Reverse Culture Shock in Vancouver

How do I know I've been away from Vancouver for the last 10 months? My neighbor is holding a new baby. That's it. Oh, and the business across the street looks like they had a bit of a fire looking at the long black streaks of soot on the facade of the building. Aside from that, seems like time has stood still.  I am, however, quick to point out the little things that differ from living in Rio, which is driving my husband a bit crazy.

1. Look! The crosswalk button works and I get to cross before another wrinkle forms on my face.
2. I feel deaf because it's so darn quiet.
3. Driving is fun and relaxing again.
4. My feet, my eyes and my teeth are crispy cold when I run outside on the shit-free sidewalk.
5. The oranges have no seeds.
6. I can drink from the tap.
7. Everyone is wearing different shades of black and brown.
8. Eating breakfast with the Christmas lights blinking in the darkness is weird.
9. No one greets me on the street, (unless I know them). It's funny to watch how people pretend not to see me when I cross them on the sidewalk and their reaction when I say: "Good morning!"

I'm not sure that this is reverse cultural shock but more like a higher sense of gratitude and joy in noticing all those little differences that make home, home.

It's also been very apparent that a big part of Christmas as I know it is about coziness; we're all bundled up, sitting with blankets in front of fireplaces with Christmas lights and candles glowing and hot drinks in our hands. There is nothing cozy about Christmas in Brazil. Walking two blocks to see a giant nativity scene by the beach isn't cozy, not when it's 42 degrees out and the kid gave up walking one block ago and no amount of encouraging seems to convince him that seeing baby Jesus is as exciting as I'm trying to make it. Lighting an advent candle isn't that cozy with the air conditioner blowing the wax against the wall. For this Canadian girl, waking up at 5am with my jet-lagged family to be first out in the new snow, now that's Christmas-y.

Brazilians Love Affair with Sugar

It just occurred to me the other day that in Brazil, I've yet to find a nutritional label that includes sugar. Being the largest producer of sugar in the world, you'd think, Brazil would be proud of this and say it bold letters on all food packages: "54% sugar!", "This granola is almost all made of real Brazilian sugar!", but no, nothing, zip, nada is mentioned. The only way to know if the product contains sugar is to look at the list of ingredients, then guesstimate using your tongue the quantity of sugar and it's sugar cousins: aspartame, sucralose, saccharin, and acesulfame potassium that might have added.
 
The bag of granola I sometimes buy first attempts to seduce me; Granola Integral!, Traditional! 10 vitamins and minerals and calcium! Rich in fiber and protein, No transfats, 13 ingredients! New packaging! Eat well, live well! but I know better. It's granola, not kale. On the list of the 13 ingredients among what you would expect like oats and coconut, I could find three of sugar's less famous evil cousins; third in line was melado de cana (cane syrup), fifth in line, brown sugar, and in 6th, extracto de malte (malt extract which is sugar taken from spouted barley).

It's almost impossible to find products without sugar here, even simple things like yogurt. Of the 200 different kinds of yogurt available at the market, one brand, one, maybe two, don't have added sugar. And don't get me started on bread! Not to mention the creepy "Lite" aisle at the supermarket with rows and rows of "healthy diet products" that boast "Sem acucar!" (without sugar), only to find on the label, all of sugar's evil cousins. Brazilian love these cousins just as much as good ol' sugga and you can find them at every table in any restaurant in packet or liquid form. In fact, unless requested, any juice you order will have a cousin added automatically.

Once I was having breakfast at a bed and breakfast with my mom. There was a little girl of about 5 years old sitting behind us with her parents. Her mom had just brought over a glass of orange juice from the breakfast buffet. The girl proceeded to grab packets of sugar from the table and adding it to her cup. Her mother didn't even blink. My mother on the other hand, almost fell out of her chair. This is not uncommon to see, and it's shows up in the statistics. Brazilians consume three times as much sugar as the world average, that's 150 grams of sugar per day, equal to 48 teaspoons! (Nutritionists don't all agree about what is the recommend amount of added sugar should be but most hover somewhere between 9 and 12 teaspoons a day!)

One afternoon, I came home to my frantic cleaning lady who wanted to have her afternoon coffee, but couldn't find any sugar. She was telling me that she had looked in all my cupboards and couldn't find any. She had made a list of stuff to buy at the supermarket and had added ACUCAR! in big letters. I reassured her and said, what are you talking about? There's a bag of brown sugar in the cupboard, and I pulled it out for her. Brown sugar? She asked confused. I didn't know sugar could be brown. I couldn't believe it. Is this a simple matter of people just not knowing? It's baffling. Even if you know a lot about sugar, what can you do without choices at the market, and no information on the labels?

There seems to be a shift, though toward better eating habits. There are two really great shows on tv that attempt at least to offer alternatives for a better health, "Alternativa Saude" (Alternative Health) and "Socorro! Meu filho come mal!".(Help! My kid eats badly.) The later one is hilarious, there's nothing like watching a reality t.v. show about a nutritionist who visits people's homes and tries to teach little kids who only eat frozen potato smiley faces and coca cola, to enjoy a plate of broccoli! I'm sure that there is a multitude of other educational programs out there that are attempting to make changes, but I think it will take a long time for Brazilians to give up cakes, condensed milk, coca-cola, chocolate milk, cookies and white buns for healthier alternatives.

I wonder what Brazil would be like today if they were the largest producer of lettuce......

A Cosan sugar mill, Brazil's largest sugar company. (Wikipedia)

Three Lessons from my Sickbed

My pharynx hosted a microscopic invader under a layer of oozy phlegm this week while the rest of me made sure I could do no more than moan about it, literally. What's a pharynx, anyways?  The offspring of a pharaoh and a sphinx ? Well, no. Turns out it's a little spot behind the mouth and the nose and is made up of his three other Egyptian sounding bits: nasopharynx, oropharynx, and laryngopharynx.

Anyways, medical terminology aside, who knew that an infection of this little spot could knock me out like drinking 7 Neocitran martinis? And still after 6 days in bed and a handful of antibiotics, I still have as much interest for food as I might for the reproductive cycle of a household moth and as much luster as crusty leftover oatmeal in a pot.  So what does sickness remind me of when lying in bed and growing corns on my back?

One, I'm still a kid. I may have an adult body, but really I'm still 4 years old. I want my mommy. I want homemade soups and someone to rub my head until I fall asleep.

Two, I am weak. Weak like a kid with a box of M&Ms. No matter how many times I jump on a stationary bike sipping on a green drink to stay fit, if the handle bars are harboring a teeny-weeny, microscopic virus- Bam! I'm out like a light.

Three, my insides are disgusting. Especially when they try to escape to the outside. But on the other hand they serve as proof that I really am sick and I need to be in my quarantined bed with my books and my Kleenex which for any mom is almost like a holiday.

Sipping Pineapple Juice with the Rich and Famous at the ORG.

So there was a rumor flying around that a small, all organic restaurant existed not far from my kid's school and after going there with a friend one lunch hour, I fell in love with it. It's a hole in the wall kind of place with chairs made of recycled wood, posters of encyclopedic illustrations of foods, and surfboard hung on the walls. The food is super deelish, and everything comes with a fresh salad topped with edible flowers. Not to mention the ultra-refreshing pineapple-lemon grass juice! Ohhh, my kind of place!

Yesterday, after dropping off my bike for a major tune-up, (you would not believe what riding on the beach can do to a bike, the salt completely ravages it- it's almost as if someone had thrown it overboard a ship off the coast of South Africa and it had washed up on the sand in front of my house), I decided to go back to ORG, my new favorite resto, I know, I know, not the best name, I keep thinking it's short for organ, but no, it's short for organic.

The boy and I scooted upstairs and sat at one of the only two tables available shared with a long bench with pillows overlooking the kitchen and the cooks going over a new delivery of greens. The waitress came over, recognized me and had a little panic attack as she asked me in Portuguese, do you want to order with me or should I get someone who speaks English to come over? The guy sitting next to us on the bench generously starts to offer his translation services in broken English. It's okay, I tell her, I can manage. We order delights-of-the-day and settle in with stickers and little cars to kill time until the food arrives.

Remembering a blog post I read about an expat woman who lives in Italy and how she's surviving, I decide to chat up this guy and practice my Portuguese. Since the boy is sticking stickers on my neck, I pretty sure he won't think I'm picking him up.

-Voce trabalha perto daqui? (Do you work around here?)
-No, I was just at my gym which is close to here. He says to me in English.
-Where are you from? He asks.
-From Vancouver, Canada. I respond.
-How old is your boy? He asks.
-He's three going on four, and you, do you have any children?
-Yes, two daughters, one is 25 and the other is 6. He leans over with pride in his eyes and shows me a picture of a super angelic, blond ringlet-ed little girl on his phone.
-She's gorgeous! Are you doing anything interesting this long weekend? I ask.
-Yes, I'm going to Curitiba.
-To relax with your family?
-No, I'm in a band. I play the harmonica and I sing.
-Cool. I say, imagining him in a second-rate hotel bar with his buddies playing the blues and rock covers.

The food arrives and I'm blowing on my son's eggs when it occurs to me that maybe this older guy with spiky hair might be famous.

-Are you famous? I ask point-blank.
-Kind-of, he says with a half-smile. My band's name is the Blitz and I'm also an actor in a serie that's been around for 14 years called "A Grande Familia", but we're on vacation now.
-Oh, I only ask because everyone tells me that many famous people live in this neighborhood but you know, I'm Canadian, so I have no idea. So, it must be like working with family when you've been on this serie for so long, right?
-Yup, and we fight like family too. He says with a smile as he hands over his credit card to the waitress to pay for his bill.
-Well, have a nice gig in Curitiba! I wave goodbye as he goes down the stairs.
-Nice to meet you! He waves back.

When I got back home on my newly greased bike, I looked him up. My lunch "date" is not "kind-of" famous, he is extremely famous. Like a Jim Carey/Brian Adams kind-of famous. When I told my husband that I had lunch with Evandro Mesquita, he gasped.

-Really? You had lunch with Evandro Mestiqua? I grew up with the Blitz! I loved them! I remember doing a lot of impersonations of Evandro with my sister and my cousins when I was a kid.

Grew up with the Blitz? Oh, boy, I knew what that meant. Full-on 80's! Brace yourself.

The Real Honest Truth about Living in Rio

Everyday by the nature of being an expat, I tip-toe the fine line between being honest and being a jerk. For example, how do you express with love and respect, that drivers here are blockheads? How do I hide my sickly smile when I see my kid's three year old classmates wearing lipstick and eyeshadow? How can I stop wishing that the lady in the gym would shut her mouth, stop gossiping with her personal trainer about a friend of a friend's mother who works for this guy and blah, blah, blah, and actually work out? Or that everybody would stop calling every girl they meet, a princess? How can I get enjoyment out of washing my shoes, my kid's bike wheels and my stroller because we've inadvertently ran over some dog shit, yet again? How, I ask? How can I pretend again, and again, that talking about manicures is interesting?

Isn't living in Rio so awesome? Yes. I won't lie, it has some outstanding, super shinny moments. But to get to those outstanding, super shinny things, you have to risk your life in traffic, you have to know where you're going, you have to lock your car doors, you have to put on sun-screen and bug repellent, you have to stand in line, and bring a folder with your marriage certificate, your passport, your driver's license, your birth certificate and a doctor's note.

But isn't the beach awesome? Yes. I won't lie. I love to look at it from my dining room table. Honestly though, the awesomeness of hauling two bags full of beach crap and convincing a whinny three year old that it's fun to dig in the sand under the hot sun and not being able to go in the water because the waves will take him away, wares off. And on weekends, you can stake your spot at 8 am, but soon enough, your view of the water will disappear as a wall of umbrellas and butts close in on you. It's awesome.

What about Brazilians? Aren't they friendly, vibrant people? Yes. They are. On a daily "hey, there" kinda way, everyone is super friendly, courteous and they greet me with a smile.  The thing is Brazilians have jobs, and after work, they sit in their cars for hours and when they finally arrive home to watch the game, I'm asleep. So, sadly, I can't say I've made any Brazilian friends, yet.

Apparently, the first year living abroad is the hardest, blogger Rachel from "Rachel's Rantings in Rio" attests to that and that's what most of my expat friends have told me. And while I'm so grateful for the few expat friends I've made, I don't really feel part of this group either. I'm not a Shell, or Texaco or Schlumberger wife. I don't have that "came from Singapore, going to South Africa next kinda nonchalant being an expat is second nature" attitude, but I do aspire to get some that.

It's hard to know sometimes, what contributes to the trials and tribulations of being an expat and what is just the nature of being a newly turned 40 year old who might be tired of being a stay-at-home mom, but I'm bored. I may have been bored back home on the 33rd consecutive day of winter rain, but I had my own life. I had friends. My boy had friends. My parents were near. And even though I had lived in Vancouver for almost 30 years, the city still gave me lots to enjoy. Blogger Rachel insists that comparing makes expat life the hardest, but I think she's wrong. It's not comparing that wrecks it. It's the loneliness.

I'm not unfamiliar with loneliness abroad. Years ago, I spent three years in Korea teaching English. Among the seemingly never ending comings and goings of my students, I sporadically connected with a few on a slightly deeper level, but the teacher-student relationship couldn't really be completely erased and I never felt I could really say what was on my mind. The only other two expats in my city didn't want to hang with me because I wasn't interested in spreading the word of the Lord or bedding some Korean "chicks". By the second year, I was ready to go home, but when my friend Meg said she wanted to come and join me, I stayed on and Korea was fun again. Thank God for Meg. I really believe that if you have real friend, and this friend knows how to make light of living abroad, you can live anywhere.

So, who wants to be my friend? I swear I'm not always such a downer. I'm dying to have some fun. I will gladly have a few caipirinhas at two in the afternoon and try on a full-body leopard print work-out leotard if that's what it takes to shake things up around here!

Meg and I playing mini-golf

Sometimes My Life Feels Like a Foo-Foo and Wipe-Up Puppet Show

And then it's this thing and then another; a long string of moments all strung up willy nilly, like beads from a thousand broken necklaces all restrung without any sense of order or style. That's what the month of October was like, a miss-mash of days and emotions; anticipation of three birthdays to orchestrate, decorate and celebrate, my brother-in-law's, my mother's and my husband's with Thanksgiving smack in the middle.

On my mother's birthday, my grand-mother passed, and my husband went awol with work demands, car repairs and the sale of his apartment. I mourned my grand-mother and encouraged my mother to keep every word in the beautiful speech she prepared for the funeral. On the afternoon of the funeral, sad that I couldn't be with my family, I snuck away with my sister-in-law and my boy to decorate a fake cake with play-doh to trick my husband on his birthday, and totally fooled him. That weekend, we slept in a tent and rode a moped with our boy for the first time. We laughed when he fed his grand-pa's pet chickens, but cried when the roosters woke us up at 3 in the morning.

I was sad to miss this year's Thanksgiving turkey, but way too lazy to run around town to look for non-existent ingredients only to burn it all in my possessed oven with two settings, mostly burned or hardly charred. I missed my brothers. I missed my friends. I wished they would call and check up on me. I felt sorry for myself. I checked up on them.

And then it was Halloween, and costumes, and special snacks for school, a friend's new baby, homework for Portuguese class, school fees to pay, real-estate papers to sign, a new employee at work to welcome, and passport photos to be done, redone, cropped and re-cropped. Protests shutting down the neighborhood, too many coffees and cakes, hauling heavy grocery bags from the farmer's market on the hottest, most humid day of the year, standing at the counter savoring my $10 pomegranates, starting oil painting, Lebanese feasts shared with friends, bowling with my boy for the first time, pedaling, running, climbing stairs, getting the front door key jammed in the keyhole, having a fit over the saran-wrap that keeps sticking to itself, playing trains for the millionth time, and entertaining a screaming kid in the car with Foo-foo and Wipe-Up, his smelly sock puppets. A little marital break-down thrown in the mix, which we quickly tuned-up with some kind words and more hugs, and an impromptu "date" at our favorite restaurant when our boy fell asleep in the stroller. Then, a call from my husband's father, who is ill and in the hospital for various unknown problems. We visit. We circle the hospital. We wait. We keep the boy entertained with Foo-Foo and Wipe-Up all the way back to the city.

And the thing is, there's a thread that runs through all these days filled with delight, sadness, self-pity, adventure, creativity, grieving, worry, stress, silliness, savoring, sharing, hugging, kissing, playing, working, blowing candles, it's love. And thank God for that. And pad-thai after a long day on the road.

My boy made sure those chickens were well fed all day long.

Children's Day and a Morning at an Orphanage

I remember as a kid asking my parents on Mother's Day or Father's Day, when is Children's Day? I got same lame answer every time: Every day is Children's Day! Well, turns out the United Nations declared November 20, International Children's Day in commemoration of the Declaration of Children's Rights in 1959, but it seemed Canada skipped over this special day, maybe because it's so close to Christmas.

In Brazil, however, Children's Day is celebrated with gusto on October 12th. The idea to celebrate this special day was that of a federal deputy, Galdino do Valle Filho in 1924, but it wasn't until the 60's when Estrela, Brazil's toy company and Johnson & Johnson got together to increase sales of toys that the today's more "commercial" commemoration took full flight.

My first experience of this day was when we came to Brazil on vacation. We were driving along the highway on our way out of the city with the rest of the population, happy to have a long weekend away at my father-in-laws. Thank god for the snail pace traffic jam because I started to notice mothers with babies in their arms and toddlers standing next to them along the barely existent shoulder. Suddenly someone ahead of us signaled and pulled over. A woman got out, opened the trunk of her car, handed a mother a bunch of wrapped presents and got back into her car. I was so surprised! What was that? I asked my husband. Oh, it's because it's Children's Day in Brazil and the poor people from the favelas come to the highway and wait for donations from people to give to their kids. Really? Isn't there a better way to collect and distribute toys to the poor without having them stand on the highway? I asked. Oh, you know it's Brazil, he answered unfazed.

This week, my son's teacher asked us to choose a gently used toy from home, to wrap it and bring it to class for a blind exchange. The idea being that Children's Day doesn't have to be about just getting gifts, but giving too. I thought it was a great idea, but skeptical that this was going to work. I just kept picturing my boy suddenly changing his mind as he saw another kid in his class receiving his gift, but it all went smoothly, he was happy that Dula got his whale and he got Alice's talking cow book.

Children's Day was special for me because I was fortunate to get a ride with another mom from my kid's school to an orphanage in Pedra de Guaratiba, a small town outside of Barra. The 60 year old  orphanage run by the Fluminense Evangelical church is located on large grounds surrounded by green wilderness. Two calm nurses take care of 12 babies and 15 toddlers with various ailments and runny noses. 

Without any formal introductions we set off to change bums, give bottles, sing songs and swing babies. Amazingly, most of them didn't cry much, they all had their own ways of soothing themselves and waited for their turn on the rocking chair. In the two hours I spent alone in this old room with chipping paint and mismatched furniture, I managed to hold almost all of them and devote a few minutes of my attention, singing and talking to them while I rocked them. I thought a lot about my grand-mother who had 9 children and a lot of swinging indoor and outdoor furniture. I thought about being far away from my family on this Thanksgiving long weekend, but also about how ridiculously blessed and grateful I am for the "Himalayan" abundance I have in my life compared to the little ones I held.

As I left, I met my ride who was outside with the toddlers. They were sitting in playpens and sleeping in car seats taking in some sun. We walked to the car, looking back at them feeling so strange as no one else came out to be with them. On the way home back, the scenery got progressively more wealthy and shinny and we were sucked back into our "world". Many expats moms I've met have volunteered at the orphanage, and warned me that it would take a few days to re-balance emotionally, and yes, I do feel sorry for them, but at the same time, I didn't want to fill my eyes and heart with sadness while I helped out. I wanted them to see happiness, and joy because they sure had happiness and joy to see me! 

I hope to help out regularly and give a hand to those dedicated nurses who clearly do their jobs well, because despite the lack arms to hold and console, the children were well fed, dry, given medicine and safe. And the thing is I have some pretty good arms, cozy elbow crooks and big boobs to lean little heads on.

Salads R US

I've been to "kilo" self-serve restaurants in Rio glad to see "less deep fried" and meatier choices in the buffet, but after a while I tired of what seemed like the same 6 salads, especially "salads" that are simply paper thin slices of raw salmon or cheese (?) or mayonnaise "surprises". When we lived back in Vancouver and my husband would come back from a business trip to Brazil, he always returned craving a salad. That's because I like to make salads and I think I'm pretty good at making them, if I can toot my own horn for a wee moment.

If you're salad-impaired or need a new idea, here is a sure-fire way to build and spruce up your salads.

Choose lots of

LEAF: Romaine, arugula, watercress, fresh herbs, cabbage, spinach, baby kale, spring mix, fennel etc...

then some

BROWN: almonds, sesame seeds, chia, cashews, pumpkin seeds, pistachios, pecans, hazelnuts, walnuts, pine nuts, chickpeas, beans, lentils, whole wheat pasta, wheat berry, cracked wheat, couscous, brown, red, or black rice, barley, wild rice, flax etc...

then 3 or more from the

RAINBOW: peppers, sweet peas, cherry tomatoes, carrots, beets, celery, olives, edamame, broccoli, green beans, radishes, corn, potatoes, avocado, asparagus, heart of palm, edible flowers, sprouts, mushrooms, roasted veggies like sweet potatoes, or eggplant, sun dried tomatoes, purple cabbage etc...

then a

FRUIT: mango, apple, raisins, grapes, apricot, cranberry, dates, pineapple, pear, blueberry, strawberry, raspberry, persimmon, orange, nectarine, mandarin, pomegranate etc...

and maybe a

TINY EXTRA BIT: blue cheese, goat cheese, feta, croutons, smoked/grilled salmon, tuna, grilled meats, ham, eggs, sardines, shrimp etc...

Then

1. Wash, dry and chop everything so that it's all bite size 'cause nobody likes giant pieces romaine spraying dressing all over the place.

2. Us a beautiful plate or a bowl.

3. Add a simple homemade dressing. Don't get lazy on this one. You've already taken the time to choose and chop, so keep going, it's worth it!

Other tricks:

1. If you want a BROWNER based salad, you can still get your greens by chopping the LEAF of your choice really, really finely as you would fresh herbs.
2. Roast your seeds and nuts in a little pan for extra fragrance.
3. Make enough dressing for the week.
4. If you're boiling eggs, potatoes, beets, beans or grains make extra for a later salad.

Some of my favorite combinations are:

1. Fennel, baby green, orange, grilled shrimp, green olive, and avocado.
2. Black bean, corn, peppers, cilantro, avocado, red onion, tomato.
3. Cantaloupe, basil, fresh mozzarella, capers, red onion and green olives.

Send me your favorites!

wheat berry, apple, cilantro, cranberry, feta, orange zest

What Might Give You Away as a Gringo from Canada...

1. You still have lost all sense of when fruits and veggies are in season.
2. You still miss wearing a scarf.
3. You still assume that rain means cold(er). You put on pants and you're wrong every time and sweat. A lot.
4. You crave cider and nachos and think about it even at breakfast.
5. You still find out about holidays the day before they happen.
6. You miss hearing about snow, ski reports or snow related road advisories.
7. You suffer from flip-flop back-aches.
8. You are stunned every time you go to the farmer's market and get a bouquet of flowers big enough to hide behind for 10 bucks.
9. You're still grossed out by the guy selling liver out of his seemingly styro-foam cooler at the farmer's market.
10. You still wish you could find real vanilla not "essence of vanilla".
11. You still can't accept that little kids fly kites on the side of the highway while drivers zoom by like crazed meth addicts trapped in a video game.
12. You still haven't accepted the fact that a 2 km car ride will take 45 minutes and will almost jeopardize your life more than five times, only to arrive at your destination and be happy to find a parking spot on the sidewalk.
13. You still will have strength to fend off the well-meaning strangers who offer cookies to your kid.
14. You still curse every dog owner every time you see shit on the sidewalk.
15. You still go to bed at night while your neighbor's kids are playing soccer outside.
16. You still think that going to the mall on a rainy day is equal to falling in a pit of pointy spears.


But things do change.... and you adapt.

1. You remember to throw the toilet paper in the garbage can instead of the toilet in public washrooms.
2. You don't sigh when you see a 30 people line-up.
3. You know your notary's first name, his children's names and when he takes his lunch break.
4. You bite into a chocolate bar and you don't think it tastes like a birthday candle.
5. You look out your window in the morning and are awed by the beauty of the ocean every single time.
6. You find your favorite kiosk on the beach, and make a point to sit with a drink at least once a week.
7. You don't blink when you see a driver next to you at the red light playing the guitar.
8. You start buying the little candies that street sellers pop on your side-view mirrors when you're stopped at a traffic light.
9. You can tell the difference between what is real and what is simply something happening in a soap opera.
10. You consider wearing white knee-length socks over your black running leggings for your daily 38C mid-day jog on the beach.
11. You sign up for a surfing, body boarding or kite-surfing lesson.
12. The things you say usually get a response somewhat along the same line you were expecting.
13. You drink a beer on the street and no one comes over to tell you to pour it out.

The Mystery is Finally Solved.

Exhibit A. Holes on a shirt I bought a week ago and only wore once.

Possible culprits: Hungry moth or crappy washing machine.

I go with the moth theory because I have seen some small flying things that hang out on the ceilings in our place. I start to research ways to get rid of them without using moth balls.

Exhibit B. Holes on my favorite shirt. Aaaarggggh!

I throw out my suspicion that a moth is eating my shirts because the holes are only at belly level and unless I exude some kind of belly button pheromone that moths can't resist, the bugs are not the culprits. The mystery thickens......

Suddenly, I remember that in Vancouver I had the same problem with most of my shirts. Ah, ah!

So what is the common denominator?

Here are my suspicions: Two offenders working together.

Possible culprit #1: The kitchen counter.

Possible culprit #2: My jeans.

I deduce this for two reasons:

1. I wore way more jeans in Vancouver and I had way more shirts with holes.
2. I wear shirts with shorts and skirts that are not denim and lean against the counter all the time and I don't have holes in those shirts!

So sorry if this seems totally RIDICULOUS and maybe it is, but I'm not alone in this, lots of people say they've had the same problem as me, and the internet is full of explanations ranging for silverfish attracted to belly-button oil and rubbing on guitars to lifting dumbbells and coarse belly hair.

None of these explanations could possibly work for me so I'm going with the FREAKING JEANS RUBBING ON THE COUNTER! What a relief it is to finally come to this conclusion!

I swore I'd never do that again!

Last year around this time of year , I had this ridiculous idea that it would be fun to make a quilt for my boy.

And for some reason, even though I realized quickly at that time that quilting is excruciatingly repetitive and should be left to those of us who like exactitude and monotony, I found myself gathering up left over pieces of fabric from different projects I've completed since I moved to Rio.

This time around, I made my life a wee bit easier by cutting out 6X6 squares which were much bigger pieces than before and right away the boy gleefully realized that the fabrics were the same as his shorts. This quilt was also a lot easier to make before I didn't use any cotton filling given that anything thicker than a sheet is way too hot here.

The quilt was the launch pad for the "make the kid's room kid-friendly" project I took on this month. As you can see from the walls in the picture below, Brazilians are very, very fond of the "Chalk- White" paint color and use it on all interior walls in their homes. I jokingly pointed this out to an expat friend of mine when I noticed her place was the same exact tone of white. I've not even seen shades like "sweat-yellowing-pillowcase-white" I said with a laugh! To combat the coldness of the white I thought about painting his room, but decided against this messier option and put up a map instead.

The map was a big hit. My mom gave it to my kid when we were in Halifax and once I remembered to put it up, this resulted in a lot of bed jumping and squealing excitement . We've spent a lot of time looking at it,  put stickers on the places where our friends and family live and talk about where were going to travel next. I'm going to France and he's going to Russia!

The biggest splash for the kid though was the little blue light I put in the corner. It's one of those lamps that has no "on-off" switch, you only need to touch the base and it lights up brighter and brighter the more times you touch it until it switches off. He LOVES wacking the light to set the mood for story time!

I'm pretty happy with these simple changes, and I'm thinking it needs a little something else, but I'm waiting for the right thing to jump out at me.

Pasteis- The Brazilian Pocket Food and Caldo de Cana

What is it with food that's wrapped in dough? The world loves it. Just off the top of my head, I can think of famous "pockets" such as the empanada, pierogi, vereniki, samosa, gyoza, spring roll, calzone, steam bun, spanakopita, pot sticker, and Cornish pasty. Brazilians are not left behind without their own version of a pocket food, the pastel.

The pastel is made of a simple white dough which you can make yourself or buy ready-made at the store. On the inside, the pastel is filled with meat or cheese.  My father-in-law buy dough at the "feira" (street market) and makes his own at home, but I think most people don't bother and simply eat it freshly made at the market.

Filling the pastel

Frying until golden

Cooling on the steps

Enjoying after a play in the kiddie pool

Here's a photo of the locals enjoying pasteis at the market stand every Friday. I thought it was hilarious that the stand is called "ICHIBAN"! Like the instant Japanese ramyen noodles? Folks love to sit on plastic stools, enjoying their freshly fried pasteis and drinking "caldo de cana". Caldo de cana is sugar cane juice. They take the cane, shove into a machine that looks like an old fashioned laundry machine with rollers and sounds like an rusty old lawn-mover, and squeeze the liquid out of the cane. The light green juice tastes like you think it will taste; liquid sugar. For me, one sip and it feels like my teeth are melting and my heart is about to jump out of my chest, so I don't drink it, but Brazilians LOVE it. Geraldo recently said: " Ah, I can't believe I waited this long before I had a pastel and drank caldo de cana, now I feel like I've finally arrived in Brazil."

A Fortune Cookie is an Object- Adventures at the Post Office.

Oh, you know me and the mail.

I cleverly tried to reuse bottle caps by inserting a letter to my husband inside two of them and sealing the whole thing with a Zip tie. I wrote my husband's work address on one side and the stamps on the other. Like a kind of fortune cookie a-la-snail-mail.



Mailing my fortune cookie was going to be a bit of a challenge, I suspected. First of all, unfortunately I couldn't slip it in the mailbox and hope that the mail folks just took care of it, because mailboxes here only have a thin hole to insert a letter and no drawer like in Canada. So I had to take it to the post office along with a soap I was sending to a mommy friend in need of pick-me-up and a book for another friend.

Here is a rundown of the conversation with the teller, translated in English.

-I'd like to send this book to Canada, how much will it cost?
-24R.
-Great. I'll send it. I'd also like to send this.
-What is it?
-A soap.
-A soap?
-Yes, a soap.
-A soap is an object.
-Yes, it is.  ( I now have a weird look on my face and the teller turns to her co-worker and yells loudly:
-Soap is an object?
-Yes. It's an object! Her co-worker yells back.
-Okay. It's an object. You have to fill out this form. (She hands me a three page form that reminds me of the days when we had to fill our taxes by hand)
-Okay, I change my mind. I don't want to send the soap. But what about the book? Isn't it an object too? Why don't I need to fill a form for that?
-(insert an incomprehensible fast Portuguese answer here)
-Okay. Fine. I would also like to send this. (I hand her my fortune cookie, bracing myself....)
-What's this?
-It's a letter.
-A letter. Um... let me see.
(She turns to her co-worker and yells loudly again, waving my fortune cookie in front of all the people in line behind me.)
-Is this an object?
-Yes. It's an object. Her co-worker answers again loudly.
-Okay, it's an object. You have to put it in an envelope.
-But the address is already on there with the stamps! (I plead with my eyes working my "just-humor-me-foreigner face")
-No. You have to put it in an envelope.
-But the envelope is the caps.
-No. You have to put it in an envelope.
-Okay then, I say disappointingly. I won't mail it.
-That's 24R.

I pay her and try not to look back at the folks behind me with their "objects" neatly packed in envelopes and their 3 page forms neatly filled out. Yes. I am a foreigner. Move along! There's nothing to see here!

Stay tuned for more adventures at the Post Office!

Gil, The Smiling Toe Running Man, and Other Regulars

Every weekday I take my boy to school by bike or on foot. We use the beach cycle path for about a kilometer and our routine includes seeing our neighborhood regulars. Unfortunately, it's not easy to take pictures of people who are simply going about their business, but I thought I'd write about them.

I park my bike in the underground parking lot, and the ramp to get out is super steep. I put the bike on the lowest gear, and I have to really concentrate on my legs to get to the top without having to push the bike half way up. The kid, comfortably seated in his chair, doesn't really get how hard this is to do, but the security guards at the gate sure do! They cheer me on loudly every time I get to the top without putting my feet down!

As we ride the "doggie pooh path" toward the beach, I pass men jogging barefoot (yuck) and carrying their surfboards for a pre-work ride with the waves. What a way to wake up!

By the main pedestrian crossing to the beach, there is a civic traffic controller who wears a completely fluorescent city-issued outfit who stands every morning in the traffic with his whistle. Thank goodness for him. He directs both pedestrians and commuters and I'm sure has prevented countless injuries and fatalities.

There is older bald man who wears silver, mirrored aviator sunglasses who runs on the beach every morning in his speedo and fluorescent running shoes.  He wouldn't stand out that much if he didn't run on the tip of his toes as if he was barefoot and the sidewalk was burning hot and if he didn't have a super shinny white perma-smile on his face. He makes me smile.

At certain times of the year, lifeguard recruits train along the beach by running army-style on the cycle path while yelling out army type calls. These fine bodied men in black speedos and red tank-tops make for delicious eye candy first thing in the morning. I almost find myself almost cat-calling. Yow-zee!

There's a short, fat lady with frizzy hair who parks her ancient rusted car by the kid's school. She's the local Starbucks. She brings out white plastic stools and serves coffee and homemade cake from the trunk of her car. All the neighborhood workers congregate there and talk; doormen, gardeners, construction workers, and hotel workers. What a simple way to connect with others.

The school doorman/kid wrangler/traffic controller/greeter, Gil, is there standing by the red metal door of the school. He is indispensable. The school and two others are on a dead-end, residential street which is narrow, and requires that cars face each other down to decide who is going to get by, with a guard gate on one end and a boat launch on the other. Plus there is a entrance/exit for large construction vehicles that pull in and out without any notice in a giant cloud of dust. Not to mention, the moms on bicycles, pedestrians with their surfboards, nannies with strollers, dogs, the frizzy haired cake lady, the working parents trying to park and drop off their kids, other drivers who park on the sidewalk, the highschool kids that throw almonds at each other while running across the street and the fact that there isn't really a sidewalk makes this morning adventure very "exciting". Did I mention, that the school doorman is indispensable? Again another dedicated hard working person who surely has prevented a many school drop-off disaster.

On another note, sometimes after I drop off the kid, I jog on the quieter residential streets near the school. I see other doormen come out on the sidewalk to sweep the street in front of the apartment buildings. All I hear is my breath, the birds and the swishing of their brooms. It's beautiful.

At lunch hour when I come back to get my boy, I ride though the cloud of construction dust while holding my breath and see some construction workers sleeping in the shade of the trees on the boulevard. Others run across the street in their wet shorts to join them after a refreshing dip in the ocean. Now that's what I call a lunch break!

And back along the beach we go! We might even pass the " Smiling Toe Running Man" again! 

Gil, the "indispensable' school doorman

Adventures in Learning Portuguese

It seems unfathomable that I still can't find a Portuguese class even now that I live in Rio de Janeiro! As a learner of this fine Latin language, I feel like I'm always the better tennis player with partners that lob every other ball over the fence. I want to help out my fellow learner, but I won't perfect my backhand if I'm always with beginners. I've sat in numerous college night classes with excited people on their way to Rio for holidays. And how proactive of them to attend and learn how to say, "I would like a non-smoking room with a double bed, please."! But, after many hours among them, I started to resent that the little energy I could muster up after a long day at work was being spent waiting for them to catch up to my level.

I've also hired a plethora of "tutors". Notice the quotation marks. Most of them spent a good majority of the "lesson" talking about Brazil's culture. Is it necessary for me to know that in Brazilian apartments, the master bathroom is called a "suite"? Just recently, the owner of a school invited me to sit in on a free class, where I wasted a good chunk of my morning reviewing the alphabet and repeating over and over again, I live in Rio de Janeiro. "Eu moro no Rio de Janeiro, Eu moro no Rio Rio de Janeiro, Eu moro no Rio de Janeiro." I talked to the woman when I had a chance to get out the class, and re-iterated that I was not a beginner! But didn't you like the class? She asked. It's hard to tell, I told her, when it's not suited to my level, and repeating sentences for an hour and half doesn't really give me a clear picture of what you could offer me. I left disappointed even though she promised to call me if she could find intermediate students to make a group class.

So what has worked?

I once took a university course at UBC that was absolutely awesome. I had to convince my work to let me off early so that I could rush there and attend, but it was worth arriving out of breath and sweaty while the other students sauntered in lazily. This class was like playing tennis with Andre Agassi because the majority of the students were Spanish speakers and wanted an easy "A". (I don't blame them, I did the same when I was in university; peppering my class schedule with French classes to ease my heavy course load.) So that in combination with a teacher who had very high expectations of the number of new vocabulary words we could cram in our heads in one week, made for rapid progress and a sense of actually getting somewhere. I loved it! There's nothing like the pressure of quizzes, tests and oral presentations to push you forward. Unfortunately, the following term the class was scheduled at a time that made it impossible for me to attend, and I had to give it up. Back to night classes with the tourists....

Another successful experience was during a vacation in Rio with my husband. He had to work for a few weeks before we could head off to the beaches of the North East, so I enrolled in a class in downtown Rio. I happily walked to the metro and got on, holding my bag tightly against my chest as crowds of people pushed more crowds into the subway car. I had no need to reach for a pole, as I was being held up by the tight proximity of my fellow commuters. Several stops later, sweat rolling down my back and through a few scary alleys, I made it! The small school tested my level right away and popped me in a class with 4 other foreign students. Much like my course at the university, this morning class was just right for me. I learned a lot, was held accountable for my learning and spent my afternoons walking the streets of downtown Rio practicing what I had learned. By the end of two weeks, I visited my in-laws and to my surprise I could actually understand the topic of conversation at dinner.

It seems that group classes work best for me, but unfortunately I'm having a hard time finding one in Barra da Tijuca. It seems that the majority of foreigners who live here are beginners and when they attain a certain level at which they can get by, they stop talking classes. But I won't give up! I'm returning the few balls that make it over the net by meeting my tutor and doing online exercises. Eu nao vou desistir!

Where's the "BIRD"?

If you find yourself winding through the "Floresta da Tijuca", which is a one way road that starts at the back of the Pedra de Gavea in Itanhanga and comes out in the neighborhood of Tijuca, make sure you play this new version of "Where's Waldo". Only I call this game "BIRD!" Actually, the bird's name is Clessio, but I prefer yelling BIRD! He's graffiti artist Igor Nunes' pet and is part of a movement against trafficking and trade of protected animals. Though it's not clear exactly how this bird tag does this unless you are willing to look him up on the web.  I noticed him as soon as we arrived in Rio and read about him on Eatrio. Here's a video of Igor in action.

BIRD!

BIRD!

BIRD!

BIRD!

BIRD!

I had to stop screaming BIRD because the driver of the car, my husband, didn't find the game as amusing as I and my in-laws in the back of the car. But it was fun while it lasted. A lot more fun than trying to decipher the pixacao , (tagging) which disfigures the city. On this flicker page, the photographs seem to attempt to beautify tagging and even though journalist Joao Wainer, explains well the origins of pixacao, the taggers who are maginalized and the risks they take, I still have a hard time finding beauty in this type of "art", compared to the BIRD, even though this yellow guy in a trucker hat really is "tagged" in a lot of places....

A Happy Return to Rio

It was weird to come back to Rio this week; it didn't feel as hectic, frazzled, loud, smelly, and confused as it felt when I left. My husband, on the other hand, was having a BRioD. (A bad Rio day) when he picked us up at the airport which didn't take away from the happiness of finding each other all together again. And I know BRioDs well, so no need to say sorry to me, honey. It was nice to come home and realize that I was coming home, not back to "that country I have to live in, but can't wait to get back home" home.

Not that anything has changed in the 12 days I've been gone, the path to the beach is still covered in dog shit, and the traffic is still insane. But thank goodness for Conceicao, my happy-always-smiling cleaning lady who showed up to deal with my mountain of post-holiday laundry and a sunny, slightly windy, fresh day to ease back into the groove of things. I rode my bike to drop the kid at school who was a little reluctant to rejoin class. As I walked away from the school, I heard the whole class cheer a loud warm welcome to my boy who apparently was away too long in toddler time. I ran into two friends on the way home and caught up with them and got my own cheerful welcome back. When I picked up the kid at lunch, Miss Carla, his teacher told me that the boy had told her he was not interested in Canada anymore, and that he liked Brazil better! Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right?

By the afternoon, I became dizzy from exhaustion, I guess I haven't gotten over the long sleepless night spent sitting upright in an airplane torture chair with a man snoring next to me, and another with serious armpit odor in front of me. Cartoons to the rescue! And I went to bed for a sweet 20 minutes until the boy got sick of the television and came to jump on my face. At least I had recuperated enough to head out to replenish the empty fridge.

The stars must have been aligned because a million things were due to go wrong on my short trip to the market, which usually happens on a typical Rio day, but didn't. I didn't get stuck in traffic for 20 minutes 2 blocks from the store while the kid screamed for a box of raisins I didn't bring. I didn't forget my pin number for my credit card. I didn't get charged for parking, thankfully, because I had forgotten to get cash from the bank and generally parking only takes cash. I didn't run out of gas before getting to the gas station. With no cash to tip the attendant, I found that the station had a bank machine that worked with my card and gave me money. The teller took my large bill without complaining and gave me change. The charge went through, I tipped the attendant and didn't hit any random traffic jam on my way home. THAT WAS AMAZING and a very un-BRiod.

After a quick play in the playground, a messy homemade pizza dinner, a glass of wine and running after a wet toddler through the house with a towel, I crashed into bed. I'm back. I'm home.

A Getaway to Nova Scotia

I'm jogging along the river with the sun shinning through the maple trees and the spider webs. Two bluejays startle me flying off through the bush while a squirrel whistles from a tall branch, and suddenly I see a bright green tuft of grass swimming against the current in the river. A beaver! I whisper to myself not quite believing it. I run faster to catch up to it as it turns into the current. Running through some fallen pine cones, hoping I won't twist my ankle, I notice the creature's long thin tail. A river otter! Maybe not as exciting as a beaver, but still a treat to see.

The train rumbles by with a long tow of multi-coloured containers on flatbed wagons and I hear it too-toot-ing as it goes across the bridge. As I haul my tired body up the super steep hill back to my brother's purple house, I unhook a furry black and orange stripped caterpillar off my shoulder and pass it along to a leaf on a tree bordering someone's driveway. The street is quiet with a mix of heritage homes and newer properties with large lawns, driveways and garages. If I peek around in the back yards, I see clotheslines full of reusable diapers and family laundry.

The screen door slams as my kid runs outside barefooted with his three cousins in tow. Time to push the toy tractor around on the street or turn on the sprinkler that grand-maman set up yesterday afternoon. Uncle Julien comes out with a mug of coffee in one hand and a peanut butter toast in the other. He walks over to the hockey net in the driveway and without a word, all the kids run over and grab a stick. It's a very quiet street, so it's rare that we have to scream out "car!". 

I put up my feet on the veranda railing, sit down in a chair and enjoy a second cup of coffee. Today's a good day to drive along the coast and see the picturesque-postcard perfect fishing villages dotting the Atlantic coast. The century old, brightly coloured wooden homes stand out like a fantasy among the rocks and stunted pine trees while the wind and the fog blows through the bagpiper's kilt. The tourists pay the piper throwing some bills in the hat as they pass, climbing carefully over the rocks in their "comfortable walking shoes" to take pictures of the lighthouse barely visible in the fog. Some of them wander down to the shops to buy watercolours of boats and other maritime scenery, wind chimes, handmade ceramic mugs or lobster fridge magnets. We do the same thing, eating our snack behind a rock to avoid the wind and enjoying the view.

We pile back into the car and stop down the road at a restaurant for plates of grilled cheese sandwiches, fish and chips, and lobster rolls. A pack of Chinese tourists are excitingly buying souvenirs at the counter while they argue about who is going to pay the bill. We finish our meal with ice cream in a cone sitting on the edge of the dock at the end of the parking lot. The fog has lifted and we see islands in the bay, stacks of lobster traps on the beach and seaweed waving at us in the waves. A dad and his boy who were eating lobster rolls next to us in the restaurant come out and jump in their boat to go back home, revving the engine while I wipe up ice cream on the faces of the little ones.  Time to go home.

We doze off in the car, listening to the CBC on the radio, and watching the bushes and trees blur along the highway. We pass the strip-malls, the big box stores and we know we are almost home. Just in time for a glass of Pinot Noir on the veranda before the sun goes down.

Tomorrow we're off to the lake to smell the dry pine needles and throw our bodies in the warm, dark un-salty water. We'll sit on the dock waiting for our turn on the canoe looking out at the shimmering water, at the little cabins poking their roofs out of the trees on the other side of the lake, and at the kids in their life jackets throwing inner tubes off the edge of the dock. We'll eat corn on the cob brought in a pot wrapped in a blanket to keep them warm, granola bars, avocado sandwiches and orange slices while sitting on a mildewy blanket great-grand-maman made. Some brave ones will use the outhouse or pee behind a tree. We'll jump back in the lake a few more times before heading back along the bushy highway, with the sun lying low in the sky shinning on the side of our faces and making us fall asleep. The CBC will keep on playing on the radio, the small communities all strung along the road welcoming us and tempting us to stop next time for a visit at the dairy farm or in an antique store. We'll only stop for more corn.

Back at home, up the huge hill, and into the driveway, the kids all wake up as we stop the cars. Time to play Lego while the adults serve themselves a beer from the tap my brother installed in his garage. And so it goes, the lazy days of summer as I remember them as a child, and thanks to my brother and his family, I get to relive again with my son. And as an unknown someone once said: Canada is a giant park, with parks in it." And that's how I feel as I think about my return to Rio de Janeiro, that I've been playing in a giant park for the last week and I will miss the peaceful, wilderness of my homeland.

Humor Goes a Long Way

It's easy to find lots of differences when you live in another country, and some days those differences make you crazy, but on others, you have to laugh. Here is famed Canadian comedian Russell Peters, who finds ways to connect us across cultures. He's talking about Louis Vuitton handbags;  a brand Brazilians cherish a lot too. Ah, so different, yet so the same.

On the days that my brain cannot handle anymore Portuguese, I try to think about all the people out there who struggle with English.

Time Warp in Brazil

Sometimes living in Brazil feels like you've suddenly been transported through time back to the 70's.  A prime example is when I saw a dad driving his car with his 8 month old on his knee. Grandma was in the back with the toddler on her lap as he waved his arms out the window. When I was 3, the seat belt legislation passed in Quebec with highway signs reminding drivers: "Au Quebec, on s'attache." and I still remember getting into cars that didn't even have seatbelts. I'm not sure what the seatbelt law is here in Brazil, I'm sure there is one because every time I leave the Barra Shopping parking lot, the ticket dispenser machine reminds us to put our seat belts on : "Sempre use o seu cinto de seguranca" , but at times I guess, like many laws in Brazil, it's creatively not followed.

The absence of people of all ages riding bikes without bike helmets reminds me of when I was a kid. Just the other day, we were driving back from a restaurant when I saw a man riding with his wife side-saddle on the center bar. It didn't really faze me until I saw that she was holding her newborn! The first commercially successful bike helmet, a polystyrene hard-shell, the Bell Biker, was only first produced in 1975 and the mandatory helmet laws in Canada didn't pass until the mid 90's, early 2000's, so our feathered mullets and 80's hairsprayed updos were free to move (or not) in the wind for a long time before we started to get fined.

Another time warp back to the 70's is when you ask for the cocktail menu in a restaurant and all they have are tequila sunrises, sidecars and mint juleps. With the super large selection of tropical fruits available here you'd think the bartenders would be going nuts on inventing new drinks, but no. I suppose you could bring your own mini bottle of tequila, rum or gin to the local juice place and make your own afternoon aperitif. 

It's winter time now, apparently. Which means it's 21C when you wake up and 33C by noon. Where I come from, we call that summer. But here it means it 's time to wear pants, turtleneck sweaters and leather boots. Oh, and have fondue. Fondue? Yup. It's the thing. Weren't fondue parties fashionable way back when I was 3? You know it was big in the 70's because the sticks have that 70's je-ne-sais-quoi everything must be brown and orange color combination. The last time I had fondue, mind you, was about 4 years ago, in Canada, on a snowy cold night after a long day of cross-country skiing with my family! My Brazilian family-go figure.

What about the weird, white, knee high exercise socks and the spandex exercise body suits a lot of ladies wear in the gym? Reminiscent of leg warmers much? Or the stripped tube socks we wore when we were kids along with our terrycloth shorts and tubetops? LEOTARDS, people! Wasn't that a fashion atrocity? But the Brazilians keep the flame burning.





And to top it all off, seems like every time I turn on the radio in the car, to the English station, I hear "More Than a Feeling" by Boston or "Summer Breeze" by Seals and Crofts


1970's Time Warp, I tell you. 

Where are Rio's Hipsters?

Where are the hipsters in Rio? There are so easy to spot in Vancouver, but here in Barra, I don't think they exist. If I do an internet search for "Brazilian hipster", I get a groovy tune or frilly underwear.

 


If I do the same for Vancouver hipster, I get a scary article about an overwhelming amount of casting videos received for a potential reality television show entitled "The Real Hipsters of Vancouver". Holy smokes, I thought I was missing them but I may be wrong. I might not be missing them as much as I think, especially after seeing the plethora of scary hipster information available online. Ahhhhh! I'm getting sucked through the internet web of stupidity and I can't get out!

Recently, I thought I had spotted something different; a style appropriation from the past a-la-hipster . I started to notice an interesting trend aside from the 80's aerobics white knee high workout socks; thin, gold framed glasses that droop down the cheeks. I kept thinking I'd last seen them on some actor on the Rockford Files. A little more searching on the net and here's what I found. The scary glasses are Ray Bans! I suppose they are "classic aviator" glasses, hence the feeling I get that I've seen them before, but I just can't get used to them. And now that I've noticed them, I spot them everywhere!



I think I just miss Vancouver's "differentness". It's not that we're fashionable, we're not, but we're varied. I miss the Asian ladies with their face visors, stylish hairdressers, mommas in yoga wear, teenagers in droopy jogging pants and brown Uggs, bright saris and turbans, beggars in dirty layers, gortex shoe protector wearing bike commuters, recycled Value Village wear etc... Heck! All the different faces of our multicultural population.

So to feel a little closer to home, I head to Starbucks for a strangely sweet iced cappuccino and I people watch. As I sit down, I look up and see yet another woman wearing the droopy cheek gold Ray Bans! Arghhhhh! Just as I'm about to sign off on this post, I find "In case you didn't think there weren't hipsters in Rio. Guess I was wrong.