Tag: Multicultural Marriage

Brynn Is Not In Brazil

Hi. So…it’s been a minute. I’d ask how you’ve been the last few years, but I don’t think I could take an honest answer. You’ve either been like me. You’re barely keeping it together and looking in the mirror has been like watching a time elapsed video covering a few decades. Or you’ve managed to thrive and find yourself in adversity in which case, I assume you own a supply chain software company and I don’t want to hear that shit either

But it’s January 2022 and I’m ready to confidently say I feel like myself again, albeit with thinner hair and a thicker waist.

What have I been up to? Not writing blog posts obviously. You’d think a writer would process events through writing but whenever I did sit down to write, it felt like someone had taken a shotgun to my attention span. I got fragments of ideas, slivers of thoughts. Piecing together anything sensible, let alone enjoyable, was painful and tedious.

I’ve over the last 18 months most of my energy has gone to building a life from scratch in Atlanta.

Mercedes Benz Stadium in the ATL. Home to the Falcons, Atlanta United, & mass vaccinations.

That’s right. Brynn is officially NOT in Brazil! We moved to my hometown of Atlanta in June 2020. Yup. 2020. A transcontinental move with a child in the midst of a global pandemic. And my husband stayed behind in Brazil because job and money. As risky life changing decisions go, we were open to international flights and furniture shopping during a pandemic but drew the line at no one in the house earning an income. We saved that for 2021.

I’ll write a whole series of posts on moving from Brazil to the US soon. Getting my daughter registered for school was an odyssey in itself. The Dekalb school system is not set up for an English-speaking, foreign born American citizen with a social security number but only Brazilian school transcripts. The automated messages never tell you what number to push for that.

Moving back to the United States isn’t the only thing that’s happened. We adopted two dogs from a local rescue. I reconnected with friends I hadn’t seen since high school. I started a book club with two of them and joined a writing with another. That group helped me finish a fourth draft of a historical fiction that I started writing for Nanowrimo 2018 and will finally go on submission to editors this year.

And I sold my first book!!!!!! (Maybe I should have led with that?)

After years querying and being on submission, I signed with a small idependent publisher, Orange Blossom Publishing to release my historical fiction, Jaguars and Other Game. It will be my debut novel, launching on November 22, 2022. Just in time for my 40th birthday.

I have high expectations for 2022. I say that despite having been conscious for the last two years. My husband has joined us full time in Atlanta for the next year. We’re together, vaccinated, and I’m going to launch my debut novel.

There’s a lot happening. A lot has happened. I’ll write about everything. Keep checking in for updates on the publishing process and fun announcements like the cover reveal and pre-order campaigns. I’m so excited to share this process with y’all.

January 24, 2022
Why I’m an Expat in Brazil Part III: Leaving the Friend Zone

Dancing crosses culture and brings people together. It did for my husband and me.

My husband and I never actually dated. Not officially. He never asked me to dinner. I never invited him to a movie. We didn’t sit across from each other in a dimly-lit, over-cooled restaurant asking about family or hometowns between sips of wine. When one of the parties can pull out a two inch file on the other there is no “getting to know you” period.

“So, I’m from Rio de Janeiro originally…”

“Yes, I read that in your program application. I also saw that you got your law degree from a university in Bahia and recently completed your master’s in law at the State University of Rio de Janeiro. Changing the subject, your blood pressure is fantastic! Do you have any cardio tips?”

For his part, he’d listened to a running stream of personal revelations from me as I attempted to make each of the Fellows (him in particular) feel at home in DC. I thought the best way to do this was to talk about my parents’ divorce and bring travel photo albums to lunch. He’d met my closest friends within two weeks of meeting me because I’d recruited them to be student hosts for the Fellows, and he met my parents when I brought them along to karaoke with the Fellows at a bar in Adams Morgan.

He may not have had a full medical history for me, but he knew exactly who I was within a month of meeting me: a 22 year-old who excitedly brings her parents out to a bar to show off her new work colleagues.

I hid nothing. I revealed all of me including friends, family, and cat. The only reason I did something as insane as show the HD version of myself from the start is because it was inconceivable that we would end up in a relationship. And I mean inconceivable literally. I did not imagine, envision, or hypothesize any scenario in which we were more than friends. His different nationality and culture had nothing to do it with it. He was…is sixteen years older than I am. His professional career at that point included naval officer and auditor with Brazil’s IRS. My professional title at the time was “Graduate Assistant”. We were at such different stages in our lives that all I had my sights set on was an incredibly impressive letter of recommendation from him at the end of year.

So when my friend confidently told me over dinner one Saturday night “He’s totally going to stick his tongue down your throat.” I replied “Wha…he…I…uh…we…nooooo, he is not.” Because I was both incredulous at the idea and painfully uncomfortable talking about physical relationships. It was a cool evening in early October, and my friend and I were having basin sized salads before I headed out clubbing with some of the Fellows. The Fellows from Zimbabwe and Cameroon were desperate to go out dancing, so I’d agreed to pretend I could dance and go with them. The Brazilian said he’d come too. The plan was for me to meet him at the metro stop near our apartments and head to Dupont Circle together.

“So you’re going to the club together,” my friend concluded. I changed the subject.

We were headed to Cafe Citron, a club I had visited once before, and thought (wrongly) I could get to without directions. After lapping the circle, asking for directions, and finding the other Fellows at the club, we hit the dance floor. This was the part I had been dreading. Besides soccer playing, the only other skill I associated with Brazil was dancing. Samba. The Girl from Ipanema. Carnaval. Bossa Nova. I imagined a country full of people who celebrated soccer victories by literally dancing, extremely well, in the streets. I could handle the “Electric Slide”, the “Chicken Dance”, or a montage from Greece, but as we weren’t at a suburban high school homecoming, I didn’t expect to shine very brightly on the dance floor.

Fortunately, neither does he. The Brazilian doesn’t dance.

Oh, he dances better than I do, but the music and the crowd that night kept things simple and close. I could follow. Not that we danced for long.

I felt the tension from the first sway of my hips. After having lunch together for weeks, I suddenly couldn’t look him in the eye. I looked at his shoulder, just beyond his shoulder, his feet, his forearm, his hand, his chest. Eventually, I was down to body parts that would have been far more awkward to stare at than his eyes. So I looked up. We made eye contact. And he made his move.

His move was confident and calm and so wonderful. It was the unhurried and sure kiss of a grown man. Thank god, we got married because after a minute of kissing, I was spoiled forever for mid-twenty grad students.

We left the club a couple. Not dating. Not open to other people. We left together.

Not that we told anyone. Why cause a fuss if it wasn’t going to work out? But by Christmas break we’d said I love you and it was time to tell my family I had fallen for a Brazilian, atheist, sixteen-years my elder, who was in the states for only another seven months.

It went better than I expected.

August 18, 2015
Why I’m an Expat in Brazil Part II: Between Meeting & Dating

Some very impressive Humphrey Fellows and me.

It is a long way between meeting someone for the first time and marrying him.

I saw my future husband for the second time early the next morning as I collected the entire group of Humphrey Fellows to escort them to their welcome meeting. As an international studies major, I was in quite the fan-girl tizzy over the Humphrey Fellows, specifically the Fellow from Bhutan. There are only about 700,000 Bhutanese in the world, and I was going to work with one! I’d been bringing her up in conversation regularly for months in an effort to compete with my roommate’s stories from her internship on Capitol Hill.

On that typically humid August morning, I found my Brazilian waiting in the dorm lobby next to the Fellow from Kenya. We chatted as the others slowly trickled down. There was a lot of hand shaking and slow pronouncing of names, my own name included. “It’s pronounced like Lynn, except with a Br instead of an L.” “No, it’s not a boy’s name. That’s Bryan, with an A.” “No, I don’t think my parents knew my name would be unpronounceable to, apparently, the entire world.”

Orientation for an international exchange program is probably the most emotionally exhaustive thing a person can go through that doesn’t involve a birth, a death, or a space suit. A person is expected to navigate a new place, new culture, possibly a new language, and new people, all while jet lagged and in some amount of digestive distress from new food. It’s not a vacation. There’s no sleeping in. I met the Fellows in the lobby at 8:45am for a welcome meeting that started at 9 sharp, and from that moment on for the next two weeks, it was a race to get them registered for classes, bank accounts, cell phones, and long-term housing before fall semester began.

Our Fellows had an added emotional blow as they went from being up and coming stars of their respective professions to nobody.

Welcome to Washington DC! It has the highest concentration of PhDs, law degrees and self-esteem per capita of any city in the world. You are now officially unimpressive. You will not have maids. You will not have secretaries. If you don’t know how to send an email or cook, well…we can teach you how to email. Try not to starve.

Undergrads who study abroad don’t have these problems. They haven’t been on their own long enough to be embarrassed by dependency. The Humphrey Fellows however ranged in age from 35 to 50. They arrived for their year in Washington with impressive CVs and very fragile egos. Working with them taught me how to explain what to do with used toilet paper without sounding condescending.

Culture shock and a complete lack of family and friends explain why I, at 22 with the ink still drying on my diploma, was treated by the Fellows as an equal. Nobody asked me to get their coffee. They asked me to explain the online course registration. They asked me to listen as they cried over how much they missed their kids. They asked me to explain the endless variety of milk in grocery stores. At that moment in their lives, they needed an insiders guide to Americans. I was an American with a ~~embarrassingly~~ fortuitously empty social calendar and that huge fan-girl crush on them. I became the group’s cultural wingman.

I started hanging out with the Fellows on weekends. We went to a coffee shop at Dupont Circle for s’mores. We hit some bars in Adams Morgan and tried out an Ethiopian restaurant for lunch. The group changed depending on who had a paper due or a bad case of culture shock, except for one member: the Brazilian. In my memories he’s always there. Always up for anything. Usually available for lunch. He’d rented a basement apartment close to where I lived, and we often ran into each other on the shuttle heading to and from campus.

But I was so hung up on his resume and the sixteen year age difference, I never imagined he actually thought of me as a fellow adult. I was sure the Brazilian, like the other Fellows, was being incredibly polite to someone helping him. When he paid close attention as I took him through every picture from my semester in India, I must have subconsciously chalked it up to good manners because I would never, NEVER, have brought a photo album to lunch with someone I actually hoped to date.

About a month after orientation, the Korean Fellow invited everyone to his apartment for dinner. I clearly remember a few wonderful minutes in the kitchen as the Brazilian taught me how to make caipirinhas and I tried one. I blamed my flushed cheeks on the cachaça. Later a group of us took the subway home. It was several blocks to the metro station, and the temperature had dropped changing my sandals from cute to extremely impractical. My toes were slowly freezing and I probably would have lost a few, if the Brazilian hadn’t stopped, taken off his shoes, and handed me his socks. He gave me the socks off his feet.

And I still didn’t see the first kiss coming. But that night deserves its own story.

August 10, 2015
How I Met My Husband or Why I’m in Brazil

We met, we married, and I moved to Brazil.

Ten years ago today, I met my husband.

He showed up at the office a day early and if he had been less adventurous or more patient, if he had just followed his orientation schedule, I’d probably still be in Washington DC with an impressive career in international education.

He was one of nine mid-career professionals from around the world being hosted by the Washington College of Law as part of the Hubert Humphrey Fellowship Program. His welcome orientation was scheduled for August 4, 2005. I was spending August 3 sprawled on the floor with my hair in a pony-tail hole-punching, stacking, and assembling orientation binders. At least, that was my plan, but about mid-morning the office manager poked his head into the conference room and told me the Brazilian was at the front desk.

The office manager actually called him, “The Brazilian”. We all did, even program staff at the national level, because no one had a clue how to pronounce his name, which is quite a statement considering the range of nationalities around the office suite. My boss was out of the office, so I got to be the first to hear the correct pronunciation and fail repeatedly to say it. We would be dating before I could correctly say his name.

I saw him as soon as I stepped out of the conference room. He was standing by the reception desk just beyond several ubiquitous office cubicles, including my own, and I thought, “Wow, he’s white. I didn’t know Brazilians could be white.” It was the first in what has turned out to be a lifetime of revelations about Brazil, many of which have revealed an embarrassing number of unconscious assumptions based exclusively on Pelé.

My second thought on seeing him was “He’s really handsome.” My third was “I can’t believe he found this place.” The program office was located in a suite on the bottom level of a building two blocks down from the law school. The suite housed a variety of programs and offices, none of which had found a way to give directions that didn’t get most visitors lost. The Brazilian had successfully navigated the maps and directions while jet-lagged and operating in a foreign language. I was impressed.

But I’d been impressed by him for months. We received a binder on each Fellow that included a medical history, their complete program application with letters of recommendation, and the Fulbright selection committee’s evaluations. The Brazilian came with a letter of recommendation from a Supreme Court Justice and a clean bill of health. Not bad as boyfriend applications go. For my part, I’d been a college graduate for three months.

Truly I don’t know what about me got his attention. Maybe it was my stellar administrative skills or consistent punctuality. Somehow, I managed to make navigating my home country in my native language seem impressive. Thank god for home court advantage.

I wasn’t thinking relationship in that first moment. After recognizing that he was attractive, I went straight to professional mode. I took him on a tour of the school and to the bank. There is nothing romantic about banking or walking around DC at midday in August. Unless pit stains are considered a turn on. We grabbed lunch at the sandwich place across the street where I proved I was strictly business and indifferent to others by ordering the onion smothered Greek wrap. We chatted easily over lunch, and I believe that casual conversation over vegetarian wraps laid the groundwork for everything that followed.

If my boss had been around that morning, she would have been the one to take him to the bank and to lunch. If we had met the next day along with the entire group, we wouldn’t have had the rapport that made me the obvious choice to go with him apartment hunting while the other Fellows opened bank accounts. And if we hadn’t gotten to know one another while touring some rather frightening basement apartments in Northwest DC, it wouldn’t have felt perfectly natural to meet up for lunch periodically over the coming weeks.

By the time we went on our first date, we’d already opened a bank account, shopped for an apartment, and been subjected to a variety of team building exercises together. Rarely has a couple’s compatibility been so thoroughly tested. All we lacked was an astrologer’s blessing.

But all those moments came after that first meeting, when he showed up early and I mispronounced his name exactly ten years ago today.

August 3, 2015
5 Things You’d Never Guess About Brazil

5 of the many things that have surprised me about Brazil…

“Do you like Brazil?” I heard this question for the thousandth time last night. I don’t know why people bother to ask this question. It’s in the same category as “Does this make me look fat?” and “Did you read my last blog post?” Nobody wants an honest answer. “Do you like Brazil?” The correct response is an enthusiastic “Yes!”

At least this question has an obvious correct answer, unlike “So which country do you like better? The US or Brazil?” What am I supposed to say? I usually cop out with humor. “Neither. I’m giving up on the whole nation-state system. I’d like to start my own island tribe based on handedness.”

Another strategy I’ve developed over the years is to answer these politically loaded questions with lists: “Things I love about Brazil” or “Things I miss about the US”. Below is my favorite list. I like it because it’s personal but more unusual than the standard “Things I love about Brazil.”

Five Things That Surprised Me About Brazil

1) Stellar Dental Hygiene Brazilians are obsessed with their teeth. If you go into a restroom after lunch, there will be a wall of people between you and the sink, all of them flossing their teeth. Helpfully, many public restrooms have floss dispensers to facilitate this habit. You should brush your teeth after every meal and ideally after every snack. As an after-breakfast-and-before-bed brusher, I have the most disgusting teeth in all of Brazil. Fortunately, my husband accepts me for who I am and ascribes my poor dental hygiene and once-a-day-showering to my Anglo-Saxon ancestors’ affinity for filth. Although thanks to him, I have grudgingly become a daily flosser.

2) Your Fingers Must Never Touch Your Food When I learned that many Brazilians use a fork to eat french fries, I almost moved back to the US. Brazilians use a knife and fork for EVERYTHING! Your fingers must never touch your food. As my people created a category just for “finger foods”, this is not a custom that I’m particularly comfortable with or always able to keep in mind. I’ll be at a birthday party happily popping mini-pizzas in my mouth, when I notice everyone else at the table has a napkin delicately wrapped around their snack, creating a polite barrier between fingers and food. After 9 years, I still can’t muster that level of formality for something that came frozen out of a box. (Honestly between the finger eating and lack of teeth brushing, I’m surprised my husband agrees to go out with me.)

3) Japanese-Brazilians My initial thought when I saw my husband for the first time was “Hey, he’s white!” True story. Pretty romantic, huh? Before my husband, the only Brazilian I was aware of was Pelé, thus my unconscious assumption about how Brazilians look. I wasn’t totally wrong. According to the 2010 census, 50.7% of Brazilians do consider themselves black or mixed-race. But in addition to the 4.8 million people brought as slaves from Africa and the indigenous tribes who were already here, Brazil has had substantial immigration from Portugal, Italy, Japan, Lebanon, and Germany to name a few countries. With a history of intermarriage between the groups, Brazilians cover the entire range of possible human phenotypes.

4) Brazilians Love Volleyball! Everyone else in the world besides Americans might already know this. Probably the world loves indoor volleyball, and it’s only us Americans who are in the dark. Literally. We’d rather just sit in the dark than watch a volleyball game. But not Brazilians! If there’s no soccer game, the sports channels are covering a volleyball match. They have incredibly popular professional leagues here, and if you stay in Brazil long enough, you will find yourself at a bar with a women’s club volleyball game on the TV. Or judo. Judo is also very popular in Brazil.

5) Did You Already Add Salt? This is a question most Brazilians won’t ask because they’re going to go ahead add more salt regardless. Meal after meal, I see Brazilians get food placed in front of them and without even tasting it, they reach for the salt packets, rip one open, and rain salt down on the entire plate. Very shortly after arriving, my husband made sure to treat me to one of Brazil’s traditional meals imported from Portugal, bacalhau or codfish. Imagine a salt lick served with potatoes and onions. That’s bacalhau. I couldn’t eat it. The same was true for feijoada, a uniquely Brazilian dish involving black beans, all the leftover pieces of pig, and a few ice cream scoops of salt. Not surprisingly, Brazil has a hypertension epidemic.

Those were some of the most surprising truths I learned about Brazil. I’d come up with more, but I just ate a pretzel and must go floss my teeth.

June 8, 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
My Scientifically-Proven, Stable Marriage

I’d like to thank the New York Times for bringing to my attention the fact my marriage is sustainable indefinitely.

That’s not my romantic idealism talking. No, it’s based on the results of a quiz I took on self-expansion in your relationship. The quiz was developed by a university professor which make the results totally scientifically valid. Since I scored off the charts, I now have irrefutable proof that twinkies will go bad before my marriage does.

In order to determine what chance your marriage has of sustaining, the quiz measures how much you get out of your relationship. That’s the great truth the psychologists behind the quiz realized. People are happier in relationships they get something out of. Apparently, giving up all your own needs and losing yourself in your relationship is not a recipe for a sustainable relationship. Surprising results given the long term happiness historically achieved by martyrs.

The creators of the quiz do distinguish between sustainable and lasting marriages. Sustainable implies continuing happiness, while lasting implies children or a faith that condemns you to hell for divorce. Not having any of the things that support a lasting marriage, I had my fingers crossed this quiz would show I have what makes a sustainable marriage. I do.

You can take the quiz here, but I’ve listed some of the questions below.

-How much does being with your partner result in your having new experiences?

-When you are with your partner, do you feel a greater awareness because of him or her?

-How much does you partner increase your ability to do new things?

-How much do your partner’s strengths as a person compensate for some of your own weaknesses?

-How much has being with your partner resulted in your learning new things?

-How much does your partner increase your knowledge?

You’re supposed to answer on a scale of 1 – 7 with 7 being “omg! so, so much!” The higher the score the more sustainable the relationship.

In looking over my results, I realized the surest way to a happy, fulfilling marriage is to marry someone from a different culture. I think I’m on to something big here. Marry even a moderately supportive person from a another culture and there is no way you won’t answer at least a 5 on every question. “Providing new experiences,” “increasing your knowledge,” or creating a “greater awareness”? This stuff happens everyday when your partner has a different culture than your own. I don’t know if the psychologists even realize what they’ve discovered. The most fulfilling relations are cross-cultural ones.

That really is nice to know. Before this quiz there was all this other research saying how marriages across cultures are statistically less likely to succeed. Based on the different cultures, different religions, languages, the fact we’re both children of divorced parents and the 16 year age difference, the experts seemed to agree my marriage is destined to crash and burn leaving a crater that will alter weather patterns.

But I can stop worrying now because I have a quiz which proves that I am in a happy and sustainable relationship. I can ignore all those other studies, including the one that says calculating odds on a relationship between two entirely unique individuals is ridiculous.

January 19, 2011
Stove Top Terror

I’ve never enjoyed cooking. It’s something I’ve been forced by hunger pangs and lack of sandwich bread to do from time to time. With the exception of freshly baked cookies and pies, I’ve never cooked anything so much more satisfying than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that it justified the extra costs in both material and labor.

Now, I live in Brazil. If cooking was merely uninteresting before, here it’s terrifying. It’s not the spiny vegetables and fruits or recipes using the metric system. It’s my stove. People here find it acceptable to have a kitchen appliance that combines both gas and an open flame.

I can’t remember the first dish my husband and I cooked in Brazil, but I do remember the first time I was asked to light the stove.

“Did you light the stove?” my husband asked.

“Sure, I turned the burner on,” I replied.

“Did you light it?”

“What do you mean ‘light it’?”

“Did you light the burner? With the spark button?”

“Spark button? What the heck’s a spark button?”

“You turned it on and didn’t light it?!” My husband is frantically turning knobs and opening windows. “You’re letting gas pour into the kitchen! You have to turn the knob and then hold the spark button to light the burner.”

“When you say ‘light’ you’re talking about an actual flame?” I asked with my mouth hanging open.

Against my better judgement, I did master the simple trick of opening the gas flow and holding a button to cause sparks in front of the opening. Every time the spark button went click, click, click, I thought about what a quaint, yet potentially lethal, contraption this gaseous machine is.

In retrospect, I was not fully appreciative of the huge technological leap that is the spark button.

My husband and I are currently split between two apartments. Rather than purchase new appliances, we hauled a variety of pieces out of retirement including a stove which I can only assume Benjamin Franklin designed. In order to use the stove, I’m required to strike a match and hold it to the gas opening. My fear of the stove is second only to my fear of lighting matches.

Every time I boil water I picture a massive explosion. In my head the blast rivals Hiroshima.

Here’s how I begin every cooking attempt:

Before using the stove, I get everything set. I double check the burner and its corresponding knob. I turn the gas on. Then I try to strike the match as quickly as possible. I hesitate on the first two strikes and they’re not hard enough to light. The third strike is too hard; the match breaks in half sending it’s lit head to the floor. I frantically and thoroughly stomp on the match. At this point, I realize the gas has been flowing for a few seconds. I imagine the mushroom cloud and turn the gas off. I’ll wait 20 minutes before starting all over.

My husband says stoves without flames are available for purchase in Brazil. All I have to do is say the word and we’ll go get one. But then, what excuse will I have to avoid cooking?

November 16, 2010
“Brazilians Don’t Burp”

Brazilians don’t burp.

“Brazilians don’t burp.” My husband made this declaration a few days ago. We were coming home from a movie and I had just a let out a rather loud and decidedly unfeminine burp, which put us on the always entertaining topic of releasing excess air form one’s body.

“Brazilians don’t burp.” He said it so matter of factly like, “Fish don’t fly.”

“What? Brazilians don’t burp? Like, ever?” After three years in Brazil this was a fact I had failed to pickup. “You’re telling me Brazilians, as a people, just don’t burp?”

“Think about it. Have you ever heard me burp?” I did think about and honestly, no, I can’t think of a time I’ve heard an audible belch from my husband. He might occasionally interrupt complete silence by saying “Excuse me,” but there hasn’t been anything that I can remember loud enough to dictate the conversation as mine had just done.

So, no, I can’t remember him burping but my husband also doesn’t use deodorant and he never smells like BO. I’ve always assumed that he is freakishly lacking in all unpleasant bodily functions. Maybe he’s the next stage in human evolution or a very lifelike zombie. Whatever it is, I believed it was something unique to him. Now, he’s telling me that “not burping” is a defining feature of Brazilian culture. Brazilians love soccer, eat a lot of beef and never burp.

“You can’t be serious. Everyone burps.”

“We don’t. We just hold it back.”

“What, as a Brazilian you just decide not to release the excess air in your stomach?”

“We just hold back the burp and release the air slowly.”

“How is that even physically possible?” This is something I would really like to know. Is it physically possible to drink a can of Coke through a straw and not burp? Of course I can control whether my burps are heard by the entire room or just the person standing right next to me, but there is always something audible. Isn’t there some point of no return in the burping process when you lose control of the air speed? Is there some trick that people, apparently Brazilians in particular, have mastered to give up burping all together?

This is not a rhetorical question. I want to hear from other Brazilians, people with Brazilian spouses, family, friends. Do Brazilians really never burp? Let me know. In the meantime, I’m going to pay close attention whenever I see someone drinking a soda through a straw. I’m determined to see a Brazilian burp.

April 30, 2010