Fio Dental - Prologue

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While pretending to do post-grad work in Coimbra, Portugal over thirteen years ago, I shared a ramshackle room on the Largo de Sé Velha. It was decorated with grainy floorboards that warped and creaked with every carefully placed footstep. His name was Martin Reiger. My German companion lacked the linguistic acumen I hoped to latch onto in order to maximize my time away from the barren and cavernous classrooms of the University of Coimbra.
One of my most vivid memories of this period were the countless hours Martin would put forth to learning Portuguese; his was practically non-existent. He relentlessly attacked grammar books and his vocabulary lists like, well, a German would. Over time Martin warmed up to me and our friendship continues today. My fascination with Portugal has never subsided. I often frequent local Portuguese clubs, bars, and restaurants in and around Hartford so as not to lose any cultural connection. Martin, on the other hand, received another calling, one far more purposeful. Catholic charity work sent Martin to Brazil for the first time a few years after we met. When we next met up, Martin raved about Brazil as being nothing like Portugal, that once you have Brazil in your blood, you could never ever see Lisbon, Oporto, the Algarve, and Tras os Montes the same way again. As like many other times, I dismissed him. But I never dismissed the glow in his eyes and gaping smile when he spoke of Brazil. Martin now resides nearby tropical Recife. As far as I know, the only time he returned to Portugal was via TAP, in order to connect for a flight to São Paulo; the cheapest flights went through Lisbon.
Unlike many Europeans, Americans can relate better to Brazil. We are born of a colonial master, yet still cling to a cultural connection with said overlord forged by language, architecture, and a common history. A regretful past pocked by slavery still endures. Brazil’s massive expanse of territory ranks it among the largest countries in the world. Yet, Brazilians can grasp our continent’s four times zones. Brazilians fathom the concept of distance; Europeans think a two-hour drive borders on a form of torture only Torquemada could appreciate. We are nations founded by immigrants. Brazil features an enormous Japanese population in São Paulo. Last names such as Bettencourt, Zorovich, Chen, and Ragusa are commonplace.
I invite you to accompany me through the monster of South America. Unlike other travel accounts, no team of researchers or camera crew accompanies me. I have minimal staff back home. Moreover, no one really could find me if they tried. If I disappeared incapacitated into a mountainous ravine, there I would rot for many, many moons. It is now time to cast away images of monogrammed backpacks, 20 megabyte iPods, and naïve adolescents surgically attached to the digital cameras built into their cell phones. It is time to acknowledge that this foray into escapism reminds me that I am actually alive.

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