Fio Dental - Chapter 1: São Paulo

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Few cities intimidate like São Paulo. Its reputation for both its enormity and threatening nature should not be taken lightly. Arriving at night eliminates any doubt that it is not in the best interest for the casual visitor to South America’s largest metropolis to immediately start exploring poorly lit and ominous streets around the Praça de República. Shady characters abound. Even as I stepped off the airport shuttle, it was apparently clear that I should take a taxi to my hotel even though it was but five blocks away and less than a ten-minute walk. As I looked up from putting my luggage on the ground, a face was in mine. I could smell his pungent breath.
This is the same man, who to ensure he would get a fare from me said my upon getting off the shuttle, “You really don’t want to walk that way.” I hadn’t even gotten my map out yet. “It is not safe here. Get in.” I offered no resistance.
Nonetheless, during the six-minute, “five block” (it turned out to be about ten) screeching tour of one-way streets, Rui insisted that in São Paulo would come to enchant me and I would be overcome with joy. “I am from Rio. And let me tell you something: São Paulo is much safer. Wonderful city!” I declined to ask him about the news from last month that made headlines in even local newspapers back home. “São Paulo…is so much better than Rio, Belo Horizonte…and Recife! Oh, Recife! Terrible crime there! So harmless is São Paulo that Rui parked the cab, locked it up and escorted me to my hotel lobby, the one right next to the adult video store and 24-hour convenience luncheonette filled with hungry extras from the battle scene of Braveheart, minus the sky blue paint on their faces.

The Hotel Central on the Avenida São João is simply a reflection of its surroundings. In what used to be the avant-garde section of São Paulo in the 1920’s, my accommodation, like the neighborhood of which it is a part, has seen its better days and has fallen into typical second-world decay. The lobby is promising, as is the antiquated elevator…the kind with the crisscross steel gates you have to pull across in order to enter and exit. Apartamento 304 is lacking, and following the long trip and introduction to nocturnal São Paulo, my gut instinct was to lock the door with the miniature key and barricade all the bedraggled furniture against it. My bed is but a slab of plywood upon which housekeeping has managed to place a thin slice of rubber foam for a mattress. A single, fragile wire hangs from the center of the ceiling from which is suspended a dim naked light bulb. My bathroom is a single chamber of toilet, sink, and shower with theoretical hot water. I almost feel sorry for the shower system. It tries so hard to produce anything better than lukewarm, and cannot attain that. ‘A’ for effort, I say. The view through the cracked rear window is of a construction site; there would be no need to set the alarm as I’d be up by the time the bulldozers started excavating in the morning. My setting makes me neither shudder nor recoil. I have found myself in these conditions dozens of times before. It is an odd comfort to be here.

Tension in São Paulo the very next afternoon has already risen to a fever pitch. This time, thankfully, the citizenry is not taking refuge behind locked gates from bands of armed criminals. On this occasion, it is late morning and time for all to scramble home, to a restaurant, bar, or a city square where city officials have installed large screens to view the impending telecast. Businessmen in three-piece suits dawn party hats and blow into noisemakers, all decorated in blue, green, and yellow. The national flag adorns hundreds of window sills. Bandanas of the same three-color combination cover the shoulders, heads, and baby carriages of the multitude. The Brazilian soccer team is dancing and prancing its way through the World Cup, leaving behind its usual bewildered victims of national sides that would dream of having even two players of Brazil’s reserve squad. Today, Ghana plays the role of martyr. I have talked my way, as a journalist, into a fully-booked pub called Brahma. Projection screens or HD monitors adorn every corner and wall. The audio of the match is fed into the restrooms to ensure no one misses out on the action even in their most vulnerable moments. All Brazilians are soccer fans; their fanaticism reaches a point beyond lunacy.
Cristina, a middle-aged librarian from Rio de Janeiro has invited me to join her and two other younger and much more boring colleagues. “I was once in Orlando, you know.” There are thousands of Brazilians in Florida. It is like an American college student visiting Cancún in March. Chances are, you’ll run into one of your own.
In her plastic yellow fedora with a green band, she alternated her attention between our conversation and the match. Her colleagues have paid me little attention but for a group photo so they could say they met an American during their business trip to São Paulo. Otherwise, they were more concerned with their lipstick, eye shadow, and which player they would date if they could. Roberto Carlos made the top of the list. As Brazil put down Ghana much like a veterinarian does a stray dog, I decided to step out onto the Avenida São João, to behold the unthinkable: a vacuum of silence. Nothing moved, nothing. There were no cars in motion, not a single pedestrian on the sidewalk. For the first time all day, the piercing racket of horns and jackhammers has ceased. The police have vanished, much like they do when they scatter at night. All stores have been shut and locked up. São Paulo has become a ghost town, but for the three Brazilian goals; each one producing a rumbling roar that could register a 5.5 on the Richter scale. On a sunny Monday afternoon, the third largest city on Earth has quit functioning, albeit for two hours. It is easy to have someone tell you this and understand how this could be possible. Yet, though I am actually here, it still defies common sense.
Cristina has invited me to Rio. It is the third invitation I have received since leaving the States. A doctor in Campinas has left me his contact details and over my first dinner nearby my hotel, two Tanzanians, one a converted Rastafarian, referred me to their friends in Salvador, over 1,000 miles away. When I mentioned that I would like to get there in a few weeks, John, from Dar es Salaam, got on his cell phone and called one of his countrymen. A brief conversation ensued in Swahili and then he abruptly folded his folded his phone. “It is done. He will be waiting for your call.” I continue to be dazzled by the unexpected kindness of strangers, especially in a city where it becomes effortless to be desperately alone among 18-plus million people.

São Paulo reveals its vastness best when looking down upon it from above. From the observation deck of the Banespa building, São Paulo is an endless, 360° array of monochrome chalky white monoliths surging into the clouds. The colossal scale of the city’s skyline has no equal. Unlike the sublime and breathtaking views from the Eiffel Tower or Empire State building, Banespa offers nothing to view of any intrinsic value. São Paulo is devoid of any landmarks, boulevards, rivers, or notable parks. And even if the significance of an Arc de Triomphe did exist, it would be hidden behind the myriad of skyscrapers and broadcast towers. Few visitors have decided to journey up to take in São Paulo at sunset. And even fewer, mostly Paulistanos and Cariocas, are willing to brave the brisk winds and what they like to call cold.
“What’s the matter?”, I inquired. Leticia was from Lima and shivering, trying her best to cower into her scarf. I, had decided it might be time for a windbreaker, but little more would be needed.
“Cold! It’s too cold!” The bank thermometer below registered a frigid 60° F.
“You really have no idea what cold is, do you?” Leticia took no interest in my stories of winters in New England. By the time I was ready to tell her about the last blizzard, snow up to the knees, and school cancellations, she had gone inside. I peered through the window only to observe her jumping up and down. Her arms embraced herself to where her hands had reached around to each side. Seeing her suffer in such “extremes” made me chuckle.
São Paulo on the ground teems like an ant colony and maximizes the use of the precious little open space that exists. Specialty stores occupy cramped rectangular chambers facing the street, one after another. Shopping in downtown São Paulo is akin to visiting a large ice cube tray. The exits of the congested peripheral highways that encircle the city lead to massive shopping malls. When speeding by one on my way in form the airport I had an overwhelming urge to discover what an Outback would be like in Brazil. It was one of the anchor restaurants of the shopping complex.

A metropolis of this magnitude requires a transportation hub of similar stature. The Rodoviário Tietê is a city in itself. Buses depart for all points in Brazil and beyond, around the clock. It is said to be the largest bus station in Latin America. Recalling the Estación del Norte in Mexico City, Tietê certainly surpasses it. At first glance, Tietê measures up at more or less the size of Delaware. Just determining which kiosk to approach to buy a ticket is time-consuming. Companies offer connections to regions of Brazil by city and state. Being unfamiliar with either will result in asking many agents the same question until you finally arrive at the right counter. To be here during a weekend or a vacation period would be downright maddening. The station provides passengers with rooms, an Internet hall, magazine shops, boutiques, banking options, and more. The station, like São Paulo, seems infinite.
“Hi guys! Good Morning!” I cried out in English. I extended my hand out to the smartly dressed pair of young men, each with a daypack around his shoulders. They responded quickly in kind, pleased to meet another friendly American. “How has your stay in São Paulo been? Has it been a successful mission?”
“Not bad, actually. We’re waiting for another group of elders to arrive.
Andrew and Brett both sported the elder tags: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. They are Mormons and about as easy to spot in a crowd as skinheads at a 50 Cent concert: clean cut, white shirt, dark pants, and inoffensive (rather dull) necktie. Both have been in São Paulo for over a year, where the Mormons have established five separate missions, an impressive presence. They asked about my time in Brazil.
Andrew was aghast in amazement. “You do…what? Write books? Where is your next stop?”
“I really don’t know. Have any suggestions?” I asked.
“Uhh, we really haven’t left São Paulo at all. Not yet, at least.” I have been less that forty-eight hours and was begging to get out of here. As I explained to Andrew why I came and what motivates me to go places where I do not know where I’ll be sleeping on any particular night, just to write it all down, Andrew’s eyes lit up.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “You’re so lucky to do that!” You could just see his wheels turning as to what his next move would be the day his mission ended. “But, you see, my family would never understand if I took off to some country for no reason other than to goof around.”
“I understand” empathizing with him. “Believe me, I know.”

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Photos

Bus Station
Largest in South America...

Departure gates
Constant coming and going...

Urban Maze
From above...