There are not many things I miss from my life in the United States. The obvious ones being the children (some of the time), good friends, my garden etc. I’m sure that not many people would come up with missing an oven, but yesterday, cooking Christmas dinner I really missed mine.
Let me explain. It is not any ordinary oven. It is a 60 inch, cast iron Aga in claret red. Part of it stays hot all the time, giving not only constant heat and instant cooking, but warmth and comfort. It makes the kitchen THE place to be on a cold winter’s day and I miss it very much.
I was 14 years old when I saw my first Aga. I was babysitting for a couple in the next village and they had a red Aga in their kitchen. I fell in love with it and decided that one day, I would have exactly the same. I came close to having one when we were living in Surrey, just before the whacky lifestyle of traveling around the world kicked in. Just as well we didn’t spend the money then, because we were only in that house for a few more months before we headed off to the Far East. That house was rented and then sold when we moved to the United States in 2000.
Fast forward a further four and a bit years. After eighteen months in the States, two months in Israel, eighteen months in Stockholm and a further eighteen months in Paris we were back in the United States. The first house was sold and a second one bought. Only this time with the promise that I could re-do the kitchen and finally have my Aga. Whenever you say to someone (who knows about them) that you have an Aga there are two questions. What sort do you have and what colour is it? Mine is a two oven, gas, claret red. In addition, I have something called a “companion”. It is a standard stove, exactly the same colour as the Aga and made to look like an Aga but it isn’t. It is a regular stove that you turn on and off. Great for New Jersey summers that are so hot it makes nonsense to keep the Aga running pumping out heat that only competes with the air conditioning.
In total I have a hot oven ( 420 degrees F) a cool oven (at about 220 degrees F), a regular oven, a convection oven, a plate that can boil water in what seems like an instant, a cooler plate that is great for simmering, a 4 burner gas hob, and a grill (broiler to the Americans) I am in cooking heaven.
Cooking is a delight, never a chore and for a housewife that spends a lot of time feeding a family of four, that is such a bonus. Dinner parties, no problem – the capacity for producing food with an Aga is limitless and for everyone that has one, there is no other way to cook. For everyone else – bad luck.
Even professional cooks have them for their personal use. Jamie Oliver – white. Martha Stewart – baby blue.
So I miss my Aga. Never more so than yesterday. Here in Sao Paulo I have a pathetic oven that is so small that most of my pans don’t fit. There is one shelf and with heating elements at the top and bottom it means that you can’t put anything on the floor of the oven or near the top for fear of it burning. It often does when I forget.
Trying to cook two turkeys – I figured that one large one wouldn’t fit – roast potatoes, bacon rolls, sausage stuffing, bread stuffing, four different vegetables, gravy and steam a Christmas pudding whilst at the same time trying to keep everything hot and warm plates and serving dishes was going to be quite a challenge.
Steve, bless him had a great idea. Why not use the Barbeque? Fortunately, in the land of red meat and open fire barbequing, we had brought with us our American size, gas barbeque; complete with five burners, side burner and enough capacity to cook at least 50 hamburgers in one go. Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?
With an hour to go before serving time, the turkey was almost cooked and finished off in the barbeque, along with the sausage stuffing, plates for warming and a couple of serving dishes. That left room in the main oven to cook roast potatoes, bacon rolls and bread stuffing. The gas burners had vegetables, gravy and the Christmas pudding – phew. A first – Christmas dinner courtesy of the barbeque – who would have thought?
So no, I am not missing New Jersey too much. Especially, now that I have tackled and succeeded in cooking Christmas dinner,
It also helps that yesterday was about 84 degrees and the sun was shining. Contrast that with the UK that is in the midst of one of the coldest Decembers on record and New Jersey that is expecting 20 inches of snow tonight.
I’ll stick with Sao Paulo for the time being – Aga notwithstanding.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Cell Phones. December 16, 2010
It’s a while since I have written a blog, which is a good indicator that life is beginning to be back to “normal” – albeit in the Brazilian sense. My life has settled into a pattern of predictability that no longer startles, amuses or catches me unawares. Maybe I am getting used to the eccentricities of living here and now take them for granted. Sitting endlessly in the back of the car, stuck in traffic is the norm. Not being understood when I open my mouth to speak is happening less and less often so the Portuguese teacher must be doing something right, and with a new circle of really good friends, there is plenty to do and occupy my time.
Yesterday, though, the reality of living here reared its ugly head again. I needed a new cell phone.
Ever since I arrived, I have been using the “emergency” cell phone from the office. Before I could get one of my own, I needed to jump through all sorts of visa hoops, most of which have now been sorted, so with obstacles out of the way, there is no reason not to get one.
My search started with the inevitable, “Marcelo, I need a cell phone.” He has never yet let me down and so he dropped me off at the local shopping mall and I went merrily on my way, only to be dazzled by a mass of posters offering amongst other things, the daily special / bonus plan / free cell phone/ pay as you go, etc. etc.
Plano B. “Marcelo I need you to come with me to the stores”. So I returned, Marcelo in tow to help me. Before long we had worked out which of the phone companies to chose. It actually wasn’t that difficult. When your driver, husband and husband’s secretary are with the same company, and as they make up about 80 per cent of my calls, it would be plain madness to use anyone else, given the free air time, Vivo to Vivo.
Now, in the States, you go to the phone shop, decide on a plan and they tell you which phones the plan come with for free, unless you want to upgrade etc, etc... Here it is almost the opposite. Pick a phone. Okay where to start? I have to admit that I am a bit of a techno pigmy and as far as I am concerned, all I do is phone and text. Emma might grab it once in a while to take a photo and I guess if I were in a car accident a camera would be useful but really not that necessary.
I hadn’t even opened my mouth when three phones appeared. Marcelo clearly knows my capabilities and had given them a brief that:-
a, it has to be simple
b, it has to have a big keypad and
c. no, we don’t need masses of technology.
( Steve, it has to be said has an i-phone 4g which is great for everything except making phone calls)
So, cell phone chosen. R$ 169.00 (US$ 100.00) credit card - sorted.
I am being allowed to keep the phone number of the cell phone that I have been using up until now, which is good, because it is a pain to have to change the number and to have to tell everyone.
You would think it was a matter of changing over the chip and all would be well. Wrong. Having paid for the phone, Marcelo then had to ring some sort of help desk to get the number and all the contact details changed over. He was on the phone for about 20 minutes, gabbling away in Portuguese, hardly any of which I understood. What the heck was going on? It seems that in order to transfer everything, the shop can’t do it and it is all done remotely.
Okay, new phone, existing number and details transferred.
So what about a payment plan? Again a huge array of plans, minutes, texts, internet –the lot. No, I want none of it; all I need is pre pay as you go. Given our track record with the length of time we stay anywhere, I do not want to be tied to a plan with penalty clauses.
“Marcelo, please ask them to put R$ 100 (about US$ 60) in the phone.” Not possible was the reply. “What?”
“No,” he said, “we have to go to the supermarket to recharge the phone”
My response was unprintable.
So off we head to the supermarket. The express check outs don’t do it so having stood in line there, thinking I only had one item it would be okay but no, I was redirected to another line to wait some more.
I held up the phone and said “re-charge” (only in Portuguese). Okay what is my plan? “Vivo”.
What is my DDD number? “My what?” How the heck do I know? Where is Marcelo when I need him? The answer is sitting in the car looking after the dog.
“Marcelo what is a DDD number?”
“11” he replied – ah – the penny dropped our area code.
Back to the check out.
Vivo, 11 and the phone number. How much to put on? I could put as little as R$ 3.50 (about US$ 2.00) or as much as R$ 100. Who would recharge their phone with R$ 3.50? Beats me. So R$ 60 later I have a working phone, with minutes, with contact details and a menu in English. What more can a girl ask for?
How about a voice mail box?
That requires a manual. Okay off to the computer to download the manual in English.
Beats me but I have read and re- read the manual 3 times now and there is no instruction to set up a voice mail box. The instructions are on the phone – in Portuguese.
This is a job for Solange, Steve’s assistant, but I have had enough of cell phones for today so that can be tomorrow’s task.
Yesterday, though, the reality of living here reared its ugly head again. I needed a new cell phone.
Ever since I arrived, I have been using the “emergency” cell phone from the office. Before I could get one of my own, I needed to jump through all sorts of visa hoops, most of which have now been sorted, so with obstacles out of the way, there is no reason not to get one.
My search started with the inevitable, “Marcelo, I need a cell phone.” He has never yet let me down and so he dropped me off at the local shopping mall and I went merrily on my way, only to be dazzled by a mass of posters offering amongst other things, the daily special / bonus plan / free cell phone/ pay as you go, etc. etc.
Plano B. “Marcelo I need you to come with me to the stores”. So I returned, Marcelo in tow to help me. Before long we had worked out which of the phone companies to chose. It actually wasn’t that difficult. When your driver, husband and husband’s secretary are with the same company, and as they make up about 80 per cent of my calls, it would be plain madness to use anyone else, given the free air time, Vivo to Vivo.
Now, in the States, you go to the phone shop, decide on a plan and they tell you which phones the plan come with for free, unless you want to upgrade etc, etc... Here it is almost the opposite. Pick a phone. Okay where to start? I have to admit that I am a bit of a techno pigmy and as far as I am concerned, all I do is phone and text. Emma might grab it once in a while to take a photo and I guess if I were in a car accident a camera would be useful but really not that necessary.
I hadn’t even opened my mouth when three phones appeared. Marcelo clearly knows my capabilities and had given them a brief that:-
a, it has to be simple
b, it has to have a big keypad and
c. no, we don’t need masses of technology.
( Steve, it has to be said has an i-phone 4g which is great for everything except making phone calls)
So, cell phone chosen. R$ 169.00 (US$ 100.00) credit card - sorted.
I am being allowed to keep the phone number of the cell phone that I have been using up until now, which is good, because it is a pain to have to change the number and to have to tell everyone.
You would think it was a matter of changing over the chip and all would be well. Wrong. Having paid for the phone, Marcelo then had to ring some sort of help desk to get the number and all the contact details changed over. He was on the phone for about 20 minutes, gabbling away in Portuguese, hardly any of which I understood. What the heck was going on? It seems that in order to transfer everything, the shop can’t do it and it is all done remotely.
Okay, new phone, existing number and details transferred.
So what about a payment plan? Again a huge array of plans, minutes, texts, internet –the lot. No, I want none of it; all I need is pre pay as you go. Given our track record with the length of time we stay anywhere, I do not want to be tied to a plan with penalty clauses.
“Marcelo, please ask them to put R$ 100 (about US$ 60) in the phone.” Not possible was the reply. “What?”
“No,” he said, “we have to go to the supermarket to recharge the phone”
My response was unprintable.
So off we head to the supermarket. The express check outs don’t do it so having stood in line there, thinking I only had one item it would be okay but no, I was redirected to another line to wait some more.
I held up the phone and said “re-charge” (only in Portuguese). Okay what is my plan? “Vivo”.
What is my DDD number? “My what?” How the heck do I know? Where is Marcelo when I need him? The answer is sitting in the car looking after the dog.
“Marcelo what is a DDD number?”
“11” he replied – ah – the penny dropped our area code.
Back to the check out.
Vivo, 11 and the phone number. How much to put on? I could put as little as R$ 3.50 (about US$ 2.00) or as much as R$ 100. Who would recharge their phone with R$ 3.50? Beats me. So R$ 60 later I have a working phone, with minutes, with contact details and a menu in English. What more can a girl ask for?
How about a voice mail box?
That requires a manual. Okay off to the computer to download the manual in English.
Beats me but I have read and re- read the manual 3 times now and there is no instruction to set up a voice mail box. The instructions are on the phone – in Portuguese.
This is a job for Solange, Steve’s assistant, but I have had enough of cell phones for today so that can be tomorrow’s task.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Driving Licenses
Yesterday, Steve and I went to get our Brazilian Driver’s licenses. It was a surreal affair and had to be seen to be believed.
It started, not as one might expect at a driving test center as in the UK, or at the equivalent of the Department of Motor Vehicles as in the United States. Instead, we went to a dingy fourth floor doctor’s office. In my time of traveling around to different countries I always wonder why these places have to be quite so awful. The worst by far was the doctor’s office in New Jersey where we had to have medicals done to obtain our green cards. That was so disgusting that one didn’t want to even sit on the chairs. Time and time again, we encounter grim offices that serve as the place to go to obtain one form of documentation or another - ugh.
But back to the Driving Test. Well at least we went in person. Telling the story after the event, a friend told us that she had a Brazilian license that just “came in the post”. She hadn’t attended anything. Obviously, we hadn’t paid enough money.
We had been told that the process would take between a half hour and an hour. We took with us a lawyer from the same law firm that had helped us with our original visas. Remembering the time in March when we waited 8 hours to get our fingerprints taken, my expectations as to the amount of time this was going to take was not high to say the least.
But actually, it was reasonably efficient. We went in together, sat next to each other in what appeared to be an examination room and awaited instructions.
I had been told that taking a driving test in Brazil involves no actual driving or knowledge of any road based rules. Rather it involves taking lots of brain tests. Quite what the correlation is between brain teasers and driving I have no idea, but our limited amount of Portuguese was no handicap.
The first test consisted of a picture or series of pictures that needed to be completed. So for instance, the first one was a picture of a horse without a tail. There were then 6 further pictures each bearing a letter with the idea that you pick the picture that completed the horse. One could have picked an ear, a second head, a leg, a tail, a hoof or a muzzle. Funnily enough, we both picked the tail.
And so this is how the driving test worked. Forty brain teasers each getting progressively harder. I made it to 36, Steve to 39. Only afterwards did we discover that we only needed to hit 50%.
The second test was a sheet full of arrows pointing left, right, up and down. Some were filled in, some blank and some with dots. The idea was to shade in pencil over the arrows pointing right that were filled in, arrows pointing left that were left unfilled and arrows pointing down with a dot in them. After five minutes of that, you were really left with spots before the eyes.
The last of these tests comprised of 6 simple geometric shapes that had to be copied in boxes alongside the originals. There was a circle with a line through, a rectangle with a diagonal line, a star, a square with the corner missing, some funny shape comprising all of the above and a sixth that I have forgotten - it was obviously not that memorable.
So we passed that bit. Now I thought, on to the medical. We were after all at the doctors.
The “medical” comprised having our blood pressure taken and answering a series of questions, such as “do you smoke?”, “drink excessively?”, “take illegal drugs?” – the sort of thing that you would be mad to answer “yes” to.
Finally there was the eye exam. Now I wear contact lenses so I had no problem. Steve on the other hand wears glasses and without them really can’t see that well. Funny thing – needing glasses to see, but he had to remove his glasses for the test so not surprisingly didn’t do very well. No problem said the doctor; just remember to wear your glasses when you drive!
So 30 minutes, R$ 118 each later I think we have passed. The licenses will come in the post in about a week. Once we have them, Marcelo will be able to break the speed limit, jump red traffic lights and break the embargo that operates whereby our car cannot go into the center of the city at certain times on Thursday. All because now that we have our licenses, we can be the “designated” drivers for collecting penalty points.
I have no intention of driving here, not least because all the other road users have been through the same test that we did and it doesn’t inspire me with much confidence as to actual driving ability.
I’ll leave the driving to Marcelo and happily take his points, not that I think I will ever need to.
It started, not as one might expect at a driving test center as in the UK, or at the equivalent of the Department of Motor Vehicles as in the United States. Instead, we went to a dingy fourth floor doctor’s office. In my time of traveling around to different countries I always wonder why these places have to be quite so awful. The worst by far was the doctor’s office in New Jersey where we had to have medicals done to obtain our green cards. That was so disgusting that one didn’t want to even sit on the chairs. Time and time again, we encounter grim offices that serve as the place to go to obtain one form of documentation or another - ugh.
But back to the Driving Test. Well at least we went in person. Telling the story after the event, a friend told us that she had a Brazilian license that just “came in the post”. She hadn’t attended anything. Obviously, we hadn’t paid enough money.
We had been told that the process would take between a half hour and an hour. We took with us a lawyer from the same law firm that had helped us with our original visas. Remembering the time in March when we waited 8 hours to get our fingerprints taken, my expectations as to the amount of time this was going to take was not high to say the least.
But actually, it was reasonably efficient. We went in together, sat next to each other in what appeared to be an examination room and awaited instructions.
I had been told that taking a driving test in Brazil involves no actual driving or knowledge of any road based rules. Rather it involves taking lots of brain tests. Quite what the correlation is between brain teasers and driving I have no idea, but our limited amount of Portuguese was no handicap.
The first test consisted of a picture or series of pictures that needed to be completed. So for instance, the first one was a picture of a horse without a tail. There were then 6 further pictures each bearing a letter with the idea that you pick the picture that completed the horse. One could have picked an ear, a second head, a leg, a tail, a hoof or a muzzle. Funnily enough, we both picked the tail.
And so this is how the driving test worked. Forty brain teasers each getting progressively harder. I made it to 36, Steve to 39. Only afterwards did we discover that we only needed to hit 50%.
The second test was a sheet full of arrows pointing left, right, up and down. Some were filled in, some blank and some with dots. The idea was to shade in pencil over the arrows pointing right that were filled in, arrows pointing left that were left unfilled and arrows pointing down with a dot in them. After five minutes of that, you were really left with spots before the eyes.
The last of these tests comprised of 6 simple geometric shapes that had to be copied in boxes alongside the originals. There was a circle with a line through, a rectangle with a diagonal line, a star, a square with the corner missing, some funny shape comprising all of the above and a sixth that I have forgotten - it was obviously not that memorable.
So we passed that bit. Now I thought, on to the medical. We were after all at the doctors.
The “medical” comprised having our blood pressure taken and answering a series of questions, such as “do you smoke?”, “drink excessively?”, “take illegal drugs?” – the sort of thing that you would be mad to answer “yes” to.
Finally there was the eye exam. Now I wear contact lenses so I had no problem. Steve on the other hand wears glasses and without them really can’t see that well. Funny thing – needing glasses to see, but he had to remove his glasses for the test so not surprisingly didn’t do very well. No problem said the doctor; just remember to wear your glasses when you drive!
So 30 minutes, R$ 118 each later I think we have passed. The licenses will come in the post in about a week. Once we have them, Marcelo will be able to break the speed limit, jump red traffic lights and break the embargo that operates whereby our car cannot go into the center of the city at certain times on Thursday. All because now that we have our licenses, we can be the “designated” drivers for collecting penalty points.
I have no intention of driving here, not least because all the other road users have been through the same test that we did and it doesn’t inspire me with much confidence as to actual driving ability.
I’ll leave the driving to Marcelo and happily take his points, not that I think I will ever need to.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Elections
Last Sunday we had elections here in Brazil. It has to be said, it was a complicated affair.
Marcelo was trying to explain to me the intricacies of the system, which, with my limited Portuguese was not the easiest of tasks, but I think I got the gist of it. I came away believing that one needed a degree in Brazilian politics to understand it fully, but here, I hope, is a brief synopsis.
This was a general election, comprising votes for the President, Upper House and Lower House of Federal Government. There were races for the State Governors, plus the State Legislature and the Federal District. Marcelo was also trying to explain that he also voted for “Prefects” but I have no idea where they fit into the mix.
Running for President were Dilma (known by her first name and running for Lula’s party), Serra, (known by his surname running for the main opposition) and Marina (the Green party candidate).
Dilma was widely expected to win the required 50% of the vote needed for an outright win, but in the end fell short with 46.9% of the vote. This will now trigger a runoff election in a month’s time between her and Serra who won 32.6%. Marina drops out.
Quite why, with the Brazilians’ love of technology they simply didn’t have a “second preference” vote beats me and that would have eliminated the need for the runoff. So a re-do in 4 weeks.
The Upper House has a total of 81 Federal Senators, comprising 3 for each of the 26 States plus 3 for the Federal District of Brasilia, the capital. Of these, 54 were up for election and win by a simple majority.
The Lower House has 513 Deputies, all of whom were up for election, and are elected by proportional representation.
Add into the mix the State Governors, State Legislatures and the mysterious “prefects” makes for a very complicated ballot paper.
Now here’s where it gets interesting. As well as being identified by name and party, each candidate has a number. So for example, Serra was number 45, but then again so was the candidate of Serra’s party who was running for Governor of Sao Paulo. Maybe this is the number given to all candidates running for Governor in each State if they belong to Serra’s party. The Senator from the same party was number 451. The State Deputy was 45545 but then the Federal Deputy for Serra’s party was number 2588 – go figure.
I couldn’t understand why on earth there would be numbers as well as names but then someone said something to me that made me think, “of course”. In Brazil it is compulsory for everyone to vote but there are swathes of the country where illiteracy is rife. I guess people have cottoned onto the fact that numbers are easier to identify than names might be.
We don’t have Brazilian TV so haven’t been bombarded with endless political commercials, but what we have seen is masses of posters, banners, flags and bill boards advertising the names and numbers of the various candidates. I did wonder what it would be like after the election with all the detritus of the campaign, but as we were driving home late Sunday evening, I was struck by how quickly everything had been cleared away, and (for Sao Paulo) the streets were relatively clean. Civic pride after all.
But as with most developing countries we have experienced, there is a lot to learn about the democratic process. I was talking to a lady only today, and she had asked her maid who she had voted for. The reply came, “Dilma for President, Alckmin for State Governor.” When asked why she hadn’t voted for any of the other positions, the reply was, “My priest wrote the names of the people to vote for and he left the names of the other positions blank so I didn’t vote for anyone else.”
I guess as least she participated in the democratic process. I love the idea that you can tick the box for “None of the above”.
Marcelo was trying to explain to me the intricacies of the system, which, with my limited Portuguese was not the easiest of tasks, but I think I got the gist of it. I came away believing that one needed a degree in Brazilian politics to understand it fully, but here, I hope, is a brief synopsis.
This was a general election, comprising votes for the President, Upper House and Lower House of Federal Government. There were races for the State Governors, plus the State Legislature and the Federal District. Marcelo was also trying to explain that he also voted for “Prefects” but I have no idea where they fit into the mix.
Running for President were Dilma (known by her first name and running for Lula’s party), Serra, (known by his surname running for the main opposition) and Marina (the Green party candidate).
Dilma was widely expected to win the required 50% of the vote needed for an outright win, but in the end fell short with 46.9% of the vote. This will now trigger a runoff election in a month’s time between her and Serra who won 32.6%. Marina drops out.
Quite why, with the Brazilians’ love of technology they simply didn’t have a “second preference” vote beats me and that would have eliminated the need for the runoff. So a re-do in 4 weeks.
The Upper House has a total of 81 Federal Senators, comprising 3 for each of the 26 States plus 3 for the Federal District of Brasilia, the capital. Of these, 54 were up for election and win by a simple majority.
The Lower House has 513 Deputies, all of whom were up for election, and are elected by proportional representation.
Add into the mix the State Governors, State Legislatures and the mysterious “prefects” makes for a very complicated ballot paper.
Now here’s where it gets interesting. As well as being identified by name and party, each candidate has a number. So for example, Serra was number 45, but then again so was the candidate of Serra’s party who was running for Governor of Sao Paulo. Maybe this is the number given to all candidates running for Governor in each State if they belong to Serra’s party. The Senator from the same party was number 451. The State Deputy was 45545 but then the Federal Deputy for Serra’s party was number 2588 – go figure.
I couldn’t understand why on earth there would be numbers as well as names but then someone said something to me that made me think, “of course”. In Brazil it is compulsory for everyone to vote but there are swathes of the country where illiteracy is rife. I guess people have cottoned onto the fact that numbers are easier to identify than names might be.
We don’t have Brazilian TV so haven’t been bombarded with endless political commercials, but what we have seen is masses of posters, banners, flags and bill boards advertising the names and numbers of the various candidates. I did wonder what it would be like after the election with all the detritus of the campaign, but as we were driving home late Sunday evening, I was struck by how quickly everything had been cleared away, and (for Sao Paulo) the streets were relatively clean. Civic pride after all.
But as with most developing countries we have experienced, there is a lot to learn about the democratic process. I was talking to a lady only today, and she had asked her maid who she had voted for. The reply came, “Dilma for President, Alckmin for State Governor.” When asked why she hadn’t voted for any of the other positions, the reply was, “My priest wrote the names of the people to vote for and he left the names of the other positions blank so I didn’t vote for anyone else.”
I guess as least she participated in the democratic process. I love the idea that you can tick the box for “None of the above”.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Chickens and Charities Saturday September 18, 2010
One of the things that I have found most rewarding about having this whacky lifestyle is getting involved in local charities. There is always some good cause or another to support and over the years I have been on the committees of many fundraising groups.
Around the world, there are different levels of need and as you would expect, the poorer the country the more basic the need. In the Philippines, like most other third world countries, there is very little in the way of social support paid for by the government. In many ways, this has fostered a spirit of greater community understanding because if there is no help from family and community, sufferers are left to their own devices and will simply “go under”. Seeing communities come together in the face of adversity is a lesson to us all.
Conversely, in very developed countries, the state takes on all rolls of support to the point where families almost have the choice as to whether or not to abdicate responsibility for supporting family and community. Now that the developed world is facing burgeoning government debt, a lot of these services are being cut, so people are wondering how on earth they are going to cope with having to take on more responsibility for themselves. With an aging population, growing demand for health and personal care one wonders how much we are going to have to rebalance the support of the state with greater personal and community involvement.
I have seen firsthand the struggles of helpless people in developing countries, and by contrast, the wealth of the benefactors in the United States, pouring money into the arts. Where would the Guggenheim or the Metropolitan museum be with its benefactors? There is a place for both, of that I am in no doubt, but where physically handicapped patients have been chained to beds to stop them falling out, because there is no money for secure cots, it is truly an eye opener and I know where I would rather direct my efforts.
Here in Brazil, there is no shortage of need. There are a lot of very good local charities and no shortage of willing volunteers. Volunteering can take the form of hands on involvement day to day, or to organize and support fund raising activities. There is a place for everyone to apply their talents.
On Saturday I am going to the St Andrew's Ball where we all get to dance Scottish dances, listen to bagpipes and generally have a good time. The following weekend, the British Consul is offering to open his home and, with his wife, hold an evening of Jazz in order to raise money for a children’s charity. It is a great way for us to give back to the communities in which we live, whilst at the same time getting together with friends and dragging our husbands out for a pleasant evening - albeit in the name of charity.
One charity that caught my eye to support is a very simple idea of providing chickens for a local community in the north east of Brazil. 100 chickens plus feed will provide food for the community and once up and running will be self sustaining. What a great idea, based on the premise that if you give a man a meal, he is fed for a day, but teach him to fish and he will never be hungry again.
Each chicken is US$ 7.50 - a very small amount to us westerners but a huge sum for people living on less than US$ 2.00 per day.
I look around Sao Paulo and see the Favelas very close to my neighbourhood. Where I live, there is an oasis of calm, houses hidden by high fences, security cameras and guards. What must the people in the Favelas think when they see the opulence of our lifestyles in comparison to theirs.
I have no idea, but I give thanks and remind my children often that we are so lucky not to be in that position. The things we take totally for granted, primary needs such as shelter, health, hot water and comfort are beyond the greatest expectations for millions of people living beside us.
So I am happy to get involved, give back and do my bit. One chicken at a time.
Around the world, there are different levels of need and as you would expect, the poorer the country the more basic the need. In the Philippines, like most other third world countries, there is very little in the way of social support paid for by the government. In many ways, this has fostered a spirit of greater community understanding because if there is no help from family and community, sufferers are left to their own devices and will simply “go under”. Seeing communities come together in the face of adversity is a lesson to us all.
Conversely, in very developed countries, the state takes on all rolls of support to the point where families almost have the choice as to whether or not to abdicate responsibility for supporting family and community. Now that the developed world is facing burgeoning government debt, a lot of these services are being cut, so people are wondering how on earth they are going to cope with having to take on more responsibility for themselves. With an aging population, growing demand for health and personal care one wonders how much we are going to have to rebalance the support of the state with greater personal and community involvement.
I have seen firsthand the struggles of helpless people in developing countries, and by contrast, the wealth of the benefactors in the United States, pouring money into the arts. Where would the Guggenheim or the Metropolitan museum be with its benefactors? There is a place for both, of that I am in no doubt, but where physically handicapped patients have been chained to beds to stop them falling out, because there is no money for secure cots, it is truly an eye opener and I know where I would rather direct my efforts.
Here in Brazil, there is no shortage of need. There are a lot of very good local charities and no shortage of willing volunteers. Volunteering can take the form of hands on involvement day to day, or to organize and support fund raising activities. There is a place for everyone to apply their talents.
On Saturday I am going to the St Andrew's Ball where we all get to dance Scottish dances, listen to bagpipes and generally have a good time. The following weekend, the British Consul is offering to open his home and, with his wife, hold an evening of Jazz in order to raise money for a children’s charity. It is a great way for us to give back to the communities in which we live, whilst at the same time getting together with friends and dragging our husbands out for a pleasant evening - albeit in the name of charity.
One charity that caught my eye to support is a very simple idea of providing chickens for a local community in the north east of Brazil. 100 chickens plus feed will provide food for the community and once up and running will be self sustaining. What a great idea, based on the premise that if you give a man a meal, he is fed for a day, but teach him to fish and he will never be hungry again.
Each chicken is US$ 7.50 - a very small amount to us westerners but a huge sum for people living on less than US$ 2.00 per day.
I look around Sao Paulo and see the Favelas very close to my neighbourhood. Where I live, there is an oasis of calm, houses hidden by high fences, security cameras and guards. What must the people in the Favelas think when they see the opulence of our lifestyles in comparison to theirs.
I have no idea, but I give thanks and remind my children often that we are so lucky not to be in that position. The things we take totally for granted, primary needs such as shelter, health, hot water and comfort are beyond the greatest expectations for millions of people living beside us.
So I am happy to get involved, give back and do my bit. One chicken at a time.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Bad Hair Day. Thursday September 16, 2010
It is said that a woman’s crowning glory is her hair and all those of us that have suffered a really bad haircut, can empathise. I know because I have suffered my fair share.
One of the hardest challenges of moving so frequently, is finding new doctors, dentists, OBGYN’s etc., but by far the hardest challenge is to find a good hairdresser.
In my experience, word of mouth and recommendations are the best way to go. Okay, if you have a recommendation and you turn out not to like the particular service, it is usually easy to change or vote with your feet and just not go back. But go to a hairdresser and get a lousy cut and you are having a bad hair day for the next 5 or so weeks.
When we lived in Manila, I was very soon recommended a German guy by the name of Manfred. Manfred, I swear, used to put down his scissors to go and take a quick snort of some substance mid cut. But, he knew how to cut hair and that was all he did. No colouring, perms or blow drying for Manfred. He cut hair and boy was he good. And it didn’t matter what you said to him, he had his own ideas about what style was best for you and so he cut that style. Usually he was right. I used to hate going but I loved the result.
In Istanbul and France I found English girls - again word of mouth – that had “portable” hairdressing salons so that was easy – sort of.
I make no apology for the fact that I colour my hair. After all, I am far too young in this day and age to be grey which is certainly what I would be if nature were allowed to take its course. When I was in Paris I went to several salons before I found the English speaking “home service”. My experience there was that there is only bleach. Forget tinting, it is good old peroxide for blonds. With trepidation I let them start, but they were so slow that after a few foils, they were taking out and rinsing the first ones before continuing with the next. Salvation was in the form of the English girl that brought her products from “back home”
In the States, I was recommended a European girl and from the get-go, she had been fabulous. So much so, that in the eight months that I have been here, I have been back to her four times. As a consequence, I have not yet had to find a hairdresser here. But that fateful day is fast approaching. I am due to go back to the States in November and I have an appointment already scheduled but after that - helpppppppp. As a blond, there are not many salons used to dealing with streaked blond hair and with one exception, almost all the blonds I have seen here look like tigers with hideous stripes.
I have had a few recommendations here and sooner or later I am going to have to bite the proverbial bullet and just try them out. But this week I was having my nails done at the local hairdressing salon and watched with disbelief as the main colourist did a client’s hair. She had long, dark hair and wanted blond streaks put though. He piled her hair onto the top of her head and proceeded to take a huge chunk and back comb it to within 2 inches of her scalp. The hair that was left, he then proceeded to paint with dye, working the colour into the hair a bit like a plasterer would mix plaster and water – ugh. Each foil took about 3 or 4 minutes. Now. Given that my fabulous hairdresser in New Jersey could foil my entire head in around 30 minutes, I am in dread that not only is the result going to be awful, the process is going to take forever.
It also has to be said that my dog, a Fox Terrier is also having the same problem. Fox Terriers are not like most dogs, they too have hair that grows and has to be cut as opposed to most other dogs that have fur that sheds.
Tessie, in the States had a fabulous groomer who loved her almost as much as I do and whenever Tessie went for a haircut, would come out looking fabulous amongst canines.
So the first time I took her to the local dog parlour here, they did a great job. Fantastic, I thought, one less thing to worry about.
Since then they have cut her as if she is a Schnauzer, complete with shaggy underbelly and funny beard. The time after that I took a photo of a Fox Terrier and they managed to cut off her eyebrows so she looked more like a sheep than a dog, and this week they did a sort of okay job but when I got her home, I had to put her onto the kitchen counter top and gave her some finishing touches to make her look like a real Fox Terrier.
Seems it is not only the human world that has a “bad hair day”.
One of the hardest challenges of moving so frequently, is finding new doctors, dentists, OBGYN’s etc., but by far the hardest challenge is to find a good hairdresser.
In my experience, word of mouth and recommendations are the best way to go. Okay, if you have a recommendation and you turn out not to like the particular service, it is usually easy to change or vote with your feet and just not go back. But go to a hairdresser and get a lousy cut and you are having a bad hair day for the next 5 or so weeks.
When we lived in Manila, I was very soon recommended a German guy by the name of Manfred. Manfred, I swear, used to put down his scissors to go and take a quick snort of some substance mid cut. But, he knew how to cut hair and that was all he did. No colouring, perms or blow drying for Manfred. He cut hair and boy was he good. And it didn’t matter what you said to him, he had his own ideas about what style was best for you and so he cut that style. Usually he was right. I used to hate going but I loved the result.
In Istanbul and France I found English girls - again word of mouth – that had “portable” hairdressing salons so that was easy – sort of.
I make no apology for the fact that I colour my hair. After all, I am far too young in this day and age to be grey which is certainly what I would be if nature were allowed to take its course. When I was in Paris I went to several salons before I found the English speaking “home service”. My experience there was that there is only bleach. Forget tinting, it is good old peroxide for blonds. With trepidation I let them start, but they were so slow that after a few foils, they were taking out and rinsing the first ones before continuing with the next. Salvation was in the form of the English girl that brought her products from “back home”
In the States, I was recommended a European girl and from the get-go, she had been fabulous. So much so, that in the eight months that I have been here, I have been back to her four times. As a consequence, I have not yet had to find a hairdresser here. But that fateful day is fast approaching. I am due to go back to the States in November and I have an appointment already scheduled but after that - helpppppppp. As a blond, there are not many salons used to dealing with streaked blond hair and with one exception, almost all the blonds I have seen here look like tigers with hideous stripes.
I have had a few recommendations here and sooner or later I am going to have to bite the proverbial bullet and just try them out. But this week I was having my nails done at the local hairdressing salon and watched with disbelief as the main colourist did a client’s hair. She had long, dark hair and wanted blond streaks put though. He piled her hair onto the top of her head and proceeded to take a huge chunk and back comb it to within 2 inches of her scalp. The hair that was left, he then proceeded to paint with dye, working the colour into the hair a bit like a plasterer would mix plaster and water – ugh. Each foil took about 3 or 4 minutes. Now. Given that my fabulous hairdresser in New Jersey could foil my entire head in around 30 minutes, I am in dread that not only is the result going to be awful, the process is going to take forever.
It also has to be said that my dog, a Fox Terrier is also having the same problem. Fox Terriers are not like most dogs, they too have hair that grows and has to be cut as opposed to most other dogs that have fur that sheds.
Tessie, in the States had a fabulous groomer who loved her almost as much as I do and whenever Tessie went for a haircut, would come out looking fabulous amongst canines.
So the first time I took her to the local dog parlour here, they did a great job. Fantastic, I thought, one less thing to worry about.
Since then they have cut her as if she is a Schnauzer, complete with shaggy underbelly and funny beard. The time after that I took a photo of a Fox Terrier and they managed to cut off her eyebrows so she looked more like a sheep than a dog, and this week they did a sort of okay job but when I got her home, I had to put her onto the kitchen counter top and gave her some finishing touches to make her look like a real Fox Terrier.
Seems it is not only the human world that has a “bad hair day”.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Twenty Beds. Wednesday September 8th, 2010
I am currently sitting in the Continental airline’s lounge at Newark with a glass of champagne by my side and promising myself that before I board the plane I will have posted this blog.
I left Brazil on July 27th, more than 6 weeks ago, and I haven’t been home since. Whoever claimed that the jet set life is glamorous is an outright liar, unless of course you have the luxury of private jets, chauffer driven cars (come back Marcelo all is forgiven) and someone to pack and unpack. Well, Marcelo doesn’t count because I left him in Brazil so I have been chief organizer, packer, loader/unloader and driver.
The title of this blog is “twenty beds” and anyone that has done this type of travelling can empathise with me when I say that in the past 6 weeks; this is the number of times I have changed locations to sleep. Imagine packing and unpacking that many times to say nothing of loading and unloading the rental cars – of which I had 5.
Okay, I need to explain. We were always planning to go to the UK this summer for a family wedding, but the weekend after the family wedding, there was another wedding in Belgium and, as we were so close, it seemed madness not to go. I also planned a 50th birthday party for Steve for 80 of our closest family and friends at a place that I had never heard of, let alone visited.
Even the first leg of the journey, ( Sao Paulo to Newark) meant that I could spend 10 hours in the Princeton area and managed to fill the time with trips to the hairdressers, doctors, Motor Vehicle to get a new driving license, Barnes and Noble to pick up summer reading, have passport photographs taken for the children’s new passports, visited the bank to sort out a credit card for my college bound son and finally a trip to a friend’s house to drop 3 bags that we need State side but not in the UK. I was exhausted before I took the next leg of the trip from the USA to the UK.
As soon as I landed, I picked up a rental car and headed to see an old friend who was only in town that day. It would have been easier to give into the jet lag and not bother, but here is the nub of expat living. It has to be the one that goes away to make the effort to stay in touch with everyone “back home”. No one ever knows when we are going to be around, so unless we are the ones to make the effort, it is all too easy to fall into the “out of sight, out of mind” mentality.
So although it has been an exhausting trip, getting our son into University, our daughter back to boarding school, visiting 2 colleges for our daughter, 10 days in Maine, trips to Boston on the way there and back, 2 trips to Washington DC and a few days in Princeton I feel a huge sense of achievement for having planned and expedited the whole thing with only very minor glitches.
I managed a game of bridge, the first for several months, more coffees, afternoon teas; lunches and dinners than are good for my waistline but I actually enjoyed every minute of it. We attended a gallery opening in Philadelphia, managed to melt the plastic on my credit card with all the shoppping and survived with only two suitcases of clothes. Thank you to everyone that helped plan all of the above – I loved seeing all of you and am only sorry that I didn’t get to see everyone.
That said, by the end of last week my 15 year old daughter and I were constantly saying “I can’t wait for next Wednesday”. Even Steve admitted to me that “he is ready for me to come home”. I think 4 weeks of fending for himself is more than enough.
Tomorrow I will hit the ground running to pick up my life in Brazil. There is a committee meeting of the charity I am helping out with, but I think I will be too late for that. But Steve has arranged Bridge for Thursday evening; we have a reception for Friday evening and dinner on Saturday with friends. Oh and a concert on Sunday afternoon. I will walk the dog, tackle the laundry and hit the supermarket.
I have to say, for all the exhaustion I plead, I wouldn’t change a minute of it.
I left Brazil on July 27th, more than 6 weeks ago, and I haven’t been home since. Whoever claimed that the jet set life is glamorous is an outright liar, unless of course you have the luxury of private jets, chauffer driven cars (come back Marcelo all is forgiven) and someone to pack and unpack. Well, Marcelo doesn’t count because I left him in Brazil so I have been chief organizer, packer, loader/unloader and driver.
The title of this blog is “twenty beds” and anyone that has done this type of travelling can empathise with me when I say that in the past 6 weeks; this is the number of times I have changed locations to sleep. Imagine packing and unpacking that many times to say nothing of loading and unloading the rental cars – of which I had 5.
Okay, I need to explain. We were always planning to go to the UK this summer for a family wedding, but the weekend after the family wedding, there was another wedding in Belgium and, as we were so close, it seemed madness not to go. I also planned a 50th birthday party for Steve for 80 of our closest family and friends at a place that I had never heard of, let alone visited.
Even the first leg of the journey, ( Sao Paulo to Newark) meant that I could spend 10 hours in the Princeton area and managed to fill the time with trips to the hairdressers, doctors, Motor Vehicle to get a new driving license, Barnes and Noble to pick up summer reading, have passport photographs taken for the children’s new passports, visited the bank to sort out a credit card for my college bound son and finally a trip to a friend’s house to drop 3 bags that we need State side but not in the UK. I was exhausted before I took the next leg of the trip from the USA to the UK.
As soon as I landed, I picked up a rental car and headed to see an old friend who was only in town that day. It would have been easier to give into the jet lag and not bother, but here is the nub of expat living. It has to be the one that goes away to make the effort to stay in touch with everyone “back home”. No one ever knows when we are going to be around, so unless we are the ones to make the effort, it is all too easy to fall into the “out of sight, out of mind” mentality.
So although it has been an exhausting trip, getting our son into University, our daughter back to boarding school, visiting 2 colleges for our daughter, 10 days in Maine, trips to Boston on the way there and back, 2 trips to Washington DC and a few days in Princeton I feel a huge sense of achievement for having planned and expedited the whole thing with only very minor glitches.
I managed a game of bridge, the first for several months, more coffees, afternoon teas; lunches and dinners than are good for my waistline but I actually enjoyed every minute of it. We attended a gallery opening in Philadelphia, managed to melt the plastic on my credit card with all the shoppping and survived with only two suitcases of clothes. Thank you to everyone that helped plan all of the above – I loved seeing all of you and am only sorry that I didn’t get to see everyone.
That said, by the end of last week my 15 year old daughter and I were constantly saying “I can’t wait for next Wednesday”. Even Steve admitted to me that “he is ready for me to come home”. I think 4 weeks of fending for himself is more than enough.
Tomorrow I will hit the ground running to pick up my life in Brazil. There is a committee meeting of the charity I am helping out with, but I think I will be too late for that. But Steve has arranged Bridge for Thursday evening; we have a reception for Friday evening and dinner on Saturday with friends. Oh and a concert on Sunday afternoon. I will walk the dog, tackle the laundry and hit the supermarket.
I have to say, for all the exhaustion I plead, I wouldn’t change a minute of it.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Women are from Venus. Tuesday July 20, 2010
There is a reason why God decided that women will be the sex to bear children. It is so simple. We women have a pain threshold that no man could ever match. I think I read somewhere that if it were up to men to bring children into the world; the human race would die out within a few generations. Today was a case in point.
Both of our children have to have their wisdom teeth removed. Charles at 18 is about the right age and Emma at 15, is totally ahead of the game – but then she always has been.
Now that we are here in Brazil, I wanted to be the “nursing” mum, so rather than them have it done in the United States, I thought it would be best all round if it were done here and I could look after them post operatively and do the “mummy” thing.
A new friend here had raved about her dentist and so a few phone calls later, we had a recommendation for an oral surgeon. Not sure that our dentist in the United States was totally comfortable with the idea of us doing this but as long as the teeth were removed…. “Whatever”.
So a couple of weeks ago we went for our pre op consultation. This in itself was an experience. Given that my Portuguese is still pretty basic and her English ran to about 10 words we actually communicated pretty well. Thank goodness that words like “anesthetic,” “allergies” and “analgesic” translate so easily.
So the appointments were set for this morning. I checked with Marcelo, “how long to get from the house to the dentist?” He advised about an hour allowing for traffic. I then added on 15 minutes but forgot that he had already added on 15 minutes so we were 30 minutes early.
The dentist was quite clearly relived to see that in all the communication, we had arrived on the right day at the right time. I also showed her the medications she had prescribed and she was also relieved to see that the medications to be taken “one hour before surgery” had been ingested.
But back to the original point.
When asked “who is going first?” Emma put up her hand. No doubt she was game. She went in and when gestured by the surgeon to sit behind her in the operating surgery, I gracefully declined. My own blood I can cope with, someone else’s I am not too good.
Fifty minutes later, she emerged. Actually the nurse emerged first with a thumbs up –all was fine. Emma came out with her newly extracted teeth in a tiny plastic yellow handbag, clutching an ice pack to her face. She proclaimed that it "wasn’t as bad as she thought," and sat down to read the book she had brought with her
Phew – I thought.
So in went Charles. I heard the howls of pain and after a few minutes couldn’t bear it and so went into the surgery to see the surgeon with only the anesthetic in hand. Seems that the pre anesthetic wasn’t doing its stuff and Charles was in pain from the needle. I took a deep breath and went back outside. Every ten minutes that passed without a howl from Charles was a bonus. It got to a point where I would gladly have traded places with him to relieve him of the pain and discomfort.
So we made it home. Painkillers every four hours. Charles is counting the minutes until the next one. He is lying on the sofa, milking the pain for all it is worth. Emma’s recall is that it wasn’t too bad. Charles wants us to know every gory detail. Both have swollen mouths, discomfort and the thought that in a few month’s time they will be doing this all over again.
Charles is terrified at the thought.
Emma’s mantra is “suck it up”.
I rest my case. Women really are from Venus. Men really are from Mars
Both of our children have to have their wisdom teeth removed. Charles at 18 is about the right age and Emma at 15, is totally ahead of the game – but then she always has been.
Now that we are here in Brazil, I wanted to be the “nursing” mum, so rather than them have it done in the United States, I thought it would be best all round if it were done here and I could look after them post operatively and do the “mummy” thing.
A new friend here had raved about her dentist and so a few phone calls later, we had a recommendation for an oral surgeon. Not sure that our dentist in the United States was totally comfortable with the idea of us doing this but as long as the teeth were removed…. “Whatever”.
So a couple of weeks ago we went for our pre op consultation. This in itself was an experience. Given that my Portuguese is still pretty basic and her English ran to about 10 words we actually communicated pretty well. Thank goodness that words like “anesthetic,” “allergies” and “analgesic” translate so easily.
So the appointments were set for this morning. I checked with Marcelo, “how long to get from the house to the dentist?” He advised about an hour allowing for traffic. I then added on 15 minutes but forgot that he had already added on 15 minutes so we were 30 minutes early.
The dentist was quite clearly relived to see that in all the communication, we had arrived on the right day at the right time. I also showed her the medications she had prescribed and she was also relieved to see that the medications to be taken “one hour before surgery” had been ingested.
But back to the original point.
When asked “who is going first?” Emma put up her hand. No doubt she was game. She went in and when gestured by the surgeon to sit behind her in the operating surgery, I gracefully declined. My own blood I can cope with, someone else’s I am not too good.
Fifty minutes later, she emerged. Actually the nurse emerged first with a thumbs up –all was fine. Emma came out with her newly extracted teeth in a tiny plastic yellow handbag, clutching an ice pack to her face. She proclaimed that it "wasn’t as bad as she thought," and sat down to read the book she had brought with her
Phew – I thought.
So in went Charles. I heard the howls of pain and after a few minutes couldn’t bear it and so went into the surgery to see the surgeon with only the anesthetic in hand. Seems that the pre anesthetic wasn’t doing its stuff and Charles was in pain from the needle. I took a deep breath and went back outside. Every ten minutes that passed without a howl from Charles was a bonus. It got to a point where I would gladly have traded places with him to relieve him of the pain and discomfort.
So we made it home. Painkillers every four hours. Charles is counting the minutes until the next one. He is lying on the sofa, milking the pain for all it is worth. Emma’s recall is that it wasn’t too bad. Charles wants us to know every gory detail. Both have swollen mouths, discomfort and the thought that in a few month’s time they will be doing this all over again.
Charles is terrified at the thought.
Emma’s mantra is “suck it up”.
I rest my case. Women really are from Venus. Men really are from Mars
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Go Karts Sunday July 11, 2010
I slept very fitfully last night and when I did sleep, I had nightmares. Shivers go down my spine when I think about the events of yesterday, which I hasten to add were all of my own making and nothing to do with the security of living here.
On Friday it was Charles’s 18th birthday and for a treat, we suggested that we take him Go–Karting. We had done this in the States and Steve recalled doing something similar in the UK. In the States, Charles did it when he was about 14 or 15 years of age, so I didn’t give it a second thought about allowing Emma to participate in her brother’s fun day out.
So it was booked and we headed off. It has always been our intention that I would back out at the last minute and Marcelo would be able to take my place. He was I think quite genuinely surprised and pleased to be included.
I started having misgivings about Emma when I saw just how fast these Karts were going and how easy it was to lose control and spin off the track. The track was very long and had several quite long straights and even more hairpin bends than Silverstone. When we arrived, we watched a race that had only 6 participants so I thought at the very least, Emma could bimble around the track keep out of everyone’s way.
They went off and got kitted out in overalls, helmets, balaclavas and gloves. Emma was in a very fetching pink with the word “Dolly” written on the back. It wasn’t a joke, but rather the name of a local juice being advertised, but I guess they didn’t realize the significance of the translation because all the men’s suits had the same logo on them.
There were the usual waivers to be signed but as they were in Portuguese we had no idea what they were saying, although I could hazard a guess. They went off for briefing , again in Portuguese and it suddenly dawned on me that I was about to let my 15 year old hurtle round a track with a machine that it is claimed could reach 85 kilometers (53 miles) per hour, wearing nothing but a canvas suit and helmet for protection.
I should have called a halt there and then, especially when I saw that instead of 6 drivers there were 21 for their race. I also saw that
a. Emma was the only girl present
b. She was clearly one of the youngest
c. At least 12 of the other drivers were kitted out in professional looking leather overalls with their own helmets, gloves and special shoes. This was something they did regularly and with serious intent.
I quickly came to the conclusion that this wasn’t going to be a nice gentle trip in a go-kart. This race was going to be Formula 1 with testosterone.
The idea was that there would be two or three warm up laps, during which time each driver would post a lap time to determine who got pole position on the grid.
Emma, bless her, managed to hit a pole in the pit lane, stall her engine and made it out of the pits by going over several concrete ramps rather than driving on the tarmac.
I was horrified when I saw the speed at which these men raced their karts. In front of me there was the end of the longest straight, followed by a very wide sweeping bend. I wasn’t at all concerned about Steve, Charles or Marcelo, I could only think about Emma and how absolutely stupid I was to even think that she could do it. She made it round this first bend, and the second but on the third, she flew straight up a bank and ended up hitting a tree. The boys and Marcelo came and went round twice more before I next saw Emma. She rounded the bend in front of me, but didn’t make it and hurtled off the track into (actually through) the tyre wall.
I screamed, and then I screamed again…….and then some more for good measure.
Fortunately, the marshals were stopping everyone to line them up for the start of the race proper. These remember were just the warm up laps. I couldn’t get onto the track because of the barriers but I leant over and I screamed at Steve to get her out, I screamed at Marcelo to tell the marshals to get her out and I screamed at every marshal I could see to get her out. My next plan was to jump the barrier and drag her out myself. Fortunately it wasn’t necessary.
Emma was fine, pride a bit dented but none the worse for wear. It turned out that her brakes were pretty suspect and in the two laps that she did manage, as well as the post, the tree and the tyre wall, she was also hit by another driver and, at a different bend, ended up spinning. Steve also saw her sitting majestically in her kart in a location which no one has ever been before.
She was glad that she had tried, but her biggest disappointment of the day was that there was no photographic evidence of the crash to post on Face Book. Teenagers have weird priorities these days. I was terrified for her, but she thought it was cool.
On Friday it was Charles’s 18th birthday and for a treat, we suggested that we take him Go–Karting. We had done this in the States and Steve recalled doing something similar in the UK. In the States, Charles did it when he was about 14 or 15 years of age, so I didn’t give it a second thought about allowing Emma to participate in her brother’s fun day out.
So it was booked and we headed off. It has always been our intention that I would back out at the last minute and Marcelo would be able to take my place. He was I think quite genuinely surprised and pleased to be included.
I started having misgivings about Emma when I saw just how fast these Karts were going and how easy it was to lose control and spin off the track. The track was very long and had several quite long straights and even more hairpin bends than Silverstone. When we arrived, we watched a race that had only 6 participants so I thought at the very least, Emma could bimble around the track keep out of everyone’s way.
They went off and got kitted out in overalls, helmets, balaclavas and gloves. Emma was in a very fetching pink with the word “Dolly” written on the back. It wasn’t a joke, but rather the name of a local juice being advertised, but I guess they didn’t realize the significance of the translation because all the men’s suits had the same logo on them.
There were the usual waivers to be signed but as they were in Portuguese we had no idea what they were saying, although I could hazard a guess. They went off for briefing , again in Portuguese and it suddenly dawned on me that I was about to let my 15 year old hurtle round a track with a machine that it is claimed could reach 85 kilometers (53 miles) per hour, wearing nothing but a canvas suit and helmet for protection.
I should have called a halt there and then, especially when I saw that instead of 6 drivers there were 21 for their race. I also saw that
a. Emma was the only girl present
b. She was clearly one of the youngest
c. At least 12 of the other drivers were kitted out in professional looking leather overalls with their own helmets, gloves and special shoes. This was something they did regularly and with serious intent.
I quickly came to the conclusion that this wasn’t going to be a nice gentle trip in a go-kart. This race was going to be Formula 1 with testosterone.
The idea was that there would be two or three warm up laps, during which time each driver would post a lap time to determine who got pole position on the grid.
Emma, bless her, managed to hit a pole in the pit lane, stall her engine and made it out of the pits by going over several concrete ramps rather than driving on the tarmac.
I was horrified when I saw the speed at which these men raced their karts. In front of me there was the end of the longest straight, followed by a very wide sweeping bend. I wasn’t at all concerned about Steve, Charles or Marcelo, I could only think about Emma and how absolutely stupid I was to even think that she could do it. She made it round this first bend, and the second but on the third, she flew straight up a bank and ended up hitting a tree. The boys and Marcelo came and went round twice more before I next saw Emma. She rounded the bend in front of me, but didn’t make it and hurtled off the track into (actually through) the tyre wall.
I screamed, and then I screamed again…….and then some more for good measure.
Fortunately, the marshals were stopping everyone to line them up for the start of the race proper. These remember were just the warm up laps. I couldn’t get onto the track because of the barriers but I leant over and I screamed at Steve to get her out, I screamed at Marcelo to tell the marshals to get her out and I screamed at every marshal I could see to get her out. My next plan was to jump the barrier and drag her out myself. Fortunately it wasn’t necessary.
Emma was fine, pride a bit dented but none the worse for wear. It turned out that her brakes were pretty suspect and in the two laps that she did manage, as well as the post, the tree and the tyre wall, she was also hit by another driver and, at a different bend, ended up spinning. Steve also saw her sitting majestically in her kart in a location which no one has ever been before.
She was glad that she had tried, but her biggest disappointment of the day was that there was no photographic evidence of the crash to post on Face Book. Teenagers have weird priorities these days. I was terrified for her, but she thought it was cool.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Driving Thursday July 8, 2010
Life in Sao Paulo is gaining some semblance of normality. We have routines, favourite shops, restaurants and entertainment and I have even started getting involved with local charities and organizations. Days have some sort of structure that leads one to believe that life is “normal” albeit in a foreign land.
But, there are some things that will always mean that we are “foreigners” here. Not least, because the minute anyone sees me let alone hears me mangling the Portuguese language, it is obvious that I am not Brazilian.
A lot of ex-pats here drive themselves. I take my hat off to them because I have absolutely no intention of getting a local driving license and attempting to do the same. This is said by someone who drove in the Philippines, in Istanbul and could give a Parisian a run for their money around the Arc De Triomphe. No, there is something about Sao Paulo traffic , road works and pot holes that leads me to believe it is best left to the professionals and those courageous or is it mad enough to drive themselves.
So, what I am about to tell you here is anecdotal, stories from people that I have met that have gone through the process themselves.
It seems that there are three ways to obtain a drivers license. The first is to actually go through the process, take the test and do it the hard way. The second is to pay someone to take the test for you and the third is just to pay for it.
It is, or so I am told, a common insult to shout out the window of a car to another driver “I see you paid someone to get your license”. The inference being that their driving is so bad that they couldn’t possibly have passed a test on their own account.
I also heard from a friend who’s eldest son is about to go through the process here, that for an “extra” fee, the written part of the test could be taken by someone else. My friend, who actually wants his son to learn to drive, was pretty appalled. It turns out that the government has introduced a system whereby before taking any part of the written test, you have to have your fingerprints taken and scanned into the machine. It seems that the cheats have devised a way of making gelatin fingerprints so that the machine can be duped into thinking that the legitimate person is taking the test.
But the best story I have heard so far involves getting points on one’s license. As in most countries, various offences carry a points system and too many points can disqualify a license. An admirable system you might think to get the bad drivers off the road. Well, someone I was talking to told me that when she arrived in Sao Paulo, she decided to take a defensive driving course to give her more confidence about driving here. She started talking to the other participants, one of whom was an elderly gentleman, who it turned out, had over 1000 points on his license and was attending the course as part of the system to rehabilitate bad drivers. It turns out that the son of this elderly man had a trucking business and every time any one of the drivers received anything in the way of points, they designated this elderly man as the recipient and so the points were added to the old man’s license. It turns out that this guy doesn’t even drive any more; he just keeps his license to collect points and keep them off the licenses of the truck drivers.
This, it seems, is absolutely legal! Another friend who has 4 children living in the UK has made them all take the Brazilian driving test and get local licenses for the same reason. Her children don’t live here, and chances are that they never will. But their licenses are very handy when either of the parents gets caught speeding and issued with a ticket.
But even some professional drivers have their limits. Next week, I am taking the children to Rio de Janeiro for the weekend and rather than fly up, I thought it would be good to take the coast road, which by all accounts is a beautiful, albeit long drive. We have been thinking about what to do when we get there, whether to send Marcelo back with the car and hire a local driver, or whether to keep Marcelo with us for the weekend.
The decision was rather made for us when Marcelo announced that he really didn’t want to drive in Rio. Sao Paulo, it seems is one thing, Rio is something completely different and even Marcelo has his limits.
But, there are some things that will always mean that we are “foreigners” here. Not least, because the minute anyone sees me let alone hears me mangling the Portuguese language, it is obvious that I am not Brazilian.
A lot of ex-pats here drive themselves. I take my hat off to them because I have absolutely no intention of getting a local driving license and attempting to do the same. This is said by someone who drove in the Philippines, in Istanbul and could give a Parisian a run for their money around the Arc De Triomphe. No, there is something about Sao Paulo traffic , road works and pot holes that leads me to believe it is best left to the professionals and those courageous or is it mad enough to drive themselves.
So, what I am about to tell you here is anecdotal, stories from people that I have met that have gone through the process themselves.
It seems that there are three ways to obtain a drivers license. The first is to actually go through the process, take the test and do it the hard way. The second is to pay someone to take the test for you and the third is just to pay for it.
It is, or so I am told, a common insult to shout out the window of a car to another driver “I see you paid someone to get your license”. The inference being that their driving is so bad that they couldn’t possibly have passed a test on their own account.
I also heard from a friend who’s eldest son is about to go through the process here, that for an “extra” fee, the written part of the test could be taken by someone else. My friend, who actually wants his son to learn to drive, was pretty appalled. It turns out that the government has introduced a system whereby before taking any part of the written test, you have to have your fingerprints taken and scanned into the machine. It seems that the cheats have devised a way of making gelatin fingerprints so that the machine can be duped into thinking that the legitimate person is taking the test.
But the best story I have heard so far involves getting points on one’s license. As in most countries, various offences carry a points system and too many points can disqualify a license. An admirable system you might think to get the bad drivers off the road. Well, someone I was talking to told me that when she arrived in Sao Paulo, she decided to take a defensive driving course to give her more confidence about driving here. She started talking to the other participants, one of whom was an elderly gentleman, who it turned out, had over 1000 points on his license and was attending the course as part of the system to rehabilitate bad drivers. It turns out that the son of this elderly man had a trucking business and every time any one of the drivers received anything in the way of points, they designated this elderly man as the recipient and so the points were added to the old man’s license. It turns out that this guy doesn’t even drive any more; he just keeps his license to collect points and keep them off the licenses of the truck drivers.
This, it seems, is absolutely legal! Another friend who has 4 children living in the UK has made them all take the Brazilian driving test and get local licenses for the same reason. Her children don’t live here, and chances are that they never will. But their licenses are very handy when either of the parents gets caught speeding and issued with a ticket.
But even some professional drivers have their limits. Next week, I am taking the children to Rio de Janeiro for the weekend and rather than fly up, I thought it would be good to take the coast road, which by all accounts is a beautiful, albeit long drive. We have been thinking about what to do when we get there, whether to send Marcelo back with the car and hire a local driver, or whether to keep Marcelo with us for the weekend.
The decision was rather made for us when Marcelo announced that he really didn’t want to drive in Rio. Sao Paulo, it seems is one thing, Rio is something completely different and even Marcelo has his limits.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Man nesting. Sunday June 20, 2010
Our furniture arrived six weeks ago tomorrow. Six weeks is psychologically important to me because it is the length of time I give myself in any move to have the house straightened. This includes hanging curtains, pictures and getting rid of all the packing boxes. My mantra is that if it isn’t done within this six week period, then it won’t get done at all. Boxes left unpacked will never be unpacked until they reappear in the next location.
The key reason for this is that we never know how long we are going to be in any given location. In 23 years of marriage, we have moved house 13 times. The shortest was Israel ( 2 months ) the longest the United States, ( 4 years in the same house).
So this week I have had two men in the house most days, hanging pictures and curtain poles. They are the men that work in the development and by day, they keep the communal areas meticulously clean, do all the gardens and take care of the swimming pools. At the end of the day, they freelance, so in my case it is hanging about 150 pictures and changing light bulbs (there is probably a whole blog on light bulbs to come in case you were wondering what the big deal is on changing light bulbs).
Now it is the weekend and rather than have the two handymen come back, Steve wants to finish off. As he sees it, having him contribute in some manner is an essential part of the home making process – over a few drinks the other night we decided it must be “man nesting”.
Man nesting very categorically involves power tools, testosterone and the oldest pair of jeans in the wardrobe. In Steve’s case it also means announcing to the family that this weekend is when he will be Mr. D.I.Y. and in honor of the event he isn’t going to shave. More manliness.
He used to be in the Royal Navy and an everlasting trait is that everything has to have a place. In particular, the bathroom. Towel rails have to be hung in just the right place and he wasn’t prepared to leave that very important task to the gardeners. So as I type this, my side of the bathroom is littered with rawl plugs, spirit levels and all manner of power tools as the original hooks and towel rails get taken down and replaced with more appropriate hardware in more appropriate places.
Steve doesn’t do much in the way of D.I.Y. but when he does, it is methodically planned and generally very well executed. He really does have the “measure twice/cut once” mentality – I guess from having got it wrong in the past. He is also a great believer that if you are going to do anything, then having the right equipment is absolutely essential. More power tools and another trip to hardware store are in order.
Trying to translate “spackle” (poly-filler for the Brits) was interesting but we found it in the end.
But as it is when men barbeque, they have to have an assistant to hand them everything the minute it is needed. That assistant of course is me. Actually Steve isn’t too bad and the big plus is that he does actually clear up after himself. Probably because he doesn’t trust me to put said power tools away in the right place.
So by this afternoon we should be finished. At this stage I would usually have the housewarming party all planned as well, but a lot of people are away in July and August to avoid the “freezing” Sao Paulo winter (the locals are complaining of the cold but it is mid winter’s day tomorrow and the temperature is 28 degrees Celsius/82 degrees Fahrenheit) so we are now looking at having a party in September. The advantage of that is that we will have met more people to invite, and maybe it will be cool enough to actually use the fireplace – something we must do since I managed to find some very nice firewood and even pre-cut kindling (which Steve was a bit disappointed by since he now has no excuse to get his axe out).
Today is Father’s Day in the United States. I think a day of testosterone fueled man nesting is the perfect way to spend it. Oh, and watching Brazil play the Ivory Coast in the World Cup. The only thing missing is a Vuvuzela.
The key reason for this is that we never know how long we are going to be in any given location. In 23 years of marriage, we have moved house 13 times. The shortest was Israel ( 2 months ) the longest the United States, ( 4 years in the same house).
So this week I have had two men in the house most days, hanging pictures and curtain poles. They are the men that work in the development and by day, they keep the communal areas meticulously clean, do all the gardens and take care of the swimming pools. At the end of the day, they freelance, so in my case it is hanging about 150 pictures and changing light bulbs (there is probably a whole blog on light bulbs to come in case you were wondering what the big deal is on changing light bulbs).
Now it is the weekend and rather than have the two handymen come back, Steve wants to finish off. As he sees it, having him contribute in some manner is an essential part of the home making process – over a few drinks the other night we decided it must be “man nesting”.
Man nesting very categorically involves power tools, testosterone and the oldest pair of jeans in the wardrobe. In Steve’s case it also means announcing to the family that this weekend is when he will be Mr. D.I.Y. and in honor of the event he isn’t going to shave. More manliness.
He used to be in the Royal Navy and an everlasting trait is that everything has to have a place. In particular, the bathroom. Towel rails have to be hung in just the right place and he wasn’t prepared to leave that very important task to the gardeners. So as I type this, my side of the bathroom is littered with rawl plugs, spirit levels and all manner of power tools as the original hooks and towel rails get taken down and replaced with more appropriate hardware in more appropriate places.
Steve doesn’t do much in the way of D.I.Y. but when he does, it is methodically planned and generally very well executed. He really does have the “measure twice/cut once” mentality – I guess from having got it wrong in the past. He is also a great believer that if you are going to do anything, then having the right equipment is absolutely essential. More power tools and another trip to hardware store are in order.
Trying to translate “spackle” (poly-filler for the Brits) was interesting but we found it in the end.
But as it is when men barbeque, they have to have an assistant to hand them everything the minute it is needed. That assistant of course is me. Actually Steve isn’t too bad and the big plus is that he does actually clear up after himself. Probably because he doesn’t trust me to put said power tools away in the right place.
So by this afternoon we should be finished. At this stage I would usually have the housewarming party all planned as well, but a lot of people are away in July and August to avoid the “freezing” Sao Paulo winter (the locals are complaining of the cold but it is mid winter’s day tomorrow and the temperature is 28 degrees Celsius/82 degrees Fahrenheit) so we are now looking at having a party in September. The advantage of that is that we will have met more people to invite, and maybe it will be cool enough to actually use the fireplace – something we must do since I managed to find some very nice firewood and even pre-cut kindling (which Steve was a bit disappointed by since he now has no excuse to get his axe out).
Today is Father’s Day in the United States. I think a day of testosterone fueled man nesting is the perfect way to spend it. Oh, and watching Brazil play the Ivory Coast in the World Cup. The only thing missing is a Vuvuzela.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Reality check 3. Monday June 14, 2010
On Friday of last week, Charles had an experience that again reminds us of the reality of life in Brazil and why we have Marcelo to look after us.
Emma and I had just arrived back from the United States, and, with a mountain of laundry ahead of me after 2 weeks of being away, plus the general chaos of returning home, there was no way I was going anywhere that day. Of course Tessie the Fox Terrier didn’t understand that I wasn’t going to be walking her and with Emma feigning exhaustion it was left to Charles to take her to the park.
We have a choice of three parks, depending upon the amount of time we have to walk her. We have the nearest park, “Severo Gomes” which is the smallest and we can be there and back in about an hour. Parque de Povo is bigger and further away and takes about an hour and a half, but our favourite is Parque Ibirapuera which is great if we have a couple of hours to spare.
The park of choice last Friday was Severo Gomes. It is the one that I have blogged about before where, on any given morning there are keep fit classes, Tai Chi instruction and all manner of people stretching and contorting their bodies into odd shapes.
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when Charles and Marcelo arrived. Unbeknown to Charles, Marcelo had been watching a couple of motorcyclists in the rear view mirror. He was concerned that they had been following the car for a while.
Now, it has to be said that Marcelo is always concerned when he sees motorcyclists either in obvious pairs or two people on the same bike. Opportunistic robbers it seems, always hunt in packs. One is there to distract, whilst the other does the actual robbery, or one is driving and the other grabs whatever they can.
On this occasion, there were two bikes tailing the car. When they arrived at the park, Marcelo made Charles wait in the car for several minutes whilst he watched what they were up to. It seems that they too had stopped, presumably waiting to see who or what would get out of the car.
Eventually, Charles was let out of the car and Marcelo followed him into the park. At this point, Marcelo was obviously feeling very uncomfortable with the situation and un-holstered his gun. I have never seen him do this before, he normally just casually opens his jacket so that everyone can see that he is carrying a weapon, but something that day must have given him greater cause for concern and he decided that just showing that he was carrying wasn’t enough.
He then called Charles back and started talking to him. Quite what was said is not known. Not least because Charles has no Portuguese and Marcelo no English. But it was enough for the two motorcyclists to see that Charles was most definitely there with Marcelo and I gather that at that point, they turned their bikes around and headed off.
Marcelo 2, robbers 0.
Charles was then able to head off on his walk around the park. Marcelo got back in the car and started “curb crawling” on the road that surrounds the park, following Charles at about 3 miles an hour.
Later that evening, Steve had a call from head office in the United States. Marcelo must have filed a report, presumably because he un-holstered his gun and only then did we realize the significance of what had happened. Charles, although aware that the gun had come out, did not appreciate the potential seriousness of the incident and I am sure in his teenage way, thought it was “cool”.
Time to find a different park methinks.
Emma and I had just arrived back from the United States, and, with a mountain of laundry ahead of me after 2 weeks of being away, plus the general chaos of returning home, there was no way I was going anywhere that day. Of course Tessie the Fox Terrier didn’t understand that I wasn’t going to be walking her and with Emma feigning exhaustion it was left to Charles to take her to the park.
We have a choice of three parks, depending upon the amount of time we have to walk her. We have the nearest park, “Severo Gomes” which is the smallest and we can be there and back in about an hour. Parque de Povo is bigger and further away and takes about an hour and a half, but our favourite is Parque Ibirapuera which is great if we have a couple of hours to spare.
The park of choice last Friday was Severo Gomes. It is the one that I have blogged about before where, on any given morning there are keep fit classes, Tai Chi instruction and all manner of people stretching and contorting their bodies into odd shapes.
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when Charles and Marcelo arrived. Unbeknown to Charles, Marcelo had been watching a couple of motorcyclists in the rear view mirror. He was concerned that they had been following the car for a while.
Now, it has to be said that Marcelo is always concerned when he sees motorcyclists either in obvious pairs or two people on the same bike. Opportunistic robbers it seems, always hunt in packs. One is there to distract, whilst the other does the actual robbery, or one is driving and the other grabs whatever they can.
On this occasion, there were two bikes tailing the car. When they arrived at the park, Marcelo made Charles wait in the car for several minutes whilst he watched what they were up to. It seems that they too had stopped, presumably waiting to see who or what would get out of the car.
Eventually, Charles was let out of the car and Marcelo followed him into the park. At this point, Marcelo was obviously feeling very uncomfortable with the situation and un-holstered his gun. I have never seen him do this before, he normally just casually opens his jacket so that everyone can see that he is carrying a weapon, but something that day must have given him greater cause for concern and he decided that just showing that he was carrying wasn’t enough.
He then called Charles back and started talking to him. Quite what was said is not known. Not least because Charles has no Portuguese and Marcelo no English. But it was enough for the two motorcyclists to see that Charles was most definitely there with Marcelo and I gather that at that point, they turned their bikes around and headed off.
Marcelo 2, robbers 0.
Charles was then able to head off on his walk around the park. Marcelo got back in the car and started “curb crawling” on the road that surrounds the park, following Charles at about 3 miles an hour.
Later that evening, Steve had a call from head office in the United States. Marcelo must have filed a report, presumably because he un-holstered his gun and only then did we realize the significance of what had happened. Charles, although aware that the gun had come out, did not appreciate the potential seriousness of the incident and I am sure in his teenage way, thought it was “cool”.
Time to find a different park methinks.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Graduation.Saturday June 5,2010
Today I blubbed. And then I blubbed a bit more. It was our son’s graduation from The Pennington School, his prep school in New Jersey that he has been to since we came back to the United States in 2004.
This, in itself is quite a feat. In all our travels around the world we have never managed to stay in one place more than 18 months, (with the exception of the Philippines where we stayed a little over 2 years). The shortest stay was in Israel where Steve was based for 6 months and the children and I were there for the summer holidays.
You may wonder then how we managed to stay in the United States for 5 years before we left for Brazil. The answer is simple. Steve had three different positions each a little over a year and a half. Added to that, when an overseas job came up, he didn’t push for his name to be put forward as the timing would have been horrible for the children’s education.
And so it has been that Charles has been at The Pennington School since we came back in 2004. We were very lucky that he was accepted because we only knew that we were leaving France in the middle of August, which didn’t give us a huge amount of time to get schools sorted. We came for a flying visit in the third week of August to try and sort out a school for him. This is where a big company like BMS can really help. We were given the help of an agent who, from what I can gather has the most amazing connections with the admissions directors of the local private schools and within the space of 24 hours had arranged interviews with four of them.
We stepped off the plane that August of 2004 and made Charles sit his SSAT exams the following day. Then there was a round of interviews over the course of the next two days and miraculously, Charles was accepted at Pennington. Now it has to be said, that Pennington was always top of the list and it has turned out to be the most perfect place for him. Thank you to everyone involved in the admissions process and to the family that had turned down a place, making it possible for Charles to attend.
Six years, and tens of thousands of dollars later Charles graduated Magna Cum Laude. To us Brits, this whole graduation thing is rather strange as we have nothing like it in the UK. Graduation there normally consists of a final end of year assembly, with the obvious parting words from the head master.
In the United States it is a major event. On Friday night there was a Senior/Parent dinner, followed by dancing. There were various mini performances by the students and the school band played. It was a great time to catch up with the other parents that have shared this journey with us. The comments were all along the lines “how did it go so fast?”, and “where is your son/daughter going to college?” We laughed and generally had a good time.
And so to today. The weather was hot and the seats had been set up under the trees. There was a lovely breeze and the Class of 2010 came in, in gowns and mortar boards behind their teachers, trustees and faculty members, serenaded by an Irish pipe band. There were numerous speeches, songs by the “Senior Chorus” and then came the Salutatory Address and the Valedictory Address. All of which was moving and heartfelt. There were prizes given for all manner of things. I was thrilled when Charles won the “Pennington School Award to the Senior Excelling in History.” Even better, the prize was “The Lion and the Unicorn – Gladstone versus Disraeli – how perfect.
Then came the actual Graduation part. Every student was called up individually to receive his or her diploma. With a hundred or so students it was quite a sight. There is also a quaint tradition that where a student has a close relative that has graduated from Pennington or faculty member as a parent, then their diploma is given by that person and not the head of school. There was much hugging and I have to say that the outpouring of goodwill and happiness today was quite a sight to see.
My British “stiff upper lip” was nowhere in sight. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
This, in itself is quite a feat. In all our travels around the world we have never managed to stay in one place more than 18 months, (with the exception of the Philippines where we stayed a little over 2 years). The shortest stay was in Israel where Steve was based for 6 months and the children and I were there for the summer holidays.
You may wonder then how we managed to stay in the United States for 5 years before we left for Brazil. The answer is simple. Steve had three different positions each a little over a year and a half. Added to that, when an overseas job came up, he didn’t push for his name to be put forward as the timing would have been horrible for the children’s education.
And so it has been that Charles has been at The Pennington School since we came back in 2004. We were very lucky that he was accepted because we only knew that we were leaving France in the middle of August, which didn’t give us a huge amount of time to get schools sorted. We came for a flying visit in the third week of August to try and sort out a school for him. This is where a big company like BMS can really help. We were given the help of an agent who, from what I can gather has the most amazing connections with the admissions directors of the local private schools and within the space of 24 hours had arranged interviews with four of them.
We stepped off the plane that August of 2004 and made Charles sit his SSAT exams the following day. Then there was a round of interviews over the course of the next two days and miraculously, Charles was accepted at Pennington. Now it has to be said, that Pennington was always top of the list and it has turned out to be the most perfect place for him. Thank you to everyone involved in the admissions process and to the family that had turned down a place, making it possible for Charles to attend.
Six years, and tens of thousands of dollars later Charles graduated Magna Cum Laude. To us Brits, this whole graduation thing is rather strange as we have nothing like it in the UK. Graduation there normally consists of a final end of year assembly, with the obvious parting words from the head master.
In the United States it is a major event. On Friday night there was a Senior/Parent dinner, followed by dancing. There were various mini performances by the students and the school band played. It was a great time to catch up with the other parents that have shared this journey with us. The comments were all along the lines “how did it go so fast?”, and “where is your son/daughter going to college?” We laughed and generally had a good time.
And so to today. The weather was hot and the seats had been set up under the trees. There was a lovely breeze and the Class of 2010 came in, in gowns and mortar boards behind their teachers, trustees and faculty members, serenaded by an Irish pipe band. There were numerous speeches, songs by the “Senior Chorus” and then came the Salutatory Address and the Valedictory Address. All of which was moving and heartfelt. There were prizes given for all manner of things. I was thrilled when Charles won the “Pennington School Award to the Senior Excelling in History.” Even better, the prize was “The Lion and the Unicorn – Gladstone versus Disraeli – how perfect.
Then came the actual Graduation part. Every student was called up individually to receive his or her diploma. With a hundred or so students it was quite a sight. There is also a quaint tradition that where a student has a close relative that has graduated from Pennington or faculty member as a parent, then their diploma is given by that person and not the head of school. There was much hugging and I have to say that the outpouring of goodwill and happiness today was quite a sight to see.
My British “stiff upper lip” was nowhere in sight. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Fingerprints - Brazilian style. Wednesday May 26, 2010
Today was a day to forget. We had an appointment to sort out the second half of our visas. This involved having our fingerprints taken and getting our “RNE” number. This entitles us to get our permanent visas for Brazil, open bank accounts, start to pay taxes and as far as Steve is concerned, the most important of all, joining the golf club.
To give you some back ground. Normally, after getting the first part of the visa, (the CPF) , (which we did in March, in New York, ) you arrive back and present yourself to the Federal Police about a week later to get the RNE part.
(Steve says I have not quite got the technicalities right - but why spoil a good story with the facts?)
Well, it turns out that staff at the Federal police had been selling RNE numbers for a not inconsiderable fee and having been found out, were sacked. The ones that hadn’t been involved in this racket then came out on strike to support the ones that had. The result is that having got our first part in March, we had an appointment to get the second part at the end of June. Trouble is, you can’t leave the country without getting the second, and as I am off to the States tomorrow, and Steve on Saturday, we needed to get the RNE sorted.
So this morning, we made an emergency appointment to get fingerprinted etc etc.
The day actually started well. The discussion with Marcelo went something along the lines, “Marcelo, how long to get to the Federal police?” The reply, “About 2 hours”. “Solange,” ( Steve’s secretary.) “How long to get to the Federal police?” “About 45 miniutes”. We compromised, allowed about an hour and a bit, and we arrived at 8.30, half an hour early for our appointment.
The trouble started when Sergio, (relief and trainee driver) parked in front of the café opposite the Federal police building, blocking the entrance to a car park. A bit daft to say the least and the cashier of the car park started gesticulating and shouting, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Marcelo & Sergio disappeared with the car whilst we headed to the café to wait. The next time I saw them, Marcelo was wearing his bullet proof vest – not a good start.
We apologized to the garage owner, who also happened to own the café where we were having breakfast and waited for the lawyer.
BMS had paid a lawyer to basically expedite the process. As it turns out, they need not have bothered. The lawyer arrived, we checked in and deposited our papers and were told that the process basically entailed signing a document ( 20 minutes to a one hour wait) followed by fingerprints with a further 1 – 3 hour wait. ( Average time 2 hours). So we waited, and waited and waited.
The lawyer announced that after 2 and a half hours, she was off to other meetings but would leave her side kick to look after us and to do any translating. The side kick had started working for the lawyer on Monday so had about as much idea of the process as we did.
Well. It turns out that today was a bit of an unusual day. There were very few people on duty and the place was absolutely heaving. About a year ago the Brazilian government gave an amnesty to Bolivian illegal immigrants to become legal, so the place was literally full of Bolivians. Wives and children in tow. Then on Wednesdays in particular it is “Mormon” day and the local Mormon Temple bring literally bus loads of what can only be described as pilgrims who are on temporary visas to get their fingerprints done.
By 3 pm (and we were still waiting to sign the first piece of paper (20 minute wait)) the fat lady sang. Or to be more presice,the fat lady screamed. It turns out that this woman had been in the queue since 12 o’ clock to deposit her papers. At around 12.15 a sign went up to say that the counter clerk would be back by 1 pm. In fact the sign didn’t get taken down until 2.15 , by which time the line was almost out of the building. Then, at 3 pm, the shutter went down and no more people were to be checked in that day. It turns out that the fat lady, was 8 months pregnant and was the next in line when the shutter went down. Having been standing for 3 hours, only to be told that she was not going to be processed, she totally lost it. And I mean “lost it”. Joan Sutherland would have been given a run for her money. The entire place heard what she was saying. Even the two of us who are still struggling to understand Portuguese knew exactly what was going on. More police arrived and bullet proof vests were definitely the order of the day.
So by 4.30 we still hadn’t signed the pieces of paper that we should have signed 20 minutes after our arrival. The lawyer by now had returned from her meetings or shopping trips and was in serious danger of losing face.
Steve, having started the day in a pretty calm manner, and having cancelled all his meetings was beginning to become concerned. After all, the golf club membership was on the line here. I was still okay but worried that the dog had been sitting cross legged for 9 hours.
Steve finally called his secretary who in turn called the head of security.
Here is where “ it’s not what you know but who you know” takes precedence. It turns out that the head of BMS security knows several people in the Federal Police. I have no idea who he called or what favours he called in. All I know is that within about 5 minutes we were having our finger prints taken. We bypassed the stage about signing various documents and because it was so sudden, we were totally taken aback and all I saw were two UK passports being waved in the air and the names “Su-ee Mer-hickee” and “Shtee-hee Mer-hickee” being called. We clambered over everyone to get to the front of the line.
Thank you Solange and Pinheiro.
To give you some back ground. Normally, after getting the first part of the visa, (the CPF) , (which we did in March, in New York, ) you arrive back and present yourself to the Federal Police about a week later to get the RNE part.
(Steve says I have not quite got the technicalities right - but why spoil a good story with the facts?)
Well, it turns out that staff at the Federal police had been selling RNE numbers for a not inconsiderable fee and having been found out, were sacked. The ones that hadn’t been involved in this racket then came out on strike to support the ones that had. The result is that having got our first part in March, we had an appointment to get the second part at the end of June. Trouble is, you can’t leave the country without getting the second, and as I am off to the States tomorrow, and Steve on Saturday, we needed to get the RNE sorted.
So this morning, we made an emergency appointment to get fingerprinted etc etc.
The day actually started well. The discussion with Marcelo went something along the lines, “Marcelo, how long to get to the Federal police?” The reply, “About 2 hours”. “Solange,” ( Steve’s secretary.) “How long to get to the Federal police?” “About 45 miniutes”. We compromised, allowed about an hour and a bit, and we arrived at 8.30, half an hour early for our appointment.
The trouble started when Sergio, (relief and trainee driver) parked in front of the café opposite the Federal police building, blocking the entrance to a car park. A bit daft to say the least and the cashier of the car park started gesticulating and shouting, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Marcelo & Sergio disappeared with the car whilst we headed to the café to wait. The next time I saw them, Marcelo was wearing his bullet proof vest – not a good start.
We apologized to the garage owner, who also happened to own the café where we were having breakfast and waited for the lawyer.
BMS had paid a lawyer to basically expedite the process. As it turns out, they need not have bothered. The lawyer arrived, we checked in and deposited our papers and were told that the process basically entailed signing a document ( 20 minutes to a one hour wait) followed by fingerprints with a further 1 – 3 hour wait. ( Average time 2 hours). So we waited, and waited and waited.
The lawyer announced that after 2 and a half hours, she was off to other meetings but would leave her side kick to look after us and to do any translating. The side kick had started working for the lawyer on Monday so had about as much idea of the process as we did.
Well. It turns out that today was a bit of an unusual day. There were very few people on duty and the place was absolutely heaving. About a year ago the Brazilian government gave an amnesty to Bolivian illegal immigrants to become legal, so the place was literally full of Bolivians. Wives and children in tow. Then on Wednesdays in particular it is “Mormon” day and the local Mormon Temple bring literally bus loads of what can only be described as pilgrims who are on temporary visas to get their fingerprints done.
By 3 pm (and we were still waiting to sign the first piece of paper (20 minute wait)) the fat lady sang. Or to be more presice,the fat lady screamed. It turns out that this woman had been in the queue since 12 o’ clock to deposit her papers. At around 12.15 a sign went up to say that the counter clerk would be back by 1 pm. In fact the sign didn’t get taken down until 2.15 , by which time the line was almost out of the building. Then, at 3 pm, the shutter went down and no more people were to be checked in that day. It turns out that the fat lady, was 8 months pregnant and was the next in line when the shutter went down. Having been standing for 3 hours, only to be told that she was not going to be processed, she totally lost it. And I mean “lost it”. Joan Sutherland would have been given a run for her money. The entire place heard what she was saying. Even the two of us who are still struggling to understand Portuguese knew exactly what was going on. More police arrived and bullet proof vests were definitely the order of the day.
So by 4.30 we still hadn’t signed the pieces of paper that we should have signed 20 minutes after our arrival. The lawyer by now had returned from her meetings or shopping trips and was in serious danger of losing face.
Steve, having started the day in a pretty calm manner, and having cancelled all his meetings was beginning to become concerned. After all, the golf club membership was on the line here. I was still okay but worried that the dog had been sitting cross legged for 9 hours.
Steve finally called his secretary who in turn called the head of security.
Here is where “ it’s not what you know but who you know” takes precedence. It turns out that the head of BMS security knows several people in the Federal Police. I have no idea who he called or what favours he called in. All I know is that within about 5 minutes we were having our finger prints taken. We bypassed the stage about signing various documents and because it was so sudden, we were totally taken aback and all I saw were two UK passports being waved in the air and the names “Su-ee Mer-hickee” and “Shtee-hee Mer-hickee” being called. We clambered over everyone to get to the front of the line.
Thank you Solange and Pinheiro.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Odd Socks . Wednesday May 19, 2010
I remember years ago that my mother became very excited because she had a new vacuum cleaner. I distinctly remember at the time thinking “how sad”. The fact that it was a vacuum cleaner that caused her so much pleasure, made me believe that her life was devoid of real enjoyment. Well Mum, now you can have the last laugh because I am now officially “sad” and by my own admission.
Last Friday my new washing machine was plumbed in (thank you Marcelo – what would I do without you) and today my tumble dryer was hooked up. I was so happy. Up until now I have done without a tumble dryer so everything that has been washed has had to be line dried. This was fine when the outdoor temperature was high, and humidity notwithstanding, drying was not a problem.
Now that the weather has turned much colder and it is still pretty damp, getting things dry had been proving to be rather more difficult. Add into the equation, the fact that the laundry room still floods every time it rains and last week I discovered that the base of the cabinets have become completely rotten from all the water, and the smell of mould in there is so bad that I can’t leave anything in there without it acquiring a pretty disgusting whiff. That has meant line drying everything on racks in the kitchen. Just as well there are only two of us. Much more laundry and you wouldn’t be able to turn around without bumping into a rack.
So today, I dried my first load in the dryer. It is huge, American and swallowed a load of laundry in no time at all – bliss.
I have had a washing machine for all the time that we have been in the house, - it was rented of course and I was very happy to see the back of it. It was Brazilian; and had 4 settings – soak, wash and rinse and spin. There was nothing as sophisticated as hot/warm/cold water or fast/medium/slow spin. And as for delicates or hand wash – forget it. However the worse thing about it was the fact that it made the most awful noise. It was a top loader with an agitating arm sticking up from the bottom. Every time this arm moved it made a sort of high pitched EEEEEEE sort of noise. It was so annoying but having spoken to several other people, it seems, this is perfectly normal. So, having an American front loader with programmable choices of wash is absolute bliss. Again I say, how sad.
But here is the crux of this blog. What is it about tumble dryers that produce odd socks? So far, since being here I have washed pairs of socks. They go through the EEEEEE machine and come out the other side, get dried and paired up and then put back in the correct sock drawer.
When we were living in the US, I had an entire drawer devoted to odd socks. You can guarantee that the day I decided that the sock had been there long enough and it was never going to see its partner and threw it out, so its pair appeared – maddening.
Emma used to have a really annoying habit of coming down in the morning with no socks. When I told her to go and get some, she could never be bothered to go back upstairs and so would raid the odd sock drawer. Several days later those odd socks would make it through the wash ( well sometimes) and I would get very excited because I knew that there were odd ones waiting in the drawer to be paired up. How annoying to discover that it was Emma’s game of taking socks from the drawer. Little madam.
When we left to come to Brazil I threw the lot away. There must have been at least 15 maybe 20 socks that were never going to see their mate again. I was determined that starting afresh; I was never again going to have a drawer dedicated to odd socks.
Well, today as I have said, I did my first load of drying in my new dryer and guess what? There were 6 odd socks. Go figure.
Last Friday my new washing machine was plumbed in (thank you Marcelo – what would I do without you) and today my tumble dryer was hooked up. I was so happy. Up until now I have done without a tumble dryer so everything that has been washed has had to be line dried. This was fine when the outdoor temperature was high, and humidity notwithstanding, drying was not a problem.
Now that the weather has turned much colder and it is still pretty damp, getting things dry had been proving to be rather more difficult. Add into the equation, the fact that the laundry room still floods every time it rains and last week I discovered that the base of the cabinets have become completely rotten from all the water, and the smell of mould in there is so bad that I can’t leave anything in there without it acquiring a pretty disgusting whiff. That has meant line drying everything on racks in the kitchen. Just as well there are only two of us. Much more laundry and you wouldn’t be able to turn around without bumping into a rack.
So today, I dried my first load in the dryer. It is huge, American and swallowed a load of laundry in no time at all – bliss.
I have had a washing machine for all the time that we have been in the house, - it was rented of course and I was very happy to see the back of it. It was Brazilian; and had 4 settings – soak, wash and rinse and spin. There was nothing as sophisticated as hot/warm/cold water or fast/medium/slow spin. And as for delicates or hand wash – forget it. However the worse thing about it was the fact that it made the most awful noise. It was a top loader with an agitating arm sticking up from the bottom. Every time this arm moved it made a sort of high pitched EEEEEEE sort of noise. It was so annoying but having spoken to several other people, it seems, this is perfectly normal. So, having an American front loader with programmable choices of wash is absolute bliss. Again I say, how sad.
But here is the crux of this blog. What is it about tumble dryers that produce odd socks? So far, since being here I have washed pairs of socks. They go through the EEEEEE machine and come out the other side, get dried and paired up and then put back in the correct sock drawer.
When we were living in the US, I had an entire drawer devoted to odd socks. You can guarantee that the day I decided that the sock had been there long enough and it was never going to see its partner and threw it out, so its pair appeared – maddening.
Emma used to have a really annoying habit of coming down in the morning with no socks. When I told her to go and get some, she could never be bothered to go back upstairs and so would raid the odd sock drawer. Several days later those odd socks would make it through the wash ( well sometimes) and I would get very excited because I knew that there were odd ones waiting in the drawer to be paired up. How annoying to discover that it was Emma’s game of taking socks from the drawer. Little madam.
When we left to come to Brazil I threw the lot away. There must have been at least 15 maybe 20 socks that were never going to see their mate again. I was determined that starting afresh; I was never again going to have a drawer dedicated to odd socks.
Well, today as I have said, I did my first load of drying in my new dryer and guess what? There were 6 odd socks. Go figure.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Lost in Translation - 2. May 17 2010
I had my first trip to Rio de Janeiro this past weekend. I have to say that it was pretty amazing and although we were only there for 48 hours, it will definitely be on our list of places to revisit.
Steve, as usual was working, but was able to have some R & R on Saturday evening and on Sunday morning – bliss.
On Saturday evening, a colleague of Steve’s had recommended that we to go to a restaurant called Platforma, where, after dinner they have a show to give one the “flavor of Rio” This basically comprised young, lithe and very scantily clad women in Carnival dress performing all sorts of Samba routines with equally lithe and often not so young men. It was fun and entertaining but for anyone that has seen the real thing, a poor second.
But that is not the reason for the blog. I could tell you about Copacabana beach, Ipanema and sipping cocktails at the Copacabana Palace hotel, but what really caught my attention was the menu at the Platforma restaurant. Steve and I were perusing the menu trying to decide what to eat, and I swear that what you are about to read is 100 % true.
I have no idea who did the translating of the menu but the following is faithfully reproduced from the menu.
Take your pick from
Barbeque Sausage with heifer unit
Rice with bacon, sausage and jerked
Little steak with sauce vine
Pasta Mas
Scliced filet with petit pour with sauve vine
Pallete of Lamb
Special cut of meat prime
Ramp
Ribow cow
Salmon with rice and sunsire
Rice with galic potato
Fried potato with onion, garlicano han
Codfish style hulk.
Well, we fell about laughing to the point that people were beginning to stare at us. Now I know that my Portuguese is still pretty bad but I think that even I could have done a better attempt at translating the menu than whoever did it.
Suffice it to say, we didn’t try the Heifer unit.
Steve, as usual was working, but was able to have some R & R on Saturday evening and on Sunday morning – bliss.
On Saturday evening, a colleague of Steve’s had recommended that we to go to a restaurant called Platforma, where, after dinner they have a show to give one the “flavor of Rio” This basically comprised young, lithe and very scantily clad women in Carnival dress performing all sorts of Samba routines with equally lithe and often not so young men. It was fun and entertaining but for anyone that has seen the real thing, a poor second.
But that is not the reason for the blog. I could tell you about Copacabana beach, Ipanema and sipping cocktails at the Copacabana Palace hotel, but what really caught my attention was the menu at the Platforma restaurant. Steve and I were perusing the menu trying to decide what to eat, and I swear that what you are about to read is 100 % true.
I have no idea who did the translating of the menu but the following is faithfully reproduced from the menu.
Take your pick from
Barbeque Sausage with heifer unit
Rice with bacon, sausage and jerked
Little steak with sauce vine
Pasta Mas
Scliced filet with petit pour with sauve vine
Pallete of Lamb
Special cut of meat prime
Ramp
Ribow cow
Salmon with rice and sunsire
Rice with galic potato
Fried potato with onion, garlicano han
Codfish style hulk.
Well, we fell about laughing to the point that people were beginning to stare at us. Now I know that my Portuguese is still pretty bad but I think that even I could have done a better attempt at translating the menu than whoever did it.
Suffice it to say, we didn’t try the Heifer unit.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Hot water. Thursday May 13, 2010
If anyone ever says to me, “do you want the good news or the bad news first?” I always say “the good news”. Somehow, hearing good news first dilutes the bad, but if you get the bad news first, it drags down the good. This always works for me anyway.
So, first the good news. The furniture arrived last Monday and I am now in the tedious position of trying to find homes for all the things that we brought with us.
For everyone who has ever moved, there is the wonderment of discovering all those things that you own, and the bewilderment of thinking “why did I ever pack that”. Amongst the latter, a much chewed sock toy that the dog obviously hasn’t seen since she was a puppy seven years ago, nail varnish that is so old the top is permanently glued to the bottle, and my pet favourite, rubbish bins that actually contain rubbish. You would think that experienced packers would use a few brain cells and remove the rubbish before packing the bin, or at the very least ask whether I would like my rubbish wrapped, stored for two months and then shipped several thousand miles from the northern to the southern hemisphere. No such luck. Brain cells not engaged.
The other bit of good news is that with 8 or 9 guys unpacking (they never stood still long enough for me to count them) everything was unloaded, unwrapped, unboxed, unpacked and unceremoniously dumped onto every conceivable surface within 2 days. I have to say that this is pretty good going for two 40 foot containers. Furniture was assembled, beds made and all I have to do now is organize everything into some semblance of order.
Now for the bad news. For over a week now, (Thursday 6th May) we have had no hot water in the house. Steve announced this having discovered that the shower was cold when he stepped into it. We were moving out of the house anyway the following day, as the rental furniture was being removed and I knew that it would be at least Tuesday before we had sufficient organization of beds and bedding to enable us to move back in. Well that didn’t happened.
We have an odd hot water system here. We have solar panels on the roof that heat the water to a certain temperature and then what I assume is some sort of emersion heater to top up the temperature. So far, in the two months of living here it appears to have worked very well, until last week.
The guy to fix it was supposed to show up on Monday, but he was a “no show”. Similarly Tuesday, Wednesday and now at 5.00pm on Thursday I am not hopeful that he is going to show up today. The poor dog hasn’t been walked all week and although it is not a problem for me as I was planning on spending most of my days in the house anyway, I have to say it is now completely irritating. Steve is incandescent with anger and is threatening to withhold the rent until it is fixed.
Steve’s secretary has been calling the company every half hour to check that he is coming but after the 3 o’clock call the company have not been able to get in touch with the technician so who knows whether he is going to come. My money is on another no – show. Emails are being exchanged with the owner’s lawyers and in the meantime I am still sorting through my worldly goods, trying to find homes for everything.
But on a brighter note, the house warming party is being penciled in for June 19th by which time, pictures will be hung, the silver will be cleaned and I will have lost all those pounds that I have gained since being here. Assuming of course that we have hot water.
So, first the good news. The furniture arrived last Monday and I am now in the tedious position of trying to find homes for all the things that we brought with us.
For everyone who has ever moved, there is the wonderment of discovering all those things that you own, and the bewilderment of thinking “why did I ever pack that”. Amongst the latter, a much chewed sock toy that the dog obviously hasn’t seen since she was a puppy seven years ago, nail varnish that is so old the top is permanently glued to the bottle, and my pet favourite, rubbish bins that actually contain rubbish. You would think that experienced packers would use a few brain cells and remove the rubbish before packing the bin, or at the very least ask whether I would like my rubbish wrapped, stored for two months and then shipped several thousand miles from the northern to the southern hemisphere. No such luck. Brain cells not engaged.
The other bit of good news is that with 8 or 9 guys unpacking (they never stood still long enough for me to count them) everything was unloaded, unwrapped, unboxed, unpacked and unceremoniously dumped onto every conceivable surface within 2 days. I have to say that this is pretty good going for two 40 foot containers. Furniture was assembled, beds made and all I have to do now is organize everything into some semblance of order.
Now for the bad news. For over a week now, (Thursday 6th May) we have had no hot water in the house. Steve announced this having discovered that the shower was cold when he stepped into it. We were moving out of the house anyway the following day, as the rental furniture was being removed and I knew that it would be at least Tuesday before we had sufficient organization of beds and bedding to enable us to move back in. Well that didn’t happened.
We have an odd hot water system here. We have solar panels on the roof that heat the water to a certain temperature and then what I assume is some sort of emersion heater to top up the temperature. So far, in the two months of living here it appears to have worked very well, until last week.
The guy to fix it was supposed to show up on Monday, but he was a “no show”. Similarly Tuesday, Wednesday and now at 5.00pm on Thursday I am not hopeful that he is going to show up today. The poor dog hasn’t been walked all week and although it is not a problem for me as I was planning on spending most of my days in the house anyway, I have to say it is now completely irritating. Steve is incandescent with anger and is threatening to withhold the rent until it is fixed.
Steve’s secretary has been calling the company every half hour to check that he is coming but after the 3 o’clock call the company have not been able to get in touch with the technician so who knows whether he is going to come. My money is on another no – show. Emails are being exchanged with the owner’s lawyers and in the meantime I am still sorting through my worldly goods, trying to find homes for everything.
But on a brighter note, the house warming party is being penciled in for June 19th by which time, pictures will be hung, the silver will be cleaned and I will have lost all those pounds that I have gained since being here. Assuming of course that we have hot water.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Home alone. Wednesday May 5 2010
I love being an empty nester – sorry kids. Much as I love my children the fact that we deserted them to embark on this latest adventure made the whole separation thing a lot easier.
I know of friends that are dreading the day their last child flies the nest and they are faced with each other’s company for the first time in a long time.
We were fortunate in that I didn’t happen to us. Emma headed off to boarding school in September and Charles checked in for the last 6 months of high school as a boarder, just as we packed our bags and headed south to Brazil in January.
Children coming here are a bonus but not the norm. I am a great believer in “the association of ideas”. By that I mean that one assumes that something happens because something else is happening or it is the time to do something. Living in Princeton involved children, school runs, playing lots of bridge and Mediterra on Friday night. Oh it’s Mediterra so it must be Friday. Oh we are in the UK so it must be July. More worryingly, oh I am cooking supper so there must be a glass of red wine on the go. You get the picture. We humans live our lives by routine and, in the main, that is very comforting.
Then all of a sudden that changes and life takes on a different tack. I have to interject here that the children are both in fabulous places. Charles is about to finish high school and is set to go to Washington DC in the summer. Who wouldn’t want to study politics and economics in the hub of the political universe? Emma is at her whacky boarding school and loves every minute. “Why can’t I spend the summer here” to quote her. So they are both in great places so I don’t feel too bad.
But then so are we. Hey, let’s go out to dinner/away for the weekend/come with me on a business trip. So far it has been fabulous.
Until that is this past few days. Steve went away on Sunday and it was not the sort of trip I could go with him. He left on Sunday afternoon - ugh - to go to the north of Brazil to rally his sales team ahead of a new drug launch. He was staying in a very nice resort hotel but I wasn’t with him. Instead I was in an empty house (still no furniture – 4 months and very much counting) with only the dog for company and funnily enough she wasn’t really interested. Hmmmm? – what is a girl to do? Marcelo was off duty so although the car was in the garage there was no way I was ever going to drive it. So I downloaded a movie to watch, cooked a TV dinner (never again) and went to bed around 9.30. I locked myself into the “safe” room upstairs and the only thing on TV were views of the security cameras dotted around the house. Funnily enough it is not the same as Desperate Housewives. With the burglar alarm and the dog for company it was a long night.
The caipirinha helped me to sleep but I was seriously bored. I take my hat off to all those single people everywhere that do this on a regular basis. I hated the whole “single” process.
Come back Steve – all is forgiven
I know of friends that are dreading the day their last child flies the nest and they are faced with each other’s company for the first time in a long time.
We were fortunate in that I didn’t happen to us. Emma headed off to boarding school in September and Charles checked in for the last 6 months of high school as a boarder, just as we packed our bags and headed south to Brazil in January.
Children coming here are a bonus but not the norm. I am a great believer in “the association of ideas”. By that I mean that one assumes that something happens because something else is happening or it is the time to do something. Living in Princeton involved children, school runs, playing lots of bridge and Mediterra on Friday night. Oh it’s Mediterra so it must be Friday. Oh we are in the UK so it must be July. More worryingly, oh I am cooking supper so there must be a glass of red wine on the go. You get the picture. We humans live our lives by routine and, in the main, that is very comforting.
Then all of a sudden that changes and life takes on a different tack. I have to interject here that the children are both in fabulous places. Charles is about to finish high school and is set to go to Washington DC in the summer. Who wouldn’t want to study politics and economics in the hub of the political universe? Emma is at her whacky boarding school and loves every minute. “Why can’t I spend the summer here” to quote her. So they are both in great places so I don’t feel too bad.
But then so are we. Hey, let’s go out to dinner/away for the weekend/come with me on a business trip. So far it has been fabulous.
Until that is this past few days. Steve went away on Sunday and it was not the sort of trip I could go with him. He left on Sunday afternoon - ugh - to go to the north of Brazil to rally his sales team ahead of a new drug launch. He was staying in a very nice resort hotel but I wasn’t with him. Instead I was in an empty house (still no furniture – 4 months and very much counting) with only the dog for company and funnily enough she wasn’t really interested. Hmmmm? – what is a girl to do? Marcelo was off duty so although the car was in the garage there was no way I was ever going to drive it. So I downloaded a movie to watch, cooked a TV dinner (never again) and went to bed around 9.30. I locked myself into the “safe” room upstairs and the only thing on TV were views of the security cameras dotted around the house. Funnily enough it is not the same as Desperate Housewives. With the burglar alarm and the dog for company it was a long night.
The caipirinha helped me to sleep but I was seriously bored. I take my hat off to all those single people everywhere that do this on a regular basis. I hated the whole “single” process.
Come back Steve – all is forgiven
Friday, April 23, 2010
Husbands. Friday April 23, 2010
We have now been without furniture for three and a half months. It arrived in Brazil three weeks ago and has been stuck in customs ever since. I had an email today from the shippers advising me that it should be released on May 5th, a Wednesday, so my thinking is that it will be delivered the following day on May 6th. We are currently renting the bare essentials so before we can take delivery of our containers, the rental furniture has to be moved out of the house, and then because I will have nothing in the house, I will have to check into a hotel.
I checked in my diary to see what is going on around that time and, surprise, surprise, Steve is out of town basically all week, so I get to do the packing up of the rental stuff and then the unloading and unpacking by myself – again.
Throughout our married life, Steve had developed a knack of being missing in action every time there are domestic things to be done. I suppose you can actually go back as far as when we first got engaged (Christmas 1986). He was in the Royal Navy at the time and having announced that we were going to get married on July 4th ( to coincide with leave) he then went away to sea, arriving home in time , well just in time for the for the wedding. His contribution to the proceedings was to be measured for a new uniform and I am relieved to say to then turn up on the actual day.
This has been a recurring theme in our married life. He has always managed to wangle a business trip or in those earlier days a sea going patrol, so as to avoid packing and unpacking houses. In nearly 23 years of married life we have moved 13 times, (actually if you add in the number of times we have moved from house to temporary accommodation of hotels and long stay apartments the number 13 actually rises to 25).
I would think that on at least two thirds of those occasions, he has managed to avoid either the packing, the unpacking and in some instances both. Of course his reaction to this predicament is to flatter me by saying that I am perfectly capable of doing it and that he would only get in the way. Absolutely true, but totally beside the point.
There is another example of him being missing when needed and that was when the children were very young and I was flying 17 hours from Manila to London and back again with them. I can honestly say that he never once flew with us until one or both of them were able to work the remote control for the in-flight entertainment, thereby basically looking after themselves. I remember once sitting in an airplane on the taxi way at Heathrow saying to the children “wave to daddy”, as the plane in front of us took off and went westbound as we took off and went eastbound.
On another occasion we went skiing in Whistler and Steve had to leave a day earlier than myself and the children so that he could attend some business meeting or another. Guess who got to clean the rental apartment, return all the ski equipment and then get the three of us to Vancouver and back to the United States.
I could go on as there are numerous other examples of my husband being missing in action. But I think you get the picture.
So, I wonder how much he has bribed the customs officials in Santos to delay clearance of our two 40 foot containers this time. Whatever it is, he owes me big time. Something large and sparkly methinks.
I checked in my diary to see what is going on around that time and, surprise, surprise, Steve is out of town basically all week, so I get to do the packing up of the rental stuff and then the unloading and unpacking by myself – again.
Throughout our married life, Steve had developed a knack of being missing in action every time there are domestic things to be done. I suppose you can actually go back as far as when we first got engaged (Christmas 1986). He was in the Royal Navy at the time and having announced that we were going to get married on July 4th ( to coincide with leave) he then went away to sea, arriving home in time , well just in time for the for the wedding. His contribution to the proceedings was to be measured for a new uniform and I am relieved to say to then turn up on the actual day.
This has been a recurring theme in our married life. He has always managed to wangle a business trip or in those earlier days a sea going patrol, so as to avoid packing and unpacking houses. In nearly 23 years of married life we have moved 13 times, (actually if you add in the number of times we have moved from house to temporary accommodation of hotels and long stay apartments the number 13 actually rises to 25).
I would think that on at least two thirds of those occasions, he has managed to avoid either the packing, the unpacking and in some instances both. Of course his reaction to this predicament is to flatter me by saying that I am perfectly capable of doing it and that he would only get in the way. Absolutely true, but totally beside the point.
There is another example of him being missing when needed and that was when the children were very young and I was flying 17 hours from Manila to London and back again with them. I can honestly say that he never once flew with us until one or both of them were able to work the remote control for the in-flight entertainment, thereby basically looking after themselves. I remember once sitting in an airplane on the taxi way at Heathrow saying to the children “wave to daddy”, as the plane in front of us took off and went westbound as we took off and went eastbound.
On another occasion we went skiing in Whistler and Steve had to leave a day earlier than myself and the children so that he could attend some business meeting or another. Guess who got to clean the rental apartment, return all the ski equipment and then get the three of us to Vancouver and back to the United States.
I could go on as there are numerous other examples of my husband being missing in action. But I think you get the picture.
So, I wonder how much he has bribed the customs officials in Santos to delay clearance of our two 40 foot containers this time. Whatever it is, he owes me big time. Something large and sparkly methinks.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Reality Check 2
We have just come back from a weekend in the south of Brazil at a place called Florianopolis (aka Floripa). It is about 1 hour’s flying time from Sao Paulo and boasts a great climate and beaches.
Sadly for him, Steve was working for the majority of the time. His company was having an educational weekend for Leukemia doctors and three specialists had been flown in from Canada and the United States to give presentations, do Q & A sessions and share their expertise.
We arrived at the small provincial airport and were met by our driver for the weekend and his side kick. It was a case of the Little and Large show. The driver had to be over 6 feet 6 inches tall and looked as though he should have been playing NBA basketball or for a West Indian cricket team as their fast bowler. The side kick had to be at least a foot shorter and I wondered who would be protecting whom in the event of an “incident”.
We got into the car and it has to be said it was not my lovely Mercedes. I hope that the only thing wrong with it was that the exhaust was hanging off, as every time we went over a pothole or speed hump, there was the most awful noise of metal and tarmac making contact. Our driver was oblivious to the noise so we looked at each other and thought that if he isn’t too worried then neither should we be.
The driver actually spoke some English and one of the first things he told us was that on Sunday, the day of our return, there was a local football derby and in order to avoid the traffic, we had to leave the hotel at 12.30. Upon enquiring as to the time of the football match, we were told that it was 4 pm. Given that the journey time from hotel to airport is around 35 minutes, that implied that the traffic would have to be building up really early ahead of the game to cause us any inconvenience.
My suspicious mind made me think that probably he intended to go to the match, so I casually asked him if he supported one of the teams and of course it did. It turned out that the side kick supported the other so that was the topic of conversation for the remainder of the journey.
Upon arriving at the hotel, Steve spoke to the organizers of the event and it seemed as though the presence of a football game was well and truly taken into account with timings etc. They thought that 12.30 was probably a bit on the cautious side but as one of the main speakers had to be at the airport for around 1 o’clock, it made sense to wind things up a little on the early side.
Fast forward to Sunday, the weather had been beautiful, yours truly topped up her tan, doctors were educated about acute myeloid leukemia and it was time to leave. Little and Large duly appeared, looking it has to be said, out of something from the Blue’s Brothers. Dark suits, dark shades - quite ridiculous really but we went with the flow.
We had a different car and so the undercarriage didn’t scrape the ground, but this time, said driver had the seat so far back and so far reclined that he was almost horizontal. I always sit behind the passenger’s seat so poor old Steve had to literally squeeze himself into the tiniest of gaps and sit with legs completely crushed against the back of the seat in front. Not a happy bunny.
Well, whether it was because the Chinese Grand Prix had been on that morning or whether our driver really did have a date at the football match I don’t know, but I can honestly say it was one of the worst journeys I have been on. Speed limits – why bother obeying them, corners – well, let’s see how much we can make the tyres squeal, and as for the passengers, well clearly not of importance. Having taken 35 minutes to get to the hotel on Thursday night with no traffic, the return journey took no more than 25 minutes and that included a small delay for the tiny bit of extra traffic around the stadium.
Now, it is a policy of Steve’s company, that any driver or security detail has to stay at the airport until after the plane has taken off. This might seem a bit over the top but it is the rule. Just in case a flight doesn’t leave, they want to make sure that the passengers have safe and secure transport out of the airport. Well, Little and Large didn’t even wait for us to make it through the airport doors before they rushed off – tyres still squealing. Not very impressive but we were in one piece, Steve was recovering from having been cooped up in the back of the car and the thought of a 4 hour wait, all of a sudden didn’t look so bad.
Needless to say, Marcelo was a very welcome sight when we finally arrived back in Sao Paulo.
In a few weeks’ time, we are heading to Rio for the weekend to do something similar. I have a faint suspicion that Marcelo might be coming too. Watch this space.
Sadly for him, Steve was working for the majority of the time. His company was having an educational weekend for Leukemia doctors and three specialists had been flown in from Canada and the United States to give presentations, do Q & A sessions and share their expertise.
We arrived at the small provincial airport and were met by our driver for the weekend and his side kick. It was a case of the Little and Large show. The driver had to be over 6 feet 6 inches tall and looked as though he should have been playing NBA basketball or for a West Indian cricket team as their fast bowler. The side kick had to be at least a foot shorter and I wondered who would be protecting whom in the event of an “incident”.
We got into the car and it has to be said it was not my lovely Mercedes. I hope that the only thing wrong with it was that the exhaust was hanging off, as every time we went over a pothole or speed hump, there was the most awful noise of metal and tarmac making contact. Our driver was oblivious to the noise so we looked at each other and thought that if he isn’t too worried then neither should we be.
The driver actually spoke some English and one of the first things he told us was that on Sunday, the day of our return, there was a local football derby and in order to avoid the traffic, we had to leave the hotel at 12.30. Upon enquiring as to the time of the football match, we were told that it was 4 pm. Given that the journey time from hotel to airport is around 35 minutes, that implied that the traffic would have to be building up really early ahead of the game to cause us any inconvenience.
My suspicious mind made me think that probably he intended to go to the match, so I casually asked him if he supported one of the teams and of course it did. It turned out that the side kick supported the other so that was the topic of conversation for the remainder of the journey.
Upon arriving at the hotel, Steve spoke to the organizers of the event and it seemed as though the presence of a football game was well and truly taken into account with timings etc. They thought that 12.30 was probably a bit on the cautious side but as one of the main speakers had to be at the airport for around 1 o’clock, it made sense to wind things up a little on the early side.
Fast forward to Sunday, the weather had been beautiful, yours truly topped up her tan, doctors were educated about acute myeloid leukemia and it was time to leave. Little and Large duly appeared, looking it has to be said, out of something from the Blue’s Brothers. Dark suits, dark shades - quite ridiculous really but we went with the flow.
We had a different car and so the undercarriage didn’t scrape the ground, but this time, said driver had the seat so far back and so far reclined that he was almost horizontal. I always sit behind the passenger’s seat so poor old Steve had to literally squeeze himself into the tiniest of gaps and sit with legs completely crushed against the back of the seat in front. Not a happy bunny.
Well, whether it was because the Chinese Grand Prix had been on that morning or whether our driver really did have a date at the football match I don’t know, but I can honestly say it was one of the worst journeys I have been on. Speed limits – why bother obeying them, corners – well, let’s see how much we can make the tyres squeal, and as for the passengers, well clearly not of importance. Having taken 35 minutes to get to the hotel on Thursday night with no traffic, the return journey took no more than 25 minutes and that included a small delay for the tiny bit of extra traffic around the stadium.
Now, it is a policy of Steve’s company, that any driver or security detail has to stay at the airport until after the plane has taken off. This might seem a bit over the top but it is the rule. Just in case a flight doesn’t leave, they want to make sure that the passengers have safe and secure transport out of the airport. Well, Little and Large didn’t even wait for us to make it through the airport doors before they rushed off – tyres still squealing. Not very impressive but we were in one piece, Steve was recovering from having been cooped up in the back of the car and the thought of a 4 hour wait, all of a sudden didn’t look so bad.
Needless to say, Marcelo was a very welcome sight when we finally arrived back in Sao Paulo.
In a few weeks’ time, we are heading to Rio for the weekend to do something similar. I have a faint suspicion that Marcelo might be coming too. Watch this space.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Golf. Monday April 11, 2010
I always maintain that I am the perfect wife for Steve. Just as well really. But my reason for saying this is that I introduced him to the game of golf. Not only did I encourage him to take it up, I never complain when he wants to play, and although my playing days are pretty much over, the money invested in his hobby is money reasonably well spent as far as I am concerned. (Note that I only go so far as to say reasonably well spent).
There is another dimension to this point. I love big sporting occasions and probably with the exception of Tiddlywinks and Poker, could quite happily sit through most games. For example, I could hardly tell you the rules of American Football but love the Super Bowl. Similarly the FA Cup for football and the World Series for Baseball. I just love the idea that there are a bunch of athletes at the top of their game competing for a big prize.
This past weekend was the US Masters Golf from Augusta Georgia. Steve made it a mission to find out where he could watch the play on Saturday and Sunday and discovered that it was showing on TV at the local driving range here in Sao Paulo. You have to remember that we still have no furniture (13 weeks and still counting) so no TV. We did try and upload a proxy service from the UK but a degree in computer engineering is needed to get that gig sorted and the helpdesk is closed on Saturdays. Four hours of trying and several expletives later, Steve gave up.
So it was off to the driving range. We arrived only to discover that we were an hour early. No problem. We were handed the remote control, found the appropriate station and waited. We even had the foresight to check that the station was available. Relief all around.
It is amazing after having seen no TV for 3 months, what absolute drivel is entertaining. We sat through a makeover show with a golf theme and a half hour of John Daly. Very entertaining, but all in Portuguese so most of it was totally lost in translation.
We waited for the start and over the next few hours, happily watched the golf. We had snacks, dinner, and although the chairs were so uncomfortable that they would do a village hall proud, we thoroughly enjoyed our four hours of golf. In the middle of the afternoon we had a phone call from the security company to say that our burglar alarm had gone off. No problem – we sent Marcelo to go and sort it out. It gave him something to do instead of just waiting for us. At the end of it, the waiters got a big tip and even being under the flight path of the local airport didn’t dampen our enthusiasm.
And so to Sunday. Lee Westwood was in the lead and the hopes of the United Kingdom were upon his shoulders. We arrived, settled into our (same) seats and were welcomed like returning heroes by a number of locals that recognized us from the day before. It helped that the same waiter was on duty and so hopeful of another large tip, fussed around us like long lost friends. People even tried to engage us in conversation which I have to say was pretty futile, Firstly because we could barely understand them and secondly, because it interrupted our viewing. We made what we felt were appropriate noises and nods in the right place and they left us to it.
For most of the time I was the only female actually watching the golf and it was pretty obvious who we were supporting. The group swelled as the match reached a climax but the weight of expectation was too great for poor old Lee Westwood and the local favourite Phil Mickleson won.
At least it wasn’t Tiger. That would have been too much for a girl to bear.
There is another dimension to this point. I love big sporting occasions and probably with the exception of Tiddlywinks and Poker, could quite happily sit through most games. For example, I could hardly tell you the rules of American Football but love the Super Bowl. Similarly the FA Cup for football and the World Series for Baseball. I just love the idea that there are a bunch of athletes at the top of their game competing for a big prize.
This past weekend was the US Masters Golf from Augusta Georgia. Steve made it a mission to find out where he could watch the play on Saturday and Sunday and discovered that it was showing on TV at the local driving range here in Sao Paulo. You have to remember that we still have no furniture (13 weeks and still counting) so no TV. We did try and upload a proxy service from the UK but a degree in computer engineering is needed to get that gig sorted and the helpdesk is closed on Saturdays. Four hours of trying and several expletives later, Steve gave up.
So it was off to the driving range. We arrived only to discover that we were an hour early. No problem. We were handed the remote control, found the appropriate station and waited. We even had the foresight to check that the station was available. Relief all around.
It is amazing after having seen no TV for 3 months, what absolute drivel is entertaining. We sat through a makeover show with a golf theme and a half hour of John Daly. Very entertaining, but all in Portuguese so most of it was totally lost in translation.
We waited for the start and over the next few hours, happily watched the golf. We had snacks, dinner, and although the chairs were so uncomfortable that they would do a village hall proud, we thoroughly enjoyed our four hours of golf. In the middle of the afternoon we had a phone call from the security company to say that our burglar alarm had gone off. No problem – we sent Marcelo to go and sort it out. It gave him something to do instead of just waiting for us. At the end of it, the waiters got a big tip and even being under the flight path of the local airport didn’t dampen our enthusiasm.
And so to Sunday. Lee Westwood was in the lead and the hopes of the United Kingdom were upon his shoulders. We arrived, settled into our (same) seats and were welcomed like returning heroes by a number of locals that recognized us from the day before. It helped that the same waiter was on duty and so hopeful of another large tip, fussed around us like long lost friends. People even tried to engage us in conversation which I have to say was pretty futile, Firstly because we could barely understand them and secondly, because it interrupted our viewing. We made what we felt were appropriate noises and nods in the right place and they left us to it.
For most of the time I was the only female actually watching the golf and it was pretty obvious who we were supporting. The group swelled as the match reached a climax but the weight of expectation was too great for poor old Lee Westwood and the local favourite Phil Mickleson won.
At least it wasn’t Tiger. That would have been too much for a girl to bear.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Revolting food. Sunday April 4, 2010
Having raved about how fabulous the food is here, I have finally come across some disgusting Brazilian food, that to my delicate Western pallet it totally inedible.
This weekend was Easter weekend, so a three day holiday. Friday, being Good Friday and a very important day on the Christian calendar saw us getting up late, Steve playing golf, followed by drinks and eats at the golf club with some new acquaintances.
Steve maintains that he worships at the church of the 18 fairways. The rest of the family is more traditionally religious.
The previous day I had been to the supermarket, and there, in the middle of the aisle was a display of salted cod. This, it seems is a traditional Brazilian dish for Good Friday. It must also be a delicacy the rest of the year because it is always available. But on this day in particular, there was a mountain of the stuff.
And, it has to be said, there were literally dozens of people picking over it to
choose the tastiest looking morsel. Well, one look and I definitely passed on the other side. The smell was enough to make me steer well clear.
But back to the golf club. The waiter, with great pride, told us that the “special” of the day was salted cod, served with ………. My Portuguese isn’t that good yet.
I got the salted cod bit, and learned from my host that the remainder comprised lumps of potato with other stuff mashed in. She told me that it was to be avoided – phew. Salad looked good. Lucky escape there.
The following day, Easter Saturday, we decided to go to the beach for lunch. Some (other) new friends had suggested that we head for the nearest resort - 120 kilometers, (75 miles) away. There is a “Leading Hotels of the World” - “Casa Grande” there, which sounded good to us. We had thought about heading out on Easter Sunday but Marcelo heard of our plans and there was no mistaking his angst at the thought of sitting in traffic jams heading back to Sao Paulo late on Sunday afternoon. We heeded his advice and went on Easter Saturday instead.
( I found out today that the average journey time on Easter Sunday was 9 hours to cover the 120 kilometres. Good call Marcelo.)
But back to Casa Grande. Lunch, Brazilian style is very often a buffet and the Casa Grande didn’t disappoint. The salad bar was to die for and the dessert table was laden with goodies for later.
But, in between the salad and the dessert was the “traditional” hot buffet. Well, it is very Brazilian to eat rice and black beans – arroza and feijao preto. I have managed to avoid this so far but on Saturday there was no getting away from it. It was literally all there was in the way of hot food. The chafing dishes were bubbling away with a thick black bean sauce and would, “madam like her black bean and rice with salted pork loin, salted pork ribs, salted jerked pork or salted pigs’ ears, trotters or tail” – ugh. And just in case there wasn’t enough of the black bean and pork, there was deep fried lard. I can feel my arteries clogging at the thought of it. I managed about three mouthfuls of salted pork loin and had to give up.
The salad bar was looking very good.
All over the world there are various delicacies and traditions that really don’t translate for non natives. In the main, I have managed to avoid them. Sometimes, being the only Westerners and "honoured guests" there is no escaping it.
In the Philippines it was balut. Check out the Wikipedia description below. Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up so I will let Wikipedia describe it for me.
In Turkey there was the religious celebration of Kurban bayram, and again, Westerners just don’t get it.
In Sweden, Christmas lunch consists of pickled herring. One delicacy being a particularly nasty fermented herring. If you left an open tin in your fridge it would be the end of the fridge. Nothing could get rid of the smell (Again, see the footnote courtesy of Wikipedia.) Glad to say that I never tried that one.
Traditional food in France, is, on the other hand delicious, as long as you like copious amounts of garlic. I never had a problem there, and in the United States as long as you could cope with 5000++ calories on your plate you were fine.
I am sure that Roast Beef and Yorkshire pudding sounds bizarre to the uninitiated, but for us Brits it is absolutely delicious.
So, each to their own. Over the years I have become very respectful of traditions and customs in all of the places that we have lived – just as long as I don’t have to observe them.
Surströmming "soured (Baltic) herring" is a northern Swedish dish consisting of fermented Baltic herring. Surströmming is sold in cans, which often bulge during shipping and storage, due to the continued fermentation. When opened, the contents release a strong and sometimes overwhelming odour, which explains why the dish is often eaten outdoors.
A balut is a fertilized duck (or chicken) egg with a nearly-developed embryo inside that is boiled and eaten in the shell.
Popularly believed to be an aphrodisiac and considered a high-protein, hearty snack, balut are mostly sold by street vendors in the regions where they are available. It is commonly sold as street food in the Philippines
This weekend was Easter weekend, so a three day holiday. Friday, being Good Friday and a very important day on the Christian calendar saw us getting up late, Steve playing golf, followed by drinks and eats at the golf club with some new acquaintances.
Steve maintains that he worships at the church of the 18 fairways. The rest of the family is more traditionally religious.
The previous day I had been to the supermarket, and there, in the middle of the aisle was a display of salted cod. This, it seems is a traditional Brazilian dish for Good Friday. It must also be a delicacy the rest of the year because it is always available. But on this day in particular, there was a mountain of the stuff.
And, it has to be said, there were literally dozens of people picking over it to
choose the tastiest looking morsel. Well, one look and I definitely passed on the other side. The smell was enough to make me steer well clear.
But back to the golf club. The waiter, with great pride, told us that the “special” of the day was salted cod, served with ………. My Portuguese isn’t that good yet.
I got the salted cod bit, and learned from my host that the remainder comprised lumps of potato with other stuff mashed in. She told me that it was to be avoided – phew. Salad looked good. Lucky escape there.
The following day, Easter Saturday, we decided to go to the beach for lunch. Some (other) new friends had suggested that we head for the nearest resort - 120 kilometers, (75 miles) away. There is a “Leading Hotels of the World” - “Casa Grande” there, which sounded good to us. We had thought about heading out on Easter Sunday but Marcelo heard of our plans and there was no mistaking his angst at the thought of sitting in traffic jams heading back to Sao Paulo late on Sunday afternoon. We heeded his advice and went on Easter Saturday instead.
( I found out today that the average journey time on Easter Sunday was 9 hours to cover the 120 kilometres. Good call Marcelo.)
But back to Casa Grande. Lunch, Brazilian style is very often a buffet and the Casa Grande didn’t disappoint. The salad bar was to die for and the dessert table was laden with goodies for later.
But, in between the salad and the dessert was the “traditional” hot buffet. Well, it is very Brazilian to eat rice and black beans – arroza and feijao preto. I have managed to avoid this so far but on Saturday there was no getting away from it. It was literally all there was in the way of hot food. The chafing dishes were bubbling away with a thick black bean sauce and would, “madam like her black bean and rice with salted pork loin, salted pork ribs, salted jerked pork or salted pigs’ ears, trotters or tail” – ugh. And just in case there wasn’t enough of the black bean and pork, there was deep fried lard. I can feel my arteries clogging at the thought of it. I managed about three mouthfuls of salted pork loin and had to give up.
The salad bar was looking very good.
All over the world there are various delicacies and traditions that really don’t translate for non natives. In the main, I have managed to avoid them. Sometimes, being the only Westerners and "honoured guests" there is no escaping it.
In the Philippines it was balut. Check out the Wikipedia description below. Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up so I will let Wikipedia describe it for me.
In Turkey there was the religious celebration of Kurban bayram, and again, Westerners just don’t get it.
In Sweden, Christmas lunch consists of pickled herring. One delicacy being a particularly nasty fermented herring. If you left an open tin in your fridge it would be the end of the fridge. Nothing could get rid of the smell (Again, see the footnote courtesy of Wikipedia.) Glad to say that I never tried that one.
Traditional food in France, is, on the other hand delicious, as long as you like copious amounts of garlic. I never had a problem there, and in the United States as long as you could cope with 5000++ calories on your plate you were fine.
I am sure that Roast Beef and Yorkshire pudding sounds bizarre to the uninitiated, but for us Brits it is absolutely delicious.
So, each to their own. Over the years I have become very respectful of traditions and customs in all of the places that we have lived – just as long as I don’t have to observe them.
Surströmming "soured (Baltic) herring" is a northern Swedish dish consisting of fermented Baltic herring. Surströmming is sold in cans, which often bulge during shipping and storage, due to the continued fermentation. When opened, the contents release a strong and sometimes overwhelming odour, which explains why the dish is often eaten outdoors.
A balut is a fertilized duck (or chicken) egg with a nearly-developed embryo inside that is boiled and eaten in the shell.
Popularly believed to be an aphrodisiac and considered a high-protein, hearty snack, balut are mostly sold by street vendors in the regions where they are available. It is commonly sold as street food in the Philippines
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Roundabouts. April 1 2010
We lived in Paris for a little over 18 months, but it took me six months to pluck up the courage to drive into the centre of the city.
We lived in the south west of the city, and in order to get to the centre, it meant that there was no choice other than to drive around the “Etoile”. The Etoile (which translates as Star) is a huge roundabout, in the middle of which, majestically stands the Arc de Triomphe. It has twelve roads leading onto it with such evocative names as Avenue de la Grande Armee, Avenue Foch and of course the Champs Elysee.
Once on, it is hard to tell how many lanes there are because nothing is marked and I can only describe it as a “free for all”. There is a rule that as you enter the roundabout you have priority. It is just as well really because otherwise one wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of ever getting from one side to the other and then getting off again. But once onto the circuit, all rules are abandoned, other than the fact that you then in turn, have to give way (yield for the Americans reading this) to traffic entering from your right. It is a massive game of chicken.
As I said, there are no lanes – you just make your own. And heaven help you on a day when the police decide to direct traffic. I can only think that the police must get some sort of sadistic or even masochistic pleasure out of trying to direct traffic. I have seldom met a Frenchman that obeys traffic rules.
My way of dealing with this roundabout was very simple. I just imagined “who had more to lose.” In other words, I used to look at the car next to me that was competing for a space and would think to myself, "who is going to come off worse if we crash." It goes without saying that with the children strapped in the back, I was much more cautious than when driving alone.
At that time we had taken over a BMW from a previous ex-pat that had left. This was both a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing because it gave me a great sense of security, safe in the knowledge that a good solid German BMW would most likely come off better than something like a Citroen. But it was a curse in that it was such a great car, and I didn’t want to be the one to damage it. But, I survived, and the remaining year that we were there, I would travel into the centre at least once a week and I am happy to report that I didn’t have any problems.
Now, I have said that for this particular roundabout, priority was given when getting on to it. This is not always the case in France and just to confuse you, you had to be on the lookout for roundabouts where you didn't have priority getting on. There was normally a sign telling you, but it was a bit disconcerting to say the least, to hurtle up to the roundabout only to spot the sign and have to slam on the brakes.
In the States, Americans don’t do roundabouts or at least not in New Jersey. The few that there are, are called “circles” although that may not bear any relation to the actual shape of the layout of the road. It is just a convenient term. Near where we used to live, there were three. One was totally controlled by lights, one partially controlled by lights and the third not at all. I guess the planners were trying to give priority to the most important of the roads, but in reality it just caused chaos. There were though, clear sign posts and you could find yourself having no problem getting onto the circle, only to find that it is much more difficult to get off. Other times the reverse was true. Suffice it to say, there were no set rules, each one was different and had to be treated with respect.
In the UK it is very simple. Roundabouts are everywhere. Why bother with traffic lights when you can have a roundabout. They drive on the left in the UK and the rules are simple. Give way to traffic from the right, but once on the roundabout, you then have priority. Easy unless you are driving in Milton Keynes, which has the record for the most confusing roundabouts ever known to man.
The reason I am blogging about roundabouts is because I have yet to discover what on earth the protocol is for driving around them here in Sao Paulo. I think Marcelo is a great driver but my language skills aren’t yet good enough to ask him how he decides whether to go without stopping, whether to slow down and think about it, or whether to go for it, change his mind and let someone else go ahead. All I know is that there is no way I am going to even bother to get my driver’s license until I have figured this out. I will just let Marcelo figure out who has got the most to lose.
We lived in the south west of the city, and in order to get to the centre, it meant that there was no choice other than to drive around the “Etoile”. The Etoile (which translates as Star) is a huge roundabout, in the middle of which, majestically stands the Arc de Triomphe. It has twelve roads leading onto it with such evocative names as Avenue de la Grande Armee, Avenue Foch and of course the Champs Elysee.
Once on, it is hard to tell how many lanes there are because nothing is marked and I can only describe it as a “free for all”. There is a rule that as you enter the roundabout you have priority. It is just as well really because otherwise one wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of ever getting from one side to the other and then getting off again. But once onto the circuit, all rules are abandoned, other than the fact that you then in turn, have to give way (yield for the Americans reading this) to traffic entering from your right. It is a massive game of chicken.
As I said, there are no lanes – you just make your own. And heaven help you on a day when the police decide to direct traffic. I can only think that the police must get some sort of sadistic or even masochistic pleasure out of trying to direct traffic. I have seldom met a Frenchman that obeys traffic rules.
My way of dealing with this roundabout was very simple. I just imagined “who had more to lose.” In other words, I used to look at the car next to me that was competing for a space and would think to myself, "who is going to come off worse if we crash." It goes without saying that with the children strapped in the back, I was much more cautious than when driving alone.
At that time we had taken over a BMW from a previous ex-pat that had left. This was both a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing because it gave me a great sense of security, safe in the knowledge that a good solid German BMW would most likely come off better than something like a Citroen. But it was a curse in that it was such a great car, and I didn’t want to be the one to damage it. But, I survived, and the remaining year that we were there, I would travel into the centre at least once a week and I am happy to report that I didn’t have any problems.
Now, I have said that for this particular roundabout, priority was given when getting on to it. This is not always the case in France and just to confuse you, you had to be on the lookout for roundabouts where you didn't have priority getting on. There was normally a sign telling you, but it was a bit disconcerting to say the least, to hurtle up to the roundabout only to spot the sign and have to slam on the brakes.
In the States, Americans don’t do roundabouts or at least not in New Jersey. The few that there are, are called “circles” although that may not bear any relation to the actual shape of the layout of the road. It is just a convenient term. Near where we used to live, there were three. One was totally controlled by lights, one partially controlled by lights and the third not at all. I guess the planners were trying to give priority to the most important of the roads, but in reality it just caused chaos. There were though, clear sign posts and you could find yourself having no problem getting onto the circle, only to find that it is much more difficult to get off. Other times the reverse was true. Suffice it to say, there were no set rules, each one was different and had to be treated with respect.
In the UK it is very simple. Roundabouts are everywhere. Why bother with traffic lights when you can have a roundabout. They drive on the left in the UK and the rules are simple. Give way to traffic from the right, but once on the roundabout, you then have priority. Easy unless you are driving in Milton Keynes, which has the record for the most confusing roundabouts ever known to man.
The reason I am blogging about roundabouts is because I have yet to discover what on earth the protocol is for driving around them here in Sao Paulo. I think Marcelo is a great driver but my language skills aren’t yet good enough to ask him how he decides whether to go without stopping, whether to slow down and think about it, or whether to go for it, change his mind and let someone else go ahead. All I know is that there is no way I am going to even bother to get my driver’s license until I have figured this out. I will just let Marcelo figure out who has got the most to lose.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Mould. Tuesday March 30, 2010
My house smells damp. In fact I could rephrase that along the lines that my house is damp. It has rained here pretty much every day since we arrived. There were a record breaking forty plus consecutive days of rain followed by a few dry days, only to be followed by yet more rain. And when I say rain, what I mean is tropical thunderstorms. The sort that floods everything really quickly, causing power blackouts and localized flooding on the roads.
As a consequence nothing really dries. To give you an example, Steve uses my hairdryer every morning to dry the shirt, socks and underwear that he is about to put on. Boy do I miss my tumble drier and my AGA cooker (check that out on Google)
As Charles commented on his Face Book page whilst he was staying here “I now understand why the British never colonized Brazil – the weather”
We have a laundry room that is adjacent to the kitchen. It has two doors to the outside and both of these let in water every time it rains. So that has meant for most of the past 7 weeks, ever since we moved in, I have had a daily ritual of mopping out the laundry room.
Our landlord (who deserves a blog of his own and one day I will tell you all about him) employs an agent to sort out the problems with the house. She is so useless that I don’t suppose that she can even spell the words “fix it” let alone know how to do it. There have been and still are numerous problems in the house, but by far the most pressing is to fix the rain problem. It is not as though Sao Paulo is unused to wet days. We are living pretty close to the Tropic of Capricorn and you might think the fact that there is the word “Tropic” in the title of the line of latitude, one would have a clue as to the climate.
So Useless ( as we have taken to calling her) has been on several occasions to “look at the problem”. She knows that my Portuguese, (although improving by the day,) is still limited, but she insists on gabbling away in the local tongue. She has tried to fit a rubber phalange on the door to stop the water running under the gap – no success - followed by a 2 inch piece of marble which is intended to create a lip over which the rain water shouldn’t but does run.
It doesn’t help that
a. the doors don’t fit properly
And
b. She doesn’t want to spend anything more than peanuts to fix any of the problems.
So the consequence is that water floods the laundry room most days. Clearly for the Brazilians, this is not unusual, because my (rented) washing machine has feet about 3 inches off the ground. It wouldn’t do to have water mixing with electricity after all.
Useless is supposed to come back this coming Thursday so have another look at the problem. Trouble is my patience is running very thin. I have already been told that the real estate company that listed this house have completely washed their hands of her and are refusing to deal with her. Fine for them to do that but I am the one living in a house that she is managing and I don’t have the ability to say “I refuse to deal with you”.
The final straw came today when I went to get Tessie's (our fox terrier) heartworm tablet that she has to have every month. With hindsight it was stupid to keep her (2 years worth) of supplies in the laundry room but there is a very convenient cupboard there which could have been designed for the purpose.
I open the bag containing Tessie’s worldly goods and the smell was disgusting. Everything in there and I mean everything was covered with greenish grey mould - ugh.
So now, in addition to doing battle with Useless , I now have to set about finding a vet.
Whatever they are paying, today it is clearly not enough.
As a consequence nothing really dries. To give you an example, Steve uses my hairdryer every morning to dry the shirt, socks and underwear that he is about to put on. Boy do I miss my tumble drier and my AGA cooker (check that out on Google)
As Charles commented on his Face Book page whilst he was staying here “I now understand why the British never colonized Brazil – the weather”
We have a laundry room that is adjacent to the kitchen. It has two doors to the outside and both of these let in water every time it rains. So that has meant for most of the past 7 weeks, ever since we moved in, I have had a daily ritual of mopping out the laundry room.
Our landlord (who deserves a blog of his own and one day I will tell you all about him) employs an agent to sort out the problems with the house. She is so useless that I don’t suppose that she can even spell the words “fix it” let alone know how to do it. There have been and still are numerous problems in the house, but by far the most pressing is to fix the rain problem. It is not as though Sao Paulo is unused to wet days. We are living pretty close to the Tropic of Capricorn and you might think the fact that there is the word “Tropic” in the title of the line of latitude, one would have a clue as to the climate.
So Useless ( as we have taken to calling her) has been on several occasions to “look at the problem”. She knows that my Portuguese, (although improving by the day,) is still limited, but she insists on gabbling away in the local tongue. She has tried to fit a rubber phalange on the door to stop the water running under the gap – no success - followed by a 2 inch piece of marble which is intended to create a lip over which the rain water shouldn’t but does run.
It doesn’t help that
a. the doors don’t fit properly
And
b. She doesn’t want to spend anything more than peanuts to fix any of the problems.
So the consequence is that water floods the laundry room most days. Clearly for the Brazilians, this is not unusual, because my (rented) washing machine has feet about 3 inches off the ground. It wouldn’t do to have water mixing with electricity after all.
Useless is supposed to come back this coming Thursday so have another look at the problem. Trouble is my patience is running very thin. I have already been told that the real estate company that listed this house have completely washed their hands of her and are refusing to deal with her. Fine for them to do that but I am the one living in a house that she is managing and I don’t have the ability to say “I refuse to deal with you”.
The final straw came today when I went to get Tessie's (our fox terrier) heartworm tablet that she has to have every month. With hindsight it was stupid to keep her (2 years worth) of supplies in the laundry room but there is a very convenient cupboard there which could have been designed for the purpose.
I open the bag containing Tessie’s worldly goods and the smell was disgusting. Everything in there and I mean everything was covered with greenish grey mould - ugh.
So now, in addition to doing battle with Useless , I now have to set about finding a vet.
Whatever they are paying, today it is clearly not enough.
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