Last weekend Angel and I drove up into another part of the sierra to visit two famous canyons, Fortaleza and Itaibemzinho. The drive up is beautiful—once you pass San Francisco, the verdant, hilly landscape changes to a wonderful windswept plateau—still green, but vast, mostly flat, with the occasional tree patch (and bizarre trees at that). I really appreciate that feeling of being able to see miles in all directions, since I so rarely have the chance.

Our pousada was located on the edge of the town of Camara, the closest piece of civilization to the canyons. The pousada was actually a ranch run by a happy family that We were in Gaucho country. I was looking around for their equivalent of the Marlboro Man, but instead of smoking everyone instead drank chimarrao, which is the Gaucho version of Mate’, the Argentine herbal tea to which millions of people are addicted. In both countries, people can be seen taking their elaborate drinking devices and thermoses everywhere (including the beach).

We arrived in the late morning and went straight to Fortaleza. After 22 km of dirt road, you arrive at a parking area and see part of the canyon rising seemingly out of nowhere. Once you walk to the edge, the effect is incredible. Looking in one direction, it is as if God struck a vertical slit in a perfectly flat grassland. The view to the ‘entrance’ of the canyon shows that hills rise for miles in support of it, giving way to flying buttresses around which the river flows 3000something feet below. Gorgeous. We spent the afternoon walking around and had lunch on a ledge with a vertigo-inducing view. Then we watched dark clouds roll in from the flatlands beyond.

That night we watched an amazing sunset from the pousada grounds and had a lovely dinner, complete w/some wine from Casa Valduga.

The next morning we hit Itaimbezinho, which is a similar 18km drive away, yet a completely different canyon experience. This one is narrower and full of trees on the top of one side. These are really wacky trees, native to the region, whose name I forget—see pix. They pop out of the canopy and are tremendous fun to stare at.

After taking the fist 6km walk along the canyon rim, we took a shorter one in the other direction and discovered that  Itaimbezinho also has a spectacular waterfall that drops 1000m to the riverbed below. Taking in that complete view is a bit scary because one must venture beyond the cordoned-off area at the overlook and stand on a rock at the very edge of the ledge. My heart was beating tremendously. It was exhilarating and terrifying. A great way to end our day.

The ride home was long because of Sunday traffic, but we made it back with barely enough time to pack my bags and say goodbye to her parents. Suddenly I found myself having a last beer with Angel at the Porto Alegre airport, in nearly the exact spot where I waited for her to pick me up 10 days earlier. The whole trip had just blown by, as these things tend to do. 

This quick and wonderful trip revealed three things: the beauty of RG’s wine country; the quality of its wine; and the kindness of Gauchos, which knows no bounds.

            RG’s wine country is a product of its unique history of immigration. Long story short, the place is full of Italian and German immigrants, whose presence has made excellent beer, wine, sausage, pasta and others a staple of Gaucho culture that cannot be found elsewhere in Brasil. This European influence can be found especially in the countryside, where immigrant communities enjoyed plenty of space and basically pretended they were still in the old world. Today RG is lucky to draw from diverse sources for its version of the good life: wine, cheese, salami, beer from Italians, Germans and Swiss; churrasco from the native Gaucho region; and cachaca and all the other goodies that the rest of Brasil has to offer. (Not to mention the women in the south of Brasil.) There’s a lot more that distinguishes RG from the rest of Brasil—politically and economically, especially—but that’s for another time. Back to the wine.

Without access to a car to explore the region,  I was unsure of where to stay and how to get around. Clovis took the matter into his own hands and called a winery, Casa Valduga, whose quality he vouched for. The man is all sociability and charm. Twenty minutes later he had arranged for me to stay free of charge, on the grounds of Casa Valduga in the middle of the Vale do Vinhedos, just outside of Bento Goncalves.

            I’m not sure exactly what Clovis said but he appeared to paint me as a bohemian world-traveling young intellectual and amateur wine connoisseur. Using my previous experience tasting wines around Europe he played up my desire to discover Brasilian wine. Next thing I know I’m an expected guest at Casa Valduga.

            The valley is up in the Sierra Gaucha, where the air is cooler and everything is green. Not that I wasn’t enjoying POA, but it was great to get out of urban-suburbia and see the country. I arrived at the vineyard by 11.30 and took an hourlong tour, of which I understood more than half and spoke a bit as well, to my satisfaction. The grounds are splendid—an old-meets-new feel. The place reminds one of Europe but is too new to be entirely convincing. The guide was knowledgeable, the technology was top-notch, and the wines were of surprisingly high quality.  CV makes reds, whites and champagne. All of them made me wish these guys had more of a US presence. Based on what I tasted and their list prices in Reais, I assume Valduga could compete on both the $40+ level with its best wines and on the $15 level with its simplest offerings. What they’d need is a great marketing angle, something announcing that “You probably didn’t know it but exotic Brazil also makes some great wine.” Highlights were the Malbec (which is actually made in Argentina; long story), the Reserve Chardonnay (I’m not traditionally a Chard guy, but the floral fruitiness of this balanced wine was out of this world), and the 130 Anos Champagne (which melts in your mouth and is better than any French/Catalan stuff you’ll taste at the same price).

            After the tasting I was shown to my room, which was actually an old and simply appointed 4 bedroom apartment that the Family maintains for friends and guests. I showered and went to lunch.

            Lunch was one of my best eating experiences in Brasil. The meal was a traditional Italian assault on the stomach. It began with Rose’ Spumante and an olive tapenade over bread, and ended an hour later with two desserts and extreme stomach pain. In between I ate with a pinot-cab cuvee 7 different kinds of pastas & sauce and 2 different meats, which were preceded by a soup, 2 green salads, fried polenta, and a cheesy omelette. Damn, son! The problem was that I was too full to do anything afterward and lost my afternoon to napping, first in the fading poolside sunlight and then in my bed. I woke up just before dark disoriented and still full.  I walked about 10 minutes but it was dark. The stars were out in force. I watched TV, read, and went to sleep.

            The next morning I “hiked” around the region. This amounted to a 2 hour walk on the road, past vineyards, cute little houses and churches, and plenty of local flora and fauna. Eventually I ended up at Casa Miolo, which is the biggest in the region. There’s nothing like an 11am tasting. The people there were extra nice and, after my post-tasting tour of the grounds, let me in for another tasting, where I was treated to some of their best wines, as well as a champagne that was tasty but not at the 130 level.

            After walking back to Valduga and cheerfully eating the exact same lunch—though less of it—I met the owner and enologist, or head wine dude. This was the highlight of the trip because we talked about their wine, how it might be marketed in the US, and then later about Brazilian and American culture and politics. It was a lively talk. Elizabete Valduga is a wonderful woman, someone whose warmth and hospitality I will never forget. I was honored—if a bit surprised—that they so desired and respected my opinion. Yet the simple fact was that they wanted to know from someone who has been to European wineries how theirs stacked up. They also really respected the fact that I wanted to discover Brazilian wine, and that I make a hobby of visiting places like this.

All in all, a great trip. I would like to have discovered more of the region—there’s some good hiking and some other wineries and sausage-makers. But that’ll be for another day. This was a great start. 

If I was lucky to meet Angel and Luca in Itacare, I was incredibly lucky to be taken in by their fantastic family in Porto Alegre. For over a week they shared their house, culture, and food (lots of food) with me. It added up to precisely the kind of genuine, rewarding experience one hopes to have when traveling.

I got along with the parents, Clovis and Jane, from the start. We spoke for a couple of hours the first night over dinner, and those conversations—about culture, language, and politics—continued all weekend.

On Sunday night I was treated to Luca’s 25th birthday churrasco. This is the famous barbecue of the Gauchos, who share this aspect of their culture with Uruguay and Argentina. I know Americans love their barbecues but this is another level. Like many Gauchos Clovis has built his own churrasco in the yard. He’s got all the shishkebabs and grill racks and knives ready for action. The evening saw an interminable parade of high-quality meat end up in my belly. Along with some roasted cheese and salad. The people there were nice, too, especially Angel’s older sister Carol, who is my age and totally awesome, and her boyfriend Pedro, who also speaks perfect English and is also totally awesome. We spoke most of the evening between mouthfuls of meat and beer. The dessert was some obscene multi-layered crème-cake that I won’t even try to describe other than “heaven.” 

I spent a good deal of time that week working by their sides as I looked for jobs in NYC from their computer room next to the garage. I’d eat breakfast with Angel, see her off to work, and go do my own stuff online, while talking a lot with the parents. Then we’d have a great lunch, and I’d go back to work and consider leaving the house later in the afternoon. It was pretty low key but extremely comfortable. We all told stories and hung out. It was a pleasure to slowly return to the “real world” of the US from that kind of setting as opposed to some hostel when dudes are drinking beer at 11am and asking you to come on the latest adventure.

Considering how little I knew Angel and Luca coming into this trip, I was simply astounded by how closely and quickly I bonded with the family. The trip was a bit of a lark: even though I knew that Angel and I had made a solid connection, it was only one day. But I’d wanted to see the south, she invited me, and Just Say Yes worked again. Now that I’ve gotten to know this family and the RG region I can’t imagine this trip without them. It makes traveling so much richer when you can come away with a true ‘home stay’ experience, and all the wiser for it.

Now I just need to find a way to open up an apt in NYC for them so I can return the favor. 

I’ve mentioned that the diversity in Brazil is amazing: of people, cultures, geography, cuisine (fruit!). One of the starkest differences is between the black north and the white south. The day I spent in transit flying from Salvador, the capital of Bahia, to Porto Alegre, the capital of the southernmost state of Rio Grande do Sul and home of the Gaucho culture, was instructive.

That morning I took one last walk through the gorgeous Pelourinho neighborhood to the central plaza of Salvador to get the airport bus. One marvels at the colonial architecture: the stately churches, the bright colors, the charming balance of restoration and disrepair. I highly recommend the bus ride to the airport. Leaving the historical center, you get to see the “real” Salvador: uninspiring architecture, lots of colors of people doing normal things, a few favelas, and lots of beach. The bus eventually gets to the beach around the middle class Rio Vermelho neighborhood and continues north for a good while. The beach just keeps on going, while the neighborhoods vary from dense residential towers to near shantytowns.

The airport in Salvador is ugly but functional. It’s unpretentious and forgettable. Most people there are dressed down and dark skinned. Having been in Bahia for some time, I didn’t think much of any of this. But a few hours later I arrived in Porto Alegre—i.e. Europe. People were mostly white and well-dressed. The airport was modern and shiny and had a third floor mall. I waited for my friends at a McCafe next to a hundred-meter long glass corridor overlooking the runway with the city unfolding in the distance. Lots of pretty girls in designer jeans. At that moment everything one hears about Southern Brazil being another country appeared to be true.

I met Angel and her sister Luca on the beach in Itacare, and here they were picking me up at the airport. We had a predictably animated talk about Brazil’s land of contrasts on the ride home. I felt like I was back on Route 4 in Bergen County NJ, with its strip malls, car dealerships, and chain restaurants, except here apartment buildings were also in the  mix. Their family’s house is a lovely gated-in (random crime has become a serious issue in POA over the last few years) place with all the comforts of the western upper middle class: compact and comfortable. Very Paris suburban. A big shiny mall sits less than a kilometer away, next to their grocery store, one of those massive hypermarkets with a parking garage. As I glared at a massive hospital marked by a big neon sign, the third-world hospital in Itacare seemed absurdly far away.

That first night the family received me with open arms and we spoke for a couple of hours over a lovely pizza dinner. The parents speak a bit of English and Spanish—as many Gauchos do—so communication was not a problem. After being shown my room (and bathroom), we dumped my (considerable) laundry into the washing machine. I was being pampered. I weakly protested that they really shouldn’t go out of their way. 

Since then I’ve gradually gotten used to Porto Alegre, a comfortable but unspectacular suburban city where everyone has a car and there’s not much to do. There is no architectural or spacial logic to this city. Nor is there much beauty—the historic city center is small and ugly. It’s just a modern urban-suburban melange. I can’t get a feel for it, and as someone obsessed with spacially orientating himself in any new place, it’s driving me nuts. There’s no grid, few monuments, not much life around the river, and most of it is so repetitively non-descript so as to be easily forgotten. Like any other city, the more spots we visited, the more sense the whole place made—but really not much more. In the end it was like driving around an endless urban suburbia (which, to be clear, was fun). The mishmash is truly bizarre—unlike Rio or Salvador or any other city I’ve visited. It most reminded me of a less diverse LA.

Lucky for me, Porto Alegre was all about quality time with quality people, plus a couple of trips to the countryside. For that reason the trip was as special as the physical city is forgettable. 

 

Amy and Thiago in front of Bonfim church

A great nativo´s tour through Salvador today. Our new buddy, the travel agent Thiago (who was referred to me by our local bartender a few nights ago, and who yesterday helped me purchase my ticket to Porto Alegre) took us in his car to the Ribeira and Bonfim hoods, which jut out on a peninsula north of the city center. Thiago took us to the best sorvete place in town, drove us through some very local color, and then up and around the famous Bonfim church. Not just another pretty colonial-style house of prayer, Bonfim is known for its miraculous healing power. In one special room, hundreds of people have posted pictures of these miracles as well as plastic casts of the body parts healed. This combined with the thousands of colorful good-luck wristbands hanging on the front fence make for an intriguing church visit. Intriguing in that proof of God’s power is posted up in polaroids and plaster in a tacky–yet undeniable?–display of His Power. I provide the pics, you decide.

Plus the view over Salvador across the mini-bay is lovely.

in the Pelourinho

After a brief beer back in Santo Antonio while Thiago took care of a few things at the office–he’s one of those working folks–we went to the beach in Barra. Barra is the relaxed “upscale” beachy barrio in the southwest corner of the city. It’s not a pretty hood per se, like the Pelourinho, but again, it has nice beaches. And a modern shopping mall nearby. 

in the cidade baixa

The water is lovely and the sunsets are amazing—in fact it’s the only place in Brazil where you can see the sun set over the water. Last night was one of the single best I’ve ever seen. Here are a few pics that don’t do it justice. Everyone on the beach applauded.

barra sunset

I do not want to leave Salvador so soon—though I’ve seen most of the touristy sights, it’s clear that there’s more to this city than meets the eye. The place is incredibly diverse, with a wonderful energy and an intriguing expat scene. The beaches beckon, there’s capoeira and jiu jitsu to be learned, and I didn’t get to see any camdomble’. Plus I’d just begun to make friends with some remarkable people here—natives and adopted expats. So consider it good reason to come back. (Postscript 3 Apr: my new pal Amy was supposed to leave a few days after me and stayed 2 weeks. Case in point)

Another thing Amy and I found odd was all the talk of Salvador being dangerous: don’t go here or there, watch out (our stoner surfer friends in Itacare dismiss it as “Babilonia”), blah blah. We neither saw nor experienced any of that. Everyone was super nice to us and beyond the beggars and obvious con-artists–which are to be expected–we had no issues and didn’t feel sketched out. Perhaps it’s that nob0dy wants to mess with me because I’m a bad ass motherfucker. But I can’t help but think that these tourist guides have to magnify any potential danger because a great portion of their target market are complete fucking idiots.  

 

In any case: Bahia is an amazing place and I’m going to miss it. From Trancoso to Itacare and now Salvador, I feel like I´ve discovered a special culture within Brasil. The African influence, the great cuisine, the laid back lifestyle, and the true warmth of the people are all unique. Then there´s the natural setting, with its lush jungle and perfect beaches. (Apparently parts of the interior are amazing as well, especially the Chapada Diamantina park, with its canyons and peaks.) Don’t get me wrong, Bahia is not a place to “get things done,” in the sense of modern efficiency, and like, health care; but it’s a wonderful world all the same. 

After my liberation from the Fam, my life went immediately from part-vacation to full-on Freedom. One day I was negotiating the bizarre stress of my job, which centered on motivating the kiddies and trying to please the mother who had it out for me; the next, I was looking for a place to stay and wondering how I’d spend my time in paradise. 

sunset in itacare harbor

Freedom came fast and hard. The Fam left one bright morning and two hours later I had my lodgings arranged, with an Australian lass I’d met one Carnaval night by the name of Jane. She owns a house near the main church and rents out the rooms. Thank God I ran into her among the revelers at Carnaval, because now she was saving our homeless asses.

Nando and I moved in and immediately ingratiated ourselves to the international contingent at the house. We did this by buying alcohol and remaining shirtless and full of humor at all times. Plus there was our secret weapon.

“Guys, we have a Land Rover and we’re going to [insert islolated beach of your choice] tomorrow. Who wants in?”

surfing is exhausting

 Everything was flowing according to the script. With my pesky employers out of the picture, the paradise of Itacare emerged in its full force. It was like finally accepting God into my life. The last night of Carnaval I met a beautiful Brazilian girl with a deep voice studying to be an English teacher and we watched the sunrise for hours at Concha beach until she had to go get her bus. I slept late with out worries of Mom busting into our bungalow to castigate me for being uninspirational. With our new local friends we visited beaches the photos of which don’t do justice. I learned to stand up on a surfboard. At home the Argentine girls made Fernet and Coke and drank mate and listened to terrible pop music. We cooked dinner and rolled down the main drag at night to hit the bars with the confidence of locals.

a dog wandered into mass, but it behaved

 And by this time, for all practical purposes, we were locals. People knew our names and invited us places. The luster of the Jungle and Favela bar party scene wore off and I felt justified chilling out at home. When we did go out, we noticed the phenomenon of the tourist turnover. The same local guys—surfers, forro dancers, or capoeira players—could be seen with new girls by their sides. The scene at the bars—and, unfortunately, the music—was the same, with new faces thrown into the mix. A group of Australians got shitfaced and danced on the tables. Israeli women traveled in packs and remained very difficult to hook up with. An intrepid couple braved a midnight downpour to dance to hiphop half-naked in the street while the rest of us cheered on from the sheltered sidewalk. White girls from all destinations fawned over Itacare’s endless supply of beautiful black Brazilian men.

Much has happened since I’ve posted. Too much. The only thing I can hope to do is stick to the major developments. They are:

1. as of mid-March, the job w/the Fam is OVER!

2. I’m still in Itacare (Bahia), heading soon to Porto Alegre (the South) and returning to NYC (center of the world) on 2 Apr.

3. I’ve been sick as a dog here for the last week and am only just now beginning to get better… I think.

peace out Itacare. I´ll miss Sarah´s bookstore.

Let’s start w/the juicyness. After a good enough start, things w/the Fam sputtered and collapsed spectacularly here in Itacare. Call it “philosophical differences.”  If I’d been writing regularly on this it wouldn’t seem like such a surprise to you, dear reader. Alas.

The fateful morning

My fate was officially determined on a typically sunny morning in Itacare. Mom and Dad entered the bungalow where Surfer Boy (the 16 yr old), Tarzan (the 22 yr old Fam friend), Hellchild (the 8 yr old), and myself were sleeping.

(Artsy Girl, the 14 year old, had already left Brasil  earlier, returning with Mom’s sister to Sayulita, Mex. She wasn’t really having a good time at Carnaval—doesn’t do the dancing thing, didn’t have friends her age, etc. So, voila, she went home, and I suddenly had one less student to teach.)

 “Wake up, Boys! Change of plans!”

“Huh?”

Mom explained: “We’ve decided to fly to Rio tomorrow, then go back home the next day. I’m going to Sayulita [the Mexican beach town where the Fam has a 2^nd home, and which Mom much prefers to their CA town; Tarzan is from this town] to be with Artsy Girl, Dad is going to CA. Surfer Boy and Tarzan, you need to decide if you are coming with us or staying here longer, or what… Ivan, we should talk up in our room, ok?”

At that point I knew the inevitable ax had fallen. I felt a mixture of anxiety and relief. “Sure thing.”

Let’s get this day started!

Before I detail that conversation up in their suite, I’ll describe the various reasons why the gig didn’t work out. Conveniently, this will give me a chance to describe the Fam and our relationship in detail. Enjoy.

 

[To continue the "Sambodromo" post, i.e. partying nite 3:]

From there we took taxis to Lapa, which is the real hotspot in Rio on wknd nights. The slightly seedy boehmian hood blows up into a huge outdoor party. And I do mean huge.

I was blown away. Samba bands and lots of people drinking and dancing outside for hours and hours: locals, tourists, teenagers, adults, and lots of vendors.

People everywhere—in and around the Arcos, in the bars and on the streets and plaza nearby. The police quietly overlooking the whole scene. Something that must be seen to be believed.

We found a spot near the arco where a band was performing.

We drank beer and talked and danced to the percussion. Some people were just hanging around  taking it all in, others were big-time feeding off the raw energy of the percussion and the throbbing mass of humanity there. Goodness. I’d never been to a street party like this. 

After taking pix and videos from various nooks, I saw two pretty girls dancing near me. I watched some dude try to hit on one, and get shot down pretty determinedly. We made eye contact a few times.  It was clear that I needed to talk to this girl. If not now, here, then where, when?

It wasn’t easy, but it was fun. Neither of them spoke English, and I spent the rest of the night in a web of Spanish-French-Portuguese. My friends left, or got lost trying to find other friends, and I was left dancing w/these girls, first outside, then at some club. The whole time mired in a classic pickup dilemma: how to zero in on my choice girl without a wingman to distract the other one?

That aside I was just having a ton of fun. Alas, I ended up hanging out w/them on the grassy plaza as the sun rose, realizing that they were going home together because one was crashing at the other’s place. I was going home alone. There names were P and S and I would call P as soon as I got back from Petropolis, where I was going in… a few hours, with the Fam, in our new used Land Rover. Onward.

Today was my last excursion to Niteroi for some time, a bittersweet visit. I helped P and her friend bring their stuff to the uni campus and saw her off on her trip to Belem for the World Social Forum. They’ll be camping there for a 6 days on a campus with thousands of other uni students from all over the world. It’s going to be some party. I wish I could be there. The one part I’m not jealous of is the 72 hour bus journey north. Enjoy that. 

P’s uni campus features a bunch of ugly 50’s era classroom buildings and a big blocky library set on a lush spot on the bay of Niteroi, with views of Rio. Not bad. The physical spot is gorgeous, but the architecture is brutally efficient. 

 

She says she likes it well enough, and the view speaks for itself. 

view from the Uni across the bay to Sugar Loaf

downtown Rio across the bay

Saying goodbye to P was hard because we were just getting used to each other and have no idea when we’ll see each other next. But that’s how these things go I suppose. In any case I don’t think we could realistically have dated– we’re probably a bit too different, language barrier aside– but we had a great week. I simply do not tire of meeting fascinating people with smart minds and great hearts. Moreso if they’re beautiful women who will kiss me. What else could one ask for?  I think my job suffered as a result, but I’ll sleep when I’m dead. 

Do I look gay, have I just been thrust into gay situations, or are gay men just attracted to me?

On my first day in Rio, I was walking up the beach, and the first Cariocas I met were 2 gay dudes who aggressively hit on me (in area 8, which unbeknownst to me was the gay center of Rio) before leading me to the heterosexual hot spot  (area 9). Then, tonite (1.30am) a buff American dude sees me typing away w/my big headphones on and is all about convincing me that, (A) I’m at a gay bar at 1am, and (B) gayness could be good because, after all, I’ve never tried it, and gay men give better head (which wouldn’t necessarily surprise me, I guess). I replied that, in fact, I’d never even thought of this place as gay, and it’s not, because I come here during hte day and there are mad hot non-gay chicks, and but also because I know gay spots when I see them. So he was wrong. But I guess it is very gay friendly at late-nite. And, indeed, looking up from my computer for a second, I see an awful lot of dudes here on the 2nd floor…

Anyway, in both cases the men were totally nice and sweet. I think it’s just one of those things where these people know what they want and are not afraid to mince words in their attempt to get it (“I could use some lessons in sex ed,” dude said to me after I told him about my  job here. How long will I have to wait for a woman to tell me that??). But I’m beginning to wonder: Should I cut this “adorable mop of hair”???