Letter From Brazil - Arriving for the First Time

Bom Dia,

I have decided to capture my experiences here in Florianopolis on a weekly basis. This way, I can analysis my day-to-day activities of the food, the people and the culture. I seriously doubt that I can put everything into words – but I can try.

My travel here met with little turmoil. I departed Los Angeles on a busy Saturday morning, May 9, 2009, under the transportation efforts made available by Peter Byrne – an affable sort.

The flight from LAX to Newark, New Jersey proved to be uneventful but for the cheeseburger served mid flight. I was surprised to get a meal at all. After an all-nighter, I needed the sleep. After five hours in a semi-comfortable flight, I had an hour and a half to reclaim my bag and go through customs enroute to Sao Paulo, Brazil and then on to Florianopolis.

The overseas flight turned out to be much longer, overnight and much more comfortable. Twice I was served a meal with real utensils. In addition, the nine hour flight included a variety of niceties, including self-determined television or a variety of music genres. I believe I caught up on all my sleep during that part of the excursion.

Arrival in Sao Paulo signified a whole new world. The hustle bustle of a foreign environ was amplified by the exotic numbers of people, languages being bantered about and non-existence of any form of English speaking crutches. Because my layover would span some six hours, I decided to hire a taxi to tour what from the air appeared to be the LARGEST city I have ever seen. Even with the knowledge and experience of New York City, Mexico City and Japan and all their skyscrapers could not compare.

Assuming I could withdraw money from a cash machine, I traveled around under the tutelage of a Brazilian-only speaking guide. The city expanded miles and miles of tall building, busy avenues and sparkling monuments. We passed mid city parks and concentrations of high end stores. Being mid day Sunday on Mother’s day, every Sao Paulina strode the confident stride of their world. It amazed me.

Somehow, I conveyed my desire to eat authentic Brazilian food to my kindly chauffer. After two attempts to withdraw cash and no luck, my new compatriot gave me what amounted to $100 and he took me to a Brazilian barbecue restaurant. Because of his contacts, I was able to bypass the waiting lines and be served a glorious meal – I could only identify rice.

Upon my return to the Airport, we settled our accounts with his superiors being able to acquire payment by my, credit card. It really didn’t seem to matter to him if I just sent him the money later. This was my first indication that things are different here.

The flight from Sao Paulo to Florianopolis only took an hour. We landed on a single strip that reminded me of landing in St. Kitts, Bahamas. A stairway was wheeled out and here I was.

I don’t know if it’s me, but I was half expecting to see my name on a little placard with a waiting driver. I am taking a Portuguese language course and thought maybe I would be welcomed like…..

Oh we Americans.

Luckily, I had a few Reais ($) left over and I hired a taxi. In addition, I remembered to save the address of my host family. Now, after a week I realize that the driver here took advantage of me. There is no way now I would pay $30 for a ride from the airport. So I learn.

The Castros were fully expecting me. A retired former winemaker, Clemente, and his wife Regina are my hosts. They have two sons, Michelle and Raphael. Raphael is a mid teenager and Michelle lives away with his wife and 7 month old baby girl.

My hosts showed me my accommodations and provided enough information for me to get settled. The house is large, well appointed and comfortable. The bed however is the smallest bed in the world. I was worried about rolling out – I still am.

Anyway, the room has a desk, a lazy chair, a mini refrigerator, a balcony, a beautiful closet (if there is such a thing) and plenty of room for the likes of me. Oh, I do have my only private bathroom attached. I couldn’t be happier. Maybe with a bigger bed.

As evening arrived, I was invited to join the entire brood for a Mother’s Day barbecue celebration. The older son Michelle does know English. He helped translate for both the family and I as we drank beer and dipped morsels of traditional barbecue. And now my second revelation.

One of the Brazilian delicacies is barbecued chicken hearts. Because of my tendency to tease gout, I attempted to defer thinking that the rich nature of animal organs may tempt fate. But with some chiding and my concern that I may be insulting my hosts I partook.

Twenty four hours later, my right knee was the size of a soccer ball.

More later….