Sao Paulo and the Vehicle Monsoon

Sao Paulo is the definition of a city. If you look up 'city' in the dictionary, you'll see a picture of me, stuck in a two-hour traffic jam from the International airport, mumbling, “ugh, Sao Paulo is the definition of a city.”  Below, you'll see: 2. (noun) a mind-numbing mass of people crazy enough to live in one area. See also, Tokyo, Mumbai, and giant African ant hills.

Denilo, a German descendent, Brazilian raised, entrepreneur, model, and part-time driver stood waiting for me, with a sign at the airport - 'Kevin.'
“Were you sitting on the wheel?” he asked after I shook his hand.
“Huh?”
“You got here fast.”
“Ah... Ha.” Was that Brazilian humor, or regular humor on three hours of sleep?

Denilo was outgoing and talkative. We had a forty-five minute conversation about cars. My knowledge of cars goes as far as hearing the model of a car, and instantly knowing whether it's funny sounding or not. Silverado, not funny. Saab, funny (I'd Saab if I had that car). Car conversations must be ubiquitous here, as Sao Paulo has more than 8 million vehicles trickling down the streets. Yes, 8 million. Imagine staring at a highway, non-stop, for two months, and never seeing a break in the cars honking by. That's about 8 million. In Sao Paulo though, it never stops.

Later in the week, I explored the city by foot – which is like admiring a two-story mural with a magnifying glass. For a thirty minute stretch of walking down one road, I saw nothing but car dealerships. Most cars were slightly out of my price range: Mercedes, Jaguar, BMW; they may as well have had the bat mobile. Not to mention, all the cheap cars, the Hondas and Fords. Every conceivable make or model of car is bought here or brought here. Basically, Brazilians make American car lovers look like Amish car mechanics.

If it weren't enough to flood the city with vehicles, Sao Paulo also has the largest fleet of helicopters. They can be heard throughout the day, circling the city with the rich and powerful. I'm thinking of opening a business of helicopter taxis – although, the altitude and the fare could easily be mixed up.

Despite Sao Paulo's infestation of four-wheeled smog producers, the city is so immense that calm streets can still be found throughout the metropolis. I walked down the wealthy streets of Rua Brazil and Rua Groenlandia to find tree-covered mansions guarded by barbed wire, security cameras, and private security guards lazily watching TV on the boxy 6-inch screens. I'm almost positive they were watching a show about cars.

Off Paulista, the main strip lined with immense skyscrapers, a small sanctuary of greenery hides from the traffic. A recreation of the amazonian jungle penetrates the earth of several blocks, reclaiming it's once lush home. The clustered maze of different palms, vines, leaves, and branches block out nearly any view of cement highrises. In fact, trees are sneaking around all over the city, grasping onto concrete walls and wiggling through sidewalks. However, If I were a tree here, I would definitely sell my body to get a Ferrari.

Although intimidating, Sao Paulo was growing on me. I saw why so many people could live here. An aliveness and foundational respect for plants helps the city bloom. However, while hugging the trees, a drop of water hit me on the head like Newtons apple and I remembered that all this green needed water. Lots of water. I estimated a monsoon's worth. Which is exactly what dropped out of the sky five minutes later. Meanwhile, I had no umbrella and no taxi, which went perfect with my no sense of direction.

As I waited under an awning, examining my map, a guy ran up with a cardboard box over his head, tossed it into the trash and ran inside. This man knows his city. I grabbed the cardboard box and braved the weather. Soon, I was walking calf deep in puddles, my shorts were soaked, and my shoes squished like sponges. By the time I reached the apartment, I looked like I'd swam there.

Sao Paulo still has much to offer me, but next time I go out, I'm taking my helicopter taxi.

The Price of Silence (is about seventy-five bucks)

It was three in the morning when we stopped in a Chinese-run convenience store with pay phones. Jesus plopped into the chair, grabbed the phone, and told the person on the other line Wilson was a thief. The Chinese cashiers stared at us. William assured them he had no weapons by lifting his shirt and showing off his hips. He continued buzzing to me about Wilson (shirt still to his chest) – Wilson switched the bill; he was in cahoots with the bartender; why did he disappear?

Two hours earlier, we all stood on the third floor platform of the dim, neon-lit dance club, located in the locals' area 'Once'. A mammoth of a boy bobbed back and forth in front of us, eyes wide, enjoying his own story about knocking someone out. He grinned, several teeth were missing from his square jaw, “Security” was written on his t-shirt. This burly bouncer originally approached the four of us because he thought the boys' cigarettes might be weed. Satisfied they were destroying their bodies legally, he stayed and exchanged tales of violence with the guys and living the tough life. I wanted to contribute, but my only violent tale is when I hit my friend in elementary school and his eyelashes got caught in his glasses. I was immediately sorry. I didn't share, though; as I guest, I didn't want to out-man them.

We had arrived early at the club, around 1AM. The bouncers at the front frisked us and one of them took my pen. It was like a prisoners ball. Inside, shy teenagers lined the sides of the empty dance floor, waiting for the crowds to arrive. I realized I paid for the first round of drinks when little change returned from a big bill. How fortunate, I've been meaning to be more unintentionally generous. We watched as the bartender poured more than six different liquors into a neon-green bucket, large enough to have a warning for drowning infants. The bartender popped in four straws. In addition, she handed us two Slurpee-sized cups of a dark liquid. I could have paid her to stab my liver instead.

As more people arrived, more cigarettes singed away, the smoke clouded against the ceiling. No matter where you are in the world, teenagers everywhere think it's cool to smoke. When older, it's cool to tell everyone you're quitting. I may start, purely to quit.

The bucket of liquor got lighter and the other two cups were poured in. Some people don't like mixing their drinks, but it's really like throwing all your trash in one bag. Someone's going to take it out eventually... I'm not sure what my metaphor means, but it seems suitable. Go with it.

Flash forward, Quentin Tarantino style! Outside, Jesus, William, and I wandered to a street corner and a red hatchback slowed to the curb. Jesus and William tried to open the door and the car sped off. That was a very lazy way to hijack a car. Calmly, they walked to the other side of the corner and another red car pulled up. This time they opened the door and hopped in. When in Argentina...

Flash, again! Wilson stepped to the cashier to make the order. He and I were downstairs getting a refill on the bucket. I glanced at the dance floor. For the second time, I met eyes with a cute girl dancing in a circle of friends. Wilson turned and asked me for some money, I handed him a large bill, the only one I had. The bartender examined the bill; he flicked it, turned it over, held it under the light, and handed it back. “No sirve nada” - It's no good.

Wilson asked me for another bill. I told him that was my last one. Wilson handed the cashier the bill again and tried to negotiate. The cashier wrote on a little slip of paper. We slid over; the bartender looked at the paper, and gave us nothing. I guess the paper said, “Hey Bernice, why haven't you returned my calls? Oh, and I totally jacked these kids' money, BOO-Yah!.. but really, call me back.” I'd been bamboozled. Maybe the bill truly was fake. Maybe they didn't read the paper right. Maybe I should ask that girl to dance... We split up to find Jesus and explain what happened.

Jesus ran into me and I tried to explain the story. His red eyes showed thin signs of understanding. I finished and he stormed the cashier. The cashier handed Jesus the bill and let him look at it. Jesus flipped it around and handed it back. “Wait!,” I said in my head. “At least let me have the damn bill!” Jesus wandered off to the front. Sometimes, in a foreign country, I assume people know what they're doing. This shouldn't have been one of those times. Tonight it cost me $75 to learn to speak up.

Early that evening, after dinner, Pat, Bob, Veronica, William, Wilson, Jesus, and I gathered for a glass of champagne. It was Jesus' birthday. I hadn't planned on going out, but two hours later, we sat with four wine bottles, two bottles of champagne, three liters of beer, and a liter of cider, all empty. The boys decided to go out, and invited me along. I figured, an adventure is always awaiting...

Getting ready, Jesus suggested I wear different shoes. Nike's were better than my low-cut running shoes. I put on jeans and a green striped polo shirt; they said I looked good, I fit in. They laughed, but these were the clothes of thieves. I had to ask them to repeat that; we looked like college kids on the way to a prep rally. Thieves? They explained that kids who wear these clothes, in the part of town we're going to, are considered thieves, because, “How else could they afford these clothes?”

Well, for one, they could work as bartenders.

Chauffeuring Street Kids 2: Revenge of the Shift

In this mangled metropolis, I am a born-again driver. I shift gears with lightning reflexes. I slash across lanes flawlessly. I attempt to change the station on the radio... Still working on that one. Only one test remains to become a certified Argentine road warrior. The highway. Or as they define it in my Spanish dictionary, “El Diablo Gigante con Pantalones del Fuego”. Don't ask where I got this dictionary.

This time around, William and his little girl decide it might be safer to walk through the shanty towns by the train tracks, flashing hundred peso bills, than to ride with me. No problem, because it's mad max countdown. I've got my war paint on. We're starting off in a blaze. We hit the highway in t-minus... once I get out of first gear. Oops. Car stalled. Mmm, okay. Got it. Oh, wait, release break. Yeah. Let's go. Woo! ….Okay, how do I turn that off?

It's day two of apartment hunting and I am 'preparado'. I take a deep breath and recall the important lessons from yesterday: how to holler at women from the window, how to take my shirt off every time we get out of the car, and how to avoid eye contact with the ridiculous red light vendors. In reality, who drives to work, stops at a red light, and thinks, “Golly, I just remembered I need a super-soaker, a child-sized floaty vest, and a kite before I get home”? Welcome to Buenos Aires. Credit card not accepted. No return policy – unless you can find the same street corner vendor. Then the policy is to toss it at him.

Overall, I'm more at ease with the city. I've come to enjoy the agreed disorderliness. Elements of the traffic are even making sense. When the light is about to turn green, both red and yellow light up. It's strange at first; but, as soon as I see the red/yellow light, I shift into first gear. It's genius - everyone's ready to squeal forward on green (pedestrians present or not). I've even accepted the fantasy lanes people create; mainly, because it's impossible for traffic to flow with taxis stopping every second to snag their fares. Hence, everyone hovering slightly to the side of the lane, ready to leap around stopped vehicles. Ordered chaos is the fail-safe of humanity. Oo, that's quotable. I hope it makes sense.

Now, it's time. Highway time. Jesús flicks his hand toward the road, which I've come to understand means keep going straight; or, look at that chica caliente – this results in plenty of confusion. I keep driving straight and see the cement highway crisscrossing the road ahead. The road splits, he flicks, I turn, we're in.

And... commence dramatic anti-climax. It's a highway. Not much going on. In fact, people are well behaved. The highway may even be the calmest part of the city. I honestly feel cheated. I want to star in Speed Racer. I want to bust out maneuvers that are too Fast as well as too Furious. I want Matrix-style back flips off tractor trailers! I'd even settle for the Love Bug. Alas, we coast along the highway for about five minutes and then exit into another “economical” area of the city to look for apartments. Oh well, as long as it doesn't turn into Hostel...

As for the apartment shopping, we double our productivity – that is, we see two places today instead of one. We make a supremely efficient team. Wilson scribbles five numbers off of rent signs, Jesús calls one, sets up a meeting we never go to, and I drive in circles. Hm... I think we unknowingly summed up the Argentine government.

As we're about to give up and go home, I give Jesús one more number. He calls and speaks for a minute. A meeting is set and we drive to the renter's office. If only it were that easy. We can't see the apartment because they're painting it. Another reason may be that Jesús looks like a street kid, he has tattoos, crooked teeth, and speaks the street slang; they don't think he can afford to rent the place. However, they show him photos, he says he likes it and tells them we''ll return the next day...

Does Jesús find an apartment?? Will Kevin buy more floaty vests?? Who is the mysterious man lurking in the shadows??

For answers to these questions, and more, tune in next time!

Next time!: Yes, No, Raúl (turns out, he has a hangover).

Chauffering Street Kids - Day 1

I'd love to explain why I'm swerving through the chaotic tangle of Argentine traffic in the blazing sun with three former street kids and a five year-old in a white VW Gol. But, I'm not going to. I can only concentrate on this one thought right now, “Do not crash.”

My last encounter with driving a manual was in the calm, beach town of Maldonado, Uruguay, where I hit a parked car. Now, I'm in the midst of the lawless, corrupt cop, jumbled maze of Buenos Aires, speeding through red lights and straining to hear the directions mumbled in Argentine slang from Jesús over the blasting reggaeton music. Occasionally, Jesús points to an area - that's where he slept under the highway – that's where he used to beg for money – here's the fountain he and Wilson bathed in as kids. Wilson is Jesús' best friend, companion, and, behind his back, “slave”. They've been together through it all. It all, including watching friends die, go to jail, and waste away to drugs. Today, though, they're looking for an apartment. I'm the driver. And I don't have a clue where I am. Jesús points around – this is one of the really dangerous areas. Okay, now I know where I am. Thank you, Jesús.

As I shift the little white hatchback into third gear, Jesús points right, “Acá, acá!.” Here, here. I hesitate; he motions me to park in the street, smoky traffic barreling behind me. He hits the flashers. “Ya está.”. There we go. He hops out and runs in the renter's office. Wilson and William rest calmly in the back as massive buses attempt to swerve around me and my flashing car to pick up and drop off swarms of people. I'm in their spot. William's little girl, Rosia, smiles in the back seat with her crooked teeth and her thin curly hair bouncing on her forehead. “Do not crash.”

Jesús jumps in the car. He has a lead on a place on the outskirts of the city. He flicks the music back on, the CD is now on its third time around; I'm learning lyrics to songs I've never even heard before. I put the car in first gear, second gear - red light - neutral, coast, stop. “This isn't too hard,” I think. Which is an example of what to think when you want the universe to chuckle and toss you in the lion's den. Which, in Buenos Aires, is 9 de Julio, the fourteen-lane road stretching through the center of town.

Hundreds of cars cram themselves down this road every hour. On the map, the road is straight. On the map, the roads are also empty. Neither is true. 9 de Julio curves. It curves around statues. It curves around the giant obelisk. It curves around logical and reasonable roadway blueprints. Yet, each time the road curves, the cars refuse. The painted path ordained by the government becomes obsolete and a new pattern emerges, known only by drivers who have experienced the hell that is Buenos Aires traffic. Turn signals become Christmas ornaments, nothing more than decoration. Horns are like elbows, nudging people aside with an unfriendly “honk”. I've never felt so strange about feeling guilty about being the only person to stay in lane.

We curve in and out, narrowly avoiding a car that decides to turn left from the right lane. We watch as cars speed through red lights, or move through the intersection before the lights turn green. Meanwhile, Jesús is talking on the phone, only gesturing when I ask, “derecha o izquierda?” Left or right? I'm fifteen years old again, and the driving instructor couldn't care less if this is my first time driving and I have the power to cut off a giant tour bus, knock it into the pedestrian street, and manslaughter hundreds.

Clearly, I don't do that. Instead, I opt to swing onto a side-street, nearly avoiding denting the hood with pedestrians. A cop on the sidewalk watches. Luckily, he's on his cell phone and lets it slide. Then, Jesús motions me to park only a few car lengths from the cop, so he can check another renter's office. You mean, this spot right here? In front of the ambulance? With the no parking sign? With the cop in walking distance? Hold on, I remember the secret escape clause to violating any traffic ordinance. Flashers on. We're good Jesús. We're good.

After nearly three hours of perusing the city and risking many lives at every stoplight (most didn't know they we're risking their lives), and seeing only one apartment, we took a break so Jesús could stop and see his psychiatrist. I thought maybe I should join him. Something must be wrong with me to drive around dangerous parts of a corrupt city with three street kids, a five year old, and limited experience driving a manual transmission in a rental car I didn't pay for. I have to stop looking confident when people ask if I can do something. Sir, you look like you could land this space shuttle... Yes. Yes I can.

In case you missed it, we spent three hours, in the hottest part of the day, apartment shopping, and only saw one apartment. I love Argentina. I don't think I can explain what I do here. This is my job and my life right now, and I'm only in second gear. Tomorrow, I hit the highway.

New Years With No Reservations

“Your new year will be as your new year began.”

As far as made up superstitions go, this one is my favorite. Mainly, because my new year started out with perfect luck in a foreign city. Based on this, my new year will be filled with jackpot winnings, perfect timing, and leprechaun friends (I'll even settle for really short people with an affinity for green clothes).

The story of my new years eve, however, began with the notorious “miscommunication between man and woman!”. When a woman says, “I'll make a choice about tonight,” she really means, “You better come up with something good, or else I will act like a total b-word the rest of the night.” (the 'B' stands for bureaucrat).

I'll admit, I should have verified with Arissa, Nathalie's friend from New York City, what our plans were. I said I could do some research; however, I assumed she was going to reserve a place at one of the clubs they had listed down, and she assumed that I would find something better. I did not, and she did not. Which left us empty handed at 8pm when we met up. The man at the front desk summed up our debacle, “All of Argentina is booked tonight.”

After thirty minutes of asking around, failing to connect to the internet, and next to no advice from the hotel, we found the one option was to go to the port and hope to find a place to eat, even though every restaurant claimed to be full, all fifty thousand taxis of Buenos Aires were 'ocupado', the walk to the port was at least fifty minutes away (without high heels), and not a safe place to walk through on the way back. It was looking as hopeless as my New Years resolution to stop singing “I feel pretty” when styling my hair.

Then something came over me. “Here's what's going to happen,” I said. “We're going to get lucky. We're going to find a taxi. Find a nice restaurant with music and dancing, and it's going to be excellent.” For some reason, I believed it – probably, that reason was a glass of Argentine red wine and a mini-bar beer. We set off.

After fifteen minutes of walking down the main road, with the girls in their high heels and each taxi we waved at flying by, the fumes of negativity from Arissa, Ms. New York, began to get a little stifling. Luckily, Nathalie kept her positive attitude – probably, due to the glass of wine she had with me. We finally saw a taxi with the red “Libre” light on. Nathalie ran over. The guy looked away and flicked the light off. I thought that might have made Arissa feel at home. All that was missing was the middle finger.

At about twenty minutes of walking, a taxi pulled over and let out a group of people, we sprinted up and dove in. The price to ride five minutes to the port was enough to feed his family for a week, but you can't be choosy with your luck.

The port and the restaurants were barely speckled with people at 9pm, which is early for dinner, but without a reservation, we were shooed away. Still, confident that we would get lucky, I asked the next restaurant. The hostess wrinkled her brow when I told her we had no 'reservaciones'. She said they were completely full... But... she would see what she could do – which is code for, “you look like you've got magic dancing feet tonight, I'll make it happen just for you.”

In an instant, a husky smiling man pat me on the shoulder and fired out in unintelligible, but jovial Spanish something about something, and a table, and a price, and joining a butchers club. I smiled and frowned as he lowered the price three times before I realized I was bargaining. Then, I was inside paying a set price for the three of us.

For $100, the three of us were given a three course meal, wine, endless champagne after midnight, live guitar music, dancing, singing, and a port side view of the fireworks as they shot off in three different places. The catch: we were three people at a table for two, right next to the enormous crackling speaker and a sleeping stray dog, with a sketchy looking DJ setting up, and I couldn't have had better luck. I even had some leftover luck to get us a taxi home without a hitch... except that the driver was probably drunk and flying through the streets at 3am. Still, lucky we didn't die.

Happy 2010.

Death-styles of the Rich and the Famous

A group of us were finishing up lunch in the outdoor cafe, when Pat suggested that Nathalie, a french woman from Brazil visiting for the holidays, and I find the famous cemetery where Eva Peron is buried. I pointed directly behind her, “you mean, that cemetery?” Giant stone crosses and towers poked over the gray cement wall that quartered off several blocks of the city. Elaborate mausoleum roofs and the tips of statues peered over at us. We had had several glasses of wine, so walking amongst a few thousand dead bodies seemed like a terribly fantastic idea. So, we finished the bottle and wandered to the entrance.

For a couple hours, we took photo after photo, trying to capture the immense detail in the stone and marble carvings. The overcast sky above us glowed ominously as we wandered without direction, circling mammoth tombs, not quite sure which way we were heading, or if there was even a reason to head anywhere. Each direction held a piece of art made for the deceased, worthy of a museum – or at least, a photo from an awed tourist. You might even suspect that the dead are getting big headed with all the photo-shoots they're doing. I can see them posing in their graves now, “Yes, yes. Get my good side. Don't I have a lovely bone structure? Am I model skinny yet?”

Now, I didn't know this, but it should be common knowledge: a cemetery is a great place to charm a woman. Basically, you're starting at the bottom of expectations. The relationship can only go uphill from a cemetery... unless you're Stephen King. Yet, there's nothing like making a woman feel young and alive, than the juxtaposition of dreary tombstones, ancient death dates, and playing tag through a maze of sacred grounds. Plus, when she gets goosebumps, guess who takes the credit? That's right, you stud. High five a statue on your way out.

The main attractor to the cemetery is the famous, Eva Peron. I had read there was a great uproar about allowing Eva to be buried in this cemetery, because of her humble background. This cemetery is meant for the high class, the powerful, the important. It's the Bevery hills of death, or should I say, the Beverly Kills... or Maliboo... the Haunted Hampton's... mmm... no, no I shouldn't say. Anyway, being the savvy tourist that I am, I lead the way through the labrynth of death, and I could absolutely not find her. Nathlie, proved her french citizenship with the conclusion, “Eet juz wazen't meant to be.”

Now, to answer the question on everyone's mind, “Did you see any ghosts?”. I can only say that there were silent creatures that lurk the grounds, feeding off souls of the living – and they're super cute and furry. Cemetery cats. They seemed almost too comfortable in this setting, as if they were meant to be the watchers of those passed beyond this world. They round the corners and glide in and out of the small openings in the older tombs, making themselves at home.

One day, in the distant future, like one hundred years from now, I'll pass on. So, I've added one last tick to the list of things to do, become famous enough to be buried in the Recoleta Cemetary in Buenos Aires. Looks like I'm going to be marrying into the president's family soon. I'll send you a gold plated email when that happens.

First World Home, Third World Mosquitoes

I don't want to frighten anyone who may one day visit Uruguay. But make a tiny note in the back of your head that when you're in bed, and at your most vulnerable, malicious creatures will attack, who have the gift of flight and near invisibility whose lives consist of sucking blood from your face. I know it sounds like the cast of Twilight, but it's much worse: South American mosquitoes.Um, which I assume aren't that different from North American mosquitoes - other than their speedo tan.

For the past two weeks I've been living with Pat and Bob in a beautiful home just a five minute walk from the ocean. I wake up early, walk on the beach, swim in the pool, maybe teach some Spanish to Pat, run errands, cook dinner, relax, and go to bed. However, some nights I am awoken in the middle of the night by a zzzz (translation: hey.)........ zzzzz (wake up.) ............. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz (If you don't swat at me, I will lay eggs in your ear). At that point, sporadic flailing of the arms commences, always missing the mosquitoes and only succeeding in raising my blood pressure. On those nights, I get a good fours hours of restful sleep, and a good 3 hours of Jedi training, blindly trying to smash the mini-vampires while half-awake.

One could be proud of surviving each nightly air strike of these insects, showing off their red bumps of courage. Or, one could just hose himself down with bug spray before going to bed and stop complaining. Maybe though, one doesn't like to smell like chemicals before going to bed. Well, one could shut up! Hey, one could stop and see that these mosquitoes are tearing us apart! One has a tear...

Okay, big deal. I'm in a foreign country, living by the beach, not paying a dime, and I'm complaining about mosquitoes? Yeah. Yeah, I am. Why? you ask. Good question, Mr. Jealousy, sit down and I'll tell you. Because habituation is the most powerful equalizer of society. No matter what one's situation, they will, for the most part, get used to it. Then what matters? Only differences in what one has versus what one wants. Before this, I was living in a basement that flooded on occasion, had a mildew smell, a very low ceiling, and stray cats out back, but I was just fine... mainly, because there were no mosquitoes malditos, del infierno!!! They make me go Ricky Ricardo, that's how I feel about it.

Honestly, I'm grateful this is the only thing I can pretend to complain about. So, wipe those tears, I'm adjusting well to my situation. I spray myself with bug spray before I go to bed, I sometimes put a light sheet over my head, and I surround myself with hungry frogs. Now, I just need to get habituated to the sound of croaking.