Brazilian Time at the Post Office

Letters and postcards have stacked up next to my computer destined for Canada, and today I finally resolve to get to the post office before they completely become irrelevant to my friends. Almost two months has passed since I've arrived in Rio and I think, and I say this lightly, I think I've got the "Brazilian time" down; so I reserved an entire afternoon for this activity. So I pack the back-up snacks and water: an essential survival kit in case of traffic jams, the kid, a handful of toys and my letters.

Off I go, in the car of course, to the mall where I last saw a post office. Once there, I rent a push car to keep the kid happy, and head straight there, only to find a situation not unlike the Canadian passport office on most days. There are rows and rows of seats completely occupied with tired looking people holding various boxes, letters and documents. Oh, no, I sigh. I grab a number: 255.

I look for the number indicator display only to find a rolling advertisement for the post office. What number are they serving, I wonder. Suddenly, after 5 minutes of looking around, the advertising changes to a number:141. Oh, man. Are you kidding me? Okay, breathe, we're on Brazilian time. The kid and I decide to take advantage of the rental push car and do some window shopping, but you know that dreadful feeling you have that you might rush back only to find that they are now serving 258? So we do a lot of mini loop-Dee-loops, checking back and waiting 10 minutes every time for the advertising to stop so we can see the number they are serving.

The other people waiting look more and more like patients in a hospital ward; yawning and shifting in their seats. The clerks too for that matter. Finally, around 240, we sit down and wait. The kid starts making spit designs on the plastic chair next to me while I'm trying to beat the boredom by reading the signs on the cork-board. What's this I read? Are they saying that they don't accept credit or debit cards? IS THAT WHAT IT SAYS? I ask the lady sitting next to me in total defeat! She assures me that in some special cases, she's sure that they do, pointing at a guy at the counter with a very large box. Okay, I think, I have to have enough cash in my coin purse to pay for 10 international stamps, right? Another 20 minutes later and it's our turn. 255! Put your shoes on! I urge the kid, waving my letters in the air at the clerk as I try to climb over the rental push car. Wait! We're 255! Finally at the counter, the clerk, who seems tired and annoyed asks for my ticket. Ticket? Ticket? Where's the ticket? Can't find the ticket! I make a gesture blaming it on the kid and he sighs deeply, obviously not impressed. Okay, keep cool. The clerk takes my letters, one by one, slowly examines them, weighs them, one by one, puts 3 different stamps on each and punches some keys on his computer. And we wait. We wait. The system is down. The kid is now entertaining himself by repeatedly kissing my butt, which also entertains the bored people sitting behind me.

Finally, the computer kicks in and I swear I heard some backfiring when it did, and the grand total is? $12 Reais. I quickly calculate in a slight panic that once I pay for the stamps I will have enough cash to pay for the rental push car and the parking, also cash only. Man, in a land where you're not supposed to carry a lot of cash, you sure need it, like all the time! Anyways, I was thankful that if we didn't hit some freak traffic jam that we would be home on time for dinner!

I got in trouble with mall security for taking a photo of the post office sign.

I also got in trouble with mall security for taking a photo of us lying down on a mattress sized bench- no lying down allowed!

Throwing a Mommy Tantrum!

It's a postcard perfect afternoon, walking the 2km to the nearest supermarket with my boy in the stroller to get a few things for dinner. I've set out with a smile, thinking how wonderful it will be to enjoy this sublime beach scenery and get some exercise at the same time. About half a kilometer in, the boy starts to holler in frustration that his sunglasses are falling off his face. I warn him that if he continues to holler, I will take them away, which I do, the hollering turning into high pitch hysterics, his body twisting and kicking himself out of the stroller. Fine! Here are your sunglasses, I muttered with defeat, thinking that once at the market, he would be distracted and forget the damn sunglasses.

Wrong. The moment we grabbed a basket, the kid proceeds to repeat over and over again, Mommy! Apple pie! Mommy! Apple Pie. (A "treat" that obviously has now become a habit.) There's nothing more relaxing than trying to find ingredients for dinner when everything is labeled in another language and your kid's brain in stuck like a broken record player. Apple pie, Mommy, apple pie! FINE! Here's your apple pie and I guess we're having grilled cheese sandwiches and bananas for dinner!

Groceries in the stroller, we return home, walking along the beach trying to enjoy the huge waves and crashing surf, but no. The freakin' sunglasses! Why hadn't I hid them? Because I was being serenaded with the apple pie song and went into a deep trance? By the time, we reached the last kilometer home, the hollering turned into a whinny repetitive, "I wanna go home!" Secretly, behind my sunglasses huge tears of frustration were welling up in my eyes. I cried, I wanna go home too! I want my mommy! Once home, I threw a major tantrum, which I drowned out in a hot shower while the kid stood in the doorway wondering why his mother was moaning like a pregnant seal delivering her cub.

Every mom in their least glorious moments, has had secret tantrums. And they ain't pretty. We don't easily admit to them, who would? "Oh, yes, I'm a grown woman and nothing turns me into a raging, snot gushing teary mass of a human being, curled up in a fetal position on the kitchen floor, but a three year old boy who has suddenly decided that his toothpaste is too spicy." The spicy toothpaste being the straw that broke the camel's back, obviously. Not our finest hour, but then maybe it is. Maybe toddlers are onto something we haven't completely understood. What's wrong with a little release of frustration, tuning out the world by positioning ourselves in such a way that anyone walking in on you would surely turn around in a flash and leave you alone? I think that in the heat of the moment, a quick ugly tantrum is way more effective than a 20 minute bath or quiet meditation in a zen garden. What mom has the time for that?

So I dedicate this post to my mommy friends mostly, but also to anyone who hasn't let all the "uglies" out in a while. Let it all out, the snot and the tears, pound the floor, and beat your fists in the air just like a three year old, it works.

or a cocktail.

Like the Dalai Lama Swearing

I suspect that my whole adult life I've been cheated. Cheated on every gin and tonic or any mixed drink I've ever ordered in Canada. Last night, to celebrate having finally obtained the key to our new apartment, and the kid's first week at pre-school, I ordered a strawberry vodka drink, and two sips in, I had to stop. It was so deliciously strong! It was weird, maybe it's because I don't normally drink hard alcohol that the drink hit me instantly, or it's because drinks in Canada suck. I suspect the later.

Having spent a week in the kid's class, getting him used to the mayhem of suddenly being plunked into an echo-y room with 12 other screaming kids and new teachers, we are both celebrating his fantastic easy-going adaptation with a cough and a cold. Inevitably bound to happen, after noticing the snots cycling through the class at rapid speed since I suspect that in Brazil, the snot rule: if it's green stay at home, if it's yellow, come to school" doesn't seem to apply.

Aside from this tiny setback on this moving day, the school experience was awesome. I absolutely loved spending time in the class with the little ones and having a chance to see exactly what my kid will be doing every day. The neat thing about this school is that it is based on the Canadian French Immersion school system, only in Brazil, for English Immersion. Two thirds of the kids are primarily Portuguese speakers, while the rest are expats from Australia, the states, Canada and Spanish speaking South American countries. What a multicultural experience! All the teachers speak only English and everything is taught in English. By the end of the week, the kid was happy to stay the four hours there without me and was super excited to tell me about circles, squares and what the school pet, Oli the Mico monkey, ate for snack.

After five weeks of back and forth with the apartment owner, the rental agency, my husband's company, the lawyers, the notaries, the insurance clerk and my husband, the rental contract was finally signed! Pheww! Just in time, as my infinitely calm husband warned me in the car before we met the rental agent, "if we don't get the key today for whatever little reason, I will completely LOSE it on this lady!" This was scary, it would be like the Dalai Lama swearing. Thank goodness the three hour long inspection went well, we got the keys and rushed back to the hotel for a pizza and a strong, tasty vodka drink!

Who's coming to visit and sit in this chair first?

One block from the beach!

Squishing Ants with Sticks and Plastic Toy Vomit

One for my favorite things about my kid's school is the banana tree that grows by the front door. When we first visited, I was all excited about it, showing my kid the banana tree flower and how the bananas grow out,  themselves like giant green flowers. The kid, was less excited than me, he just wanted to play with the plastic toys in the playground. Okay, fine. No botanical teaching moment for you, then. Astro-turf and faded plastic playground equipment wins over the banana tree. Too bad.

Speaking of plastic playground toys, about a year ago, I was riding my bike along in Vancouver and noticed a park filled with discarded toy cars, kitchenettes, wagons, push toy cars, bicycles etc... I could have counted at least 50. At first, just like a kid, I was all excited about it; isn't this a good way to extend the life of the toys that parents bought for their yards, but that their kids outgrew? ("Extend the life", I laugh as I write this.)

But now, I'm angry. Why is okay for people to dump their plastic junk in public parks? What happened to bringing your own ball, jump-rope or bag of marbles? Are we seriously using our tax dollars to have the city remove all this crap because some parents went bananas at Toy-r-us?

For the last month, I've been living in a hotel with my three year old kid. There is no playground here. We've had to invent our own fun. We water the plants with the gardener's hose, we give high-fives to the leaves that dangle from the trees on the sidewalk, we poke holes in the grass with sticks, we decorated the parking posts with chalk drawings, and we kick the ball around the parking lot.  We are outside, not really in nature, but we do what we can.

To have access to a playground we have to wait until we move to our condominium. The playgrounds are different kinds of combinations of plastic play pieces all set on astro-turf and most often in the blazing sun. Of course the kid loves to climb and play with the equipment, but once the fun passes, there is nothing else to do. The condominium keeps everything so clean, that finding a stick or a leaf is impossible.

If you've had a read from, "Last Child in the Woods, saving our children from nature-deficit disorder." you would be reminded that we have all been de-natured and removed from the wilderness of nature. Where are the ravines, the abandoned lots, the undeveloped plots, the places to build forts? 

No ants to kill, no bugs to flip over, no dirt to play with-no nature here

 When we first arrived here, it was 40C out, so we drove to what I call "Plastic Land" at a local mall. I felt so dizzy looking at all the bright colorful toys, I had to sit most of the time. My eyes had no place to rest. It seemed the kids felt the same way, unable to choose let alone walk without tripping over something. It was unreal, like a giant cartoon character had vomited all over us. I had this funny feeling that somewhere in there, a freaky "Chucky" was lurking...

Plastic Land at the mall-no nature here

Side note: (I'm not saying that there is no place to have access to nature here in Rio, far from it. We are grateful, that we are right in front of the most beautiful beach and we've visited some beautiful parks filled with weird plants, trees, flowers and wild animals. I'm just noticing how plastic toys seem to be pilling up in some places.)

Sometimes, when I visit friends and I see that their kids have more toys than we do, I feel a little guilty, like I'm depriving my son of fun, but it passes. If you have any that same guilty feeling, take a look at Micheal Wolf's installation project, "The Real Toy Story". He traveled to Hong Kong to photograph toy factories and the workers who make their living making dolls and trucks. (I couldn't help but notice that they are often wearing masks, which tells me the materials they are using are probably toxic.) Returning home to California, he collected thousands of toys from garage sales, flea markets and second hand stores and created this monumental installation surrounding his images of the factory workers with plastic toys. The result, a more "artistic" vomit than "Plastic Land" at the mall and what an impression it makes! Imagine taking kids there....

Photographer and Artist, Michael Wolf, The Real Toy Story

 

 

 

 

Liking it and Lumping it

So by now, the adventure has found some form of routine but still every other day, we find ourselves in complete awe of the way things are here while the natives around us, shrug their shoulders and look at us wondering why we're freaking out. We know that at this point we have to like it or lump it.

Like interesting things such as being locked INSIDE my apartment with my kid and his nanny while my tutor is on the other side of the door waiting for me. How did we get locked INSIDE our apartment, you wonder? Isn't that extremely dangerous, should there be an accident, a gas leak or a fire? I would completely agree with you, but apparently apartment doors, and I'm not sure that this is the case in every home in Brazil, require that you have a key on the inside at all times. Never mind that it's super fun for toddlers to play with and that they like to hide them in random places in the house. Like it or lump it right?

Driving back to the apartment to set us free, my husband gets a well deserved break from the office space he's rented while his permanent office is being constructed. A deserved break from the scanning machine that also functions as a shredder and only seems to scan documents mirror and upside down. A break from the printer that doesn't work most days, not to mention the intermittent internet service. We joked that it might be more productive for my husband to return to Vancouver just to do his printing. He's decided to lump it for a while by going to another city for a conference.

Meanwhile I ask myself, is this a case of expatriates complaining about how things are better back home? What if the grass really is greener? Well, it might be, but it's growing over there and here it's the cacti that grows greener, spikes and all, so the only way to go really is to lump, I mean like it.

So what's to like?

Since the first day we arrived I was pleasantly surprised by how people greet each other. Of course, you'll say, oh it's the latin thing, but it's more than that, even with the kisses on the cheek, it feels like people here greet each other with more sunshine on their faces. This instantly lifts your mood. Maybe it's because everyone makes a point of saying "Bom dia" (Good morning), Boa tarde (Good afternoon) and Boa noite (Good evening). Back home,  I might say good morning to neighbors and co-workers, but I don't say good afternoon or good evening on a regular basis. Maybe it's just me, but it seems "hi" is the standard greeting no matter the time of day. But, the difference is that hi expresses "I see you, and you see me" while "good morning or good afternoon" says "I hope you are having a nice time right now, and thank you for hoping that I'm having a nice time too." Doesn't that sound better?

Okay, maybe it's late and I'm getting too technical about all this, but let's just say that I appreciate greetings here much more than the  "I politely acknowledge your personal space, so I will give you a quick hug or a handshake and a regular ol' 'hey, how's it going?' northern greeting that I share with the folks back home. There are times in Vancouver, especially in the winter, when everyone seems curled up onto themselves, wearing various shades of black and bleak, and looking down at their feet under their umbrellas when we could really use a bit more sunshine in our faces.