Brynn Barineau

Tag: Personal Stories

  • Coconut Water in a Bottle

    Coconut Water in a Bottle

    I’d like to share a PSA I’m working on.

    “Hey kids, let’s talk about statistics!  Statistics are lame? Ok, how about, sex and statistics? Did you know there are lots of statistics about sex? Totally! People base entire careers off of pie charts illustrating issues about sex.  What issues?  Well, you could have data about how likely it is for someone above a certain age with a certain medical history to have a baby.  You could then pass this information along to doctors.  Doctors in turn pass it along to patients.  These doctors might even chuckle when the patient talks about continuing to use birth control for the time being, because the doctor knows the odds of pregnancy are so slim contraception isn’t necessary.  Then the patient and his partner, believing the doctor knows what he’s talking about, think it’s ok to go a few weeks without birth control.  Four months later the couple is researching baby names and picking out colors for the nursery.  Look kids, my point is that the only statistic about sex that really matters is ‘A small chance is NOT the same as no chance.”  Say it with me, ‘A small chance is NOT the same as no chance.’ ” -This message was brought to you by the US Department of Agriculture, for years bringing you numbing statistics such as raising child from birth to 17 costs $221,000 (not including the cost of time, sanity or college).

    A little wordy for a 30 second spot?  Maybe.  I could just make t-shirts that state in bold and all caps “A SMALL CHANCE IS NOT THE SAME AS NO CHANCE” and give one to, well, everybody .

    It’s an important lesson my husband and I have learned, because, obviously, the story above is ours.  I am currently 18 weeks pregnant.  We’re expecting a little girl August 26.

    Despite what my PSA might imply, we are excited.  Although, to be completely honest, it is has taken me a couple of months to reach that stage.  We always planned to have a family, but we were going to wait another year or two.  Being a person who sticks to any well-made plan the way others adhere to religion, I was thrown by this schedule change.  “Buying an apartment comes before having a baby!”  Then I looked at the big picture, the one where you see your entire life laid out, and I realized that having a baby after college, after grad school, after marriage, after employment, even if it’s still one year earlier than planned, is actually pretty darn good life planning.  Also, I started looking at baby stuff and discovered there is not a single item of clothing that does not become totally adorable when miniaturized.  OMG, baby socks!!

    Now that I’m far enough along, I’m comfortable posting about my pregnancy to the world.  This means Coconut Water will have lots of posts in the coming months about having a baby in Brazil.  Having read about expats in Rio, I already know having a baby in Vitoria is about half the cost as Rio for the same quality of care.  There will be posts about my doctor (love him!), raising bilingual kids, costs, hospitals, finding a nanny, coordinating family visits, etc. Between the new job and the new baby, I have so much to write about but right now I need to go edit essays.  So many posts, so little time.

  • Blog Upgrading: Brynn in Brazil’s Coming of Age Tale

    Blog Upgrading: Brynn in Brazil’s Coming of Age Tale

    My new job has done the impossible.  I have been made to feel like a computer guru.  My husband, brother, stepmother, and any other family member I have recruited as tech support over the years, will marvel at this development and immediately question the quality of teaching staff at my school.

    I’m not particularly good with computers. I know I could get better, but I have no patience for them.  The slightest thing goes wrong and I get a knot between my shoulders and a seriously cranky attitude.  One complication and I shutdown faster than my MacBook. This assumption I have that anything beyond word processing will make me want to cry, is why I continued to put off upgrading my blog.

    Back when I started writing,(I think this is probably true for most expats) my blog was a simple way to keep family informed about what I was doing in Brazil.  It’s so much easier to write a single blog post than 20 emails. I got a Mac with iWeb and realized I could have a blog with pretty pictures.  Oh, and a cool black background.  And no code!!! I never had to see rows of letters and symbols ever! My needs were simple, and iWeb filled them.

    Last year, we moved to Cachoeiro de Itapemerim. I was without work and started putting a lot of energy into the blog.  I found a whole world of expat communities online and started registering my blog on their sites.  One day, I got a comment from someone I had never met, spoken to or heard of.  A complete stranger who found my blog, read a post, and liked it enough to spend her time leaving a comment.  My sense of validation only increased when I discovered the commenter was a gifted photographer, cook, writer and blogger.  Only her blog, named after a brine soaked sea fish, was a hundred times more sophisticated than mine. (Really, you should check it out.)

    I rediscovered my love for writing.  By writing regularly, inspiration came more easily. My blog soon had a ton content and some regular readers.  The quality of my posts improved. (At least I think, do you all agree?)  This was the point when iWeb started to let me down.  It’s still hard to admit because I’m a Mac worshipper but iWeb, in the words of my husband, “really sucks.”

    He’d been telling my this for years and I had ignored him.  This made acknowledging the need for a better platform, all the more difficult.  Not only did I have to betray my Mac and face headache inducing computer stuff, but I also had to admit my husband was and had been right all along.  (Honestly, I’d rather try writing software code.)  The other major hurdle was that now I had three years worth of content to move and no idea where to start.

    Fortunately, my parents put me in touch with a guy who would do everything for me.  He’d get a new domain name, host site, and move all my content. This was back in December.  Due to various delays that included him being stranded because of blizzards and me having serious stomach issues that had me postponing every Skype call, it took two months to get everything set up.

    Thus, the two month silence at Coconut Water (UPDATE July 2015: Now officially Brynn in Brazil).

    I’m glad I did it.  WordPress is so much better.  Not as simple, but I think I’m ready to use real blogger tools.  In the end though, no one could figure out how to transfer all my content, because, cue husband, “iWeb sucks.” Yes, I know.  I’m now copying and pasting old posts into the new site a few at a time.  50 down.  70 to go.  I’m still glad I moved.

    I hope you all like the new site and design as much as I do.  I’m in love with the banner, which was also the result of someone generously donating their time.  Turns out I’m neither a coder or designer.  That’s ok.  I just want to write.

    Oh, and the reason I’m the computer guru among my fellow teachers?  The school has started moving to Macs and no one knows how to use them.  I wonder if I should talk to them about iWeb.

  • My Scientifically-Proven, Stable Marriage

    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.

  • Expat Masochists

    Expat Masochists

    The word “expatriate” derives from the Medieval Latin expatriatus, which means to have left one’s own country. It was and, according to Webster’s, still is a synonym of banished.

    If you google the word expatriate you can find literally millions of proud expatriates. Personally, I wonder about a group of people so happy about banishment they ask for it and promote it via themed cookbooks. It just proves what I’ve always known. We expats have some masochistic tendencies.

    Ok, not all us. There are lots of expats who didn’t have a choice. I’m talking about those of us who volunteered for banishment. We applied for the job, or requested the assignment, or married the handsome foreigner. Knowing full well we’d be giving up unappreciated comforts like being able to count change by touch and recognizing the people featured on it. Many of us even gave up our voice by moving into a language we can’t speak.

    We tell people the rewards of the new job/marriage/opportunity-for-world-improvement will more than outweigh the costs of self-imposed banishment but the mere fact that we have a price at which we are willing to leave our home sets us apart from, I believe, the vast majority of people in the world.

    There are literally millions of people who would rather live in a tent for decades than give up their home and rebuild somewhere else. Certainly, relocating across the world requires resources many people don’t have but war torn and failing states are populated by successful professionals (I’m thinking of several personal friends here) who could find jobs in countries without an inflation rate over 1,000%. But they stay. Why? Because they are home. They will not give up their family, their culture, their home for any price.

    Whereas many expats look at the really lustrous hair this man could pass to his offspring (or the higher salary, whatever motivates you), weigh it against living in a country with street signs in a different alphabet, and our response is “Sign me up!” I’m willing to bet if polled, the general consensus of the world would be that we are some crazy mofos.

    And I think they’d be right. We’re not certifiable but part of us definitely wanted the hardship. We revel in the fact that our daily lives would reduce lesser people (or ourselves if we haven’t gotten enough sleep) to tears and pleasure in our own pain is the definition of masochism.

    Fortunately, it’s a growing pain. We know it won’t last forever and surviving it, building a life like the one we left behind, makes us worthier people. Worthy of what? Well, I’d accept revered silence whenever I speak during holiday meals with my family.

    After all, why did we struggle to build a life in a different culture if not to become wiser, more open-minded people with all the best stories? All the struggling had to be for something. I mean, I’m not a masochist.

  • Stove Top Terror

    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?

  • Dear Rio, It’s not you. It’s me.

    Dear Rio, It’s not you. It’s me.

    Dear Rio,

    I don’t really know where to start. It’s not easy to write this. I guess let me first say that you will always have a special place in my heart. The fours years we spent together were some of the happiest and most challenging years of my life. The sunny day strolls around Lagoa. Sipping coconut water next to the beach. We had some wonderful times together.

    It’s not you. It’s me. Well, no. It really is you. I mean, you do have some serious issues. Let’s be honest

    It’s both of us. We both know things weren’t perfect. In the end we’re not compatible. Even during the happy times there was always tension just below the surface.

    You are a blast. The definition of fun loving. Up for a dance party or round of beers every night of the week. And you do like the people. Always inviting more and more, until I can’t hear myself think. With you it’s always the more the merrier. Now, I’m not complaining. It’s who you are. But it’s not who I am.

    You don’t need me. With your amazing looks and fun loving spirit you will always have a string of lovers. Rio, you are truly breathtaking. A sight to behold. But I’m looking for more than just a pretty landscape. It’s what inside that counts with me.

    I know you have a violent side. You never showed it to me and for that I am thankful, but I’ve seen what you can do to others. I have to think about the future and I don’t want to raise kids in that kind of environment.

    Also (we’ve always been honest with each other so I have to tell you) you’re letting yourself go in some areas. All the pollution: air, water and noise. The crumbling sidewalks and potholes. The perpetual traffic jam. You’re not two centuries old anymore. For your own sake, and for those who love you, it’s time to start maintaining yourself.

    Now comes the hardest part. You deserve the truth and you deserve to hear it from me. The thing is, I’ve started seeing someone else. We’ve only been together about two months but, well, I think it was love at first sight. Her name is Vitoria and she’s everything I’m looking for.

    It has nothing to do with you. I need to stop denying who I truly am. The truth is, I love it both ways. I enjoy the activities and culture of urban life and the security and quiet of small town living. Vitoria, she gives me what I need.

    Yes, she’s younger but that’s not the reason. I’ve never been as outgoing as you. I like quiet and tranquility. I like to sit on my balcony and hear nothing but the birds. I want to walk down the street without feeling rushed and tense.

    She also makes me feel special. You can’t deny you’ve got a thing for foreigners. You just keep bringing more and more home. Did you honestly think you could keep thousands of expatriates a secret from me? For you, I’m just one of many.

    But for Vitoria, I’m special. She reminds how unique and therefore highly employable I am. Everyone wants to feel appreciated. Everyone wants to be one of a kind and for Vitoria, I am.

    I’ll end with goodbye and thank you. Thank you for the good times. Thank you for helping me learn what it is I’m looking for. I’ll think of you every time I’m nearly run over by a bus.

    Beijos,
    Brynn

  • Expat Milestones: First Job Interview

    Expat Milestones: First Job Interview

    I’m bragging a little today. You see, in the life of an expat there are some standard milestones. At least standard for an English speaking expat who moves to a non-English speaking country with no previous knowledge of the language. For example…

    -There’s the first time you order a pizza over the phone in your new language.

    -The first time you notice and can yell at the taxi driver for taking you on the longer “tourist” route.

    -The first time you understand enough to genuinely enjoy a film in your second language.

    Last week I hit a new one: first successful job interview in your second language.

    On Wednesday, I received the official offer to teach here in Vitoria. I had been waiting to hear back and a particularly frustrating night of Portuguese had given me a sinking feeling that I had blown the interview.

    I didn’t know going into the interview that it would be in Portuguese. I had already been through one interview with the high school coordinator. We spoke in English. All emails had been in English. I was applying to teach in English. I was reasonably expecting more English.

    When I walked in for the second interview with the principal, as we exchanged greetings the high school coordinator said, “Vamos falar em português, tá bom?” We’re going to speak in Portuguese, ok?

    Had I known the interview would be in Portuguese, I might have abandoned the entire project. I do not have very good Portuguese. It’s not false modesty. It’s speaking only English at home and having only American friends in Rio. The Portuguese I have acquired has been in spite of a pathological fear of sounding like an idiot, so the announcement that I would be interviewed by the principal in Portuguese caused a shot of adrenaline urging me to flee out the door.

    As I sat down in front of her desk, I told myself, “Just keep talking. If you start thinking too hard you’ll realize all the mistakes you’re making. Then you’ll feel embarrassed, followed by panic, and you’ll end up either tongue-tied or crying.”

    So I smiled, kept my arms at my sides to hide the giant sweat stains appearing, and I kept talking. At the end of the interview the principal complemented my fluency.

    Now, I’m the newest teacher at my school and I have to say I’m pretty proud of myself. Not only did I interview in Portuguese but I got the job without any help. I researched and found the school on my own. I sent an email asking if there were opportunities for someone with my background. I sent my resume and had two interviews. I didn’t use my husband’s contacts or drop a single name. I got the job entirely on my own.

    The only downside is that I just found out American expats still have to pay US taxes. Damn.

  • Bad Portuguese & Worse First Impression

    Bad Portuguese & Worse First Impression

    In my life, I’ve experienced very few things as disheartening as being unable to show another person who I am. Only slightly less frustrating is to still, after four years in Brazil, find myself looking like someone who has never had a single Portuguese class.

    Last Saturday, my husband and I went out with a group of his friends from work. The evening started with me mistiming the elevators doors and slamming my shoulder into them mere seconds after introductions were made. It was a pretty accurate omen of how the evening would go.

    At first, my Portuguese was just fine. When we arrived the bar was empty and the conversation involved one other couple. Then the bar began filling up. With each new couple that joined our group the conversation got busier and the background noise got louder. Soon I was trying to follow a conversation about John Marshall through waiters, drink orders, greetings and a BeeGees concert DVD with special guest Celine Dion.

    My lack of context for most of the conversation didn’t help. I’m not a lawyer. Almost everyone in the group was either a lawyer, judge or court staff, hence the discussion about John Marshall. I’m also not a parent on the verge of middle age or regular novella watcher.

    By 12:30am I was fighting the effects of two drinks, a day at the beach, and three hours of intensive Portuguese. The band was playing now and all conversation had to be shouted. I had ended up on the very end of the table, amongst the men, quietly eating peanuts without the energy to even pretend I could hear the conversation, let alone understand it.

    Finally to round off the shy, boring persona I was cultivating, when my husband got up to use the bathroom I put head back against the wall and closed my eyes. Yup, I went to sleep among 12 of my husband’s colleagues at a crowded bar. About 1:30, when someone finally asked if I wanted to sit in the middle of the group near the conversation, I told my husband I was ready to go.

    The evening was both frustrating and bizarre. The few questions that were directed at me were nothing more than a blend of sounds. The amount of noise and the English lyrics being blasted through the speaker made me deaf to Portuguese. My Portuguese is still not strong enough to fill in missed words of syllables. I have to hear everything perfectly. With all the noise I could recognize some sounds but not enough of them to hear words. The result was that I just heard people making noises in my direction. It was an odd feeling.

    In the end, after running into a door, not talking for two hours, falling asleep at the table and asking to leave after the first set, I’m pretty sure I set a new standard for worst first impression ever.

  • My Peculiar Professional Niche: Helping Brazilian Students Study Abroad

    My Peculiar Professional Niche: Helping Brazilian Students Study Abroad

    Last Friday, Veja.com, posted an article on the growing number of Brazilian students attending college abroad. I found the article from a link posted by one of my former students, who just happens to be featured in the article. Flavia, is one of the 24,000 Brazilians, who attended college abroad in 2009. She’s studying economics at Harvard. I like to think I played a very small part in getting her there.

    My peculiar niche in the great market of Rio de Janeiro was teaching Brazilians how to write the personal statement for college applications. I also taught Kaplan SAT prep classes through FK Partners, but it was the essay workshop that I loved most.

    The Fulbright/Education USA office in Rio was kind enough (desperate enough) to let me develop a workshop despite the fact I had very little experience teaching kids. I also had real doubt as to whether or not I could spend time with a room of full of teenagers and not resort to physical violence at some point. I did not like high schoolers when I was one, I was pretty sure they hadn’t improved in 8 years.

    Well, 8 years changed something because I LOVE working with teenagers. At this age they’re just starting to figure out who they are as individual people, with their own opinions and dreams. Even at their most self-absorbed moments, I find them fresh and amusing. (Of course, I’m teaching kids who are trying to attend college. The true hooligans don’t sign up for my class.)

    Flavia was in my very first workshop. I told the kids they were my guinea pigs (a metaphor I then had to explain) and they were great. Respectful of me and supportive of each other. That support turned out to be a critical element.

    It turns out a workshop on personal statements really does get personal. In two weeks, I knew what achievement my students were most proud of, what they were afraid of and their most important memories. Forget therapy. If you want to know the inner most thoughts of a group of teenagers, have them write a personal statement.

    I also love the cultural elements that come into play. You might not know, but probably are not surprised to learn, that writing about yourself in first person is a very American thing. While my students definitely struggle with prepositions, they are completely thrown by the first person. I have been told time and again that Brazilian students never write in first person.

    And this whole, “what event in your past has most shaped who you are today” self-reflective stuff. “American universities really want to know about what I learned from my mom?” “Why does my opinion matter? I’m not anyone important.”

    Can you imagine an American teenager asking why people would care about his opinion?! It’s pretty much assumed by all American teens that their opinion is in fact the only one that matters. And that’s what I love about the workshop. I get to see how a different culture interprets something so ubiquitous to my American perception. The College Application Essay.

    Unfortunately, I won’t be giving any essay workshops this fall. Our move to Vitoria has made that impossible. But I am pursuing some options that I hope will allow me to keep working with teenagers and hopefully, send a couple more Brazilians Flavia’s way.