Tag: travel

Bible Belt Road Trip

Growing up in Atlanta, road trips were a big part of my childhood. In the summer we’d drive five hours to St. Simons Island on the Atlantic or maybe eight hours to Orlando. I’ve sat through the twelve hour drive to Washington D.C. many times. I’ve got family in Panama City, Florida so I’ve made that six hour trip at least a dozen times in my life.

But until this year every trip was made from the passenger seat.

January 2016 is now etched in my memory as the month I piloted my first road trip. For years, my husband and I have been content to get chauffered around or borrow cars during our holiday trip to Atlanta, but this year we rented a car. And I was the only licensed driver for it.

We rented a…honestly, I don’t remember the name. It was a Kia. It had a hatchback, four doors, and operated on gasoline. I’m not a car person.

The most impressive detail about the car was it’s near pocket-size. I’ve traveled enough to know that in many countries our Kia would have been considered normal-sized. Not so on an American interstate. Imagine your dining room table covered with water melons and one matchbox sitting in the middle of them. My family and I were inside the matchbox.

That’s what it felt like as I merged onto Interstate-285 around Atlanta, aka the scariest place in the United States. The road circles the city for 64 death-defying miles and is a training center for domestic terrorists.

My time skirting between 18 wheelers on I-285 in a freshman engineering class’s final exam with a screaming preschooler and frantic husband in the back seat was spent mostly in a semi-conscious state operating on pure adrenaline. It’s apparently standard operating procedure on 285 for freight truck drivers to allow about five feet of space between the truck and car in front, demonstrating complete indifference to the laws of Georgia, physics, and common sense.

My fellow Americans, you’re all worried about the wrong things. You’re not going to be blown up. You’re going to be flattened by an 18 wheel truck filled with hamburger buns.

My family and I survived that first hour and a half in the car and made it out of metro Atlanta. We left the traffic and everything else behind. Welcome to rural Georgia. We hope you enjoy our pine trees.

There is farm land in Georgia. Lots of it. But much further south. We were driving South-west toward the Florida panhandle, cutting across southern Alabama. It’s a route that doesn’t provide much in terms of scenery save for the occasional buildboard advertising Jesus or a strip club.

Even the exits disappear and fifteen minutes can pass before it’s even possible to get off the highway. A fact critically important when traveling with a four-year old who does NOT like to take bathroom breaks before her bladder is on the verge of exploding.

“There’s an exit with a McDonald’s ahead. Little Bit, do you need to go potty?”

“No.”

“Are you sure you don’t need to go potty?”

“No.”

“Does that mean you do need to go?”

“No.”

“So you don’t need to go pee pee?”

“No.”

“Why don’t we stop and you just try?”

“I said no, Mommy.”

Do I even need to write the conversation that happens two minutes past the exit?

Like most Americans, our bathrooms of choice are McDonald’s. Clean and available when literally no other restaurant is in a ten mile radius. Whatever else is true about the chain, their bathrooms are a service to humanity because the alternative to McDonald’s is a gas station.

Gas stations in South Georgia and Alabama. They’re actually quite fascinating as long as you’re traveling with your traditional nuclear family and don’t have an Obama sticker on your car. In addition to a fabulous array of retro snack food like Yoohoo and Hostess SnoBalls, there’s no end to the items decorated in camouflage: hats, shirts, tabbaco, koozees, lighters, and bibles. You can also pick up the monthly publication of mugshots of people arrested by the city police. It’s the society pages of Pittsview, Alabama. (That’s a real town, btw.)

My husband doesn’t find these places quite as charming as I do. In fact, his Brazilian instincts tell him to avoid at all costs isolated buildings in the middle of nowhere that would attract location scouts for a zombie apocalypse movie. He’s waiting for somebody to walk in with a gun. I told him to relax and just assume everyone walking in has a gun.

The upside to driving in this part of the state is the road itself. There’s no traffic. It’s flat, paved, and has clearly visible lines painted on it. I could drive on those roads endlessly. After so much time spent on Brazilian roads, I forget that “bumpy” is not a given description of car rides everywhere.

The US highway system is one of my husband’s favorite things about the country. He longs to take a cross country trip in the US. By comparison, my husband avoids extended road trips in Brazil as if his life depended on it. (Statistically speaking it kind of does. Roads in Brazil are more dangerous than gangs.)

Kendall Manor Eufaula, Alabama

By the time we were in southern Alabama our road was a smooth, two lane stretch running straight through Eufala, the undisputed scenic highlight. Eufaula, Alabama is home to 13,000 people and the most breathtaking collection of homes. They sit right off the main (possibly only) street through town.

Shorter Mansion

Mansions with wrap around porches, a turret or two, carriage houses. They line both sides of the street beckoning to tourists with their corinthian columns, tempting them to abandon reason and move to Alabama.

After Eufaula there’s not much else until Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. If you’re desperate to make those last two hours of driving pass by you can play road kill bingo. Prep your cards in advance with local species but you can only put oppossum on the card twice. They line the road like mile markers. On this trip, I spotted a raccoon, fox, armadillo, and coyote.

I drove the last hour in the pouring rain, at night, listening to the dialogue of Cinderella II for the

The Gulf of Mexico! Totally worth the drive.

third time in a row. When we reached my grandparents’ house, dinner was waiting for us on the table. I considered my first road trip a resounding success.

So much so, we did it all again three days later.

February 15, 2016
Six Things I learned About My Daughter While Visiting My Parents
Summer in suburban Atlanta

I just returned to Brazil after spending nearly three weeks in Atlanta, my hometown and where my family still lives. It was the first time my daughter and I traveled just the two of us. She’s four. Our trip involved an all-night, nine-hour flight that was delayed two hours both going and coming. I preemptively deployed both the iPad and M&Ms and I’m happy to say that both my daughter and I are going to see our next birthdays. Although probably with a cavity or two. Sanity above cavities, I say.

I don’t know if it was being on active parent duty 24/7 or my daughter’s leap in communicating her feelings and interests since last Christmas, but I learned a lot about my daughter during these past few weeks visiting my parents. Some insights were good, some frustrating, and some have me already looking for methods other than wine to cope with her teenage years.
1. She thinks all kids speak Portuguese. In her day to day life, the only people who speak English are grown ups, specifically my parents via Facetime, my husband, and me. All of her friends, all the kids at school, her cousins in Rio, every single kid she interacts with speaks Portuguese. Naturally, when she approached kids on playgrounds in Atlanta she said “Qual é seu nome?” Every time. Even after I’d tell her “Kids here talk like Mommy. Use English,” she’d continue using Portuguese. On each playground it took a few minutes of the kids not understanding and my prompting for her to switch over to English. Then we’d stop by a different playground a couple days later and she’d say to some kids “Qual é seu nome?” So as far as my daughter is concerned English is the language of authority and Portuguese is the language of her peers. She’s getting to live her own colonial experience. I’m sure that won’t be a problem later.
2. She will eat boogers but not pancakes. And it’s seriously grossing me out. She can’t get enough boogers but she refuses to open her mouth to taste one bite of fluffy, syrup drenched pancake. It’s not just pancakes she refuses to eat. It’s also hamburgers, ketchup, creamed corn, macaroni and cheese, cereal with milk, and scrambled eggs. But boogers she pops into her mouth without a second thought. I’m beginning to think something is wrong with her.
3. She’s never played outside in the dark. I realized this watching her buzz around the Atlanta Botanical Garden while viewing a nighttime light exhibit. I knelt to point out a firefly and realized she had never seen a firefly. We live in a city in an apartment building next to a very busy street. Nature isn’t even in the same zip code. Our city also has unfortunately high levels of violence and crime making the few parks that are here unsafe at night. Running around outside after dark, playing hide-and-seek, capture the flag, or catching fireflies was a HUGE part of my childhood. But hasn’t been and won’t be for my daughter. It makes me sad.
4. If it’s not chocolate, it doesn’t count as desert. She will eat the chips out of a chocolate chip cookie. She will turn down cookie dough for lack of chocolate. She will refuse to part her lips for pound cake. And she will not deign to look at anything called “pie”. Dessert is by definition chocolate. This almost redeems the booger eating.
5. She is stubborn. I knew this about her but sending her to preschool every weekday from 10-5:30 provided a significant buffer that kept me from really understanding the depths of her resolve. If she does not want to do something, she will refuse and she can keep refusing, crying, & screaming for over an hour. I decided she was old enough to start blowing her own nose. She disagreed & snorted snot out of her nose leaving it all over her face & hanging from her chin for over an hour. I told her she had to try one bite of corn in order to get dessert. She refused and demanded chocolate cake repeatedly until long after we’d finished the meal and arrived back home. I told her it was too late to read two bed time books. She screamed at me to read her chosen books throughout my entire going to bed routine and continued after I’d gotten under the covers.
6. She is a one hell of a control freak! She has rules for everything. What cup the juice is in. What order the books are read in. Who takes her to the bathroom. What underwear, what socks, and heaven help the person who offers to put her hair in a ponytail if she’s not in the mood. Everything matters! Everything! And “playing” with her means standing quietly until you are assigned a toy, which hand to hold the toy in, a place to sit, and what you are going to say. And do not screw up your line! If she tells you to say “Hey, who stole my kitty?” do not say “Hey, someone took my kitty!” No improvising! Give dialogue exactly as assigned! She will grow up to be either an award winning director known for making actors cry or dictator of a small Latin American country.
I’m sure summer vacation in December will be full of new insights, although I’m beginning to think ignorance is bliss.
September 13, 2015
Fortaleza, Brazil: All-I-Can-Take at the All-Inclusive

Vacationing in Fortaleza, Brazil! A lot of a good thing.

I just got back from a family vacation in Fortaleza, Brazil. Our group was made up of three generations traveling from three different cities. It was a great trip and some memories will be with me forever. Which is only slightly longer than all the meat I consumed will be.

If Rio is looking to present an honest and endearing image of itself to the world during next year’s Olympic Games, they should build a barbeque pit in the international terminal and welcome each flight with a free lunch. “Welcome to Brazil! Have a plate of meat!”

A plate of meat, piled as high as it was wide, and a mojito made with a shot of white rum and 32 scoops of sugar was my lunch each day of our stay at the all-inclusive resort. Because once you’ve decided on the all-inclusive vacation, you’ve clearly made self-indulgence your primary goal for the week. No point in trying to hide it under a few leaves of arugula with olive oil.

Of course, visiting an all-inclusive with the entire family does limit the extent to which a person can self-indulge. Vacationing with my only-child who prefers me to any other person in the world, (She’s 4 and hasn’t met a wide range yet.) meant that I did not get the writing and reading time I would have liked. Being unable to pass out under a palm tree with a book on my face due to parenting responsibilities, I compensated by giving my stomach completely uninhibited and unrestrained access to every buffet at every meal.

Puddings, steak, french fries, cakes, risottos, Prosecco, sandwiches, salad, cappuccinos, tarts, omelets, shrimp, cheeses, mussels, chicken, soft drinks, sausages, pasta, mousse, fruit juices, fish, rice, beans, ice cream, croissants, pineapples, and pork were all consumed with reckless abandon. Lunch involved at least three plates; the grilled meat got it’s own plate of honor. Breakfast would take over an hour and I survived the long stretch between lunch and dinner by indulging in the afternoon tea, which included no tea but lots of cake. It was four days of eating as if life was free of consequences. All consumption and no exertion. It was glorious and delicious. I didn’t worry or go to the bathroom from Tuesday to Saturday.

Actually, I did start to worry on Saturday but not because I was feeling awful. I got worried because I didn’t feel awful. My rational-self kept waiting for the effects of my week-long bacchanalia to catch up with me. That part of me knew no person could eat with total abandon for long and not feel utterly disgusting. And that part of me waited. And waited. Meal after meal after, I filled my plate and went back for more, my taste buds rejoicing in how life could be if I didn’t care about staying a size 8 or living past 45, and I felt fine.

Saturday’s lunch was fish stew, fried shrimp, pork chops, rice, and french fries. I ate some of everything washing it down with a Coke. I enjoyed every bite and would have eaten a few more french fries if they hadn’t cleared the plates. On the walk back to the hotel, I wondered if I should seek help.

As we hid out from the tropical sun for a few hours in our room (because too much sun is really terrible for you), the hotel staff dropped off complimentary bottled water and coconut candy. My husband opened up one of the candies, took a small bite, and abandoned it on the table saying “Wow, that is too sweet.” So I immediately went over and finished it.

I popped the last bite in my mouth, swallowed it, and thought “I will never eat anything again.”

With that last bite of coconut candy, I hit my food wall. The full weight of every meal landed on me and left me in a fetal position on the bed. That was it. I was done eating. Possibly for the rest of my life. It took four and a half days, but I found my physical limit for food consumption.

I’m back home and in my normal routine that includes exercise and vegetables. My parents have gone back to the States and my daughter is back in daycare. I’m already looking forward to our next vacation, but perhaps a camping trip would be healthier.

I’ll bring the s’mores!!!

July 28, 2015
Beach Day Doctrine: Great weather leads to awful governments

A typical winter’s day in Brazil.

My family went to the beach this past Saturday. We packed a kite and a boogie board and stayed out through lunch. It was an absolutely perfect beach day, warm without being hot and breezy without being chilly. The sky was a sheet of blue with a few fluffy clouds pulled decoratively across it. But the best part was having the beach almost entirely to ourselves. People in Vitoria just don’t go to the beach in winter.

Yes, it’s winter here in Vitoria, Brazil. You can really feel it today. It’s 68 degrees (20 C) outside and drizzly. People are wearing their leather jackets over their shorts. This will be one of the coldest days of the year here. I’m sure it will be a front page article in tomorrow’s paper. “Cold Front hits Vitoria. Drives Locals to Wearing Coats!”

In my opinion, the weather is one of the best things about Vitoria and Brazil in general. I think it’s also why the government sucks.

I have a theory that the weather of a country can be tied directly to the quality of that country’s government. The better the weather, the worse the public services. The worse the weather, free university for everyone!

Let’s take Norway. The Economist’s Quality of Life Index ranks Norway third in terms of quality of life and third in GDP per capita. Norway is number one on the UNDP’s Human Development Index. Norway’s government is the world champion of governing. Year after year, they are crushing the competition. Why? Because without an awesome government, there would be absolutely no reason to live there.

This is a place where citizens go weeks without seeing the sun. Every winter, there’s a period when the sun never makes it over the horizon. This isn’t a freak phenomenon. It’s a lifestyle. How to avoid Winter SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) during the polar nights is a regular part of the school curriculum. Why would anybody live in a place where winter is accompanied by its own psychological disorder causing sadness, a loss of self-esteem, and desire to avoid social and physical contact? Why? Free universal healthcare coverage for all legal residents. That’s why.

Not surprisingly, Norway’s tourism website doesn’t bring up those polar nights, but it does have a lot to say about its midnight sun. You can take an ocean cruise at midnight or stroll through the park at 2am. Come visit Norway in summer and have 24 hours of sunlight! Honestly Norway, 24 hours of sunlight doesn’t sound like a good thing. It’s slightly better than 24 hours of darkness, but I have no desire to live in a place with sunlight streaming through my window at 2 am.

Except that in Norway, universities are tuition free for all students, including international students.

On second thought, I could probably get used to wearing a sleep mask.

Norway’s tourism site also touts its mild winter temperatures. The average January high for Oslo is 32 degrees (0 C). I suppose that’s mild compared to Siberia, but it’s still a place where getting locked out of your house in December is potentially life threatening.

Here in Vitoria, you can sleep on the sidewalk 365 days a year and feel, at worst, a little uncomfortable. Good thing too, because there are quite a few people who do sleep on the sidewalk. Does Norway even have homeless? I don’t see how. The winters would kill them off.

And this is the crux of my theory. The environment in Norway is so inhospitable, the government has to help its people survive and then give them a reason to stay.

What does a person need to survive a winter day here in Vitoria? A sandwich and a tree. Something to eat and shelter from the hot-even-in-winter sun or rain. That’s it.

My theory holds true for other countries. Sweden, Finland, Denmark, Canada, Australia (Why is Australia listed? It’s hot, in the middle of nowhere, and has all the world’s most poisonous things). These countries have awesome governments and crappy weather. Venezuela, Fiji, Mexico, Maldives, Greece: crappy governments, 365 days of beach.

This past Saturday was a spectacular day. Bright sun. Soft sand. It was the kind of day that warms you on the inside and puts hope back in your life. Listening to the waves while getting drunk on sunshine and coconut water, a person won’t care about anything. Not even that Brazil ranks 79 on the HDI or that dozens of top government officials have been indicted for stealing billions in taxpayers’ money or that the President’s approval rating is 9%.

Here schools are terrible. Public healthcare is broken. Inflation is increasing. But the weather is fantastic, the beaches are free, and with 4,655 miles (7,491 km) of breathtaking coastline, there’s space on the sand for everybody. What else do you really need?

July 6, 2015
Flying with Preschoolers: It can always get worse.

My only parenting standard at airports is “don’t lose her”.

My little family of three took a trip to Rio de Janeiro this weekend. Our nephew recently had a birthday and we needed to put in some face time with my husband’s family. It’s only a 45 minute flight from Vitoria to Rio, but that was long enough to learn a valuable lesson. There is no length of time short enough a three year old can’t turn it into forever.

It’s like in Interstellar. For the pilot and crew who have tasks to complete, 45 minutes is barely enough time to toss bags of crackers at everyone. They’re the lucky ones down on the planet. The parents of small children are the ones stuck in orbit who stumble off the plane with more grey hair and beards, demanding to know what year it is. How long were we up there? Six years? Ten?

For our flight home, boarding was scheduled for 6:50pm. Right at dinner time! But my husband and I were prepared. We had packed sandwiches…which my daughter ultimately refused to eat because we miscalculated the nap.

The ride to the airport was about 30 minutes. When my daughter fell asleep in the taxi, we thought “Oh good, she can take a short nap and be in a better mood.” Only, she didn’t fall into nap-time sleep. She fell into bedtime-for-the-night sleep, and as my grandmother says, “You don’t need to step on a snake to know it’s going to bite you.” The same principle applies. You don’t need to wake a preschooler up from deep sleep to know it’s going to cry.

And cry she did. Through the whole check-in process. While we searched for a place to sit. While I bought water and snacks. Even after we resorted to the emergency M&Ms. Eventually, she calmed down and filled her stomach with 2 tiny bites of sandwich and 5 pão de queijo.

No longer hungry but still exhausted from the weekend, her emotional pendulum swung to the other extreme. We then had a deliriously giddy 3 year old on our hands. While deliriously-giddy child is less emotionally exhausting than inconsolable child, she is more physically exhausting because deliriously-giddy child cannot occupy the same space for more than 3 seconds.

Did I mention that my back locked up this weekend? It happened while checking in at the airport for our flight to Rio. For the first time in my life. I couldn’t bend over, lift anything, or even take a deep breath the entire weekend.

Because I was benched from parenting due to injury, my husband was the one running after her while I kept our place in all the various lines. He was the one who chased her through security, from the gate to the plane, and took her on the bathroom run she needed the moment we stepped on the plane.

Eventually the plane took off and everything was ok. For about half an hour.

With fifteen minutes of flight time left, my daughter decided she could no longer tolerate her seat belt. My husband and I desperately tried to head off the fit we could see coming. She was straining and arching her back against the seat belt. Her face was scrunched and turning red. She stopped speaking in sentences and devolved to “No seat belt!” Very aware of the 150 people trapped on the plane with us, I grabbed a doll and made it sing “Let It Go”. As we got to the chorus, my daughter joined in and shrieked “Let it poopy! Let it poopy!” She dissolved into a fit of laughter and proceeded to sing at the top of her lungs different versions of the song featuring everything from pee pee to smelly socks to farts.

I’m certain if there had been a vote, the other passengers would have unanimously voted us off the plane.

That was the emotional knife edge we balanced on for the remainder of the flight. We teetered between a breakdown over the seat belt and belting out classic Disney songs rewritten to feature bodily functions. “Let it fart! Let it poopy! Let it poopy and faaaaart!” The plane eventually landed three months later, and we made it home where my daughter finally ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and went to bed.

All in all, it was a pretty uneventful trip. It could have been so much worse.

June 22, 2015
The Two Kinds of Americans Abroad

There are two kinds of Americans abroad.

Last week, I gave a lecture comparing Brazilian and American culture to a group of law students from West Virginia University. I like to think that I was asked to lecture because I have a Master’s degree in International Communication, a subject I have been living everyday since I moved to Brazil. But I think the decision making process was more like this.

“We have a large group of Americans coming and none of them speak Portuguese. We need English speakers with advanced degrees! Quick!”

“We have these five professors. That’s two days, but the group is here a week.”

“Crap.”

“Hey, isn’t there a professor with an American wife?”

“Yes! She can talk about the differences between Americans and Brazilians. Plus, she’s not actually a professor so we won’t have to pay her anything. Perfect!”

And that’s how I ended up on a stage talking to a gaggle of WVU law students, who unfortunately didn’t come dressed in coal-dusted miner’s clothing, strumming banjos. Thus the only images I had of West Virginia were shattered.

I opened my lecture by asking for the audience to describe a “typical” American and Brazilian. I asked each group to describe their own nationality. The Brazilians in the room described a typical Brazilian as “friendly”, “family oriented”, “has lots of kids”, “talkative”, “kind”, and “social” among other things. Now, how do you think the Americans described themselves?

A little personal reflection before I tell you. I’ve traveled a fair amount, and I think Americans who venture outside the US can be divided into two categories. One group is the famous American tourist. The loud, pink-faced, sneaker-wearing patriot who cannot fathom why this third-world country doesn’t put ice cubes in the drinks. They seem surprised and confused to discover that not every person everywhere lives exactly like they do.

“Cheryl, did you see that you cannot flush the toilet paper?! I tell you what…I don’t know how these people can live like this. If I lived in this place, I’d get myself an American toilet right quick.”

Then there is the other group. These students were from the other group.

These American students described a typical American as “fat”, “lazy”, “arrogant”, “selfish”, and “ignorant”. They basically described the typical American as a cross between Voldemort and Jabba the Hutt.

It was fascinating. Despite currently living through a recession and an enormous corruption scandal involving billions of taxpayers’ reais and rising inflation and gross income inequality and sky high rates of gun deaths…the Brazilians described themselves in overwhelmingly positive and honest terms. Why were the Americans so brutal and negative toward their countrymen? And more interestingly, would any of them have described themselves in those terms? Of course not! They don’t see themselves as “typical”. (Ironically, separating yourself out from the majority as a unique individual is typically American.)

These students are the second type of Americans abroad, the “serial apologizers”.

Perhaps you’ve seen them eating couscous with their fingers in Rabat or using chopsticks like a local in Tokyo. They are Americans who are hyper aware of the negative opinion many people have of US foreign policy and/or Americans themselves. Thus, they go around profusely apologizing for everything the US has ever done wrong. They preempt criticism with more extreme criticism of their own.

“You don’t like US policy in the Middle East? How could you? We’re arrogantly imposing our will on everyone who is different! It’s what we do! Let me tell you about our history with Native Americans and slavery and don’t even get me started on the present day! Between Iraq and the Kardashians, we’ve destroyed everything that is good and decent in the world! Disney! Drones! Starbucks! We are the WORST!”

My fellow Americans, isn’t there some happy middle ground between these groups? Can’t we describe ourselves as hardworking, informal, and innovative while also acknowledging that Walmart is run by the devil’s minions?

Let’s try! Next time you go abroad, don’t assume the lack of ice cubes is indicative of underdevelopment. If someone brings up Guantanamo, acknowledge that our collective fear after 9/11 led to some horrible policy decisions but you’re confident the pendulum is swinging back the other way. Then lead everyone in a rousing chorus, “Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya, tomorrow!” Because fierce optimism and musical theater are two of Americans’ greatest contributions to the world.

June 2, 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
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
The Novelty of Beach Life

Beach Comber From Birth

Growing up in Atlanta, I got to be part of that great American summer tradition, the annual family beach trip. Depending on the beach, my brother and I could look forward to between 4 and 6 hours of Wee-Sing-Silly-Songs cassettes, gas station candy, and fierce battles for control of the middle-seat armrest.

We usually ventured to one of a handful of beaches: Panama City, Florida; Daytona, Florida; St. Simons Island, Georgia; Hilton Head, South Carolina. Some on the Atlantic and some on the Gulf of Mexico but all had an abundance of cooked white flesh and thick southern accents. It was paradise!

I remember the thrill of the first palm tree sighting. My brother and I would then count the palms in growing anticipation until we finally glimpsed a flash of ocean between a Texaco and a McDonald’s. After checking into the hotel, we’d spend the next five days coated with sand and sunscreen jumping waves, riding boogie boards, and hunting for seashells. Often grandparents came along and sometimes aunts, uncles, and cousins. There was always a family putt-putt outing, which some of us took more seriously than others. Inevitably, the week ended, and we would say goodbye to the beach for a year.

I now live three blocks from the beach.

I can wake up any day of the week and decide to skip writing in favor of paddling around the bay spotting sea turtles. It. is. amazing!

My daughter has been going to the beach regularly since before she discovered her hands. The list of foods my girl will eat is short but includes white fish, salmon, shark, and tiny fried shrimp. Fried shrimp with the shell and legs still on them. The girl won’t part her lips for a carrot but she pops little shrimp in her mouth like chocolates. We frequently have some version of this conversation on Saturday mornings:

Me: “Should we go to beach today?”

Husband: “I don’t know. We went the last few weekends. I think she might be getting tired of it.”

Me: “Hey Little Bit, do you want to go to the beach?”

Kid: “No, I want to stay home and play with my toys.”

Yes, my daughter will turn down going to the beach in favor of staying home to play with her Littlest Pets because she has no idea how lucky she is and no appreciation for the months of waiting that I had to endure when I was her age to get to the beach. Preschoolers!

Because of these different life experiences, my daughter will probably never understand my obsession with ocean-based hobbies, specifically that she master one or several of them. Some parents dream of their children graduating from the ivy league, I dream of my daughter being a competitive sailor or windsurfer or deep sea fisherwoman. (That last one is lower down on the list.)

Given the novelty (for me anyway) of growing up next to the beach, imagine my joy when my girl started swim class and LOVED it! She has no fear of water, which makes supervising her around the pool more stressful, but is an important first step to becoming a world champion free diver!

A couple of weeks ago, we embarked on phase two of my master plan. Stand up paddle boarding in the bay!* We went as a family and spent the morning spotting green sea turtles in the bay. It was a success. You can see in the video below. My daughter had so much fun, we all went back out yesterday and the heavy grey clouds and constant drizzle didn’t deter her one bit.

Watching my daughter yesterday on my husband’s board, leaning forward through the rain with a smile on her face, I thought “I just might have a seafarer on my hands.” At least I hope I do. All she needs now is a willingness to use sunscreen.

*If you’re ever in Vitoria, Brazil, I highly recommend a morning of SUP. We rented our boards from Loop. They have windsurf and stand up equipment for rent. The bay is filled with sea turtle, fish, and the occasional ray leaping from the water.

March 2, 2015