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. 

            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.

I could write all day about the natural riches of this place; they are unparalleled. People come from round the world to surf these waves and discover beaches accessible only via waterfall-laden jungle trails. We visited these beaches and others, like Serra Grande, an unbroken 35-km stretch of pristine coastline where a friend of ours lives in a concrete shell of a house 20m from the water. There his stoner friends live a life dedicated to surfing and don’t seem to mind the lack of running water or mattresses in the house. “Roots,” they would laugh, flashing the Hang Loose sign. Their porch has a million dollar view, their amp pumps the finest raggae, and nobody in the world bothers them.

view from Cabeza's place in Serra Grande

There’s my friend Amanda, who lives in a bare-bones concrete hut at Ribeira beach, with TV, fridge, and a massive amp to pump music at all hours. Her porch is a thatched roof with a river running in front, where the jungle begins. A beach bar sits the corner, and of course perfect waves beckon just beyond.

There’s Flavio, who lives with his girlfriend in an apartment in the middle of the main drag. He runs a makeshift bar in front of his place—passersby can’t help but stop for a cocktail on their way from one party to another—and throws the occasional party on his exposed 3^rd floor area.

There’s Sarah, an English transplant who runs a beautiful international bookstore on the waterfront. I’d bring my laptop to her spot and enjoy the internet and a coffee while the bay glistened and the tide drifted out, mooring colorful old wooden boats in the mud for the next ten hours.

Befriending these people was as thrilling as discovering any hidden beach. Itacare as a tourist is a guaranteed good time; as an adopted local it’s the royal treatment. If you suffer from wanderlust and the perpetual desire to find the perfect place to live, Itacare doesn’t enter the radar so much as blow it up. But a funny thing begins to happen to the driven cosmopolitan type after a couple of weeks here: stuck square in paradise, you are left unfulfilled.

I began to get the first senses of this boredom, and then I got sick. Like, really sick. Then the full spectrum of Itacare’s local flavor emerged, to my dismay.

Despite the symptoms of an impending fever, I made the mistake of trying to pursue one of my favorite local girls one night after a party at Flavio’s. Four of us drove around in a friend’s car and watched falling stars at Concha beach. Somehow I couldn’t close the deal. Returning home, I realized I was sick. Since one good mistake deserves another, I want to Serra Grande the next day to hang out. I was peer pressured into surfing in the middle of the day under a ferocious sun. Doubtless the joints going around the car and house that morning had instilled in me a false sense of security. After a half hour on the water I was exhausted but enjoying the scenery. After an hour I dragged my board back to the concrete palace. 

burning up in the hospital

An hour later I was passed out and burning up. The rest of that evening played out in increasingly slower vignettes of unpleasantness: napping on one of the two mattresses; cursing the ubiquitous raggae; losing a contact lens; wafts of weed and echoes of laughter drifting in from the next room.

high tech at the itacare hospital

 I spent the next day falling in and out of a sweat-filled slumber. I ate nothing, drank a lot of water, popped some fever reducer, and hoped a day in bed would improve things.

Soon after waking up the next day in sweat-drenched sheets, it became clear that my strategy had failed. I staggered over to the Centro de Saude, or public health center. I was stunned by how close this scene came to the image of a 3^rd world health facility that Americans are taught to avoid at all costs. I could barely function but was forced to wait 90 minutes while 2 doctors attended 20-something of us. (I was told the third doctor was a psychologist.) My occasional claims to the nurses that I was about to pass out were met with nods. A soap opera flickered on an old TV in the corner of the room, just next to an industrial size fan that comically tried to keep the boiling room cool. Some requisite baby screamed with horror until it was finally called on. I tried to read and kept reading the same page. Nobody in the room seemed to move. This period confirmed to me a claim being made in the very book I was reading: that time as we understand it is an illusory and entirely relative phenomenon.

Finally when I was attended to the nurses greeted my 40+ fever with the look of a coach impressed by some kid’s first turn in the batting cage. I was shuffled ahead of two others to see one of the two doctors. I managed in Portuguese to explain the situation, which was roughly that I was going out of my mind and please help me.  The doctor prescribed medication and sent me to the hospital up the road for IV treatment and who knew what else.

I slowly walked to the hospital and handed them my orders. Not to be the boorish American, but the  place could use a facelift and some modern equipment. What was this, Cuba in the 60s? As they hooked up my IV I glanced at the equipment to make sure it was new and sterilized. At least that looked legit. Then again, I was in such a daze that I surely would have allowed them to do anything they wanted save amputate a limb.

Slowly hydrating, I looked out the window at the perfectly blue sky, the omnipresent sun, and listened to the silence of mid-day. It was siesta, and I knew the main drag was now not much more exciting than this room. Time dripped by at about the pace of my IV. My pillow was soaked.

Light became dark. I drifted in and out of sleep. After the third bottle of water they had my fever down to a manageable 38. I spoke with the doctor about the fact that every time I coughed my head exploded. I was given the gag test, prescribed more drugs, and released.

The fee for the consultation and treatment was 200R$, or $100. They did not accept credit card.

“Who walks around with that much cash?” I protested.

“We’ll send someone home with you to get the money, ok?” the doctor said. 

“Sure.”

The first pharmacist took her sweet time collecting my various drugs only to reveal that her credit card machine was busted. The pharmacist across the street had to jigger his machine 4 times before it worked. Finally I went to bed.

The next afternoon, drugs and all, I felt terrible. I went back to the hospital and asked to speak with the doctor again. Ok, they said, this way. They brought me to the same room and hooked me up to an IV again. I didn’t protest. It seemed to work last time. One bottle later I asked if I’d be able to speak to the doctor. I was told to wait and, bizarrely, served some hot rice pudding. 

The nurse I talked to was nowhere to be found, and as the third IV bottle was wearing down I snipped it off the rack, held it over my head, and combed the halls for the guy. When I found him I repeated my desire to speak with a doctor to help me with my exploding head problem.

“He’s gone,” said the nurse.

“Gone?! But—”

“Come back tomorrow morning.”

“But what if I have dengue fever? I’m trying to find out what’s wrong with me!”

“I doubt you have Dengue,” he said, shaking his head.

“Doubt? Uh… how about a blood test?”

“Come back tomorrow. Also hold that bag higher.”

Twenty minutes later I went home, unsure of where I’d gone wrong. The sun beat down mercilessly on my hot body. I wanted to take a cold shower but shower water was tepid at best, and bagged ice was outrageously expensive, and besides there were no bathtubs in the house.

The next day I woke up in my own sweat again and marched up the hill to the hospital. The nurse said I would have to pay a new fee of R$160 to speak with the doctor.

“But this is the exact same problem as 2 days ago!” I said. “This is not a new consultation. You haven’t fixed the original problem! How are you going to charge me for a new visit? You think because I’m American I must be rich?”

She didn’t look too convinced. “You can try to speak to the doctor about it.”

No one came to speak with me for a half hour. I sat there thinking about Plan B.

Finally, prepared to leave the place without being seen, I chased down the doctor as he emerged from his little foxhole. “Doctor, please, I would just like—”

He shot me a look somewhere between indifference and contempt. “Not me, her,” he said, pointing to the nurse with whom I’d spoken. He couldn’t have cared less about my welfare. What they say about charging foreigners more and only caring about making money off them? It’s true.

I left. Time for Plan B: complain to local friends. I napped and eventually Nando drove me to the Mahalo beach bar to speak with Cabeza, our buddy, legit mover and shaker, and genuine nice guy. “Dude, why didn’t you come to me sooner? My boss runs a clinic in town. She’s traveling now but we’ll call her and get this taken care of. Relax my friend.”

Driving back from the beach bar a thought from a few days ago recurred to me. How incredibly hellish paradise can seem when basic things don’t work. The relaxed charm and labyrinthine bureaucracy of Bahia that tourists laugh off because they can become, to someone in my position, signs of the failure of humanity. Seriously, how long is it going to take for these people to get with the program? The non-functioning ATMs, the issues with credit cards, business owners’ perpetual lack of change, the non-cold tap water, the thirteen year olds getting pregnant, the entire public health system: can we just put down the ganja for a minute and get some shit done? 

The next day I went to the private clinic, and after five or six days of hell I was placed back in the loving hands of God. She came in the form of a competent doctor, a buxom maternal figure who spoke English. I was examined, questioned, diagnosed and assessed by a professional. It was an altogether Western experience. It turned out the very first doctor had assigned a painkiller/fever reducer much too weak for my fever. He  also should have prescribed something for the death cough.  (The idea of doctors messing up like that seemed almost impossible, yet I suppose it happens all the time.) The saintly  doctor told me that I could come back in a few days, free of charge, to follow through. An incredible thought.

The clinic, of course, didn’t accept credit cards. They told me to come back with the cash later that day. Some things never change.

A day later I was felt well enough to think and engage others for more than five minutes. Two days later the fever was gone, and the only thing that remained was a bacterial sinus nastiness that still clouds my hearing.

I’m headed for the grit, beauty and mystery of Salvador. Where I once considered moving to Itacare, I now feel like I overstayed my welcome. I suppose paradise without culture will only satisfy a New Yorker so long. Throw in a useless and predatory health care system, and the American model doesn’t look so bad at all.

But don’t get me wrong about Itacare: It´s mostly paradise, and I’ll be back.   

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.

Irreconcilable differences.

While I really liked Dad—for his intelligence, good humor, flexibility, and most important his understanding of the challenges presented by educating his kids—Mom was another story. Mostly because she’s a complete fake. She portends to lead an ethical, progressive, well-balanced bohemian life, but in reality she’s just a rich woman who lives in her own little bubble of luxury and doesn’t spend one minute thinking seriously about the reality of rest of the world. Her “philosophy” is a half-formed take on Eastern religions that relies heavily on the notion of Karma but doesn’t seem to address any other complex questions. And, as often befalls the rich, she found it much more convenient to blame the new teacher for the kids’ occasional unhappiness and problems with school than actually examine their (and her own) approaches to education and learning.

It eventually became clear—say after about 6 wks—that our issues were not going to get resolved, mostly because she kept blaming me for…well, everything: the many problems her two sons have with learning and working; the less-than-ideal “classroom” conditions; and the fact that I didn’t achieve the elusive teacher-friend-independent balance that she was looking for but of course never articulated to me.

A final fact that somehow seems telling is this: not once during the trip did Mom ask me anything about my life. No “so back in New York…” or “What’s your favorite…” or “what drives you….” Nothing during 2+ months. I was bewildered. I tried to put myself in her position and imagine being so utterly uninterested in the life of this person that was now teaching her kids. To be fair, the rest of the Fam displayed a pretty incredible lack of curiosity about me as well—they’re all wrapped up in themselves—but I did get a few questions from them. From Mom, nada.

Now, this was especially odd because I showed up on the trip with a book by Deepak Chopra called “The Books of Secrets,” which I really loved and whose purchase was influenced by another book of his that Mom herself gave me for Christmas back when we met in CA. She asked to read my book a couple of times, and before long she’d somehow acquired her own copy. Yet not once did she say, “Hey, I’m really glad you brought that book” or “Thanks for telling me about this,” which is of course exactly what I told her after enjoying the book (“The Seven Spiritual Laws for Success”) she’d bought me. Oh, and to be clear: she bought the same book for her husband and a bunch of family members that Christmas. It’s not like I was special.

I suppose this can be explained by the mom’s belief in spontaneity and karma—that the gig would simply work out or not—but still, the fact sits badly with me. I think what irks me is that Mom is a fake, and her behavior vis-à-vis the Chopra book is case in point. She talks about how wonderful the stuff is, yet her behavior doesn’t reflect his larger philosophy, which I don´t think she understands (granted there´´s a lot going on in the book). Now, I’ll admit that the non-predictable nature of life part she has down. She’s sold on life as a journey rather than destination, the utility of detachment, the embrace of life´s mystery, and the importance of meditation.

But with special  regard to criticizing one’s own beliefs, and allowing others who come into your life a chance to affect it—two important tenets in The Book—Mom completely ignored them vis-a-vis moi. She treated me as a cog that was somehow supposed to fit into the family machinery with very little guidance. She doesn’t appear to have honestly asked herself if my perspective might have been correct or worth notice. Instead, she ended up treating me as an enemy. And instead of trying to work with me, or even approach me, as Chopra would suggest, she either ignored me or used her position of authority to try and straighten me out. All the while saying how great this Chopra is. I found myself perplexed, wondering if I was reading the same book.

It was remarkable how something I thought would be a bonding point between us ended up useless. But that’s so simply because she’s not as deep and spiritual as she would appear (and certainly her kids have not inherited any such sense of spirituality).  She radiates an almost intoxicating bohemian, artsy, life-loving spirituality. Her wonderful smile explodes when she’s in the presence of beauty; her favorite expression is “C’est beau! C’est tellement beau!” But in reality, it is a luxury of the rich to appreciate beauty and surround themselves with it. Mom’s obstacles are overcome with the practicality of money. If she likes something, she buys it. If she likes a place, she stays; if not, she seeks happiness elsewhere. And on top of it, she’s 41 and looks better than most 21 year olds in a bikini, and she knows it. Donc la vie, c’est bien beau quoi. She’s having trouble finding her kids a good tutor, but hey—life is about more than school. Everything will be fine. 

“Uninspirational”

Way back in Itaunas, about halfway to Itacare, Mom had a little chat with me one morning. She said: “I like you a lot. It’s obvious that you’re a really cool guy. But with the kids it’s not working. Especially with Hellchild. He is unhappy.”

I tried to explain the situation from my perspective: Hellchild simply refuses to work; he cannot concentrate for more than 20 minutes at a time; he insults me and thinks he can decide what we do and don’t do in class.

But she wouldn’t even let me speak. “It doesn’t matter. You need to change your strategy.”

And then she went further: “You’re not providing any inspiration to the trip. I need to be inspired. You need to take some time and think about what you have to offer that is special to the group. You should stop tagging along with the Family so much and think about this. I feel like I’m dragging around another kid for the trip.”

“Uh… well, I have to say, I’ve been trying really hard—”

“It’s not working. I have to tell you that if things continue like this, I won’t be able to keep working with you. Life is too short. We will go back to California without you.”

“You know, it’s not easy finding a balance between—”

“Look, I said what I’ve had to say. So I’ll leave you to think about it.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Just writing these words makes me gnash my teeth. Could you define or give an example of what you mean by inspiration, Mom? Morever, is my job to inspire you, or them, or the whole family, in addition to educate the kids? (Should I juggle? Or give a sermon on conscious capitalism? Maybe spend a day as a mime?) Could you please give me some pointers on how I could best accomplish the teacher-friend balance? For example, you feel like I “tag along” too much w/the Fam, but it’s not to get a free meal; it’s because I’m trying to have some non-school q.t. with the kids, see, to become friends? Also, about that inspiration thing—fuck you.  

Showdown at the Empty Hotel

Now, it is no coincidence that this “chat” came a day or two after one of the more unpleasant moments of the entire trip. This episode is indicative of Mom’s confused mentality, so allow me elaborate.

We had driven many hours that day and stopped in the afternoon in a tiny town to spend the night. After a lovely lunch and some afternoon/evening beachiness, we endeavored to do some school at the late hour of 9pm. Hellchild arrived in the lounge with two workbooks and nothing else and promply told me, “I’m doing two pages of math and one page of reading.”

Now, a couple of problems here. First, Hellchild does not tell Teacher what work is being done. Hellchild can make recommendations and voice preferences, and Teacher decides. Second, he brought neither his multipurpose binder nor his little schedule book. (Based on one of the earlier chats with Mom, it was deemed crucial for the 2 younger kids to have their own schedule books in which they write what they do each day, so they can enjoy the feeling of crossing items off the list and see their accomplishments week by week. I agreed that this was a fantastic idea, and we began using the books. They’re also helpful to establish rhythm and structure for each class: yesterday we did X, so today we should do Y; if you do X boring thing today, tomorrow we can do Y fun thing, etc.) I told Hellchild that I’d consider doing these items for school, but that he needed to get the rest of his materials, because that’s how we always start school. You can guess the rest. He let forth a tirade of woe is me:

“But Teacher, I don’t want to do it!”; “Teacher, I’m not going to get it, it’s really deep back in my backpack, and I’m going to have to mess up all my clothes in there,” sobbing. “My mom said it was ok to do this!”

“That’s fine, Hellchild, but you know you’re always supposed to come prepared to school regardless.”

“But Mom said it was okay! Teacher why are you being like this?”

Now, everyone knows that placating the spoiled brat in this situation is only going to make matters worse over the long run: he needs to learn How Things Work, and that he does not set the rules. So I went upstairs to go get the stuff from his bag, with him trailing behind, scared about his Dad finding out. And that’s what happened. Up in the hall I walked past Dad and, in a frustrated tone of voice, told him why I was going to retrieve Hellchild’s materials. He ended up grabbing Hellchild by the wrist into the room as I removed the materials (which were of course easy to find), and telling Hellchild that he does not dictate what we do in class, and that he does not talk back to the Teacher, etc. I returned downstairs as a screaming match erupted between them in the hotel hallway (luckily I don’t think anyone else was even staying on the floor), which Mom interrupted, horrified. I recall her saying, “Dad, stop it! This is your son!”

Downstairs, I began to work with Artsy Girl or Surfer Boy on something, attempting to clear my head. Tarzan was using the internet on my computer a few feet away. Soon Hellchild appeared, calmed, and I began to work with him. Minutes later Mom appeared in the room, visibly frustrated. She started speaking in front of everyone.

“Look, Teacher, something’s not working here. This can’t be. You’ve got to realize you’re working with an eight year old!”

“Well, all I wanted was for him to get his materials. It’s a very simple thing, and he refused.” I was hoping she’d remember our agreement re/materials and consistency.

“It’s nine o’clock man! Upstairs he was so excited to do his math and reading, and suddenly he’s crying!”

“Mom, I’m sorry that’s how this turned out, but we talked about the need to bring materials for class, and it only takes a second to do.”

“Look, maybe you need to do some yoga or something because, [exasperated facial expression, hands flailing in her trademark way], this can’t be, Dad is screaming at his son upstairs, I mean, It’s crazy!”

I loved how, first of all, she implied that this screaming match was my fault; and secondly, how it must be me who needs to do some yoga, because I’m just too much of a hardass on her little Prince. 

            “Can we talk about this alone please?”

            “Don’t you recognize how to deal with kids? This can’t keep happening.”

            “Look, we talked about the need for discipline and consistency, and now you’re telling me to forget about it. And I’m the one who decides what Hellchild studies, not him. Instead of blaming me, I’d say you’re being hypocritical about this. I suggest we talk about this alone, because this isn’t the venue.”

Nor was it fair, or mature, for her to display her feelings in front of the entire family—but Mom is not one for subtlety, consistency, or sober self-criticism. She just does; and when it comes to her kids’ educational mishaps, doing most often amounted to blaming Teacher. 

I know I should not have pushed back at the end of the argument, but I felt my pride being challenged to such a clear degree in front of everyone that I had no choice but to show this bitch some backbone.

In order to succeed, anyone in my position needs to have the Parents on board. I tried many times to establish some semblance of discipline, or rules, so that we could present a unified front against the kids who are uniquely talented at going between Teacher and Parents in order to get what they want. I had Dad on board in principle, but in the event of a blow-up, Mom’s sense that “it’s just not working with him” prevailed.

Learning to learn

If Mom had actually examined her kids’ and her own educational abilities and desire to learn, as mentioned above, she would have realized a few things that were quickly obvious to me, as an outsider who has taught in many capacities and contexts for 8 years. I can provide details, but a very frustrated Dad summed it up perfectly one afternoon in Itacare: “Our kids don’t know how to learn.”

Yes, he said this. The little nugget of wisdom plopped forth after another frustrating “class” in which Hellchild started crying like a little girl after 20 minutes of work and Surfer Boy got angry at Dad for working on the computer while he was ostensibly supposed to be helping him with math. Of course, Dad couldn’t do Surfer Boy’s reading for him; yet SB didn’t appreciate the fact that Dad attempted to do something else while he had to read stuff, like, on his own. Artsy Girl was in one of her 14-yr-old-girl moods, i.e. pissy just because. Hellchild had resumed his unfortunate habit of literally crying at the prospect of doing another page of X. Mom, overhearing the acrimony from her perch, descended to the classroom (the covered breakfast area of our Itacare pousada), pissed: “What is going on here? Why is this not working? Why do I always end up in the classroom? I don’t belong here! I don’t want to be here!”

While any number of answers swirled through my head, I kept quiet and let an utterly frustrated Dad offer his nugget of wisdom.

This is perhaps the single greatest obstacle to my success in this job: I was trying to teach kids who didn’t really know how to learn. A lifetime of not-entirely-fantastic homeschooling (surely supplemented by tons of fun) had not provided the discipline or study skills these kids would desperately need as their work got more demanding. As children on a very basic and forgiving curriculum, with no other students against which to measure themselves, they had no sense of where they should be for their age. And their parents don’t seem to have any sense of urgency about the matter.

So yeah, I’ve got better things to do than pull these kids out of the muck or, worse yet, coast along with them and have good times while halfassing it. I’m driven, and I want to work with kids who have a spark, or at least in an environment when I’m at liberty to push them.  

Quite a couple

Now, an apparent dilemma should be emerging to you, clever reader. Another special element of this human drama was the tension between Mom and Dad. They’re both beautiful and generous people who love travel, adventure, eating well, and the good life. At the same time, the two are almost a case study in opposite attraction: he’s rational, school-educated, and active in his children’s education; she’s emotional, alternatively educated (sort of gypsy-like), and prefers to stay out of the classroom. Their approaches to education differ as a result. While they agree that education is not just for the classroom (hear hear!), she wants the kids to enjoy school more than anything, while Dad understands that they actually need to learn stuff while having fun.

Dad spent a lot of time teaching with me, mostly Math, so he was able to witness the difficulties I had getting Hellchild in line, and encouraging Surfer Boy to make more than just absolute minimum required effort to get anything done. He also understood the unique challenge it was to teach all three kids at the same time; that is, to delegate one’s time resourcefully between the kids. This required their patience as well, which was of course not their foremost quality. Mom, on the other hand, wanted results: happiness, inspiration, feeling good. It was the teacher’s job to deliver. She is seriously deluded, but nobody is going to call her out. The only one who could is her husband, but I don’t think he’s willing to open that box (see below).

So if the kids complained about our driving too much, or didn’t like the town we stopped at; or if Surfer Boy was pissy because the town didn’t have good surf; or if Hellchild refused to write 2 more sentences before jumping in the pool, Mom appeared not to consider how these unfortunate circumstances might affect their desire to “do school.” Her perspective was: we’ve had several private teachers before, and now it’s not working; it must be the teacher, because it couldn’t be the kids (obviously) or the circumstances of the trip.

So let me address those two factors.

Traveling:

Before embarking on the journey, we spent almost 3 weeks in Rio. I had my own hotel room and therefore a safe distance from the Family. We’d have class from 10-2 and then separate: they went out to eat and had their afternoon adventures while I did my thing. Sometimes our paths crossed, and they took me for a couple of side trips (Sugar Loaf, Bodies exhibit). For the most part, we had seemed to achieve a balance.

The trip was its own beast. We drove many hours spread out over the course of many days to get from Rio to Itacare, in Bahia province. There were seven of us and a dog (a teacup Chihuahua, thank god) and tons of luggage packed inside (not on top of, because Mom thought it made us look like tourist targets) a Land Rover. The youngest two were practically lying on top of each other in back. The back bench could barely hold us three boys: all wide-shouldered, the others noticeably taller than myself, with 2 misaligned headrests that fit perfectly between each of our heads such that sleeping required the clever used of pillows. To top it off, a suitcase on the floor of the middle seat occupant forced him to extend his legs forward into the front cabin, a practice which quickly became accepted by the Parents. Try to imagine the scene.

To be clear, I mostly enjoyed the driving because it was a pleasure to discover the Brazilian landscape. However, the kids often complained—understandably—of heat, comfort, boredom, etc. And, when stopped in small towns, they did not want to travel again. Having already traveled so much in their young lives, they mostly had no appreciation for Brazil. It was just another trip. They wanted to go back to Mexico, where they had friends and a nice house. So this was very much the Parents’ trip: really, the latest stop in the Mother’s journey to find her new Shangri-La, a place to permanently move the Fam that would replace stale Santa Barbara, which she had come to detest (indeed, their lives their were very difficult, as I noticed upon visiting their mansion in December).

Once we arrived in Itacare, I was housed in the same bungalow with the rest of the kids and Tarzan. I asked for my own room out of a logical desire for privacy and was denied, but invited to find my own room elsewhere. I thought it would provide a distance that would be healthy both for me and the kids, but the parents disagreed. 

I’m still bothered by Mom’s comment that she felt like she was dragging around another kid on the trip. I wonder how my behavior appeared that way to her, or what she expected from me in that context. During the length of the trip I was on my own 100% of the time, while the Fam had each other. It was easy to appreciate Brazil. I taught when called upon to do so. I did my best to get along with the kids and point out school material when it popped up in real life, while still respecting their distance. I made jokes and tried to ingratiate myself to the Family. Like everyone else, I looked forward to a meal upon arrival at our destination. Later I would learn that perhaps I should have spent more time on my own in those towns, because I would be seen by Mom as “omnipresent” and “a tag-along.” How could I be anything but if I was spending so much time with them, first in the van or hotel, and then in the same bungalow? 

The kids:

It turns out that in my longish career of teaching and tutoring, I’d completely taken for granted the implicit social contract in which the kids actually do the work they’re supposed to—if for no other reason than if they didn’t, they’d be punished. Well, Mom in her progressive bohemian vision doesn’t do punishment. Which is why these kids know they can get away with anything, especially Hellchild, a spoiled brat for the ages.

Artsy girl is mature enough to work with, for the most part. She’s incredibly stubborn and bossy and used to getting her way. She loves to learn, but paradoxically doesn’t like to receive instruction—she wants mistakes corrected to achieve results, rather than learn. For example, she doesn’t want to improve her spelling so much as have her mistakes corrected and move on (she is a horrible speller). She loves to write, but displayed little interest in learning how to edit and rearrange sentences. She liked editing her report when it meant my fixing the sentences, but didn’t want to try some of those methods on her own so she might actually develop those skills. In fact, if any of the kids best reflected the “do what I like” attitude of the Fam, it was probably her, precisely because she was willing to work—but in her own way, with no attention to or respect for method. All the same, it was a pleasure to work with Arsty Girl because, unless she was in one of her moods, we got stuff done. Also, she’s a tremendous artist, and we had fun incorporating drawing into any lesson possible.

The boys are a train wreck. With reading and writing skills of an 8^th grader, and atrocious spelling, Surfer Boy is going to have a rude awakening in college, if he decides to go. He was never taught any study skills and is disinterested in academics to boot. As his father himself explained, his strategy in executing the home schooling curriculum can be defined as “minimum required effort.” The answers we provided for his science questions continually forced me to ask more of him—yet he said the School always gave him full credit for them. This is obviously a dangerous precedent, because it only encourages SB’s strategy of answering questions through an incredibly selective reading process. SB’s organizational skills are such that he forgot to bring his history text book and the rest of his literature work with him, which left him with only Bio and Math (plus French) to work on in Brazil. That monotony did no wonders for his appreciation of school. The narrow scope of SB’s world suggests a future as an ignorant American: someone whose life will revolve around sports and entertainment and be devoid of any kind of deeper meaning. It’s hard to watch. My instinct is to fight against it, to try and inspire him somehow, but it just isn’t meant to be—especially if his parents don’t force him to change. He’s happy to learn a few fun facts from myself or his dad, but unwilling to do any deeper thinking on the issue. I don’t believe that every kid needs to be an academic, but Surfer Boy damn better well get on the Tour if he doesn’t improve his academic approach. (Or I suppose he can fall back on Dad’s money.) Let me be clear that I had a great time, especially in Itacare, with SB. During Carnaval he came out with Tarzan and I each night and partied. He’s a terrific young man, respectful and decent, and we became friends. I wish him the absolute best.

Finally there is Hellchild. With regularity he whines to his Maman like a little schoolgirl whose birthday balloon was popped. He’s the most bothersome little boy who not only needs constant attention, but delights in making life difficult for others–especially me. With barely the phonics of a 1^st grader at age 8 (and a half), and very likely dyslexia and AMHD, Hellchild needs special attention if he is to read correctly. He cannot stay focused for more than 15 minutes, and after an hour is exhausted. Yet his mother denies he has these problems (more on that below). I’m convinced that at least part of the reason why he liked his previous tutors was that they had plenty of fun with him and didn’t bother teaching him basic phonics. Despite all this Hellchild is quite intelligent. He is gifted at math, and we encouraged him to excel at this strength as much as possible. Math was fun. But in phonics and reading, his sheer laziness outweighs his intelligence. He remembers what he reads when he’s paying attention, but that’s only part of the time. You can guess what outdoor classrooms and the prescence of his siblings did for his distractibility. I hope Hellchild goes into public school; there’s still time for him. He’s kind of like a beautiful young horse that needs to be broken. I can tell you that after dealing with him out in the wilderness for a while, I was ready to cut him up and sell him for parts.

And but Where’s the Dad here?

Clever reader, you’ve hit upon another interesting question in this complicated human drama: if the Dad was more naturally on your side academically, why didn’t he step up and defend you?

Good question! I eventually realized, especially after a couple of heart-to-hearts with Tarzan, that not only did Mom have the final word in this Fam, but that Dad had to let it be that way if he wanted to hold the Fam together. You see, they have an up-and-down history over the last decade and a half, which apparently includes some time split up between Mex and CA—perhaps with some shenanigans on Mom’s part. In any case, Mom is so incredibly strong willed and Dad such a dedicated family man that she simply gets her way all the time, even in times when he disagrees. While I believe Dad understood my difficult position, his clear priority is keeping the Fam together. This made me easily expendable given Mom’s feelings for me, however misguided they might have been. Dad knows what he needs to sacrifice to keep his wife and kids happy. I believe it is killing him that his kids are obviously lacking in some key academic areas, but I don’t know if he has figured a way out that will make everyone happy. He also loves the freewheeling, traveling lifestyle they have adopted, and maybe doesn’t want to give it up quite yet.

I still hope to ask him some of these questions (about his stepping up, about why his wife hates me, and maybe even about why his wife is so wacky and deluded) some day, but I’m still waiting for my final paychek to appear in my bank account. (Really.)

Finally: What did I do wrong?

Aside from not being “inspirational” enough and meeting Mom’s other undisclosed standards, there were two major mistakes I made, one short term, the other long term. Short term, I made the embarrassing blunder of being badly late on two of three days to class in Rio because I was returning from a girl’s place in Niteroi, the town across the bay. Now, to be clear, I allowed 2 hours to get back to Ipanema by 10am. It’s not like I just woke up and realized I was late like a moron. Unfortunately, I had no idea how bad the traffic was at that time, and all the private Vans that go my route were full, so they just kept passing me. The first morning, I stood in the rain for a very long time. By the time I eventually got a Van (I didn’t know what combination of busses to take), it was too late. Upon my arrival at the hotel, the family was relatively sanguine about my lateness—they’d gotten off to a late start as well. The real problem was that 2 days  later, the same thing happened. This time, again, no vans, and I ended up on a bus, where I had to change 2x and go through a labyrinthine route before getting back. It was a real boneheaded error on my part. I profusely apologized to the parents. This shook their faith in me a little bit—certainly the Mom’s, since she could care less that I was slightly lonely and therefore happy to have met a lovely young lady. (She had no conception of the challenges the job presented me.) The Dad was more logical: he had no problem with the girlfriend, but said “you’ve got to estimate your travel time accordingly,” which is entirely fair and correct.

The long term mistake I made was not fighting hard enough to win over the kids once the uphill nature of the job was clear. This might not qualify as a “mistake” since I think the odds were clearly stacked against me, but from a professional perspective I know I could have done more to do a better job. I tried to incorporate some “fun” projects into the kids’ curriculum, like one based on the movie “The 11^th Hour,” but they were having enough trouble keeping up with their required work to be motivated. The main problem here was with Hellchild. I should have worked harder to make classes fun, even if it meant getting less work accomplished. The problem was that, seeing how behind he was in reading and writing already, I figured that his previous tutors had done too much fun and not enough work, and it befell me to try and catch up. I realized sometime after Mom’s “chat” that this was a mistake. Tarzan himself told me: “What do you care if the kids don’t learn? They’re not your kids. Do you want to keep the job or not? Just have fun with them, travel with the Fam, y ya esta.” What I really should have done was just have a rollicking good time with Hellchild, play games with him, swim in the pool, etc as he wished, so that he’d be more willing to do work thereafter. I was worried about results, and never considered the fact that the Fam (i.e. Mom) was more worried about happiness. So when Hellchild complained that he was hating school, my response was, “Hey, I’m a nice guy and all, I like to have fun, but the kid refuses to do work”; it should have been, “Ok, fuck school, Hellchild, let’s go fishing!” And that’s exactly what we did for the last 4 or 5 days—swim in the pool, tell stories—but by then it was too late.

I think it took me this long to switch strategies with him because I just didn’t really care anymore. I knew I was going down with a sinking ship. I knew I couldn’t continue working with this family—both for this wacky Mom, but also with these kids, who I must admit were fun and adorable (even Hellchild, sometimes) but less fun to teach than most kids I’ve taught. 

Somebody please put these kids in public school.

Now, none of this necessarily answers why Mom appeared to dislike me so much. There were times—say, at dinner—when her anger at my sheer presence was palpable. I just can’t put it all together.  My only guess is that she was angry that Brian liked me (and perhaps defended me when she savaged me as the devil incarnate, causing a rift between them). My other guess is that she totally wanted me.

Fired Up

So, let’s go back to the fateful day of dismissal: the day that led to a blessed month of freedom in Brasil, and a frightening new period of unemployment in NYC.

I bring a jug of water up to their second-floor suite on the verdant grounds of our pousada. Birds are chirping. A fine breeze rustles the trees. I’m wondering how I’m going to hold myself back from an all-out screaming match because I know exactly what I’m going to hear from Mom. Yet I have to be diplomatic because they need to pay me. (I still have not been paid for Jan or Feb—that is another wrinkle here, but we’ll get to it some other time.)

Dad begins the discussion: So, for whatever reason it just hasn’t worked out with the kids, so we’re going to end the relationship, yadda yadda, I don’t really know what it was that was missing with the kids, but something just wasn’t quite there. We really appreciate the work you’ve put in and have had a great time with you around. It’s been great to get to know you, yadda yadda.

Mom is sitting there quietly. I tell them that I’m not surprised, I wish it could have turned out differently, I’m also a bit perplexed as to why it didn’t work out, but that it was definitely a great challenge, and there were many obstacles.

Mom eventually made her comment about feeling like she was dragging along another kid sometimes, and that she felt that I just wasn’t working enough. I remember the horror of just having to swallow my response because I needed to keep my eye on the prize, which was my salary. I did urgently recommend to them to get Hellchild tested for dyslexia and ADHD. The mother told me she knew about dyslexia, that Hellchild didn’t have it, and that I shouldn’t get into blaming the kids for this—of course!  I said that they could take ir or leave it, it was their Fam, but that this was my opinion. I didn’t bother to mention Surfer Boy’s problems.

The conversation ended with an argument over salary. They decided that they would pay my February salary only until the last day I gave class, around the 21^st, instead of paying that last week of the month (it was the 23^rd).   This is the point where annoyance becomes incredulity. “Any other job that terminates someone on a day’s notice one week before the end of the month would at least pay out the month—probably more, for severance.”

“Well, this is anything but a normal job,” said Dad. “And we think we’ve been more than generous with you while you were here, and we just don’t feel comfortable paying for work not completed.”

“That’s not the point,” I said. “You’re just cutting this off on a day’s notice. I have to go look for a job. I have to go back and and get an apartment. This seems unreasonable to you?”

“That’s the way it is,” said Mom, looking away.

Mom looked completely disgusted the whole time. I could see how horrible she thought I was for ruining their Brazilian trip. Look at this guy, who benefits from our largesse for 2 months, and now has the gall to complain about an extra week’s salary! After all we’ve done for him! And he didn’t even do his job! Mon dieu, just get me back to Mexico! 

Regretting the fact that the Fam never signed the written contract I drew up back in the day, I gave up and went back to the bungalow to begin my transition. I had to take care of lodgings for the following day, get cash from the bank during Carnaval (which would be impossible), and generally get a hold of myself. And as I wandered around town m=with my head whirling around at top speed, a funny thing happened. I sensed an impending feeling of jubilation building up inside me. I knew that, no matter what, by tomorrow morning these people would leave, and I would stay, liberated; and eventually the money would most likely be paid, because Dad is at least that upstanding (right?); and that at the very least, this most unique gig had allowed me to discover Brazil while skipping a NYC winter, and had introduced me to one of the most extraordinary families one is likely to find, people who I will remember for the rest of my life but not miss one iota.

In the next post, I get to talk about all the fun life w/out the Fam is in Paradise!   Except for when I fall deathly sick.

[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”???