I may look like a snarling hound, but still, Carnaval sta sabe.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
a boring little entry about going out
I moved recently (more on that later, in another entry), and the community where I live now is probably the smallest I have ever called home. It being small, there's not much to do. They blast music and play soccer on the handball court most nights, and many people go to church on Sundays, but "restaurant" here refers to a bar that serves french fries with fried eggs (notice how I used the word "fry" twice to describe one meal? that's a recurring theme with my diet here), and crowds congregate when somebody fills up a water jug. It kind of reminds me of Minnesota sometimes. Nobody has much business, so everybody is a little bit into everybody else's business, and that's the way everybody likes it.
In practice, this means that when I venture outside my house I am usually making a commitment to hours of conversation in a foreign language and — depending on which way I walk — possibly lists of new names to remember. On top of that, I can't even get outside without the keys for deadbolts on two separate doors. So you can imagine that I sometimes shy away from the effort.
But when I don't, the rewards can be stupendous. Yesterday was the day I had agreed to visit my coworker in the neighboring town of Estancia Bras to see their Carnaval parade. I was supposed to head down at about 3pm, but it was nearly 5pm before I got my act together, and when I did I only made it about 50 feet beyond my gate. There I met my neighbor, who (through the misty veil of Creole) seemed to be asking me for advice on vegetables. I deftly eschewed the subject and concealed my ignorance by telling him how beautiful his vegetables look, after which I was invited inside for a beer. More than an hour later, I knew a lot more about the intricacies of local politics and had secured the right to use his stove or borrow his spare gas tank. We parted, but I ran into him again on the main road and he introduced me to a car of other guys who happened to be right there and going my way. I rode with them, and it turned out that they were the party crew: they brought me to the dance floor in Estancia Bras and I got to see them setting up the bar, gassing up the generator, etc. From there we went downhill, to the starting point of the Carnaval parade. People were already gathered and celebrating; a minute later I had my arms around people I'd never met and was singing fragments of a song I'd never heard into a megaphone.
Later, after hearing it sung over and over again by everyone from mothers to pre-teens, I figured out the words. For a big public ballad, I think it's funny.
Before the parade, though, I finally made it to my coworker's house. There, I watched a soccer game on TV, ate a delicious dinner, and exchanged drawings of Mickey Mouse with his 7-year-old daughter. My drawing, amazingly, was better than hers (although her brother clearly upstaged me). At some point she snuck under the table and wrote her name on the top of my shoe. I felt the pen scratching there and thought for a moment about trying to stop it, but something about the idea of having my apparel vandalized while I was still wearing it seemed so improbable that I had to see whether it would actually happen.
It did.
Now I'm back in my house, and I just listened to Car Talk for the first time since last May, and I won't deny that it feels really good to rediscover things like NPR that were once such a familiar fixture of my life. I was alone last year, and solitude felt less solitary with a voice telling me stories. But it's slowly occurring to me that those stories are merely prepackaged versions of real life, and if I spend enough time around other people, I can make it my privilege to tell stories of my own. I can see all the colors and subtle details around me, deciding for myself which details are most deserving and which colors are most beautiful.
In practice, this means that when I venture outside my house I am usually making a commitment to hours of conversation in a foreign language and — depending on which way I walk — possibly lists of new names to remember. On top of that, I can't even get outside without the keys for deadbolts on two separate doors. So you can imagine that I sometimes shy away from the effort.
But when I don't, the rewards can be stupendous. Yesterday was the day I had agreed to visit my coworker in the neighboring town of Estancia Bras to see their Carnaval parade. I was supposed to head down at about 3pm, but it was nearly 5pm before I got my act together, and when I did I only made it about 50 feet beyond my gate. There I met my neighbor, who (through the misty veil of Creole) seemed to be asking me for advice on vegetables. I deftly eschewed the subject and concealed my ignorance by telling him how beautiful his vegetables look, after which I was invited inside for a beer. More than an hour later, I knew a lot more about the intricacies of local politics and had secured the right to use his stove or borrow his spare gas tank. We parted, but I ran into him again on the main road and he introduced me to a car of other guys who happened to be right there and going my way. I rode with them, and it turned out that they were the party crew: they brought me to the dance floor in Estancia Bras and I got to see them setting up the bar, gassing up the generator, etc. From there we went downhill, to the starting point of the Carnaval parade. People were already gathered and celebrating; a minute later I had my arms around people I'd never met and was singing fragments of a song I'd never heard into a megaphone.
Later, after hearing it sung over and over again by everyone from mothers to pre-teens, I figured out the words. For a big public ballad, I think it's funny.
oji é dia do Carnaval (today is the day of Carnaval)To be fair, there was a longer version with gentler themes on the lips of the dancing children's chorus. But this one, about getting hammered, is what the guy with the microphone sang on the loudspeakers during the parade.
e grogue é nos pa bebe (and grogue is ours to drink)
oji é dia do Carnaval
e nos ta bai fusca (and we're going to get drunk)
Before the parade, though, I finally made it to my coworker's house. There, I watched a soccer game on TV, ate a delicious dinner, and exchanged drawings of Mickey Mouse with his 7-year-old daughter. My drawing, amazingly, was better than hers (although her brother clearly upstaged me). At some point she snuck under the table and wrote her name on the top of my shoe. I felt the pen scratching there and thought for a moment about trying to stop it, but something about the idea of having my apparel vandalized while I was still wearing it seemed so improbable that I had to see whether it would actually happen.
It did.
Now I'm back in my house, and I just listened to Car Talk for the first time since last May, and I won't deny that it feels really good to rediscover things like NPR that were once such a familiar fixture of my life. I was alone last year, and solitude felt less solitary with a voice telling me stories. But it's slowly occurring to me that those stories are merely prepackaged versions of real life, and if I spend enough time around other people, I can make it my privilege to tell stories of my own. I can see all the colors and subtle details around me, deciding for myself which details are most deserving and which colors are most beautiful.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)