn in the world of Mediocre American Textiles. Meredith lived in Paris for 7 years, so speaks perfect French and assuages her nostalgia by filling her home with these gorgeous products. We had a great time together, so are looking forward to the next shared business trip!


I was able to check 'hair cut' and 'new bathing suit' off my list. My last lunch was indoors, as the weather cooled down and I was on the tank top end of the spectrum: mussels in once-in-a-lifetime broth, white wine, and the biggest serving of flan I've ever seen. Somehow the recorded bad choir music and the silent TV showing a snake attacking something worked for me.


A couple of visits to the trade show with an official tag afforded me a chance to join Meredith at a rich corporation's booth with magnificent free champagne and brie. I managed to miss, once again, figuring out what Newton's company actually does, although I've learned to bandy about "software" and "chips." We had a couple more lovely company dinners, one next to the marina.


Daily decaf cappuccino, chocolate mousse, chocolate gelato (the best in my life), cheeses of the gods, and excellent wine served to remind us, as Newton put it, we were "not in Kansas anymore!" You may be thinking, "can these travelers stop eating and drinking and visit some significant site?"...well, we do that, too. Problem is, eating and drinking along the Mediterranean is a sacred duty! Barcelona next -


Love,
Sandy

Amsterdam Dispatch

5/1/2007

So the Dutch charter flight wasn't too bad. We discovered that it stopped in Fortaleza on the way, making the trip 12 hours long. On the way back it flew directly from Amsterdam to Natal, a 9-hour trip. We recovered from the time difference and an all-night flight by eating and drinking wine in an outdoor café in Amsterdam all Saturday afternoon (had to move three times to follow the sun). We were next to the Albert Cuyper Market, so loved watching the happy mix of locals and tourists out on a beautiful day. Since people share your table if there are no more available, we had an interesting conversation with an older Dutch couple - he, half Chinese and she, originally from Suriname. He had recently published a book about a Dutch admiral, for which he illustrated every page!

In our usual manner, we almost missed dinner completely by napping till late. The city goes practically all night, but the kitchens only till 11:30. We walked and walked the wrong direction (a misunderstanding with the desk clerk), then finally found the crowded and active Leidseplein, where the streets were dominated by slurring and staggering youth by now. Beer was flowing everywhere without a bite to eat, until we found the all-night Arabic food joint which was populated only by the slurring and staggering, and the middle-aged, bourgeois, hungry us.

We spent Sunday wandering further around this very manageable city by foot, even though my right hip socket complained early on. I had the Van Gogh Museum and the canal house of the 15th century founder of the Dutch East India Company on my list, having seen the Rijksmuseum and the Anne Frank House previously. Newt had the Red Light District on his list. Our old friend from my textile days, Jean Cristobal, who married a Dutch man and lives nearby in Voorschoten, met us for a tour of the lovely canal house and more outdoor café sipping for the afternoon. This time we had to move into the shade, the sun was so hot! The Van Gogh museum was saved for our later return to Amsterdam before flying home. We walked and walked with Jean through lovely canal neighborhoods, where we found a place with a bird's eye view of the deep and narrow gardens that stretch out behind the houses; then the Red Light District. Prostitutes, old and new, scantily displayed themselves in large brothel windows and doorways amongst sex shops and sex museums.

We said good-bye to Jean and took a beautiful canal boat tour. The city seems so serene and calm in these neighborhoods, even though most all the boats usually parked along the canal sides were putt-putting along the canals on this sunny day (except the house boats, whose residents were out on roofs and decks). That infectious joy of a perfect spring day one recognizes from

Manhattan was palpable here, even though it

actually was much more like a summer day, for better or for worse. By this time it was 9:00pm and still daylight! (At 6:00pm darkness falls over Natal.) We rested briefly and limped to a lovely Italian restaurant beside a romantically lit canal. We got there just in time to order before the kitchen closed!

The clean-running trams and hordes of bicycles prevent the traffic choke of most cities, although the line between what is a street, a bicycle path and a sidewalk is very fuzzy for uninitiated tourists. One is struck by the order and beauty of the city, which evoke such a respect for life - until one is nearly actually struck by a bicycle whizzing by with an inch to spare, piloted at blurring speed by the young and the not-so-young. The Dutch are willing to answer questions and give directions in alarmingly correct American English (almost without a trace of accent), even if a certain latent hostility reveals itself in the bicycling habits. The cleanliness of the city is interrupted only by carpets of cigarette butts from the smoking-obsessed populace, a presence that affects the flavors of the cuisine, as well. We found this to be true everywhere we went in Europe. Apparently, new laws are forthcoming, but it looks like a lot of EU natives will be in shock.

You get the sense, even with the international tourists there, that Amsterdam really beloings to the Dutch - that their lives and routines are what give the city its orderly rhythm. We said good-bye via a 5:00am taxi ride to the train station, then a train to the airport. Off to Nice -more soon!

Love,

Sandy