Brynn Barineau

Tag: expat life

  • I don’t think we’re in Rio anymore.

    I don’t think we’re in Rio anymore.

    Well, just when I’ve made it my personal goal to try every kind of snack food in Brazil, it looks as though our weekly road trips are coming to end.  Barring any changes of heart or collapse of the Federal government, my husband will be able to take a position in Vitoria starting in September.

    This means one apartment in one city and all our possessions in a single location.  Eventually.  Of course, we have to decide whether to sell or rent the apartment in Rio.  We’re going to rent an apartment in Vitoria as we get to know the city and decide where we would like to buy.  Some of our stuff will probably stay in Rio until we buy our apartment in Vitoria, because only masochists want to move all of their furniture twice in one year.

    But, eventually, at a now foreseeable date in the future, we and all of our stuff will be in one place.

    With this happy day in mind, my husband and I spent the weekend in Vitoria strolling around the neighborhood of Praia do Canto.  We wandered up and down the streets, taking note of the restaurants, shops, traffic, noise levels, and the many coffee shops.  My husband also literally noted down (always thinking, he had brought a notepad and pen from our hotel room) the address of apartments for sale that had the quiet street and netted balcony we are looking for.

    Praia do Canto is very, very promising.

    It wasn’t just tranquility and friendly cafes, that gave me hope of finding a home in Vitoria.  At one point, I realized I was walking around staring up at apartments without any consideration as to where I was putting my feet.  In Rio, if you take your eyes of the sidewalk for ten seconds you’ll probably be lost forever in a pot hole.  At the very least, you’ll have a sprained ankle.

    Not the case here in this tranquil, little hamlet of only 4 million people.  The sidewalks are almost entirely free of pot holes and garbage.  The city is new and the people calm.  Drivers stay in a single lane and use their blinkers when they want to move to a different one.  There was so little horn honking I wondered if the population was sedated.  When a car slowed down, came to a complete stop, and the driver waved at my husband and I to cross the street, I almost fainted in shock.

    I didn’t faint because I wanted to hurry up and get across the street in case this was some sort of trick.  Perhaps, the driver was going to floor it right when we hit the middle of road just to see us leap to safety.  But he didn’t.  He waited patiently, until we reached the sidewalk, and then slowly eased around the traffic circle.  I was amazed.

    After this series of events had happened a dozen more times and I realized coming to a stop for pedestrians was the rule as opposed to the exception, I knew this was the city for me.

  • Hosting family

    Hosting family

    Last week, I played host to my cousin who flew down from Atlanta.  It was her first trip to Rio. And she did her research.

    We drank coconuts on Copacabana beach and watched footvolley on Ipanema.  We shopped in Leblon and rode bikes around Lagoa.  We hiked up Morro da Urca and fed monkeys.  We explored the botanical gardens and got harassed by some aggressive strawberry salesmen at the market.  Salgados, acaraje, tapioca, sushi, and pounds of red meat were consumed in addition to 16 different kinds of fruit juice.  (Not even half of the 41 fruits on the menu.) Her trip ended with the obligatory visit to Cristo Redentor.

    After a week with my cousin, I now have some idea what it’s like to have a five year-old on summer vacation.

    I’ve had to translate for all of my family but, unlike other visitors, my cousin has an endless supply of energy and tendency to shout recently learned Portuguese phrases at totally inappropriate times.  A pre-departure nightmare involving a kidnapping meant leaving her on her own was out of the question.  Her first question every morning was “What are we doing today?”  So, she couldn’t read or speak to anyone, couldn’t be left alone, needed to be entertained every day, and she found the Portuguese word for armadillo absolutely hilarious.  In Rio, my cousin becomes a 23 year-old child.

    Our week went like this.  “What would you like to do today?”  “What do you feel like eating?”  “What do you want to drink?”  “Who else do you need to get gifts for?”   “The word for opossum is gambá.”  “Where do you want to go now?”  “Let me ask him where the bathroom is.”  “Not a good idea to shout ‘gambá!’ in the middle of the market.”  “What would you like to do if it rains?”  “Fui assaltada means ‘I was assaulted.’”  “What size do you want?”  “It’s 35 reais.”  “Please don’t tell the taxi driver you were assaulted.”

    On her last day, she proudly announced that this was the first time she had ever exhausted a guidebook.

    For my cousin every new experience, no matter how small, was worthy of being celebrated, turned into a joke, and discussed repeatedly.  While her constant enthusiasm is tiring it is also her most admirable trait.  She still has that childlike wonder which turns a trip to the grocery store into an adventure and pot-roast flavored potato chips into a treasure.

    Our week together in Rio was great fun!  Exhausting but great fun.  She helped me realize just how much fun Rio can be with a sense of adventure and that I will probably be sending future kids to summer camp.

  • Winter Fashion in Rio de Janeiro

    Winter Fashion in Rio de Janeiro

    It’s 73 degrees and partly cloudy in Rio.  Lows are around 63 and the sea breeze is decidedly nippy.  You know what that means?  Shake out the sweaters and get the mold off that leather coat.  It’s winter in Rio!

    Of course, this only applies if you’re a Carioca.  If you are from pretty much anywhere else (ok, anywhere outside of the tropics) you grab a light jacket to wear over your tank top or opt for a long-sleeve t-shirt (the sleeves of which will be pushed up for the entire day until the sun sets).  But if you are Carioca, you’ll wear enough layers to be comfortable in deep space.

    The Carioca reaction to cool weather is charming.  The temperature drops below 80 and store mannequins are clothed in knee-length coats and turtleneck sweaters.  A drizzly rain plus a temperature of 60 degrees requires scarves, gloves, and boots.  While the Carioca may dislike having to wear closed toed shoes, it does give her a chance to wear that beautiful leather coat she bought in Buenos Aires.

    I’ll admit the last two days have been chilly.  I brought a jean jacket with me to class last night, but even with the jacket, I seemed to be dressed for an entirely different climate than the office staff.   One assistant was wearing what appeared to be a wool sweater over a long-sleeved, button-up shirt.  The office manager was dressed in a black suit, with jacket buttoned, black stockings and pumps.  While I don’t know how they avoided heat exhaustion, they both looked killer.

    And that’s what I miss about winter.  The clothes.  I do not like cold weather and unless you’re in a Lifetime Christmas special, snow is simply a cold, wet mess.  I do, however, miss the clothes.  Turtle necks, long coats tied at the waist, gloves, lined slacks, boots, sweater vests, corduroy pants, jewel toned anything.  The human race appears so much more competent in winter attire.

    Would you want the guy in the speedo and tennis shoes holding the nuclear codes?  No.  Nothing says “We’re doomed!” like a speedo accessorized with gold chains and athletic footwear.

    I do love the weather in Rio.  The lack of freezing temperatures is one of the city’s greatest assets.  But I miss the sophistication of winter clothes.  And a speedo with a parka on top does not count.