Glad I left my watch at the apartment. In addition to being afraid that it will be pickpocketed (although it’s a counterfeit purchased at the Ben Thanh market in Saigon), no one is in a rush here. Even the way Cariocans speak. Fast sometimes, but certain tones are drawn out and slow, as if they will finish the phrase after a good long thought and breath.
Currently I’m smack at the front of 25 tourists speaking at the top of their lungs, clad in an over-the-shirt tied on jumper that brightly identifies them as a singular group. It’s a bit Special Olympics style. Don’t wander off! If they wander off to a candy store, you know you should direct them back.
As if we couldn’t tell when they were together - they clap and cheer when the tram starts up, and when we go over bumps on the tram they yell as if it was a freaking roller coaster. First time on a tram? I take back the slightly Special Olympics comment. Looking back, I think they may have actually been retarded. In which case - live it up.
Something about this country reminds me of Puerto Rico. The people, the sunshine, the attitudes, the mix of cultures, the food, the diets, the hyper sexualized sexuality. People are a bit more exercise conscious here than in PR.
Their agenda at the top of the hill diverges from mine: street side record shopping, eating mocqueca (fish, lime and tomato stew) at the awesome seafood restaurant Sobrenatural, and reading my Kindle in an cafe. But instead of sitting, I decide to take my espresso standing up like a Caricoa (or an Italian). The Germans, Portugese and Italians all split up Brazil so there’s such a mix of cultures that you can still see.
My foray into street food is in Sta. Teresa: Coxinha. Deep fried chicken croquettes served with a sticky sweet Guarana kool-aid juice in a tiny plastic cup like at the dentist. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coxinha
It was super unhealthy and only aiight. I eat about half, sip a tiny dribble of the jungle juice to wash it down, and chuck it.
In a little shop next to the tram stop, I buy some water, sem gas. Out of the corner of my eye I spy old boxes of Havaianas, maybe 50 in a stack. I snap a quick photo, and then grab another photo of a row of bottles marked Bom de Coco. Suddenly I’m whirled around by a crazy banshee - the store owner. She’s yelling at me to stop taking photos. I try to smile. “English?” This really sets her off and she tries to grab my camera.
I just bought this camera before I left NYC. I had to deal with the pushy sales people at J&R. Bitch is not taking my shit. I will fight her and her orange hair that is one giant tangle to the death. She tells me to delete it - all in Portuguese - or pay her money for the photo. Shaken, but remaining polite, I try to walk around her. I hear her say the word POHA and thinking she just called me a Bitch, I repeat her.
Oh no she din’t.
Getting that ghetto neck in there, I look her in the eyes and say, “Poha?” It’s the only Portuguese word I remember from that fated exchange.
After a narrow escape, I scribble it down to ask my friends later. The literal translation is ejaculate, but the colloquial usage is Fuck. Think she told me to fuck off! Well, I did. I fucked off with my camera and kept the photos. So she can suck it.
