At some point during our senior spring at Williams, my good friend Merritt Edlind and I attempted to determine who, between the two of us, was more amused by our own thoughts. This exercise had nothing to do with who was more entertaining to other individuals, but was instead meant to compare our self-images—which of us found ourselves wittier. We eventually concluded that I find myself funnier than Merritt, mostly because Merritt is a rather modest sort, and I think I am hilarious.
Any extended period of solo travel affords one a great deal of time for self-reflection, and in my more pensive moments, I find myself coming back to Merritt and my discussion. I have now concluded that the primary reason I enjoy myself so much, often more than I should, is rooted in my hugely inflated sense of self-worth. The experiences I have had abroad have shown me that I think I am far funnier, more clever and better-looking than I actually am. Although my unabashed egotism may not have been apparent to many of my friends and acquaintances back home, it is only because I am also (exceptionally) good at feigning modesty. This discovery, though, has not really made me any less full of myself— it has just allowed for some interesting analyses of my behavior.
While at home or at school, my self-infatuation was often tempered by conversations with friends or distractions like schoolwork or females. Now that I am alone, I have a great deal more free time to think and let my mind wander. As a result, I grow more impressed with myself each day. More often than not, the sources of this pride are irrational and entirely unfounded. I was, for example, proud of myself after I delivered two massive sacks of laundry to the laundromat in Largo Machado, a part of town 20 minutes away. My discovery later that day— that I could have spent far less at a place walking distance from my house— did not put a dent in my swollen chest. As far as I was concerned, the day, and I, had been massively successful.
I have not been more proud of myself over the course of my entire five months abroad than in the moments following the creation of my first batch of homemade peanut butter. For all four months in Ireland, where peanut butter is readily available, I never once got the urge to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As soon as I landed in Brazil, though, the cravings hit, and I headed straight for the store. After spending an hour in the spreads aisle, being teased by jars of exotic jams and jellies, it became apparent to me that peanut butter is not eaten in this country. I returned home a broken man, and reported my findings to Sadakne, a friend living in the same house. Sadakne is also from the Midwest, but has lived in Rio for the past few years. “No biggie,” she said. “Just make some yourself. Oil, peanuts, salt and sugar.”
It was another couple of weeks before I had moved into my own place and purchased a blender, but I did not forget. After purchasing 4 little baggies of peanuts from the store, I returned home and churned out some Americana. My first batch wasn’t that great. It was too oily, and didn’t taste good by itself. On sandwiches, it got the job done, although the superb guava jelly that I splurged on was probably what tipped the scales. In short, my creation was nothing to put Jif out of business*. Yet, over the next few days, I probably ate upwards of 10 bananas with peanut butter. Because it was my peanut butter. Peanut butter that I had made. I mentioned it incessantly in conversation with friends and family. I didn’t even have the decency to slip it in casually. I was that proud.
Aroop: So what have you been doing in Rio? Playing a lot of music?
Me: Yea, yea some music. And eating. Eating bananas.
Aroop: Cool, bananas.
Me: Yea I eat them with peanut butter.
Aroop: Word, I like b—
Me (cutting him off): That I made. Peanut butter that I made.
Aroop: You make your own peanut butter?
Me (nonchalantly): Yea, I guess I do. No big deal. You know, you do what you gotta do.
Aroop: Wow. You should write a blog post about that.
Me: Yea maybe. I do a lot of stuff like that though, I don’t know.
My last statement was, of course, a lie. I haven’t done anything as cool as making my own peanut butter outside of when I accidentally charred most of the hair off of my right hand with my oven, but I already wrote about that. Clearly I was going to write a post about the peanut butter. Although not all of my little victories have been quite that glamorous, however, I have found that I have a much easier time dealing with the minute yet significant challenges inherent in living abroad when I view them not as obstacles, but as more opportunities. Opportunities to impress myself time and time again. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for the other Watson fellows who may not be as full of themselves as I am. In the midst of these meditations, however, I usually get distracted by my own radiant genius and thus never get too much time to think about them. Intellect has its price, I suppose.
On a less self-aggrandizing note, I hope everyone’s holidays back in the US (and wherever else) are spectacular. It’s now the height of summer in Rio, and I went to the beach on December 24th, took my shirt off, and drank fresh coconut water. It’s a bit surreal, but I’m coping. There’s also supposed to be a massive New Year’s party on Copacabana beach, so if any of you back home don’t have any plans, there’s space in my apartment for you to crash. I only have one pillow, though, so keep that in mind. If you don’t make it down, have a great New Year’s and I’ll see you all in 2008.
Much love,
Auyon
* Batch two, on the other hand, was a different story. I got my oil/peanut and sugar/salt ratios down, and then, in a moment of brilliance, melted down some of the dark chocolate Toblerone I had in the fridge and added it to the mix. Words cannot describe how dazzled I was by myself when I was finished with this masterpiece.
Note from the poster: Sorry it took so long for this guy to go up. Auyon's been having internet problems down South, so he asked me to post this. Mid December bacchanalia and poor connection for the past couple of days prevented me from helping a brother out. My apologies. Updates to go up soon on aroop.vox.com. Promise. - Aroop
Last week, Vinicius and I strolled around Santa Teresa in search of some suitable accommodation for me for the next four months. We saw a few lavish apartments, all of which came with price tags to match. Although the Real (the Brazilian currency) is more forgiving than the Euro, my decision to take both intensive Portuguese classes as well as mandolin lessons in Rio has rendered me unable to afford much more than a modest rent. At the tail end of our tour of the town, after seeing a mouth-watering little place with huge windows and hardwood floors, the owner said that he had something else that might be more suitable. We descended down a number of staircases, deep into the bowels of the apartment complex. When we got to what seemed like the bottom floor, he led us down another small, narrow concrete staircase hidden in the corner, leading to an unpainted wooden door. He opened the door, revealing a concrete floor littered with the belongings of the current occupant, a bed, a mini-table and a small kitchenette with an oven and a sink. Although I wasn’t overly impressed, the price he quoted was exactly what I was looking for, so after some deliberation, I took it.
I returned later that day, sans Vinicius, in order to procure the contract from a lady named Andrea to make it all official. I walked to the desk at the entrance of the building, and met Julio, a behemoth of a man with deep black skin and intensely white teeth, for the second time. I had the pleasure of meeting him earlier, when Vinicius and I first entered the building. Vinicius had shaken hands with him first, recoiling in pain afterwards and informing me to “Watch out.” I then nervously looked up from my own extended hand to Julio, who exposed his teeth in an intimidating grin, and then gripped my hand and shook it like a dead rodent. Our second encounter began with a simple “Olá”, as I made sure to keep my hand in my pocket lest he try to mangle it again. We were all alone, and since Julio speaks no English, I took a stab at Portuguese. For the benefit of all you gringo readers out there in cyberspace, I will be recounting our conversations in translation.
“Hello Julio. I… Andrea. Where. Andrea.” It wasn’t really a question, but he understood.
“She’s not here yet.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
A slight pause followed, followed by Julio’s attempt to make conversation. “It’s pretty hot outside,” he said slowly. I then decided to try one of the phrases I remembered from my Rosetta Stone course.
“I… I am. I am hot.” I continued. “You. You are hot. We are. We are hot.” These were some of the first full sentences I had constructed in Portuguese, and I was hugely proud of myself. Only later did I realize what a blathering idiot I must have sounded like. Julio cut me off.
“The beach would be great today. Have you been to the beach?”
“I love beach.”
It was at this point that Andrea, a pretty lady in her mid-30’s, walked into the room. Julio informed her that I needed the contract, and she then turned her back to us to walk to the desk. I then looked back at Julio. His arms were outstretched, and he was framing Andrea’s posterior in a little window he made with his fingers, wincing as though he were experiencing intense pain or pleasure. He then grinned at me and flashed a thumbs-up sign. I nodded vigorously. Over the course of our short interaction, language barriers aside, we had established that we share an interest in both beaches and the jean-clad female form. I can’t think of a more solid foundation for friendship. I hope to see much more of Julio.
I moved in to the apartment last week, and found a few surprises. Most were minor, like a broken board in the bed, but I also found that the oven didn’t work. When I informed one of the men who work the desk, he called the gas company to bring a new tank. He then fixed it up for me, and watched as I tried to light it. I had recently gotten comfortable lighting gas ovens, since I had cooked a bit with Vinicius in his house. I took the lighter in hand, turned up the gas, and flicked the lighter. Foot-tall flames erupted out of the oven, singing most of the hair off of the knuckles of my right hand and scaring the shit out of me. Antonio, the gentleman who had helped me hook the tank up, frowned and muttered something in Portuguese. I cradled my hand and inspected the damage. The results weren’t all bad. I admit that my knuckles had been getting a bit hairy, and could have done with a little trim. Engulfing my hand in a gas-borne fireball, however, would not have been my preferred method. Antonio then instructed me to use the oven on very low heat, presumably to prevent lighting the building on fire. I agreed.
Outside of my flaming oven, the apartment has been great. I have two decently sized windows that look out onto Santa Teresa, so I get a nice breeze and a view. I also have a pet cockroach named Mr. Brojangles who lives under my fridge. When I first saw him a few nights ago, I tried to goosh him, but he’s a very clever boy and scuttled back under the fridge. I recently sprayed Raid all over the apartment though, so I’m afraid I might not be seeing much of Mr. Brojangles anymore.
In all seriousness, I’m starting to get really settled down here and am really enjoying Rio. I had my first mandolin lesson with a guy named Rudá, and am absolutely loving the music. The language barrier makes for a much trickier adjustment than anything I experienced in Ireland, but my Portuguese is getting better by the day. Hopefully I’ll be able to speak well enough to get my oven fixed soon.
Much love, I’m missing you all,
Auyon
My first meal in Brazil consisted of a small, floppy cheeseburger and a strangely flavored milkshake at a little joint called “Bob’s Burgers” in Rio de Janeiro airport. Upon consumption, I headed outside to catch a cab to Santa Teresa, where my friend Vinicius is staying. These first two interactions with Cariocas (inhabitants of Rio)— the cashier at Bob’s and the cab driver— made it quite clear to me that I had been operating under false pretenses for the past 4 months. Before my arrival, I had convinced myself that since Rio is such a popular tourist destination, I would be able to get around speaking English. Sure, I thought, Portuguese would help in communicating with the musicians, but my limited knowledge of the language via the Rosetta Stone course, combined with my familiarity with French and Spanish, would make the transition hardly noticeable.
Fallacies.
The cab driver tried to make conversation, but soon realized I had no idea what was going on, and instead resorted to the few English words he knew. “Favela,” he pointed out as we passed by one of the many poor shanty towns that dot the city. “Dangerous.” I nodded. We drove several minutes in silence. “Beautiful, this city,” he continued, pointing at the towering mountains, lush green forests and white sand beaches that lay in the distance. I nodded vigorously. We eventually got into Centro, or downtown, and then drove up the hill that leads to the neighborhood of Santa Teresa.
Santa Teresa was at one point one of the most fashionable places to live in Rio, and the huge, colonial style houses that line many of its streets are a testament to its glory days. The often dilapidated and decrepit façades of the buildings, though, are evidence of the area’s later decline. Today, Santa Teresa is experiencing a rejuvenation of sorts, and is reputed to be the city’s booming arts district. All the guidebooks I read, though, make clear that Santa Teresa retains a rather rough edge, as it is close to many favelas. “Take care,” they warn, “as muggings do occur often here.” I looked around as the cab climbed up the cobbled streets, and noticed that all the houses had sizable gates and fences, tastefully decorated with barbed wire and chunks of broken glass to discourage uninvited guests.
We soon reached no. 587, Rua Joaquim Murtinho, at which point I thanked the cab driver profusely and collected my bags from the trunk. The driver zoomed off, and I headed towards the gate. It was locked. There was another gate, though. Locked as well. I looked for a doorbell. There was one inside the second gate, and I reached through and rang it. No one answered. I rang it again. I then took a minute to survey my surroundings. There was no one in sight— just stretches of cobbled street and high fences on either side of me. I was all alone. In Rio. I took ten deep breaths, and then collected my thoughts. “This is it,” I thought. “I’m going to get mugged. I’ve been in Rio for all of 45 minutes, and I’m going to get mugged. And when they mug me, they’re going to laugh at me, because I’m wearing this god damned fanny pack I promised my dad I’d wear to keep my passport safe and—”
“Olá!” buzzed a man’s voice through the speaker above the doorbell behind the gate, followed by several incomprehensible words in Portuguese.
“Amigo. Amigo de Vinicius,” I said in what I thought was a Portuguese inflection. I heard a shuffle, and then saw a little shirtless man wearing Bermuda shorts walk down to the gate. I could have kissed him.
The man, named Eduardo, opened the gate, and relieved me of one of my suitcases. We then headed up to the main house, a watermelon-red mansion with white trim and surrounded by foliage. I found the owner, a lady named Julie, and tried desperately to explain my plight. “I speak English,” she said, after I trailed off into Portuguese-gibberish for the third or fourth time. I later learned that Julie is in fact Irish, from Belfast. Small world. She put me up in a hostel area in the basement of the house. There were no other hostel-dwellers at the time, however, leaving me with 10 beds to myself. Glorious. I took a long hot shower, and then looked around for Vinicius. He had been gone when I arrived, but was around when I checked a second time. The man is a paraglider pilot, musician and graphic designer. I want to be like him when I grow up. We spoke for a little while, and then I headed into town to try and buy groceries. It turns out everything is much more interesting when you can’t understand what’s going on around you. Unlike Ireland, though, I don’t look at all out of place here, which is a welcome change. I spent about an hour and a half buying 5 things from the supermarket, and then headed home, quite proud of myself.
Over the next few days, I managed to get a decent sense of the city and how to get around. This was accomplished primarily by getting on bus headed to some chosen destination, like Ipanema beach. I would then fail to get off at the right stop, because there are no official stops here. You simply push a little button, and the bus slows down and stops wherever you please. This is fantastic for anyone who knows the city, but I did not have that luxury, making every bus ride a little adventure of its own. Constant vigilance is not a forte of mine, and thus I got off at random points in the city more often than not, realized I had no idea where I was, and then would try to catch another bus. The cycle continued until I found my way home. 3 hours is my average travel time, regardless of destination.
I’ve also gotten completely hooked on samba and chorinho (a more intimate, instrumental type of Brazilian music), and have been looking for a teacher. For the next few months, I plan on primarily concentrating on learning Portuguese and getting to a decent point on the mandolin. Before I arrived, I had entertained fantasies of learning to surf, dance, fight capoeira, et cetera, but I recently realized that my time will be much more effectively spent getting good at a few things rather than spreading myself thin with too many.
In other news, I just found a place to live for the next four months. I don’t know the exact room number yet (I move in on Saturday) but will post the address as soon as I can. I also just started some intensive Portuguese classes, and will hopefully be at a conversational-fluent point within a couple of months. My current lack of ability, however, will certainly lead to some entertaining encounters. Get excited.
I miss you all. More stories soon.
Much love,
Auyon
