Tag: Brazil

A Tropical Paradise is a Sweaty Paradise

Today was another sunny, blue-sky day here in Vitoria. A breeze blowing through my apartment forced me to stop the doors with various colored flipflops. By late afternoon, I’d been enjoying the weather so much, I was compelled to look up the temperature. What numeric value can I assign to this lovely afternoon.

84℉ (28.9℃) And feels like 91℉ (32.8℃)

Oh, yes. So much nicer. I knew it had to be cooler today because the sweat was only beading and not trickling down my back.

It’s hot this year. So hot. We’re almost a month into fall, and I’m still leaving thigh-shaped pools of sweat on every chair I sit in. I haven’t had to pee since January. All liquid just gushes out my pores. Within a half an hour of waking up and leaving the air-conditioned bedroom for the naturally breeze-cooled den, I have sweat stains along my breast bone, and the only exertion I’ve had is lifting a piece of peanut butter toast.

Of course I married a man who doesn’t have pores and could wear the same shirt to the gym everyday for a week without any lingering odor. He doesn’t. But he could. Meanwhile, I look like I jumped in a pool. Whenever I complain, my husband shakes his head and insists “Your body is more efficient at cooling itself than mine.” (Life Lesson: If you find a man who can turn being a sweaty mess into a compliment, marry him.) I reapply deodorant two time a day minimum, and I can still smell myself at the end of the day.

But seriously without any hyperbole, I can’t remember a day I wasn’t actively sweating in Vitoria. There might have been one cool day last September, but definitely by October, I was dripping sweat trying to cut cookie dough in a ninety degrees kitchen. A secondary perk to annual Christmas visit to Atlanta is we get to miss a month of summer heat in Vitoria. Although, it’s feeling less like summer heat and more like pretty-much-all-year-long heat. For anyone still on the fence about global warming, I have a guest room with only an old window unit AC that you’re welcome to sleep in. If you can make it through breakfast the next morning without complaining about the heat, I’ll paint Drill Baby Drill on my kid’s bedroom wall.

The heat’s not just in Vitoria. On February 27, Rio had a record breaking high of 106.5℉ (41.4℃) with a heat index of 119.5℉ (48.6℃). What?!!! I’m so glad we left Rio.

Just imagine if that’s the temperature you have to go to work in. You’re not on vacation. You can’t just camp out at a pool with a swim up bar. You have to get dressed, maybe in a suit, maybe with a lab coat, maybe a uniform that requires pants. You have to go work now. Remember the worst traffic or school drop-off run you’ve ever experienced, now imagine it happening at 120℉. And without air conditioning. Many buses in Rio don’t have air conditioning.

Actually, central AC is rare and reserved mostly for tourists. We don’t have it at home. The top tier private school I worked for didn’t have it. My bank doesn’t have it. What we use here are individual units, and the top of line can effectively turn a classroom into a freezer. Just don’t be the first one to show up and have to turn them on. And of course they break. And if you wake up in the middle of night in a puddle of sweat and the clock blinking, don’t worry. All the thousands of bedroom unit ACs just overwhelmed the grid and caused a blackout.

So if you are planning a trip to Brazil for this time of year, bring a flashlight, lots of sunscreen, and a half dozen sticks of deodorant. That should last you about a week.

April 11, 2016
Talking Small in Brazil

Small talk across cultures…

Today my daughter and I went through our regular morning routine. We had breakfast while watching cartoons, got dressed, and somewhere between the front door of our apartment and the front door of our building she decided she’s never going to school again. As usual, I hobbled out the door to our building with a child hanging on one leg, two backpacks, a bag of objects starting with the letter of the week, and, for extra fun today, an umbrella. While negotiating the concrete stairs, the window of the front desk slid open on cue and our building’s porteiro (door person/front desk receptionist) stuck her head out.

This woman’s commitment to good manners is unwavering. It doesn’t matter how loudly my daughter is crying or precarious my balance on the steps. She will call out a greeting to us, comment on my daughter’s cuteness, and wait for a response. As I call out a frazzled good morning in Portuguese between promises and pleas to my daughter in English, the porteiro in cheerful Portuguese tells my daughter not cry because school is fun! Truly, nothing is more helpful when negotiating a tantrum than to have a relative stranger shouting encouragement in another language.

Such is the Brazilian commitment to small talk.

Screaming toddlers in the rain won’t deter a morning chat. I come back from the gym sweaty and stinky, and I still can’t avoid a discussion on the humidity with our porteiro, a maid, and two retirees. Yes, it sure is hot. Just look at my face in a puddle on the floor there. I’d really love a shower. After the heat and humidity, inflation is the next hottest topic to discuss with taxi drivers, elevator companions, and stylists. Here in Vitoria, you can go ahead and blame all three on President Dilma.

My first experience with the Brazilian determination to converse happened at the pool of my old building in Rio. I had head phones wedged in my ears, a highlighter in hand, an open journal article on my lap, a stack of ten more to my left and a total of five words in Portuguese. I non-verbally screamed, “Don’t talk to me,” but not loudly enough to deter the lifeguard. There was no way to get rid of the guy short of saying “Stop talking,” but as I couldn’t use the imperative in Portuguese, I was stuck.

I hate small talk and unfortunately for me, Brazilians are generally an extraordinarily friendly and happy people. How exhausting. Fortunately for me, the man I married is the most anti-social Brazilian currently living. He is an outlier that skews all data about Brazilians, and serves as a reminder that while culture is real, each person is an individual.

At least a lifetime of training among small talkers won’t go to waste here. You see I’m from the South, the region of the US formerly known as the Confederacy. We do our small talkin’ with more ice tea and fewer “g”s, but we do it and love it.

At least, we can fake that we love it. I don’t believe anyone feels genuine excitement over someone’s new, home-made seasonal door swag. But when the saleswoman at Michaels raves about the gold spray paint she just used on hers, a good southern girl will exclaim on the good fortune, express gratitude for the knowledge by referencing her own failed attempt at a similar project, and ask for suggestions on holiday napkin holder crafts for kids she may or may not actually have.

Successful small talk requires a lot of energy and even more if you have to do it in a second language and foreign culture. You need not only correctly conjugated verbs but also content. Small talk requires knowledge about topics appropriate for discussion i.e. the weather, current events, pop culture, and fluency in non-verbal cues to know when it’s time to change topics or wrap things up. Pulling all this off in a new country is exhausting and I’m just not inclined to invest this energy in someone I will only be in line with for another five minutes.

I know this makes me the shy or rude foreigner and that by Brazilian standers my building’s porteiro is hardly a stranger. Neither is my mother-in-law. I just think one of the best things about being a happily-married, self-employed adult is that I don’t have to win the approval of strangers, bosses, or periphery acquaintances. Not unless I’m in the mood.

I know when the apocalypse comes no one here will be inviting my husband and I onto their boat. But I have a super cute Brazilian daughter. I’ll leave it to her to small talk our way on board.

March 23, 2015
My Brazilian Gym Membership Part 3: Dress Code

Most ads don’t reflect reality…this one does. This is exactly how many women show up to my gym.

I’ve been a regular at our new gym for one full week and I have to say I’m a bit of a standout. People come up to me and ask where I’m from. The trainers notice me and wave from across the gym. I notice guys doing a double take. Not to brag but people notice me. Yup, I have the distinction of being the most conservatively dressed woman in the gym.

With my t-shirts and running shorts, I might as well be using an American flag as a towel. It’s not just the fact that my abdomen is entirely covered that sets me apart. I’m not wearing eyeliner or chandelier earrings and I haven’t left my waist-length hair streaming down my back. The Brazilian women at my gym are the sexiest collection of gym goers I’ve ever seen. It’s like working out in a Flo Rida music video.

There’s more leopard print here than on a jungle safari. You can also see a good deal of paisley in all the colors of the rainbow. Every outfit is perfectly matched and accessorized. A flower-print sports bra paired with striped shorts? Major faux-pas!

Most of the women avoid the risks of mismatching by just going with the unitard. Until recently, the unitard was, for me, merely a myth. An extinct manner of dress that could be seen in historic records and frequently used in comedy sketches, like the toga.

I’m pleased to report the unitard is alive and popular here in Brazil. Surprisingly, there is quite a variety of cuts. You have very low cut backs that dip so far down it’s possible to count every vertebra. Some of the unitards have cutouts on the sides and others have lace-up backs. They also have fronts cut so low there’s no way the woman can lift her arms over head without everything popping out.

But lifting one’s arms is something most of the women never need to do since 95% of their workout focuses on legs. Probably, to pull off their unitards. And boy, do they pull them off. In addition to being sex bombs, I’m pretty sure every woman there is also a triathlete. These women sport six packs and perky, round butts without any jiggle.

I’m not exaggerating when I say every woman in the gym is hardcore. Yesterday, I scanned the gym specifically looking for women who could stand to lose a pound or two. I saw maybe four. Everyone else looked like an athlete and this includes the grandmothers in the room. One woman, who could not have been younger than 60, followed me on the squat press and upped my weight by 40kgs. A very humbling moment.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little intimidated by the overt sexiness of the women. The women are sleek, styled and fit. I’m in baggy shorts with my ponytail askew. In the end though, I’ll take a ponytail over sweaty hair clinging to my back. For me, comfort trumps fashion but I will take a cue from their commitment. These women, of all ages, have made exercise an integral part of their lifestyle. That, unlike unitards, is something worth imitating.

September 18, 2010