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.
Friday, April 23, 2010
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.
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