Letter From Brazil - Chicka Chicka BOOM

Chicka Chicka Boom

(How the Samba mirrors my life in Brazil)

Now keep that beat in the back of your mind as you read through another rendition of the life and times of Private Hines.

Chicka….

In order to experience my first weekend, I found a popular Samba Joint to attend – Jinga Bar in Lagoa da Conceição. Because of its proximity to a wonderful beach – Praia da Joaquina – I made arrangements to stay overnight at the beach and taxi in to the bar. Funniest thing is I thought I’d be cool and arrive late at about 8:30pm. Well, the joint doesn’t even open until 9:30. So much for mister cool. It did give me an opportunity to take in the adjoining lake. A wonderful inland lake separated from the Atlantic by a halo of granite and sand dune hills. It reminded me of a lake in Switzerland close to Lucerne. In any event, I spent the next hour and a half, having wine at a nearby café and talking with its husband and wife proprietors who had no English language skills. Somehow, we were able to communicate. And it was a hoot. They had been married for 34 years, owned the joint and stayed open until 3 or 4 in the morning. They offered wine, beer, snacks and a comfortable view of the Lake. They love watching the novellas (soap operas) and spend time dissecting what will happen next on their favorite shows.

Once I got into Jinga Bar, I ended up meeting the featured singer, her husband and her 11 year old son. That’s right, he was right there. With a seat at the singer’s table, I watched in amazement how Samba is meant to be performed. There were at least four couples that stood out as accomplished Sambians – if that’s a word. Now I really wanted to learn. At no time did I attempt to embarrass myself as I was getting crocked on the native drink – capraninha (pronounced ki pa reen yah). My exit was non-descript besides leaving my jean jacket there.

Sunday, was another wonderful sunny day and my host family invited me to join them at another beach, eating outing. This time with a new housemate. Carmen, an Australian, had just joined the household. She too had signed on to study Portuguese but more in the holiday (vacation) mode. We went to a wonderful beach on the north end of the Island – Praia de Forte and ate a multitude of local foods.

It was the first time I’ve had that little scooter out on their freeways. It was unbelievable. You would have thought I was Steve McQueenSteve McQueen in the chase of his life. I am hoping to include a picture of that very very powerful vehicle with this submission.

Chicka…..

The studies are making more sense now. With the completion of my second week toward the end of May 2009, I was able to confidently get myself in tremendous trouble and know exactly what kind. There are a ton of twists and turns with this language, but I am hard at it and did my homework diligently every night.

At the end of the week, Renata (the Nazi teacher) was going over demonstrative pronouns and verbs. Yep, my teacher talks just like my high school English teacher dissecting everything into that sentence structure language that I forgot so long ago.

In order to appease my new awareness of the Samba and distract my brain from these difficult studies, Carmen and I were invited to join in a Samba dance class. The first thing I noticed was the dance instructor – a woman – could have withstood a two by four hit by me and laughed. I was looking at what may be the hardest most sculptured body I have every seen. Anyway, I wish I took a picture.

I felt like a complete fool in the class. Here I thought that dancing anything would be problem free and I am stepping on my dance partner right and left. Chicka, chicka ouch. Chicka, chicka ouch. By the end of the night, I may have got one move down and alienated my dance partner forever. I have an option to take more dance lessons, but I think I should concentrate on one thing at a time. More later if that develops.

I spent the next Thursday afternoon enjoying the beach as Carmen decided to be brave and ride on the back of the HOG. It was like having my mom back there complaining – Slow Down! Slow Down! Of course, you all know how sensitive I am. So I just increased the speed to reduce the noise.

I may have some beach pictures and with good luck I will have some attached. I will try to avoid comment on Brazilian beach attire in the interest of those that are sensitive.

Thursday night, Carmen and I went to a local Bar/Restaurant, called Santa Hora. There I met Carlos, who said he was a trainer. By the end of the night though, I think he was a pimp. He kept telling me about nice girls he knew that would do things for money. Even though I haven’t got this language thing down perfectly, I don’t think he was talking about them helping me with my studies.

BOOM….

Some of you know that I suffer from high blood pressure. On Friday, I had big plans to attend an Opera in the Florianopolis Performing Arts Center, called CIC. I had purchased the tickets and put on my tux for the performance. The car service arrived a little early so I was hurried to get out the door. During the afternoon, Carmen had experienced a reaction to something and had been vomiting and such so she could not attend. I on the other hand was geared up to go. I arrived a little early and had a chardonnay at the Matisse Club before the performance began. I started to feel a little warm, but I thought that was because of the size of the audience and nature of a crowd. The first act was completed and they were preparing for the second act when I realized that I needed to evacuate that place.

By the time I knew what was happening, there were five paramedics and a couple security guards surrounding me in the lobby. They were taking my blood pressure, temperature and injecting me with fluids. I had loss what seemed like gallons via projection. Because of the blood pressure reading, they were concerned that I may be susceptible to a heart attack. In the end, it turned out that I had food poisoning and my body was just rejecting all.

I did get home safely and convalesced for two days. But I was ready for more.

Next my plan was to concentrate on finding accommodations. I wanted to get my own place. With good luck, I will get in a better rhythm.

PS. The bed.

If I have not complained enough about the bed…here goes. Not only is it small, but I imagine it feels like the backside of the samba instructor – hard as nails. Yesterday, I was in the comparable example of Wal-Mart here and I saw a full size bed with a pillow top on sale for 50 bucks – I am sure I did the conversion correctly?? Maybe not so sure.

Anyway, how do you convey to your hosts that that miniscule sliver of a piece of iron can be generously (though selflessly) replaced. I kid. The moral of the story is to treasure your bed.