The Saga Begins...

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Lads, I apologize for the belated blog post, the webmasters of the blog site even sent me an email asking if I’m still traveling, but this experience has been too rich to steal an hour or two for writing each day. I scratch notes if I’m lucky.

In Brazil, I’ve caught myself on the verge of tears just thinking of what awesome friends I’m lucky enough to have (DC/NC/Br you know who I’m talking about (Ed in case you’re wondering you’re out)), what beauty there is to behold in life, and the human struggle that links us all no matter what country, language, religion, culture, or color. I’ve discovered a deep thirst for all things Brazilian. My father instilled a taste for traveling adventures when he took younger versions of my sisters and I on road trips across Europe. We’d pack up the car in Ireland and get on the ferry and then we’d drive till the wheels fell off. Now in Brazil, I feel the long forgotten swell of energy that comes from hearing entire conversations spoken in a foreign tongue; this dude told his dog to sit the other day and I smiled because the effing dog understood more Portuguese than I. Through traveling I’ve learned that I want a life like Tolstoy’s Mashechka, “I want movement and not a calm course of existence. I want excitement and danger and the chance to sacrifice myself for my love”.

The idea of being footloose in Brazil completely exhilarated me. So much so that the prescription sleeping pills I illegally procured before take off didn’t have their intended effect. In fact they just made me kind of drunk with a bad case of the grunties. I touched down in Argentina for a bit and managed to finagle a plane ride to Porto Alegre (PA), Brazil after a huge hassle with my bag and ticket. Word to the wise, don’t book a ticket the day before you fly if you can help it. I landed in PA only to be greeted by my most generous and beneficent friend Adam. It was about 70 degrees, overcast, and wonderful. A friend of Adam’s picked us up and leaving the airport with the window down in the back seat, watching all the graffiti, the shops, and advertisements zip by I felt free; completely and utterly free. No deadlines, no tax returns, no emails (William Wallace- Freedom!!!!).

I don’t know if it was my excitement that I splashed on everything I saw - like the inordinate number of outrageously attractive women walking with their inordinately miniscule dogs or the idyllic cafés where the most mundane conversations have such a panache because they are simply at a café in BRAZIL or the tinkers who drive buggies filled with trash drawn by donkeys or small horses through rush hour - but I positively loved it. We stopped for lunch at a small restaurant in Padre Chagas, quite a nice part of Porto Alegre, and Adam introduced me to Feijoada, one of the most famous Brazilian dishes. It is rice smothered in black beans and sauce. This particular restaurant served it with spiced ribs, fresh fruit, and a Caiprinha to wash it all down. The Caipirinha is a Brazilian drink made with limes, caipirinha mix, and Cachaca (Brazilian liquor)(it’s delicious). Anyways, Adam and I got to talking and I have so much respect for my dear friend. The dude is a bad ass making a living as a sports agent down in Brazil and he is sound out (Irish for genuine, wholesome, and decent) to boot. We finished up lunch and we headed back to his apartment.

Brazil is figuratively and literally awesome but amidst its splendor there breathes such a tension. Living side by side, you have the super chic suburbanites walking in their tight spandex and the newest Nike/Ipod synched shoes and then on the other side of the same street beggars and thieves sit and lurk living hand to mouth each day. What a country!

We got back to the apartment only for Adam to turn right back around and head to work for the afternoon. I was so tired after my drunken mumblings and farting on the plane that I thought it prudent to nap. In Adam’s apartment I found a couch/sleeper thing that resembled a padded white fisher price table that felt like a million bucks. I had one of the nicest rests of my life that afternoon. I got up after an hour or two, and finding myself alone I decided to go for a walk. Walking down the street in Porto Alegre, the first stop on this odyssey, I felt in myself a superabundance of energy; a surge which found no outlet in my quiet life back home. I headed back to the apartment and still heaving I attempted to write.

The night was young when Adam returned from work and we headed out in search of an adventure. We found buyers for two of the three electronic items I carefully smuggled into the country and proceeded to make a reservation for 9.30pm at a trendy restaurant that served Brazilian food and Sushi. Electronics are grossly overpriced in Brazil so there is quite a Black Market for said goods. As our meanderings continued we stopped in a wee restaurant for a drink. I got the most homosexual looking drink a heterosexual guy could have ordered; a cappuccino topped with a flaming mountain of whip cream (figuratively speaking). It came out all poofy with chocolate shavings and some rainbow sprinkles on top. The girls at the table next to us gave me an “oh I understand that you are gay we should go shopping sometime” look. Adam was cool, he got an espresso. All the old Brazilian men stand at cafes and drink their espressos and look out into the street. The espressos come with a little shot of water down here (it’s so badass). But my fairy cappuccino was not without significance. This one drink made me realize that too often I like to blaze a trail instead of learning from the locals. As I grow I realize my likes and my dislikes but in different places a cappuccino is a jazz player’s smooth elixir and in others, like this one in Brazil, a gay volcano. And I have concluded that there is much to be learned from the locals. I found it often pays to open my eyes an ears so I don’t have to reinvent the wheel (or my sexual identity) each time.

After our coffees Adam and I decided that the Chopp (draft Beer) was looking mighty fine so we got a few beers; the chopp, by the way, mixed surprisingly well with coffee and whip cream. We finished up at the café by draining our beers (the beers I feel vindicated me with the girls at the next table) and we headed home to change and head out for the night. In Brazil restaurants are dead at six and seven and eight o’clock at night. As I said, we made our reservation for 9.30 but we didn’t end up getting out to the restaurant until 10.45. But it was cool. A waiter sat us at a very fashionable table under a big umbrella on the sidewalk. Adam and I sat down with another American, Billy (who was sunburnt but I will tell you about him later) who had recently met Richard, an Englishman with spiked blonde hair who was conspicuously vague about what exactly he was doing in Brazil (oh and he liked to be called Ricardo). Anyways, Richard called his girlfriend and well into our meal a voluptuous Brazilian brunette who was fluent in English graced our table with her presence. Her name was Andrea. Billy was squawking his head off to Ricardo about how the Real was going to surpass the US Dollar in value within six months and I was chatting away to Andrea about her receptionist job at a hotel. Adam didn’t talk much. He was observing.

By the time we finished our sushi and the third round of drinks the conversation took a turn for the truth. Billy, I think, threw down the gauntlet and asked Andrea exactly what she thought of him and she called him a Torado (Portuguese for pervert). We all got a laugh out of that, everyone except for Billy that is, who turned a little redder while sipping his Caipirinha. Okay Billy….Now this cat was off the wagon for months before the weekend I was in PA. Previously when ever he would go out he would seemingly order orange juice and water and the like; he appeared to be a really intelligent and motivated person who spoke fluent Portuguese and ran something like 14 websites. BUT this very weekend, Billy decided he wanted a little more excitement in his life and he decided to start drinking again and go in search of women and hard drugs while his wife was away for the weekend. His search for drugs in the midst of a binge ended with the barrel of a loaded 357 Magnum being pressed against his head at 5am on Monday morning. His wallet was stolen and it was interesting because Ricardo introduced Billy to the “dealer”. But I’m getting ahead of myself that was the next night, enough about Billy for now, back to dinner. Andrea, Ricardo’s girlfriend, after admonishing Billy, looked directly across the table at Adam and said, “the people who talk a lot don’t do much and the people who do a lot don’t talk”. Adam smiled while I calmly took in what was going on there. Later on that night I played a diversionary role by keeping the Englishman engaged in an asinine conversation about the mating habits of walruses while Adam got Andrea’s digits!!!!

After dinner, Adam, Billy, Richard, and I all said Ciao to Andrea and we got wind of a Birthday party. We headed down one of the relatively safe streets in Padre Chagas and a cool black completely tinted out Audi stopped in front of us. One of Adam’s friends rolled down the window and said “Vamanos!!!” We piled in and he drove us to a real seedy warehouse in a real seedy part of the city that surprisingly enough had valet! We went into this five-person birthday party and it was mad chill. Loud music, beer, there was even a hooka with illegal substances being lit (Mom don’t worry I didn’t inhale). There were quite a few lookers on the dance floor, two of whom were just not ready for my two-step (they turned me down when I asked for to dance). But the third time’s a charm and I ended up dancing with this Brazilian actress! I told her I did Improv and she wanted to take me to a 3am production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream. An offer to which I hastily agreed but somewhere along the line I must have said something wrong and she stormed out of the place at 2.45am without me. I still have the ticket. Adam and I ended up meeting back at his place around 4.30 and I found myself wrapped a delicious slumber as soon as my head hit my oversized padded fischer price sleeping apparatus.

My second day in PA started off with a Xis (pronounced shees). A xis is a schlotsky’s-esque bun stuffed with a burger, cheese, cabbage, beans, peas, corn, chicken hearts (Corracoa), lettuce, tomatoes, bacon and other items whose names are unknown to me. It is an incredible experience to eat one of them after a long night of drinking. It’s the instantaneous hangover cure. After we finished our xises, Adam and I meandered around the main market in PA. It was fascinating how many old American advertisements for Pepsi and Budweiser littered the for sale blankets strewn about the sidewalks. They were laid out and more often than not covered in a thick layer of sticky dust. We then returned to Adam’s pad to prepare for a walk in the park. The inhabitants of Porto Alegre are a beach going breed but seeing it’s Autumn all the girls and guys go to the park instead. Adam skillfully fixed us a Chimmarao. A Chimmarao is a green tea jam packed with antioxidants and it has a somewhat bitter taste but is incredible way to purify the body. Argentina has a similar drink and the Chimmarao is only drunk in Rio Grande De Sul (RGDS), the southern most state in Brazil, home of the Gaucha (name for a person born in RGDS). It is made in wooden cup and is sipped through a special metal siphon spoon. Once one cup is drained you pour another drop of water in from the flask and pass it to the next person. The water was hot enough to warm us up but cool enough so as not to burn the tea. Adam is a pro at making them and when he finished constructing his tea wall we were off again.

After admiring a multitude of bodacious bods at the park Adam took me to this guy Douglas’s house. The Rio Grande De Sul’s championship soccer match was on and it was apparently a big occasion. Droves of people wearing jerseys were singing in jam-packed bars as we walked down the street to a taxi stand. We got to Douglas’s house and I felt like I walked in to a long lost uncle’s apartment in Brooklyn. This guy Douglas is a boisterous outrageously funny New Yorker who has been living with his girlfriend in Brazil for the past seven years and teaching English to professionals. The dude is a legend. He’s mad hospitable and when he’s around a good laugh is sure to follow. There’s definite positive energy all around Douglas’ House and I realized how nice it is to meet fellow ex-pats abroad. The fact that we a shared homeland, a culture, and national identity for me led to an instantaneous bond. A bond that is most welcome to a lonely traveler. While traveling alone I’m much more inclined to interrupt a conversation and ask where exactly it is the mid-westerners or Californianans or Pennsyltuckians are from. They turn with a smile one hundred percent of the time and tell me (unless you make the mistake of asking a Canadian what part of the states they’re from they roll their eyes as if you’d committed a mortal sin). The bond is an understanding found within an instant of placing an accent, an empathy due to a common experience within a national identity (I mean try explaining Thanksgiving to a foreigner and they just don’t get it).

My national identity has always been a question mark. I’ve grew up with the notion that I am both American and Irish because you see up until the age of 21 I’d spend the school year in America with my mom and then I’d spend my summers with my Dad in Ireland. So gauging exactly how much of either country is in me is quite difficult. While growing up I tried to be both. My accents changed depending on where I was (Yeah so what Mark Whalberg in The Departed they changed! Fuck off!). In taking this trip, I’ve found that I’m damn proud of the American part of me.

We said goodbye to Douglas after the match concluded, I don’t remember who won or even who played because I’ve seen so many soccer matches since then. When ever you turn on the TV in Brazil there is soccer on the tube or highlight from a game played previously (I love Brazil). But Adam and I decided to go talk to God. So we went back to his place and got ready for church. Now going to a Baptist service in Brazil might not sound like the typical tourist stop but let me tell you it was amazing. I met a ton of people, had a religious experience, and I learned more about the pronunciation of Portuguese in the two hour and forty minute session with God than I have in my entire life. We started out the service with a round of jubilant songs (Annie you would have loved the singing) led by this wicked talented choir director. The words to the songs were projected up on the wall and the ball bounced along as we were to sing them, it was like Cult Karaoke. Not that those Baptists are cult members but if they had such a thing as Cult Karaoke I’m sure that’s exactly what it would be like. I sang my head off to hymns in Portuguese and it felt good.

It was a special service because on April 27, 2008 a whole family decided that they were going to be baptized into the church. The preacher called the whole family up on stage and gave the Pater Familius a microphone. The overhead lights highlighted his plain white tee shirt which rested softly on his protruding belly - he had the gut of an athlete who gave up training for a quieter family life. The tall white-haired man spoke at length about how he found Jesus or it could have been about his day on the Milk Farm, I’ll never know. But at the end of his speech this man looked down the row of people standing beside him - his wife, his oldest son, his oldest daughter, his youngest daughter (who couldn’t have been more than five), and an older woman who I took to be his mom - and he began to weep. He was having, what I call, a genuine spiritual moment (others call it an emotional breakdown). It’s those moments when you let all your inhibitions go, when you are stripped of all your defenses, when you stop worrying but can’t stop the outpouring, when you see yourself truthfully, and the tears come. You have no control over the contortions of your face, the convulsions of your body, or the tears streaming down your face. And then after some time the best part comes; the deep breath. When his genuine moment was over the Pater Familius found control of his breathing and with a deep cathartic inhale he released us all from his spell. The entire congregation, myself included, was speechless and all eyes were glued to this man’s profound honesty, his unabashed display of emotion. As soon as he finished crying the whole family, bleary eyed and smiling with tear streaks of their own, joined one another in a big hug. When they finished they were herded backstage by a man in a black mask, spiked collar, and leather chaps. The preacher followed.

The choir director came out again (who could have been the preacher’s twin by the way) and we sang for another solid twenty minutes. The choir director unclipped his saxophone and exited stage left. As he did so the little cherub, the wee girl in the family who couldn’t have been more than five, appeared behind the stage dressed all in white. She held the preacher’s hand and they stepped down into a pool of water behind the stage. Her white haired father followed them and waded until he was chest deep in the tub. The camera followed their descent into the water from stage right and the feed was projected on the wall where a ball previously bounced over song lyrics. (It amazes me how much money, technology, and real estate churches own). With her adorable face plastered on the wall, so pristine, so naïve, so trusting, the Preacher asked her a question. What the question was again I’ll never know but she smiled and answered “Si”. He repeated the question and gestured for her to address the church when she answered, she said “Si” again with a smile bigger than before. She crossed her hands over her chest and she looked so serene as he proceeded to dunk her under the water. She came up wiped the water out of her eyes, instinctively slicked her hair back, and the preacher hugged her and kissed her on the head. But what really got me was when she pressed her soaking head against her father’s dry chest and he engulfed her without hesitation in a big bear hug. I almost cried as the whole room erupted in applause.

I almost cried because the little girl reminded me of my little sister. She’s an incredible swimmer and I go to as many meets as I can. It’s great when she swims but waiting in those chlorine filled hot boxes gets old quickly. To pass the time, while everyone else’s kid swims, I volunteer to time the heats. (I sometimes get kids to splash some water on me to cool off). At the meets, my mother usually buys the family meet tee shirts to show solidarity and to support the swim team. But anyways, if my sis swims a good race at any one of her over heated god forsaken meets she jumps out of the water barely taking her goggles off and sopping wet hugs me or our mom or whoever is around her. I missed that feeling of pool water soaking through a new cotton tee shirt (that was undoubtedly made in China a few weeks previously) as I watched this man embrace his daughter. Traveling makes me appreciate how lucky I am to have the family I do.
After I welled up, I was moved from happiness to a feeling of empathy. Happiness because this completely cheerful and vibrant young girl was doing something that made her and her family so happy. She smiled as if she had just spelt hippopotamus right for the first time in front of her dad; it was pure pleasure in her face. She was beaming as she should have been, making her parents so proud and I was happy for her that she felt that. But quickly following the glee that I shared with the girl, I felt bad for her. I’ll never know how much she actually knew about the monumental decision she made or how volitional it was.

The bliss people walked around with at this church struck an envious chord within me. The green-eyed monster poked its head out because I am one who questions his relationship with God. I am jealous of the people who can let go; who are in love with their faith. It sometimes angers me because I’m just not able to take that leap of faith wholeheartedly. It frustrates me that I see everlasting salvation as a means of control; a mere carrot dangling from a stick at the end of this earthly tunnel. Admittedly there are ten main rules, which isn’t much and they are good, but c’moooon do I really need all the other guilt and sin that goes with adhering to an organized religion like Catholicism. I grew up Catholic so my concept of the world was for a long time clouded by this feeling of guilt and inadequacy that came from not living up to the standards of my religion. Take for example the sin of having impure thoughts (which happen approximately every 3 seconds in a male’s testosterone infused brain). Shouldn’t having impure thoughts and not acting on them be an accomplishment instead of a sin? Isn’t living an honorable life and the rewards therein enough to find happiness without religion? And conversely are the punishments for not living an honorable life bitter enough to turn one back to a righteous path (for anyone who has the capacity for empathy at least)? Or is the ego of man too grand to think that he is no more than an organism living and dying here on earth who spiritually moves nowhere after death? Oh shit now I’m opening a bloomin’ can of worms - I’m getting into what identity consists of. Is there such a thing as a Spirit/Soul/Self that is separate from the body (26 Grams)? Or is our identity only made up of our corporeal self and the memories and anticipations that are stored in our wonder organ - the brain? Anyways, back to the main point of this paragraph, the more I think about it the more the thought of an afterlife seems too contrived to be palatable but I guess I’ll figure that out when I get there. As Gandalf says, “death is a road we all must travel.”

I was talking with my friend Jim after quite a few beers one night and I brought up the point that there must be something in the fact that we are able to conceive of an idea such as afterlife. Why would be able to think it if it didn’t exist? My argument boiled down to if we are capable of thinking it therefore it must exist. My argument quickly looses ground when one thinks of a flying pig or a vampire who doesn’t like to suck blood. But he quickly countered with this notion that the human capacity for spirituality is a byproduct of social awareness. I found that quite compelling and it further distanced me from my previously held Catholic notions of heaven. Oh the woe that is me!

I sat there as the preacher spoke in tongues thinking of all this while writing in my little black book. I looked up when the preacher paused and the older woman, who I took to be white-beard’s mother, went behind the stage into the tub. She called out as she took the last step into the chest deep water. She called out to her family, who, consequently, was sitting in the pew directly in front of Adam and I. She wanted nothing more than for her family to see her and acknowledge what she was doing. Her family waved her on and gave a shout as she went under. After her dunk she came back to her family and she was positively beaming. While stepping around protruding knees she smiled from ear to ear hurrying because she was desperate to embrace her kin. With her sopping wet hair I wanted to pat the old dear on the back and give her the thumbs up and say welcome to the club, but kept my hands in my pockets as I thought it a little too sanctimonious. She was so happy she kept hugging everyone in her family. She felt the love and wanted to share it with her family. What I’m trying to get at is why we feel so much better about our actions when those we care about approve? What part of us thrives off that interaction and more importantly why do I get so concerned with the approval of others? She looked at me and I just smiled and nodded.

My frustrations and questions are born from a lack of confidence and an unwillingness to ask myself these questions as of yet. The undiscovered beliefs stuck away in pockets of myself that I have yet to venture into come out in the form of sarcasm and negativity. I’ve never taken the time to analyze what I feel in response to a certain event because I’ve been to “caught up in the moment” which really means putting others’ wants and wishes before mine. I think that the confidence comes from first figuring out what your beliefs are and then sticking to them. Not as a “man who never alters his opinion” for he “is like standing water, & breeds reptiles of the mind” (Blake) but as an open minded and unabashedly opinionated person. That is the identity I would like to have. Now I just need to figure out how to get there. (Strangely enough learning how to kill someone in Jujitsu is giving me confidence). I thought this as I watched the preacher up on stage. He was moving and sweating and flecks of spit launched out when he enunciated bilabials. He utilized the entire stage going back and forth, banging his fist into his hand (man I wish I knew what he was on about), and used vocal variety like it aint no thang. The tank was draining behind him and as the water was tornadoing down the drain it was making a sucking sound. The preacher stopped mid sentence and said something like “What the hell is that sound?” Everyone laughed and I was in awe of his speaking skill.

Here before me on stage, was a man who has a path, a profession, a career and what’s more is that he’s passionate about it. In the midst of the laughter an egg broke open in my head and the yoke of another important question fell out; what if our purpose is determined at a very young age in life and it is our responsibility to take the time to figure out what lies in the soul or (for lack of being able to pin down what a soul actually is) the very deepest part of the wonder organ? In fact the more I think about it the more I’m convinced that it is our duty to ourselves to have the wherewithal to make our own personal life conditions conducive to figuring out what really gets our juices flowing. Like Aragorn or Prince Henry, finding that destiny which we were meant for. I mean the most unhappy and tense people I know are the ones who commit to a profession/degree/goal without serious introspection, reflection, and discussion with close friends. I know because I used to be one of them; rationalizing forsaking personal truth with monetary gain and responsibility. But now I’m not that person and there’s something to be said for that. There’s something to be said about the awesome friends I have who have encouraged me and supported me unflinchingly in my quest and also there is something to be said about the friends who have sat me down and said dude what the fuck are you doing? And to all you guys that something I say is thank you. I’m not perfect; God knows I’m not, but again Bob I’m getting warmer.

Sunday night after the Baptist service, Adam called Andrea and she insisted on going to this salsa bar across town (why I’ll never know because her ass was glued to her stool the entire night). Anyways, that night I had the best dance of my life. I walked across the dance floor and there was this beautiful woman standing there in a black tank top, wearing wicked tight jeans, and those big hoop earrings. I put my hand out and she accepted my invitation to dance. She could tell I was a gringo so she said in my ear, “I don’t salsa”. I said neither did I and man did we cut a rug. It was only one amazing dance and when I looked for her again she was gone. Adam and I left the club, got another 4,000 calorie xis on the way home, and finally got home around 4am on Monday morning. It was great!
On my last day in PA Adam took me to La Brasas, it is a churrascaria. Adam coined the tem “Man Heaven” to describe this restaurant because for almost $33 you eat all the delicious meat you want and it aint no Western Sizzlin' buffet neither...Filet Mignon, Lamb Chops, Chicken Hearts, Tenderloin, Flank, breast, half, basically any cut of beef, pork, sheep, or chicken you can imagine. The waiters come around with swords full of the meat just taken from the flame and if your token (my token is pictured above just behind my water bottle) is on green they stop to offer you whatever it is they have and if its on red they pass you. It's a brilliant country for food and Rio Grande de Sud is especially known for their way with meat. Billy joined us. But Adam emailed him later on in the week and he had no recollection of having dinner with us; Blackout Billy. For the life of him he could not remember three hours of eating meet with us or of telling us about the robbery or that his wife returned home only to leave him. He was a train wreck. But it’s wild the people you meet when traveling.
Seeing I had an early flight the next morning and Billy was raving about how everyone working in Brazil was part of a scam, Adam and I were relieved to head home early (10pm). We got to his place and decided to chill with these two gorgeous twins living above him. We had a great craic but the evening went on and our conversations were spent done and our candles burned themselves out. It was an awesome end to the start of my trip. Ge and Ju, you sexy brazilian twins, thanks for your warm hospitality.

The next morning I said good-bye to Adam, got into a cab put the window down and saw the familiar graffiti, shops, and advertisements zip by. I was free.

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Photos

First Luncheon
Adam, the legend, and the big C in PA Baby!!!

Spandex & Dog
Adam covertly got a shot of a typical Brazilian scene along a footpath with the big C posing.

The horse in rushour.
Rushour and the horse is in a hurry too!

Delicate Preparation
Chimmarao anyone?

La Churrascuria
I'm salivating just typing these words. mmmmmm...

Da Twins
Thanks for the memories Ladies!!!!