Brynn Barineau

Category: American in Brazil

  • My Dentist, My Sadist

    Today, I met the world’s friendliest dentist. Hmm, maybe I should rephrase given that dentists have not traditionally set the bar high when it comes to amicability. Today, I met a dentist who could not have been friendlier had she been inhaling her own laughing gas.

    It was my first trip to the dentist in Brazil. It was my first trip to the dentist in a decade. Maybe not quite that long. It’s hard to remember.

    Anyway, the last dentist I liked had video games and Disney movies playing in her waiting. Since the age of ten, every dentist I’ve had has been competent but distant and all business, in the way I imagine disembowlers must have been.

    My dentist today greeted me with a huge smile and flattering yet oddly enthusiastic declaration of how pretty I am. I think complimenting might be office policy to hook new patients and if so, I was sold. The smiling and over-the-top-compliments were such a welcome change for a dentist’s office; I thanked her and introduced myself to Doctor Gabriella.

    Brazilians use first names right away, even in professional contexts. It gives every encounter a personal feel. In Brazil, I don’t have bankers, dentists and doctors. I have a large network of personal acquaintances with a diverse skill set.

    Gabriella and I chatted about all the obvious first meeting facts: where are you from, how long have you lived here, which country do you like better. (There is no way to answer that last question honestly without offending someone. I just go with “Wow, that’s hard. They’re so many good things about both.”) Right before we got started I mumbled something about how long it had been since my last trip and then I waited for the shaming to begin.

    I’d always assumed that dentists are taught that shame is the only way to make people floss regularly. A patient must be told whatever she is doing, it is not done frequently or well enough and ultimately not sufficient to keep her teeth from falling out of her head. And toothless people go to hell.

    It was quite a shock then when Doctor Gabriella gently plied my lips and cheek away from my teeth and assured me they were very clean. When she spotted a cavity she called it a “little thing” that we can fix quickly. No lectures. A cavity and no lecture. I wonder if this woman knows what a disgrace she is to her profession.

    When we were done she walked me to reception area, asked me to come back for a cleaning and cavity filled, then she gave me a big hug and kiss on the cheek. A Brazilian that hugs. A dentist that is genuinely pleasant. I was completely thrown. I didn’t know how to react. I did know I liked it. So I’m going back for more next Tuesday at 9am.

  • A Brazilian Christmas

    A Brazilian Christmas

    Describing holiday gatherings in my family as hectic would be an understatement. There are multiple sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins to visit and dine with. The table is buried under enough food for a week-long bacchanalia. Enough dessert is prepared for every person in attendance to have her own cake.

    In comparison, the first Christmas I spent with my in-laws in Brazil was a pleasant afternoon picnic with some acoustic guitar.

    It was surprising to me that my American Christmases are filled with more food, presents and cousins than those of my Brazilian in-laws. It certainly seems to go against the stereotype of family-focused Brazilian culture and allowing-the-disintegration-of-the-family American culture. But which “American” culture am I referring to?

    Middle-class America? Middle-class, Latino, urban American from Miami? The diversity of the US makes it difficult to define what is American and the same is true of Brazil. What is Brazilian? Well, are we talking about the Paulista sushi chef of Japanese heritage or the Carioca taxi driver of Italian/Portuguese ancestry?

    I’m not saying overarching national or regional cultures don’t exist, just that within any culture are seemingly endless subcultures that create huge variety among people and families.

    I realized this year, after hearing many accounts of “Brazilian” Christmases, that my southern family celebrates Christmas in a more “Brazilian” way than my Brazilian husband does.

    Growing up, I’d usually celebrate Thanksgiving in South Georgia on my Grandmother’s pecan farm. As one of the oldest, I got to drive my younger cousins and the kids of my dad’s cousins (who I believe are called second cousins) around in my great-uncle’s golf cart. On my mom’s side, Christmas dinner often included the daughter of my step-dad’s brother-in-law’s sister, a relationship the English language has no term for.

    Because my parent’s are divorced, Christmas day usually included visits no fewer than four houses. One set of grandparents has since moved to Florida, so we’re down to a mere three present opening sessions. Three homes is more than enough to leave my husband shell-shocked with only the strength to sit upright, mumbling to himself, “It’s so much. It’s so much.”

    Whether he was talking about the number of presents, pies, or names of family members to remember I don’t know, but after my first Christmas lunch in Rio with only his immediate family and a single pudding for dessert, I understood his culture shock.

    We now make a point of spending Christmas in the U.S.  Every December we fly to Georgia for lots of family and food. It’s a very Brazilian holiday.

  • Why are you here?

    “Why are you here?” I probably posed that question 20 times over the course of my teacher training. Asking a person to explain her existence may seem a bit forward for a first meeting but among expats it’s typically asked as a follow up question to visa status. “So, why are you here?”

    In this context “here” is understood to be Brazil and answers ranged from the romantic to the idealistic. While our individuals stories differed, whether South African, Irish, or New Zealander, all of us attending the training were united by the designation “native English speaker” plus the fact we had chosen to take up residency amongst non-English speakers. And this was more than enough to make for two weeks of great conversations, lasting friendships and several explanations of cricket.

    Jump to four days after the last training session and I’m suddenly posing the same question to myself, “Why am I here?” I was seated amongst a few bleached blonde teenagers in letter jackets and puffy-haired, middle-aged women in college football sweatshirts at a Chinese restaurant in a strip mall. The day before I had listened to my grandfather calmly discuss Obama’s intention to make the US a socialist state. While shopping, I’d overheard a conversation as a man fervently hoped the US “drops some nukes” on Iran, item one on the worst Christmas wish list ever.

    Then I was deciding between lemon or kung pao chicken while the children at the next table called for “Mama.” I felt as if I was observing a scene without taking part in it, like Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present, only instead of quotable, crippled children there were text-messaging Republicans.

    So, why was I having Chinese at a strip mall surrounded by people I would probably never have great conversations or lasting friendships with? Because I frickin’ love Chinese food. Because I can understand every southern-accented word spoken and I can identify which college claims which animal among the alligators, tigers, and bulldogs featured on sweatshirts.

    I’m here because we drove to the shopping center in five minutes on a four lane divided highway. A divided highway! It’s how angels travel around heaven.

    I’m here because I can mentally roll out a blue print of this strip mall and know that starting at the far end, my printer ink is at Staples and my reasonably priced jeans are at Gap. I bought my camera battery at the store next door to the Chinese restaurant with the wonderful egg drop soup. My salon is further down and three doors down from the grocery store. I know that while the grocery store’s bananas will taste like wax, it carries all the peanut butter I could eat in a lifetime.

    I’m here because at the far end of the parking lot there is a Target and a Borders both of which I can wander through blindfolded. I know without doubt that every suburbanite wants a coffee from the Starbucks inside Target but not a single one of them will walk across the parking lot to get one. They will get in their cars and drive alongside the paved sidewalk to a closer parking space.

    I’m here because I know this place and I know these people. This is where I became the person who moved to Brazil and became a registered Democrat. Clearly this place is not as soul crushing as I like to paint it. The truth is I share a lot with my fellow Chinese food patrons, from a love of a separate and clearly marked returns counter to a fanatical observation of traffic laws.

    At Christmas a person wants to feel at home and this is my home. I moved to Brazil but my family and my culture is here. That’s why I’m here among people I understand and who would agree that cricket is a ridiculous attempt at a sport.

  • Orientation Day in Brasilia

    Orientation Day in Brasilia

    Good morning and welcome to Brasilia! First, I’d like to congratulate all of you on winning your elections and having the honor of serving the Brazilian people. As a member of Congress you are the voice of Brazil!

    Yes, does the Deputy from Sao Paulo have a question?

    Uh, no we don’t usually open with a joke of the day. We…Yes, I know Brazilians love a good a joke but I meant you’re the voice of Brazil on political matters, not comedic ones.

    Right, as I was saying, as a member of Congress you find yourself facing new and great responsibilities. Today’s orientation will help familiarize you all with the administrative procedures of Congress so that you can more effectively serve your states.

    I’d like to start by discussing housing and transportation. I’m sure for many of you this is your first time in Brasilia. All of you will be assigned a car and driver, whom you will meet later this afternoon. He will be able to take you around…Yes, the Deputy from Sao Paulo?

    No, you don’t need to worry about affording the driver. Congress pays for it. It’s just something you get by being a member of Congress, like your office. Ok?

    So in terms of schedule, while Deputies and Senators do have slightly different schedules, Congress members are generally expected to be present Tuesday through Thursday. Sessions rarely start before lunch on Tuesday, they…Well, I can see Sao Paulo is going to be well represented. Your question Deputy?

    I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What work do you do the other four days? Well, that depends on your job…No, no. I mean your other job…Yes, of course being a member of Congress is a job but, unlike judges who are not allowed a second job due to potential conflicts of interest, many Deputies and Senators have jobs in addition to Congress they need to spend time on. That’s why Congress can only meet three days a week…You’re free to return home and attend to business there. Perhaps there is a child’s birthday party you need to attend.

    Speaking of traveling home, Congress will reimburse you for all your travel expenses. Will be going over the procedure to purchase plane tickets through the travel office this afternoon.

    You will need…Deputy?…Yes sir, if you would like to fly to the Amazon and see the monkeys it can be arranged. You will have three months of vacation when you can do all the sightseeing you want.

    I know some of you are wondering about finding accommodations here in Brasilia. Congress will provide housing to its members. For those of you who already own a home in Brasilia you may choose to receive your housing stipend in cash. The stipend is $R3,000 a month.

    We will of course be depositing all payments directly to your accounts and your staff will handle filing out the necessary paperwork. All 14 months of salary will be…

    Sir, there’s no reason to get angry. I don’t understand…No, I’m not making fun of you…Yes, there are 12 months in the year. I said 14 months because Congress pays 14 payments of your monthly salary…No Deputy, I’m not trying to trick you. Members of Congress get paid as if there were 14 months in the year. It’s a good thing sir. You should be happy.

    Did you know, Deputy, that members of Congress are also getting a raise this year?…Yes sir, every member of Congress will receive a 62% raise to fairly compensate all members for their hard work and dedication to their country.

    Sir, what’s so funny?…I’m sorry. From one professional to another that’s the best joke you’ve ever heard? I don’t understand. What joke is that?

    For those who don’t know the inspiration for my Sao Paulo Congressman character. A professional clown has been elected to Congress. He has passed all literacy tests to date and will begin serving in the House of Deputies come January.

  • Teaching Teachers Day 1

    Today was my very first day of teacher training as well as my first day of totally on the books employment in Brazil. It was also the first time I’ve had to be in a classroom at 8am since undergrad. (Yup, it still sucks.) 

    Thankfully, Brazilians are generous with the coffee and the snacks. The caffeine was needed because it was a full day of sitting and watching mock classes on American Literature. Remember American Literature? Probably not because you didn’t have Brazilian coffee to get through class.

    I left at 5pm with Ben Franklin’s aphorisms in my head and a song in my heart. I’m so excited to have a regular job working with some brilliant expats and Brazilians. (Will I make my first real Brazilian friend? Only time will tell.) Here are some of the lessons I took away from the first day.

    – Puritan writing is awesome, particularly “Sinners in the Hand of an Angry God” which I will be teaching to my future children at an early age but replacing God with Mommy.

    – Benjamin Franklin, the genius behind “A penny saved is a penny earned,” also invented the lightning rod which patriotic Americans hung flags on. The rod came before the flag.

    – If you want to laugh a lot gather a group of teachers. I’m pretty sure a sense of humor is the only thing keeping them sane.

    – I’m not a transcendentalist.

    – Every piece of literature taught in high school was originally written for adults. What would Poe think about his work being taught to 15 year-olds? And why didn’t I realize this while in the class as a student?

  • Navy v. Army: A Brazilian Rivalry

    Navy v. Army: A Brazilian Rivalry

    This week the naval school here in Vitoria celebrated it’s 50th birthday. They marked the occasion with a series of events culminating in the unveiling of two commemorative stamps by the post office.

    In case you were caught off guard by the birthday or the fact people still make commemorative stamps, don’t worry. There was a big enough turnout among the naval community in Vitoria to keep the Commandante happy. As a former naval officer my husband is part of this community and I joined him at the Marine corps concert. Despite the unfortunate artistic decision to include “Can You feel the Love Tonight,” which was neither appropriate following Carmen nor improved by the addition of bagpipes, the band was excellent.

    I’ve been to a few Naval events during my time in Brazil and it took me a while to realize my husband was in the military during a military dictatorship.

    When asked “So, being part of an all powerful military, what was that like?” he explained that A) by the time he was an officer the military was ceding power and the country only a few years away from becoming a Democracy, B) supply officers don’t go on power trips and C) the navy was not really in power during the dictatorship.

    Here’s a little Brazilian history. The army has rivalry with the navy that goes beyond an annual sporting event and the dictators of the 20th century came exclusively from the army.

    Brazil has the 16th longest coastline in the world, 4,650 miles, and has one of the most extensive river systems in the world. Given this geography, the navy, already an important part of Portuguese culture before their arrival in Brazil, continued to be crucial to the develop and defense of the country. Both the Portuguese royalty during the colonial period and the Brazilian aristocracy during the empire were closely tied to the navy.

    When the republic was declared in 1889, it was the army funded by rich but not royal coffee farmers that overthrew the emperor. A people’s army was not eager to share power with an aristocratic navy.

    It was your typical armed forces rivalry. “The aristocracy always loved you best.” “Because you’re an undisciplined mess who never touches up the paint on your bases,” etc.

    The tension came to a head just a few years into the republic, in 1893, after some bungled governance and a president who ignored the constitution. Several high ranking officers and admirals sent a letter to the president (such nice manners those naval officers) calling for the constitutionally mandated elections. The president’s response was to issue arrest warrants for every officer who signed the letter.

    Rather than go to jail, naval officers in Rio de Janeiro attempted a coup and for several days Rio was under siege as the navy exchanged fire with the army. The navy failed to garner popular support, possibly because many of its officers were believed to be sympathetic to the monarchy, and those involved were forced to flee south where they were captured in 1894.

    Thus a rivalry was born. Fortunately today, both branches work in support of the democratically elected government. There’s still a competitive edge between them but it only manifests during school fencing and judo tournaments. Or who’s been issued the most commemorative stamps.

  • Turkey & Tanks: Happy Thanksgiving from Rio!

    Turkey & Tanks: Happy Thanksgiving from Rio!

    One week ago today, I was sitting at the end of a beautifully laid table surrounded by good friends and equally good food. On my plate was a second helping of turkey and on the tv were images of tanks rolling through streets. Happy Thanksgiving from Rio de Janeiro!

    Most people, even in the US, have at this point heard that Rio was the scene of a violent showdown between drug gangs and police last week. Fortunately, the city has calmed since last Sunday when police and military invaded and secured one of the most violent slums in the city, Complexo Alemão.

    Despite questions and comments from friends in the US, I haven’t written about it because I don’t really understand my own reaction. My rational brain failing to sway my gut reaction. What finally prompted me to write something even if its contradictory and lacks a conclusion, was a facebook post by a family friend and Georgia state legislator that linked to coverage of the violence and asked “How did Rio get the Olympics?”

    Well, I can’t answer how Rio secured the Olympics although I suspect it has something to do with its fabulous location, vibrant sports-crazy population, huge federal support, and the fact South America was long overdue to host the Games. What I can say for certain is that no one needs to be afraid to come to Rio for the Games. Last week was the most violent week in recent Rio history and, to be perfectly honest, I never felt afraid.

    It was fluke that my husband and I were even in Rio when the violence broke out. We flew from Vitoria specifically to celebrate Thanksgiving with good friends. By the time we arrived in the city Wednesday afternoon gangs had been burning cars and buses around Rio for a couple of days.

    My husband and I spent Wednesday afternoon running errands, buying Christmas presents and visiting my in-laws. For dinner everyone, including my 1 year-old nephew, walked to the mall for pizza. The next morning someone came to look at our apartment, more errands and packing. It wasn’t until my husband and I went to the mall for lunch that I realized how bad things were.

    The tv in the food court was showing tanks in the streets of Rio. I had heard that gangs were burning buses and causing huge traffic jams but I never thought it was bad enough to call the military. From what I saw around me everyone was going about their day as usual. When my husband mentioned the bus burnings I asked, “Did they let the people off the bus before they burned it?” He told me they did and I promptly forgot about it. My only concern was getting caught in one of the resulting traffic jams.

    Should I have been afraid? I’ve been asking myself that question. I don’t think so. In a metropolitan area of over 10 million people the odds my husband and I would be in the car selected for burning were minuscule, made even smaller by the area of the city live in.

    In our neighborhood the streets were busy. The coconut water vendor was on the corner and the weekly vegetable market was set up like any Thursday. Taxis were lined up outside the mall and we grabbed one to head to our friend’s apartment for Thanksgiving dinner.

    Throughout the afternoon while prepping for dinner, our host had the tv on. Globo news replayed images of more than a hundred drug dealers fleeing through the bushes into another slum as the police moved in. Our host, a native of Rio, had a very clear opinion on how to deal with the gangs; bring in the helicopters and launch some missiles. In his opinion, the gangs were armed militias and they were waging war against the government.

    I was sitting next to him watching the same reports but I couldn’t muster the same anger. I saw a group of armed (yes, heavily) but often shirtless and shoeless young men and teenagers running from one neglected part of the city to another. The news was running shots of gang members burning tires. While my host called for missile strikes a voice in my head cried “Oh God, shirtless teenagers are burning tires! Quick call the marines!”

    I know those teens had guns. I know they were actively using them. Many people in Rio were justifiably afraid for their lives. Just not any of the people in the neighborhood where I was.

    I didn’t understand the ferocity and panic that some of the other dinner guests had. Their day had not ben impacted in any way by the violence. As for the chance of this “war” spreading to other areas…To my eyes the “war” was over before the second bus finished burning.

    The gangs had pistols and some automatic rifles. The police had bullet proof vests, pistols, rifles, scopes, years of training, overwhelming numbers, helicopters and did I mention the army was called in? This was the most one sided war in the history of military engagements.

    I’ve read back over this post and I’m aware of how bizarrely pro-drug dealer it sounds. Let me assure you, I think everyone of them should be arrested, sent to trial and then to jail on what is probably overwhelming evidence. They have broken the law, disrupted the entire city and started a gun battle that hurt many and even killed some. And yet…

    Images are powerful things. The image I remember most vividly from all of the news reports that Thursday was not the scene of a hundred armed men running from the police. It was of a group of armed and uniformed police officers dragging a shirtless, handcuffed teenager (he was 19 at the most) in front of reporters. One of the officers grabbed the teen’s chin and jerked his face up so all the cameras could see. The police displayed their human trophy and it made my stomach turn.

    I was the only one who saw that scene. We were having dinner but from my chair at the end of the table I could still see the tv. My reaction was physical. My stomach clenched and could feel my face flush. The crawl along the screen told me this was a captured drug dealer but all I saw was a half-naked kid being treated like a prized animal pelt by forces infinitely more powerful than he had ever been or could hope to be. It broke my heart.

    Of course I want the police to be able to defend themselves from people perfectly willing to use violence, but I expect the people society allows to carry weapons and use them to have respect for every human being. That is why they are the “good guys.” The good guys know that human life has value simply by being human. If you can treat someone like an animal without a second thought, in my book, you’re a bad guy.

    I don’t think that young drug dealer was born evil. His government failed him at every turn, health care, education, even basic sanitation. It’s certainly not an excuse given the thousands of people living in the slums who don’t turn to crime, but so many legitimate options were closed to him because of where he was born.

    It’s funny. I’ve been reading comment streams and blog posts about the violence. The majority seem to agree with my host. Kill the drug dealers. They’re the bad guys. I’m truly amazed by the fact I haven’t jumped on that band wagon. I’m no pacifist. I do moral outrage and righteous indignation really well.

    I’m sure it all it would take is for me to have a gun put in my face. It’s not been tested, but my compassion is probably only around when the weather is fair. I finally decided to stop trying to convince myself to hate them. A few people reminding everyone that even drug dealers are people who deserve a trial before being convicted is not a bad thing. Why would I want to talk myself into hating and fearing people anyway? If I can be aware of the situation and go on about my day, then yay for me.

    And you can go about your day in Rio too! That was the point of this entire post. The world doesn’t need to fear coming to Rio for the Olympics. I was in Rio during a week of violence and I still got all my Christmas shopping done. The chances of you being assaulted are minimal. You’re far more likely to get run over by a bus.

    So buy your tickets early! Beach volleyball is going to be right on Copacabana!

  • Getting the Brazilian Work Card: Gateway to Legal Employment

    Getting the Brazilian Work Card: Gateway to Legal Employment

    Well, it’s official. As of today, I’m legally employable.You might be thinking, didn’t that happen when you applied for residency? Well, not totally. A residency card alone is not enough for legal employment in Brazil. For that, you need a Work Card, or a Carteira de Trabalho.

    I’ve been eligible for a work card since I became a resident of Brazil but haven’t bothered to apply for one because I never signed an employment contract. (I was, uh, doing a lot of volunteer work in Rio.) Now that I’ve been hired as a regular teacher, it’s time to join the Brazilian labor force. As a responsible worker, I’ve been learning about the work card and all the rights it guarantees.

    The work card is issued to all people employed via contract in Brazil, which I’ve learned is not everyone. For example, my husband doesn’t have a work card because his job with the government is regulated by statutes. If you were the owner of a business you wouldn’t need a card but your employees would. The purpose of the work card is to prevent exploitation, particularly of low income and domestic workers. It’s something that happens all too frequently in Brazil.

    To be clear, the work card should not be confused with the Brazilian equivalent of a Social Security Number. That’s called a CPF and I already have one of those as well. (I’m just a driver’s license shy of collecting the whole Brazilian Bureaucracy series!)

    So, what rights am I entitled to with my carteira?

    I am guaranteed one month paid vacation, an additional “13 month” salary, and in the event of pregnancy 4 months of paid maternity leave. Oh, and the company is legally required to take me back after the maternity leave. Woohoo!

    Hand me a red shirt and tell me where the parade is because I’m all about the workers right here. Sure, these policies are crippling to small businesses. It’s certainly possible that requiring four months maternity leave might prevent businesses from ever a 20 something person with a functioning uterus. And why the hell is anyone guaranteed a right to something that doesn’t even exist, like a 13th month? I don’t know. And as the beneficiary of all these rights, I’m not going to start a debate on them.

    I’m just going to plan where I’ll spend my month paid vacation and my 13th month’s paycheck. Maybe I’ll fly to Brasilia and ask for an 8th day of the week I can get paid for.

    Marcar com estrela

    CompartilharCompartilhar com observação
  • Behind the Scenes at Garoto Candy Factory

    Behind the Scenes at Garoto Candy Factory

    It’s not been a good week for healthy or even reasonable eating. My multi-helping Thanksgiving dinner was followed by a birthday dinner that consisted solely of red wine, red meat, and chocolate petit gateau. Topping the decadence of a rare filet wrapped in presunto is difficult but if you want to try, I suggest visiting a chocolate factory.

    Today, we visited the Garoto Chocolate Factory, the fourth and final thing to do when visiting Vitoria. Garoto is the brand of chocolate here in Brazil and while technically owned by Nestle nowadays, Garoto chocolates are 100% Brazilian.

    A factory whirring and buzzing away is one of the purest examples of human ingenuity. I was frequently hypnotized by the rhythmic filling and flipping of candy trays to the point I became completely unaware the guide was speaking. The production line is amazing. Each machine is perfectly timed, measured, programmed, and maintained. Here’s the process for one single candy, the famous (to anyone who has spent a month in Brazil) Serenata de Amor.

    Serenatas are chocolate coated balls, with crispy wafer shells surrounding a hazel nut creme filling. They are the overwhelming favorite among Garotos candies.

    First on the conveyor belt are the shells in long sheets. The shells arrive on the conveyor concave. They are flipped on a ferris wheel contraption before passing through a humidifier. They are rehydrated by 5% and I would love to know how long it took to determine 5% provided the optimum crunch.

    After their trip through the sauna, the shells are filled. Tubes running across the ceiling, labeled “clear filling”, squirt the filling into each half shell before sending the sheets down the conveyor to be pressed together. The now complete balls, still together in sheets, roll through a refrigerator to cool the filling. Then they’re cut into individual balls of yumminess.

    Finally, it’s time for the chocolate.

    We followed the conveyor belt into another room and the smell alone was enough to satisfy any chocoholics craving for months. The shells pass first through a cascade of dark chocolate, are cooled and then are drenched in milk chocolate. They are sorted and distributed along the conveyor belt to four different wrapping machines. I have no idea how these machines work. Candy went in naked and came out with neatly twisted wrapper. It happened too fast for the human eye.

    Just how fast? Depending on the setting, the machine can wrap between 850 to 1200 pieces in a minute. And there are four of these machines wrapping 24 hours a day. In a single day this factory produces 3.5 tons of Serenata de Amors.

    Of course the tasting stations along the way were gluttonous and generous enough to put you off chocolate until Easter (which the factory is already producing for), but it was seeing the production, spinning and whirring, perfectly timed that I enjoyed the most. The engineering on display gives me faith in humanity. If we can build a sauna for 3.5 tons of candy, can a pill that increases your metabolism on holidays and candy factory visits be far off? That would be pretty sweet!