Tag: culture

Dear Retailers, Stop Arranging by Color!!

I’d like something yellow. Tshirt, pants, socks, doesn’t matter. I just need yellow clothes.

When was the last time you went shopping for clothes? This past weekend? Last month? If you’re my brother, the answer is about 13 years ago when you could still be forced to accompany our mom. He’s survived off of birthday and Christmas presents ever since. Since those dates are December 21 and 25 respectively, he hasn’t owned a new pair of shorts in over a decade.

For those who can remember your most recent spree, why did you go out in the first place? Did you need new shorts for summer? Had your kid outgrown all his socks? Was it because you needed something orange? Or blue? Was color in any way a factor in deciding to hit the mall?

I’m curious because based on how the stores around me are laid out, color seems to be the primary characteristic people consider when shopping for clothes. Items are not grouped by type of clothing or season; clothing, no matter what it is, is grouped according to color. Miniskirt, pants, tank top, cocktail dress, if it’s any shade of purple it goes on the purple rack.

This is the absolute worst way to arrange clothing! I can’t even walk by a store that does this and not feel annoyed. The person who thought this a good idea was obviously a guy with one semester of design classes and a mom who bought all of his clothes for him.

Normally, I enter a store knowing that I need new shirts for work or a new dress for a dinner party. Even on the rare occasion when I have no purpose other than spending birthday money, I know I will be avoiding miniskirts, culottes, and anything in animal print. I would like to have these items together so that I don’t waste my time digging through them. Never have I entered a store looking only for a color.

Customer: Hi, I’m looking for some piece of green clothing.

Sales Associate: You’re in luck! We have this lovely green blazer or tube top.

Customer: No, those are a forest green. I was hoping for something more lime green.

Sale Associate: Well, we have these pajama bottoms.

Customer: Perfect! I’ll take them.

American college students prepping for a tailgate are the only people in the world who could legitimately have this conversation. This seems like a pretty small demographic to cater to, especially if your store is located in Brazil.

There is a high end retail store on the corner of my block that arranges its merchandise this way. At the moment, the front window has a long rack with every piece of purple clothing in the store. While I think the clothes are pretty I will never shop there. I would have to look through every single piece of clothing because that dressy, warm weather top I want could literally be ANYWHERE in the store.

On principle, I refuse to shop at a store that forces me to look through all of its merchandise. This is, of course, a possible explanation for this mind-bogglingly inefficient organization. I’ve also heard that it’s more visually appealing, an explanation I would accept from an art museum, but no one is walking into an international clothing retailer hoping for a visually arresting experience.

This organizational style is neither unique to Brazil nor done by every store here, but the first time I ever tried to shop in a store laid out this way was in Rio. A friend told me “Oh, this is how stores in Europe do it.” Really? I find it hard to believe that the Germans or Swedes would ever adopt a practice this inefficient. I’ve been in an Ikea. They wouldn’t put a couch with a toilet seat on the grounds they’re both white.

Thankfully, I have the Internet and can do most of my shopping without having to actually put on any of the clothes I’ve previously purchased. But maybe if the store on the corner would arrange its clothing in a more helpful manner, I’d be willing to stop by and look at the lovely skirts those kids in Bangladesh made.

May 18, 2015
Brazil: Children Allowed

Brazil! Where children are always welcome!

As an American, I know that taking a child to any restaurant that doesn’t have it’s menu posted on a wall and ordering her juice while she plays on your phone will get you nasty looks at the least and reported to child services at worst. The US can be a harsh culture in which to go about the day to day activities of parenting. I didn’t know how harsh until I moved to Brazil, and my eyes were opened.

Brazilians are gaga for children!

Women and men, old and young, Brazilians adore kids. Brazil makes the US seem like one giant lawn its crotchety citizens don’t want children stepping on.

I first noticed this difference during a staff lunch at a chic restaurant in Rio. My boss brought her newborn to this very crowded restaurant at peak lunch hour. Exactly one table was available and it was on the opposite of the restaurant. There was a sea of people in expensive clothes and tables covered in glassware between us and that table. When my boss indicated to the staff that we would be claiming that table, I cringed. My stomach clenched at the idea of getting through this fancy crowd with a baby and stroller.

That’s the appropriate response, right? Obviously, a parent should feel ill at the thought of briefly disturbing other people’s lunches on the way to her own table. Ha. How American of me. Two waiters swooped in, all smiles, lifted the stroller up over their heads, and carried that baby like royalty across the entire dining room. Not a single dirty look.

Brazilians have this bizarre assumption that babies and children are a staple part of everyday life. If there are people around, there will be young people and these young people will cry, complain, spill things, talk too loudly, and generally not behave like adults. That’s life. How else is it supposed to continue?

People here also acknowledge kids. They talk to them and include kids as if they were a part of society. Strangers smile and say hello to my daughter on our walks to school. Waiters greet her at restaurants. When she cries in public, people stop and ask her what’s wrong. During a melt down, I’m not worried the stranger approaching is about to helpfully inform me my child is being disruptive or offer some judgement in the form of unsolicited advice. That stranger approaching doesn’t want to talk to me at all. She’s going to console my daughter.

At playgrounds, parents help each others’ kids on and off equipment. They freely offer snacks they’ve brought to every child in earshot. They let other kids run off with their own child’s toy confident it will be returned. Playgrounds in Brazil initially felt to me like loud, sandy communist communes. It was a long time before I stopped apologizing profusely every time my daughter touched another kid’s toy and fearing the wrath of another parent because I offered her child gluten.

If you do bring your baby to Brazil, be prepared. Brazilians love children, and Brazilians are touchy people. I mean literally touchy. They touch other people a lot. A random passersby will want to touch, stroke, kiss, and even hold your baby. One of my daughter’s nurses at the NICU here in Vitoria admitted this was a particular blind spot for Brazilians. Knowledge of germ theory cannot curb their enthusiasm for babies. I dealt with it by reminding myself I’d rather have a request to hold my baby than a request to remove it from the premises.

This habit of baby fawning is not limited to any age, gender, or class. A trainer at my gym once brought his newborn into the weight room and a half dozen of the burliest men were reduced to cooing and clucking incoherently. The school where I taught had preschool through high school, and everyday as the toddlers left the nap room, a crowd of teenagers gathered to squeal and exclaim over the adorably rumpled munchkins.

And of course there are the old ladies. Women over the age 70 must develop a sixth sense to detect babies. I’d be sitting at the cafe, waving a rattle in my daughter’s face, and suddenly an 85 year old woman materialized out of thin air to stroke my daughter’s hair and to tell me my baby is cold.

This is the one sin a parent cannot commit in Brazil. You can leave the TV on 24 hours day. You can feed your kid white rice and french fries at every lunch. But do NOT let your baby get cold!!! If there is a breeze and your baby is not covered with a blanket, every person will stop and tell you your baby is cold. Every. Single. Person. As someone who does not think 65 F requires gloves at any age, I heard it pretty much everyday of my child’s infancy.

The love for and acceptance of children as part of daily life are two of the things I love best about Brazil, and for now, I’m perfectly content to raise my tantrum prone daughter here so as not to disturb my fellow Americans’ lattes.

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May 12, 2015
Children’s Parties: Brazilian Edition

What are they going to do for the 2nd birthday?

We can learn a lot about our own culture by having to explain it to outsiders. What specifically outsiders want an explanation for is telling and then having to explain why can lead to great enlightenment.

For example, as an American I have fielded quite a few questions about guns. I’ve learned that to the rest of the world our obsession with firearms makes us look like batshit crazy people hellbent on our own destruction. Also, no American expat has ever convinced another person that a civilian needs a grenade launcher to potentially fight off a government that has missile launching drones.

Of course every culture has its idiosyncracies. Americans must account for a love of lethal weapons, and I’d like to ask my Brazilian family and friends to explain the Brazilian child’s birthday party.

(This is a totally legit transition. An American gun range and a Brazilian child’s first birthday are, for me, equally intimidating environments.)

This past weekend, we attended the birthday party of my daughter’s classmate. My husband, daughter, and I all stayed the duration, from 5pm to 9pm on Sunday night. There were about 60 people in attendance. The three tables of decorated sweets and cakes on display throughout the event were perfectly arranged. The personalized favors were lovely. The party space had a climbing wall, a bungee-trampoline thing, a three-story playground, a rope walk suspended above everyone’s head, and a ball pit. The trays of fingers foods, soda, and beer swept by with impressive frequency. The boy was turning three.

To be fair not every Brazilian family does this and many cannot afford to do this, but the party I have described is typical of middle class families. It’s not something worthy of a reality TV show. It’s completely mainstream.

I have been to a few 1st birthday parties and they all had more guests than my wedding. I understand that Brazilian families tend be large and stay in the same city where they were born. It is very likely the birthday girl has ten cousins living close by. Ok. I understand that at a young age, it’s appropriate to give an invitation to everyone in the preschool class. I’m totally on board. But why their parents? Why do I have to feed 15 of my kid’s classmates, plus their moms, dads, and siblings? My child doesn’t know little Rodrigo’s grandma. And why your boss and work colleagues your kid has never met?

My nephew’s first birthday had around 100 people. He spent almost the entire party hanging out with his grandpa in the car. The poor kid burst into tears every time he got carried toward the commotion.

I question the value of of a birthday party that the honoree is terrified to attend.

Some beautiful things for the janitor to sweep up…

And why spend so much money and time on the elaborate decorations and sweets? A two year old doesn’t care if the candy is personalized and color coordinated. For guests, those cute wrappers, ribbons, and bedazzled boxes are merely impediments between mouth and candy. Once the birthday song is sung, it’s Lord of the Flies. The smoke is still wafting up from the candles and the dessert tables look like a pack of Labradors was set on them. The kids are aggressive too.

Ok, I’m being mean. This is actually perfectly reasonable behavior considering the kids have been made to stare at these tables of sweets for three hours. All the desserts are beautifully laid out upon arrival but DO NOT TOUCH them until after the candles are blown out!! Scheduling a party at dinner time and making kids stare at cupcakes for hours is straight up torture. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal under the Geneva Convention.

I know some of the moms do everything themselves and I bow to their superior design and art skills. Every child’s party I’ve been to has been beautiful and if they were for a 15th birthday or graduation or even just for older kids who could remember it and not burst into tears at the sight of Great Aunt Roberta, I wouldn’t have any questions. But I can’t help asking when I attend a three-year old’s birthday, who is this party for?

May 6, 2015
The Perks of Not Speaking the Language

Or don’t…depending on the situation.

I have a secret to confess. I speak Portuguese. Please, don’t tell my mother-in-law.

I don’t speak Portuguese fluently. Nothing as impressive as that. I speak Portuguese like a 96-year-old suffering from extreme dementia. My sentences are punctuated by gestures and facial expression to stand-in for words I’ve forgotten, and my responses to questions sometimes have nothing to do with what was actually asked.

“Brynn, what did you do this weekend?”

“No, I don’t like mangoes.”

But more often than not, I can successfully converse, arrange appointments, and get the hair cut and color I actually want. (The correct hair color was something I mistakenly thought I could get after only recently arriving in Brazil with minimal Portuguese.)

While life is greatly improved now that I don’t consistently confuse Monday and Tuesday, there are times when I play the clueless foreigner card without hesitation. I should probably feel bad for perpetuating the ignorant, monolingual American stereotype, but it’s such an effective way to avoid all those tedious conversations that suck up patience and sanity: the chatty person with what sounds like TB at the doctor’s office, the perfume-drenched, close-talking lady from upstairs, all phone solicitors.

I always answer my phone with a thick, American, “Hello.” It’s the perfect screen. Family and friends obviously know where I’m from and aren’t thrown by it. Only salespeople freeze up and give themselves away with a long pause as they try to figure out what to do next. Some hang up. Some ask if they can speak to my husband. Others plow doggedly ahead with their scripts. I cut them all off and say sweetly in English, “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t speak Portuguese. Goodbye.” Click. Conversation over. The salesperson doesn’t feel bad about losing someone they couldn’t talk to. I’m back to watching John Oliver on YouTube. Win-win.

I first employed this trick in Morocco. Describing the young men in Morocco as persistent is like calling the Kardashians’ lifestyle “comfortable.” Tired of being unable to walk two blocks without being asked to dinner and then asked why I was refusing, I answered one man with Croatian song lyrics. Why Croatian? Because in almost every country other than the US, even misogynist assholes can speak more than one language. But with only four million Croatians in the world, I was pretty confident Croatian would not be one of his languages. I was right. The guy stopped talking to me after a couple sentences. He did still follow me all the way back to my hotel, but stalking is way less annoying when done in silence.

Playing dumb also helps avoid awkward conversations with in-laws and before you judge, just imagine Thanksgiving with your in-laws. What if you could avoid awkward conversations about politics or global-warming or when your daughter is getting baptized by simply fumbling the language? “Oh, what? When is she getting her booster shots? Next month.” Wouldn’t everyone be happier if there was just a lot of smiling and complementing of the food?

So before you get annoyed with the woman in the elevator for not speaking your language, check if you’re wearing deodorant, have brushed your teeth recently, and are saying something more interesting than the silence. Then be careful what you mumble out loud. There’s a chance she’s faking it.

Find more fun adventures from life abroad!

April 20, 2015
We’re All A Little Prejudiced: My Personal Encounters with Racism Around the World

Is your dark complexion keeping you from happiness?

Many years ago I was dating a handsome Punjabi who lived in Milan, and we took a trip to Paris. (That sentence makes me seem way more interesting than I actually am.) While leaving our hotel one morning, he offered to carry my wallet. “Thanks,” I said, “but these pants have pockets. I carry my own money. I’m not an Indian woman.” He, being a human with feelings, rightfully gave me the silent treatment for the rest of the morning. I, being an idiot, couldn’t figure out what was wrong and had to pointedly ask over lunch.

My comment was referring to my fruitless quest to find a salwar kameez with pockets during my semester in Jaipur back in 2004. I spent four months in India looking for a place to put my cash. I was trying to make a joke. I failed. To my friend, it wasn’t just not funny. It was insulting to him, to his mom, his sister, and every Indian woman, so about 500,000,000 people. Not my best moment.

I share this memory in defense of Trevor Noah, the South African comedian who will be taking over for Jon Stewart on the Daily Show. He’s gotten a lot criticism for some unfunny and unoriginal tweets about people who are overweight and Jewish. I’m still a Trevor Noah fan. Good people can be insensitive and thoughtless. These people learn from their offenses, and these offenses can be pretty glaring when moving between cultures.

Different cultures have different prejudices and sensitivities. I’ve not been to South Africa but I wonder if they have the same level of sensitivity to weight related jokes that exists (only recently) in the US. Brazil doesn’t. I don’t believe any of Noah’s tweets would raise an eyebrow in Brazil.

The truth is I’ve never been to a country that was not rampant with prejudices. Every culture has groups of people that it marginalizes, fears, or has very little contact with and thus, no sensitivity to. To make my point, here’s a global tour of prejudices I’ve encountered around the world. And since people can be the worst with all our many, many prejudices, I’ll just focus on race for now.

I once spent a summer in rural Croatia. It is the whitest place have ever been. It’s like a town populated exclusively by the audience of the Country Music Awards, except with a better grasp of geography. When I mentioned to my homestay sister that it was weird for me to be in a place with no people of any color except white, she cheerfully informed me, “Oh no, there’s one African. He plays for our soccer team. They brought him here because those people are really good at soccer.” I was also told that throwing bananas during games is just a joke. It’s all in good fun.

Morocco was the first place I discovered the product Fair and Lovely. After repeated applications, this cream will lighten the complexion of any young woman and save her from the bad husband and unhappy life resulting from dark skin. I was so horrified by it, I couldn’t bring myself to buy it as a joke. In Morocco I also learned about the two Africas. A fellow student in my program had shown me how to wrap my hair up in a scarf, and I sported the look almost daily for awhile. Eventually, my homestay mom said I should try a different style because my style was how “African women” wrapped their hair. I was momentarily confused because Morocco is in Africa, but of course she meant Sub-Saharan Africa. Black Africa. Not Arab Africa. Even in Africa you can’t be black.

India, unfortunately, also had Fair and Lovely and it was running a truly spectacular commercial. A girl, in her early teens, is on the couch watching a cricket match, pretending to call the plays into a hairbrush. Her mom appears and lovingly embraces her daughter while handing her a tube of Fair and Lovely. The girl diligently applies the cream to her face before bed. Leap to the future and a young woman with skin several shades lighter is taking her place in the announcer’s booth at a cricket match. She’s smiling, loving life, and so thankful her lightened skin has helped her get a job as a radio announcer.

White skin is also a prized commodity in Brazil. Well maybe not “white” skin, not with all the beaches and lack of clothing, but blond hair and blue eyes are prized possessions. Almost every Brazilian who sees my daughter for the first exclaims over her blue eyes. The teachers and staff at school affectionately call her “Blondie”. The staff of the preschool is almost entirely dark skinned and the students are almost entirely white.

Brazil does have very strict hate speech laws which make racist remarks a crime, and I think they do limit the amount of explicit comments directed at Afro-Brazilians. The law does not, however, seem to protect gays or anyone from the continent of Asia. If there’s a gay joke your local PC police are holding you back from, come to Vitoria, Brazil. You’ll get a hearty laugh because here men know there is nothing worse than being gay. Do you think pulling down the corners of your eyes when talking about Japan is absolutely hilarious? So do a lot of people in Brazil. Here’s a commercial for the fast food chain China in Box. Please, watch it and tell me in the comments if your mouth dropped open too.

I used to teach high school here in Vitoria, and I’ve had to stop my classes more than once to say, “Never, never do that thing with your eyes in my class.” Some students then helpfully explain that the gesture is not racist in Brazil, and Americans are too sensitive about race. I’ve heard the sentiment many times. “Americans are too sensitive about race.” Also, “Americans have a real problem with racism.” Americans are very sensitive racists.

The truth is we’re all a little bit racist or homophobic or Islamophobic. Every person has prejudices and every culture has groups it doesn’t encourage empathy with. My students here have had little to no contact with anyone from anywhere in Asia. The jokes they make reflect this. I think the solution is asking the students, asking ourselves, to consider the other group’s perspective. In short, empathy.

I know, I know. Actively respecting other people’s feelings requires thinking and we’re all so busy. It may also require us to apologize when we fail to do that thinking and offend someone, and apologizing is the worst! It implies we’re not right all the time! I also understand the temptation to blame whoever for being overly sensitive. Then we don’t have to feel guilty for hurting someone. I hate feeling guilty. It’s such a downer. Speaking of downers, we are all going to have to drop some jokes about Latinos, women, gays, foreigners, the disabled, the indigent, Catholics, Muslims…oh my god, is it even possible to be funny while respecting others? Yes, it is.

And I think Trevor Noah will learn from his mistake. I learned from mine that morning in Paris and the many more I’ve made since. Empathy requires more energy than indifference, but the result, a kinder world for all, seems worth the effort.

April 6, 2015
I enjoy comics, therefore I am a geek. I think.

I admit it. I had X-men comics as a kid.

A couple weeks ago as I was skimming the Internet, I saw the latest Avengers: Age of Ultron trailer. I saw it five times in a row. When I discovered in the comment stream that the movie opens on April 23 here in Brazil, a full week earlier than in the US, I squealed for joy.

Last Friday, I was browsing books on Amazon and it recommended the fourth compilation of the Saga series. I hadn’t even realized it was out! I gave thanks to the omniscient Amazon gods and ordered it immediately.

This week I’m putting the final touches on the second draft of my 216 page graphic novel.

I can no longer hide from the truth. I am a geek.

I suppose I’ve always known on some level, although I’ve repressed it for decades. My brother is a gamer and has actually attended a Dragoncon, so I think it might be genetic. I definitely don’t think it was anything my parents or society did. I grew up in an upper-middle class suburb outside of Atlanta in a congressional district that doesn’t even have a Democratic party office. There were club sports, sleepovers, and more churches than gas stations. I had everything necessary to be totally mainstream. Yet, my absolute favorite cartoons growing up were X-men and Batman. I watched reruns of Batman every day after school long after I knew I couldn’t admit it at my lunch table.

I was very confused. I liked X-men comics, but I also made top grades, was elected to student council, and played varsity sports. I didn’t have trouble making friends or shopping at the Gap. It was made clear, by people on both sides of the line, that people who liked comics and superheroes didn’t do those kinds of things. Also, I have a vagina, so I couldn’t possibly be a comics fan. I was assigned a side, which I’ve stuck with until now.

And there are most definitely sides. I’ve done my research, and the internet divides people into two distinct camps: geeks and non-geeks.

Geeks like comic. They also enjoy animé, very elaborate games that require an entirely new language of acronyms like MUDs, ADnD, and MMORPGs, dressing as characters from their favorite comic/movie/tv show/video game, and toys. Lots of toys. When not cosplaying, geeks also enjoy wearing cotton tshirts with witty quotes or logos proudly promoting their geekhood.

Non-geeks enjoy the outdoors, Starbucks, Top Gear, and yogurt. They frequently wear cotton tshirts with logos promoting their favorite sports team and/or player. They believe books with pictures are for children and adults only read celebrity cookbooks, Literature (with a capitol L), or war memoirs. When not wearing their team colors, they are wearing Old Navy or J. Crew depending on income.

Since high school, I have been living my life as a non-geek. I love Starbucks and my reading time has been devoted to Capitol-L authors such as Jhumpa Lahiri, Barbara Kingsolver, Margaret Atwood, and Toni Morrison. Then some time in my mid-20s, I came across a list of the “100 greates books of the 20th century.” I don’t remember who created the list. I think it was Times or maybe a freshman English major at Berkley. Either way, I know the list included Watchmen by Alan Moore, illustrated by Dave Gibbons. I was intrigued. How did this comic, masquerading as a novel, end up on a list of “Greatest Books”? The contradiction was there in the title, Greatest Books. This list put a comic alongside Hemingway and Alice Walker.

I was aware of the term graphic novel but didn’t understand it until I read Watchmen. Then for Christmas my brother gave me Y: The Last Man and 100 Bullets. Another year, a cousin gave me American Born Chinese. I discovered Fun Home was named the best book of 2006 by Time. Then one day I looked at my bookshelf and discovered a row of graphic novels, what my non-geek kind still refer to as comic books. I had a shelf full of comic books!

What can I say? I’m sucker for a good story. Combine memorable and complex characters with good writing and you’ve got me, even if the story is told in illustrated panels. American Born Chinese is one of the most elegant pieces of story telling I’ve ever read, and it’s a graphic novel for young adults.

I guess that makes me a geek, but I’m a little worried about what coming out as geek means. Geeks seem to make being a geek such a huge part of their identity; I’m afraid about half-assing the role. Can I love the Avengers movies without understanding the difference between The Avengers, The Mighty Avengers, and Avengers Assemble? Because I’m really busy and just don’t have the time to figure that out. Do I have to be willing to stand in line for two hours for an autograph from a Star Trek cast member? Because frankly there’s nothing short of life saving necessities that I would stand in line for two hours to get. Although I admire the passion. And the patience. I could use more of both.

Oh, and about the costumes…they look wondrous but also super impractical. If I’m going to walk miles around a conference hall filled with 100,000 people, I’d prefer something breathable. Is there a character I could portray in linen pants and a pair of Toms? No? Well, maybe I’ll write one. As soon as this non-geek geek gets her first graphic novel sold. But that’s a post for next week.

March 30, 2015
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
The Super-Awesome, Amazingly-Exotic Expat Life

The daily rainbow in Brazil.

When I’m back home in Atlanta, I try not to mention that I live in Brazil. The opportunity presents itself with surprising frequency, usually when a sales associate asks if I’d like to sign up for a rewards card. I decline saying “I’m just visiting for the holidays.” Nine times out of ten, at least in the state of Georgia where people still practice things like small talk and friendliness, the person will ask “Oh, where do you live?” Then I’m stuck. “In Brazil,” I answer, and I’m at the counter another five minutes as I tell my story and confess that I have not in fact learned to speak Spanish. Though I have learned the local Portuguese.

I can’t blame people for their wide-eyed excitement and curiosity about my life. Americans are under the impression that life south of Texas or north of Idaho or on the other side of an ocean is more…something. More exciting. More dangerous. More romantic. More barbaric. More luxurious. They’ve seen movies set in these “foreign” countries and read articles like “3 Things Dating Foreign Women (And Marrying One) Taught Me” which tell people what a romantic adventure life can be if they only find a spouse with a different passport.

As someone who did manage to land a coveted foreign spouse and move abroad, I can state that it’s all true. My life is more exciting than everyone else’s. It’s more romantic and luxurious yet still a rewarding, character-building challenge.

Take my very first meal in Brazil. I got to eat in the food court of the nearby mall. My future husband took me and it was incredibly romantic. The din of the other customers drowned out our voices, so we could only stare into each other’s eyes. Because I arrived in the midst of remodeling the apartment, I had the opportunity to tour all the best hardware stores in Rio de Janeiro. The thrill of shopping for toilet seats abroad really gets downplayed in expat blogs. The only thing in Brazil that rivals shopping for toilets is getting finger printed for a visa at the federal police. The ink smells like jasmine.

Living in Brazil has also given me the opportunity to learn a new language. It’s a fact that everything is sexier in a foreign language. Doesn’t matter which language. They’re all sexier than English. Here are some of the local Portuguese phrases I learned in my first months here. Encanador. Plumber. Conta corrente conjunta. Joint checking account. Seguro de saúde. Health insurance. Absorvente interno. Tampon.

If you are ever lucky enough to visit Rio, I recommend driving from downtown to the suburbs at 5:30pm. It will give you an authentic local experience. Turn the air-conditioning off and roll the windows down to really go native. Be sure to have the GoPros charged because friends back home will want to watch this trek. All three hours of it.

Anyone leaving the US should do their family and friends the favor of recording every second of their time abroad. They’ll thank you for allowing them to live vicariously through you. After all, life outside the United States is one long perpetual vacation. Nobody goes to the grocery store or a “job” in foreign countries. The people serving coconuts on the beach here in Brazil? Robots. All of them. Where do you think Walt Disney got the idea for the Hall of Presidents? He stayed at the Copacabana Palace in Rio. Actual Brazilian citizens don’t work and if you’re fortunate enough to get residency neither will you. People who live here just go to the beach and gym everyday. I haven’t had to run an errand since I arrived in September of 2006.

Having a child abroad with a foreign spouse (Yes, even in Brazil my Brazilian husband is the foreigner. I can’t be a foreigner because I’m American), it only adds to the drama and glamor of the expat life. I’m writing a screenplay based on my experience of visiting the US consulate to prove the maternity of my child. I’m hoping Ridley Scott will direct and it will star Angelina Jolie (as me), Antonio Banderas (as my husband), and Jack Black as the unwieldy and misunderstood stack of paperwork that ultimately saves the day and gets us the US birth certificate.

Those of us living in far-off, exotic lands know that “living” abroad is exactly the same thing as “vacationing” abroad. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that most people in the world are busy going about the tediousness of living day to day, with the jobs and childcare and home repairs and laundry that human existence demands. No, no. Life outside the US is romantic and electrifying all the time. In fact, I have another Brazilian adventure planned for this morning. I’m going on an excursion for light bulbs.

March 16, 2015
Lessons For Toddlers and Expats

My 3 year old daughter is currently struggling to accept some of the physical limitations of our three dimensional world. “That tunnel is not tall enough for the train.” “It was made for one Littlest Pet not eight.” “Sweetheart, your teddy bear is never going to fit in that play dough pot.” She will ignore me, keep trying, and eventually hurl whatever it is against the wall in a frustrated fury. I hope it’s just a phase.

What is remarkable is her flat out refusal to accept an obvious reality. She will continue to struggle long after it’s clear that it’s not going to fit. Her tenacity is impressive. It’s also the source of many a nighttime tantrum. While I don’t want her to ever give up easily, I’d like to spare her the frustration and save her the energy spent fighting against a fact about her world.

As an expat, I should apply this lesson myself.

I’ve lived in Brazil eight and a half years, and I still struggle to accept some facts about life here. One thing that still makes my face burn is the out of control and invasive bureaucracy.

There is no question too personal for a form and no transaction that does not require one. The eyeglass store wants your social security number. The hotel wants your profession. The dentist wants your race. Your employer wants to know your blood pressure.

I get around some forms by pretending I’m here temporarily or don’t speak a word of Portuguese, but I couldn’t do this at my former job.

When I began teaching the school asked me to have a medical exam. When I came back from maternity leave there was another exam and another a year later for every employee at the school. When I gave notice at the end of last year, human resources asked me to sign several letters saying that I was leaving of my own accord and have another medical exam.

I refused. As American, an employer requiring a medical exam and making note of the fact you use contraceptives is deeply offensive. I had done the previous exams because I liked the job, and hey when in Rome…but now I was quitting. What could they do? Fire me?

There were several meetings with HR during which I nicely refused to accommodate and the HR lady just as nicely said it was mandatory by law. After checking with a lawyer, I explained sweetly there’s no law requiring a person to submit to a medical exam. She politely insisted there is.

Eventually I was told it was the union that required the exam. And speaking of the union, I had to meet with them and have a rep sign off on my paperwork. Please come back next Tuesday afternoon.

I showed up at the union rep’s office in my school and met a man very disgruntled by my lateness. The meeting was at 2pm. It was 2:02 pm. As he grumbled, he grabbed his keys, my work card, and my paperwork. Below is as faithful a transcription of our conversation as my memory allows.

Me: “Excuse me, are you leaving?”

Man I Have Only Just Met: “He’s going to wait for us.”

Me: “Who?”

MIHOJM: “The union Kahuna. (That’s my word because I don’t remember what title the guy really had.) You were supposed to meet with him at 2pm.”

Me: “Aren’t you the man I’m meeting?”

MIHOJM: “No, the Kahuna has to sign off on your papers, and he’s at the union’s headquarters.”

Me: “Wait. Do we have to drive somewhere?”

MIHOJM: “Yes. We’re going to the union office.”

Me: “Stop. I’m not leaving. Give me my work card and documents. I am not going.”

At that point I had been quitting my job for almost two months. I was done. I was out of patience and polite Portuguese. I unleashed the full force of my direct, low-context American culture on him and I wrapped things up then and there.

I am not going to the union office. I am not having the medical exam. I want to quit today. You are a union officer? Do you have authority to sign these papers? Great. Please, sign them all now.

While I did manage to officially quit, within a Brazilian context, I was a complete asshole to a guy who was just doing his job. He was acting according to standard practice and then comes this woman who freaks out on him, is blunt to the point of being rude, and very angry.

And I stayed angry. I complained about the whole process to everyone I met for days. Hurling my complaints about meaningless bureaucracy against every wall in a frustrated fury. What did that anger get me? Well, it used up a lot of my energy, a very precious commodity. It would have taken a lot less energy to shrug my shoulders.

Somethings you have to accept. Don’t waste energy being angry about something you can’t change. Lessons we expats have to learn. Expats and toddlers.

February 24, 2015