all kinds of days

Today is one of those perfect days. Warm in the sun but cool in the shade. Clear skies. A breeze. It's the kind of day that obligates you to be happy. All else, any other trivial problem, pales in comparison to the beauty of this kind of day.

I'm finally real!

Last week was a good week. Fernando picked me up from work and said we were going out to dinner because he had something to tell me. Knowing him, I figured it must be some kind of game, whatever supposed secret or news just a means of having a worthy excuse to go out to a nice dinner together. We ordered a bottle of wine and Fernando pulled a folded piece of paper out of his chest pocket. I took it and unfolded it gently in two strokes, holding my breath. It was a full page of type. Teeny, tiny fine print. Amongst the rows and rows of small lettering, my name, highlighted, followed by a number. As my dear friend Jess said upon hearing the news, I am officially, as of September 30th, official! Among the things I am now entitled to as a Permanent Resident of Brazil: having a bank account, traveling freely in and out of the country, working, buying land. All in all, not being a total ghost, but instead a legally recognized individual. My eyes welled over with sweet relief after nearly a year in waiting. I can certainly toast to that.

Sunday was election day. In this part of the country, most had hoped for a different outcome. The huge majority here in Sao Paulo had been holding their breath that the tides would change. It was interesting, as an American, to watch an election where every vote counts... It makes the results all the more striking. The tightest race since 1989, Dilma won by a majority of 1.64%, or 3,459,963 votes, in a country with a population of 200 million. Now, to put this in real perspective: 5,219,787 people voted NULL. They could have swayed the whole election! A record 30,137,479 people abstained from the vote this year, despite the obligation, in protest of both candidates.

In São Paulo state, the capital of which (Sao Paulo city) accounts for the largest chunk (20%) of the country's total GDP, 10% of the country's total population, and also employs more people than any other locale in the country, Aécio took 64.3% of the vote. 

On the other hand, the 40% of Brazilians across the country whose households (not individuals, entire households, people!) bring in under $700 a month (!!!), voted overwhelmingly for Dilma.

Don't we have the same two sides in America? It's the ultimate question of modern economics. Trickle down or bottom up? I feel torn. But one thing I know for sure is this: Brazil isn't doing well, not even here in the economic center. We feel it daily when we buy food at the supermarket or ride congested buses and trains. The stark inequality here makes me feel for that 40%. But what they need are jobs. Good jobs, well-paying jobs. They need a decent, public education in order to get those jobs. The economy needs to grow. Cities around the country must become more attractive for businesses and educated job-seekers. Life in general needs to become more affordable. Transportation networks need to be fixed, improved, or put in place altogether. I may not have a say in their elections, but I nonetheless want the best for my adopted country. I want to see Brazil wield its massive potential.

The Dramamine Effect.

Eros on drugs (just dramamine!), asleep on my shoulder.

We heard the news of who won while on the road, driving home from Floripa. We stopped to get gas and to glance at the TV. I've never been on the road during a presidential election in America, but I just can't imagine road trippers and truckers and gas pump attendants crowded around a rest stop TV to hear the results.

Sampa is overtaken this week by disappointment and fear of what the next 4 years will look like, and those wanting to jump ship, Fernando and I included. In a time when you have access to the entire world, be it by the internet or air travel, the "grass is greener" syndrome is viral. (And especially acute in a developing country.) We discuss almost daily where we might have a higher quality of life--Brazil or the States. The jury is still out. But on a perfect sunny, breezy day such as this, it's hard to picture us waking up happier anywhere else. Ok, maybe jusssst if I could see the ocean from my bedroom window...

belated first thoughts

well, september 20th was my 2 year anniversary of living here in são paulo. 2 years, and not one word posted about it. until now, that is.

i can't claim i've had "writer's block." my mind is always teeming with things to put down in writing, things to say. i think, truthfully, i've been a little lost. i am being reborn here, and i suppose that only now, after two years, have i become a toddler of my new self, who is just learning how to speak.

it's been a fierce and swift two years. in short: i arrived, i confirmed my love and desire for fernando, i got a job, we began to make a life together, "i" became "we"--officially, we've tried to explore as much as possible within our driving radius, we've visited "home" (my home, the big apple, that is) just a few times, many of my dearest friends and none of my family have visited us, we got a dog--a tirelessly spirited honey-colored furry fellow whom we call eros, i struggle to relate to fernando's two teenage daughters, we cook and eat and drink and just generally soak up every ounce of felicity available to us as we try to envisage where we are headed in this one shot at existence that we each get. ya know, basically just like everyone else.

it's hard, though. são paulo is hard. the joke is, paulistanos work as hard as americans. haha. (only those of you who live or have lived here and there will get that.) i left the rat race... yep, for another, less state-of-the-art rat race. for now, anyway. são paulo is a city of the first degree. it is colossal. it is bustling. it bears the weight of the country's economy on its shoulders. it is dirty, and congested, and full of all the various feathers of humanity. within it too, are a myriad of restaurants, bars, museums, galleries, and theatres to fill your heart to its cultural content. without it, an hour and half (yes, it takes that long to escape sampa's folds) in any direction from the center: green. green of all shades. green that ascends then cascades, that stretches out flat, and rolls, and, ultimately, fades into blue.

all this to say...it's been as prodigious as it has been jarring. living here has made me more sure of my choices and less sure of myself than any other experience of my life. i'll have to explain that better later, for now i just wanted to reintroduce myself. brazil is stunning--in all the positive and negative senses of the word. it takes my breath away at least once daily. now that i've broken my silence, i will let you in on that awakening, little piece by little piece.

so, to myself, happy two years! and to all ye fellow wanderers, rolling stones, and nomads, cheers to the perpetual rebirth of all those who find themselves over and over again in new surroundings. 

back with more soon...

-lauren indiana

me, at the edge of my world. {ubatuba, brazil}

flora & fauna of the concrete jungle

excerpted from one of the greatest books about the big apple that i know of, colson whitehead's the colossus of new york:

"I'm here because I was born here and thus ruined for anywhere else, but I don't know about you. Maybe you're from here, too, and sooner or later it will come out that we used to live a block away from each other and didn't even know it. Or maybe you moved here a couple years ago for a job. Maybe you came here for school. Maybe you saw the brochure...

No matter how long you have been here, you are a New Yorker the first time you say, That used to be Munsey's, or That used to be the Tic Toc Lounge. That before the internet cafe plugged itself in, you got your shoes resoled in the mom-and-pop operation that used to be there. You are a New Yorker when what was there before is more real and solid than what is here now.You start building your private New York the first time you lay eyes on it....

Our streets are calendars containing who we were and who we will be next. We see ourselves in this city every day when we walk down the sidewalk and catch our reflections in store windows, seek ourselves in this city each time we reminisce about what was there fifteen, ten, forty years ago, because all our old places are proof that we were here. One day the city we built will be gone, and when it goes, we go. When the buildings fall, we topple, too.

Maybe we become New Yorkers the day we realize that New York will go on without us. To put off the inevitable, we try to fix the city in place, remember it as it was, doing to the city what we would never allow to be done to ourselves. The kid on the uptown No. 1 train, the new arrival stepping out of Grand Central, the jerk at the intersection who doesn't know east from west: those people don't exist anymore, ceased to be a couple of apartments ago, and we wouldn't have it any other way. New York City does not hold our former selves against us. Perhaps we can extend the same courtesy."

the pictures that follow are pieces of my NY. not to hold it against itself, but to remember what I once knew so well. i've said goodbye for now, the way you tuck a child into bed: rest, close your eyes, but go on breathing, living, even while you sleep be active in your dreams, and tomorrow i will see you, the same two souls in a different moment.

city bird

beauty thrives

chain link

the carpet beneath my feet

by the river's side

fallen leaves

cause to reflect

crystal orbs

walk

fresh

in the shadows of the bright lights

jungle town

  

femme

the red balloons

occupy all streets

man in blue

graff scape

shelter me 

= ?

no time for sleep

straight chillin

river front sun set

halt

shapes

classic

NOLA

in a moment of personal crisis in january of 2010, i did what i do best... i went away... escaped, traveled, journeyed. i went to new orleans, and let my soul feed on that. i ate of its fruits, listened to its music, and regenerated pieces of myself that had been lost over time. some images, one year later:

empty spaces can be heavy with meaning... in physical space and the spaces of our hearts

quality time w the bro-han. being around loved ones heals most everything.

coffee and beignets e'rryday!

this sandwich speaks for itself.  #muffuletta

it's amazing how many years of my life i spent calling it barg's instead of barq's.

#truethat

goodnight moon.

starting anew

i couldn't bear to carry the hurt around anymore. in the glare of the truth, i saw that you had your chest cut open, nothing to protect your heart--intense and beautiful, more so than mine. that i could not match you hurt me most. so for this, i begged forgiveness. not from you, but from the sun, who gives me newness every day. i tried to replace some of our old stories with newer ones, ones that were real and true, unlike the memories we polished to a golden and perfect shine with the time we put between them and us. but when i took them down from the shelves of the past to put new ones in their place, they all begin to tarnish, and the new ones became harder to make amidst the dirt and rust of the old. i still don't know if it is better to see them as they are, or as we like to remember them--flawless and unparalleled? either way, on this day, i sat at brighton beach and laid them all out before us, our shoulders unusually warm in the october sun. with my toes in the sand i eased them all closer to the sea, willing the waves to lap them away. i asked poseidon to bury the marks of our feet and lay empty stretches in our paths.

the sun rises and falls. the tide comes in and out. waves ebb and flow. love comes and goes. travels begin and end. chapters of our lives are written and then stashed away. all the time we are given chances to begin anew. in the new york autumn sun i asked for forgiveness. tomorrow, i offered, i will try to be better. 

a fairytale ending

in the dark ocean of the night, the moon stands, a lone fisherman.
the waters around him thick with their stillness.
his moonlight net cast out to gather the whole night,
to contain it,
but it cannot be done.
the secrets it knows, infinite.
its bounds, shifty.
what lies at the edge of the darkness?
beyond the fisherman's net?
a vastness incomprehensible to even the fisherman himself,
who is blind to all without his net.
but this is the justification for breath,
that we are small.
that the moon's bright and glowing web, too, is small.
and then, just as you begin to feel that you might know the night,
that you watched the fisherman as an apprentice would his master and may be wiser,
the night is stolen by the light.
the fisherman's net comes up empty and you are left with your questions.
the fisherman leaves slowly, betraying nothing, neither regret nor hope.
his departure swollen with some age-old story that only he and the night know.
the sole certain thing is that the two will meet again,
like old friends for whom the joke never gets old and the competition never wears.
and you will chance upon them as they share secrets and stories,
and you will try to understand their youthfulness when every meeting is the same--
the fisherman always drawing in his barren net,
as if the peace he finds is in the act of casting it out instead of in success.
there is comfort in its emptiness,
as if it proves the night's secrets to be true.
and so,
he will always test his friend's honesty--
to keep the balance,
and the bet even,
and all the rest in suspense over the curiosity of the vastness,
and the moments between the fisherman and his sea.

yogya

magnificent yogya. what can be said? just that it is as alive as any city, brimming with personality. i'll let the photos say more than i can...