I enjoy making translations of Portuguese songs. This weekend was pretty creative - something about the change in the weather really gives me an inspiration boost - but nothing like tonight, where I managed to put finishing touches on one and create from scratch three other songs, record myself singing them in English on my computer, and then burn a cd. All between 9:30 and 11:45 pm! I'm pretty pleased with myself...knowing of course that I'm no genius and just have to take hold of the Muse when she visits...thanks, God!
Now all that's left is to drop the cd off with the REAL artist and see if she likes them...
People, I LOVE translation! It's the easiest, most enjoyable work I can think of doing...and I'm all pumped because Wednesday and maybe even Thursday I'll be with the Baptists, translating up a storm and having lunch with Tiago and the others...
Whoopee!!!
Monday, July 31, 2006
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Mummy Hand...or Jenna as the object of much ridicule
So my finger is solidly encased in metal and gauze and about half a pound of medical tape. It appears to be waterproof though I haven't experimented. Showering with a plastic bag over one's hand is awkward--I'm glad I found a box of surgical gloves the other day! This also means my kitchen will be cleaner as I can now go back to washing my own dishes with two hands! Though I must say, it's been very nice to have a strong Brazilian man washing my dishes these last few times...the attraction quotient of men in the kitchen is highly underrated....
But back to the finger. It's not broken, but I did such a nice number on it that the prompt care I went to on Thursday immobilized it for me: for U.S. $75 including the x-rays, and not including the amusement of everyone who heard the story, nor the wittiness of the oft-repeated phrase, "How about trying Raid next time?" The doctor tried to get me to use a sling too, but I took it off as soon as I got on the bus to go home. That's overkill.
People laughed openly at me (with me?) in church today. It might have had something to do with singing my solo with my right index finger constantly pointing at something...
The best part of the ordeal isn't the story which is beginning to be less than funny to me as I try to type with nine fingers. It may be that my manicurist will give me a discount. But it probably has to go to the banana bread.
You see, I was out of ice when I smashed my finger, so I pulled out my frozen bananas and went through them one by one to ice down the swelling. And frozen bananas don't re-freeze. Especially black ones. So I took the lot of them and made a to-die for cardamom cherry banana bread that actually tastes like banana bread. No small feat with a gas oven and Rio humidity.
No one wants to eat it though....
But back to the finger. It's not broken, but I did such a nice number on it that the prompt care I went to on Thursday immobilized it for me: for U.S. $75 including the x-rays, and not including the amusement of everyone who heard the story, nor the wittiness of the oft-repeated phrase, "How about trying Raid next time?" The doctor tried to get me to use a sling too, but I took it off as soon as I got on the bus to go home. That's overkill.
People laughed openly at me (with me?) in church today. It might have had something to do with singing my solo with my right index finger constantly pointing at something...
The best part of the ordeal isn't the story which is beginning to be less than funny to me as I try to type with nine fingers. It may be that my manicurist will give me a discount. But it probably has to go to the banana bread.
You see, I was out of ice when I smashed my finger, so I pulled out my frozen bananas and went through them one by one to ice down the swelling. And frozen bananas don't re-freeze. Especially black ones. So I took the lot of them and made a to-die for cardamom cherry banana bread that actually tastes like banana bread. No small feat with a gas oven and Rio humidity.
No one wants to eat it though....
Thursday, July 27, 2006
There are some of us who are born with clumsy genes. I am one of them. Proof are the numerous bruises dotting my body...and my right index finger.
You should see my finger. It’s a good thing that I’ve been training myself to type one-handed...I’m getting pretty good at it too....this wrist arthritis doesn’t always lend itself to happy typing days. But that’s another story.
Last night I had just gotten back from a long day at the Bible club and the streets. I must be in a hormonal mood slump right now, because I was tired and lethargic most of the day, though I did work up enough energy to play a rousing game of soccer with a couple of the boys. I’m terrible at the game, but my height advantage and the length of my legs’ reach added to the sheer size of these feet helps me kick butt against 8 year olds! And I completed a major milestone: retelling a complete story in Portuguese that was not in the present tense and BEING UNDERSTOOD BY CHILDREN! Soon I will be back in the role of storyteller, a title I have long coveted (L.M. Montgomery, anyone? That fabulous non-Anne book with the never told snake story has haunted my imagination to this day...). The heat wave we’re experiencing could have something to do with being down as well, and the sneaking suspicion that perhaps I won’t be able to experience winter for yet another year. I’ve never seen airline prices this high. Oh Christmas, Christmas, Christmas. But I digress...
So I came home pre-streets, washed dishes, made food for myself to eat later, took a nap and then went running out the door with Sudokus in hand to do on the bus. Diabolico should better be named Addictive, because I couldn’t get the rows of numbers out of my head for the rest of the night. It was the same feeling I had when I was a compulsive rock climber: everywhere I went, I saw routes, lines to climb, even on non-climbable things, like the church ceiling and nearly-smooth buildings. When I like something, my mind latches onto it with passion. I think it’s a good thing I never tried drugs. I think I would make an excellent addict!
The streets were more or less normal; had a great conversation with Carlos and Rodrigo about childhood and what Indiana looks like and why I didn’t have horses as a kid. I got home feeling sticky and dirty and really, really tired, so I quick ran to the butcher before they closed. Their case was dripping and I returned home with $1.50 of thin steaks and two meaty water stains on my knees from where I leaned up to talk to the dude. Threw the meat and veggies into the pressure cooker, took a shower, talked to Tiago, ate dinner. And returned to my stupid sudoku. I am minding my own business when the largest cockroach I have ever seen crawls onto my wall. He’s easily the length of my little finger and too far away to feed to the cat. So I climb up on a stool with a trusty Havaiana flip-flop and swat, hard. (I’ve had back track records in killing baratas before so now I go for a messy kill). I miss. And the next thing I know, a stream of unpronounceable words are flowing from my mouth, the cockroach is missing, I am on the floor, screaming, with tears pouring and huge sobs. It wasn’t enough the hand was already arthritic, no. I had to go and bash a swollen joint against a concrete wall with enough force to dent a car. I cried for fifteen minutes straight. Called Tiago, called Nayra the Nurse, and pulled my mom’s clothespin trick, updated for 2006 Brazil. (My dad broke his finger once and she set it with a clothespin. He still looks like he wants to swear when he remembers the story!) First, separating the clothespin with one hand while you’re shaking is difficult. Wrapping it with gold ribbon is a sweet, classy way to stay in style, and keeping the ribbon in place with a large paper clip, well, perhaps it will find it’s way into medical use someday! Today, the finger is grotesquely swollen, with a violet bruise on the underside, all dotted and streaky. If I don’t bend it it doesn’t hurt! Tiago had 45 people praying for me on the bus this morning. That helped too!
Why must I be so clumsy?
Last night I had just gotten back from a long day at the Bible club and the streets. I must be in a hormonal mood slump right now, because I was tired and lethargic most of the day, though I did work up enough energy to play a rousing game of soccer with a couple of the boys. I’m terrible at the game, but my height advantage and the length of my legs’ reach added to the sheer size of these feet helps me kick butt against 8 year olds! And I completed a major milestone: retelling a complete story in Portuguese that was not in the present tense and BEING UNDERSTOOD BY CHILDREN! Soon I will be back in the role of storyteller, a title I have long coveted (L.M. Montgomery, anyone? That fabulous non-Anne book with the never told snake story has haunted my imagination to this day...). The heat wave we’re experiencing could have something to do with being down as well, and the sneaking suspicion that perhaps I won’t be able to experience winter for yet another year. I’ve never seen airline prices this high. Oh Christmas, Christmas, Christmas. But I digress...
So I came home pre-streets, washed dishes, made food for myself to eat later, took a nap and then went running out the door with Sudokus in hand to do on the bus. Diabolico should better be named Addictive, because I couldn’t get the rows of numbers out of my head for the rest of the night. It was the same feeling I had when I was a compulsive rock climber: everywhere I went, I saw routes, lines to climb, even on non-climbable things, like the church ceiling and nearly-smooth buildings. When I like something, my mind latches onto it with passion. I think it’s a good thing I never tried drugs. I think I would make an excellent addict!
The streets were more or less normal; had a great conversation with Carlos and Rodrigo about childhood and what Indiana looks like and why I didn’t have horses as a kid. I got home feeling sticky and dirty and really, really tired, so I quick ran to the butcher before they closed. Their case was dripping and I returned home with $1.50 of thin steaks and two meaty water stains on my knees from where I leaned up to talk to the dude. Threw the meat and veggies into the pressure cooker, took a shower, talked to Tiago, ate dinner. And returned to my stupid sudoku. I am minding my own business when the largest cockroach I have ever seen crawls onto my wall. He’s easily the length of my little finger and too far away to feed to the cat. So I climb up on a stool with a trusty Havaiana flip-flop and swat, hard. (I’ve had back track records in killing baratas before so now I go for a messy kill). I miss. And the next thing I know, a stream of unpronounceable words are flowing from my mouth, the cockroach is missing, I am on the floor, screaming, with tears pouring and huge sobs. It wasn’t enough the hand was already arthritic, no. I had to go and bash a swollen joint against a concrete wall with enough force to dent a car. I cried for fifteen minutes straight. Called Tiago, called Nayra the Nurse, and pulled my mom’s clothespin trick, updated for 2006 Brazil. (My dad broke his finger once and she set it with a clothespin. He still looks like he wants to swear when he remembers the story!) First, separating the clothespin with one hand while you’re shaking is difficult. Wrapping it with gold ribbon is a sweet, classy way to stay in style, and keeping the ribbon in place with a large paper clip, well, perhaps it will find it’s way into medical use someday! Today, the finger is grotesquely swollen, with a violet bruise on the underside, all dotted and streaky. If I don’t bend it it doesn’t hurt! Tiago had 45 people praying for me on the bus this morning. That helped too!
Why must I be so clumsy?
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
On Dumpster Diving...a quasi-essay.
I’ve been a decently avid dumpster diver, particularly in my college years. I find no shame in refurbishing my home with the excellent items that the more wasteful see fit to throw out. But I have always drawn the line at furniture. Clothing I’ll pick up from giveaway boxes and Goodwill specials, but that’s about it. Personal items? Only from people I know. Food? Only from the Olson Hall mirror box, where the chronically anorexic put their delicious offerings before their magic mirror, tempting the other painfully skinny bodies on their way to the gym or class or late-night makeout session. How many boxes of cookies, chocolate bars, brownies and chips have I gained because of their guilt??? And how many times have I passed by a full giveaway in the afternoon only to find it completely empty by madrugada, perhaps falling prey to the same poor soul who put it out, a sort of food hypocrisy? But the sick food habits of co-eds aren’t the subject of this entry...creative ways to eat for free, however, is.
The May issue of Sojourners had a delectable article about the joys of dumpster diving for food. Yes. Food. Not a tribute to the starving homeless, but an apparently middle-class magazine scribe and a like minded band of others who find paying for food too much of a concession to a consumerist, materialistic supersystem.
I understand the thought process. I too, prefer to buy brand name clothing at Goodwill, as it fits both my style, pocketbook, and desire for quality but also my ethics. Shopping second-hand supports smaller businesses, letting me know the money is going into my community, and it gives the consumer the joy of a great bargain, knowing all the while that Abercrombie or The Gap isn’t receiving a penny. Thus I am slightly exonerated of the charges of being complicit in their (probably) shameful business practices.
But. But. I’m not sure that I ever made the connection to extend to dumpster diving. I hate wasting of food. It drives me crazy that at my local deli they frequently throw away the cheese or ham scraps that don’t come out perfect from the slicer. I try to explain to the workers that I don’t really care if the cheese is pretty or not, as it tastes the same square, triangular, or slightly ragged, but they must have other orders. And I make soups out of the food that gets lost in the fridge. (The other day I made a fabulous curried carrot and apple soup...it was like a Souphouse fall evening in a bowl!)
“But why run the risk of harassment, embarassment-and yes, illness-to scavenge food? Reason number one-you get a lot of really, really good food really, really free.” *** His description of sprouted wheat berry loaves, fresh foccacia, lobster bisque, sushi, pounds of smoked salmon, jars of caviar and bags of pastries...well, it is enough to make one’s mouth water. And lest you worry about the safety of such treasures, our Sojourners author declares: “Fortunately, most stores are diligent about dumping food when it reaches its “sell by” date-three hours earlier, they’d have sold it to you. So the only guesswork is in deciding whether or not it has gone bad in the meantime...Dumpstering isn’t for the dainty-that bag of smoked salmon may be hiding under a pile of overripe avocados. But excessive packaging usually keeps the food itself grime-free...”
Grime. Hmm. In Colorado, I once worked at a food pantry distribution center and digging through the donations was a rather unpleasant experience: label-free cans (some wacky legislation requires them to donate canned goods sans descriptions of the contents) that occasionally burst open to reveal peas or soup or unidentifiable canned meats; refrigerator-sized boxes full of almost fresh vegetables. It was the non-fresh ones that made for a sticky night. And at the Missionaries of Charity in Rio de Janeiro, their donated food often must be sorted among the following criteria: use today, store for tomorrow, or wash off your now-slimy hands. Rotten foods have varying bad smells: carrots and potatoes are among the worst, but grapes manage to be some of the nastiest to touch. Give me a box of rotten apples any day!
May 2006 issue of Sojourners, people. Dumpster diving. It's the way of the future!
***Speaking of free food, I’m reminded of my grandmother’s disgust ridden voice as she tells a story about some hippies who ran out of food on their West Virginia commune. Not to be dismayed by a little lack of cash flow, they arrived en masse at the local chain supermarket and hung out by the vegetable stalls. When the water sprayers came on to mist the food, they hung their dreadlocks under the misters and WASHED THEIR HAIR over the vegetables! This, apparently, hadn’t yet been outlawed—who else but commune hippies would do such a thing—and so the supermarket merely expelled them from the store. And threw out the “contaminated” vegetables, which were then gathered from the dumpsters out back and turned into a nice, pagan feast back home. Not that the supermarket cared much about what goes into making fertilizer...or that vegetables are probably exposed to much nastier things than a little hair water...but I for one, was thrilled by their ingenuity. I remembered this story on the bus today and laughed out loud, like a little crazy person...
The May issue of Sojourners had a delectable article about the joys of dumpster diving for food. Yes. Food. Not a tribute to the starving homeless, but an apparently middle-class magazine scribe and a like minded band of others who find paying for food too much of a concession to a consumerist, materialistic supersystem.
I understand the thought process. I too, prefer to buy brand name clothing at Goodwill, as it fits both my style, pocketbook, and desire for quality but also my ethics. Shopping second-hand supports smaller businesses, letting me know the money is going into my community, and it gives the consumer the joy of a great bargain, knowing all the while that Abercrombie or The Gap isn’t receiving a penny. Thus I am slightly exonerated of the charges of being complicit in their (probably) shameful business practices.
But. But. I’m not sure that I ever made the connection to extend to dumpster diving. I hate wasting of food. It drives me crazy that at my local deli they frequently throw away the cheese or ham scraps that don’t come out perfect from the slicer. I try to explain to the workers that I don’t really care if the cheese is pretty or not, as it tastes the same square, triangular, or slightly ragged, but they must have other orders. And I make soups out of the food that gets lost in the fridge. (The other day I made a fabulous curried carrot and apple soup...it was like a Souphouse fall evening in a bowl!)
“But why run the risk of harassment, embarassment-and yes, illness-to scavenge food? Reason number one-you get a lot of really, really good food really, really free.” *** His description of sprouted wheat berry loaves, fresh foccacia, lobster bisque, sushi, pounds of smoked salmon, jars of caviar and bags of pastries...well, it is enough to make one’s mouth water. And lest you worry about the safety of such treasures, our Sojourners author declares: “Fortunately, most stores are diligent about dumping food when it reaches its “sell by” date-three hours earlier, they’d have sold it to you. So the only guesswork is in deciding whether or not it has gone bad in the meantime...Dumpstering isn’t for the dainty-that bag of smoked salmon may be hiding under a pile of overripe avocados. But excessive packaging usually keeps the food itself grime-free...”
Grime. Hmm. In Colorado, I once worked at a food pantry distribution center and digging through the donations was a rather unpleasant experience: label-free cans (some wacky legislation requires them to donate canned goods sans descriptions of the contents) that occasionally burst open to reveal peas or soup or unidentifiable canned meats; refrigerator-sized boxes full of almost fresh vegetables. It was the non-fresh ones that made for a sticky night. And at the Missionaries of Charity in Rio de Janeiro, their donated food often must be sorted among the following criteria: use today, store for tomorrow, or wash off your now-slimy hands. Rotten foods have varying bad smells: carrots and potatoes are among the worst, but grapes manage to be some of the nastiest to touch. Give me a box of rotten apples any day!
May 2006 issue of Sojourners, people. Dumpster diving. It's the way of the future!
***Speaking of free food, I’m reminded of my grandmother’s disgust ridden voice as she tells a story about some hippies who ran out of food on their West Virginia commune. Not to be dismayed by a little lack of cash flow, they arrived en masse at the local chain supermarket and hung out by the vegetable stalls. When the water sprayers came on to mist the food, they hung their dreadlocks under the misters and WASHED THEIR HAIR over the vegetables! This, apparently, hadn’t yet been outlawed—who else but commune hippies would do such a thing—and so the supermarket merely expelled them from the store. And threw out the “contaminated” vegetables, which were then gathered from the dumpsters out back and turned into a nice, pagan feast back home. Not that the supermarket cared much about what goes into making fertilizer...or that vegetables are probably exposed to much nastier things than a little hair water...but I for one, was thrilled by their ingenuity. I remembered this story on the bus today and laughed out loud, like a little crazy person...
Monday, July 24, 2006
An Abbreviated Transcript of My Rage
After three minutes of explaining to the virtual operator that I needed to speak to a real person...
Telemar: I can’t hear you very well...bad connection.
Jenna: That’s because I’m on a cellphone, my only contact with the outside worls, because my phone has been out since the 11th. Yes there was a shootout. I know that, I spent the night sleeping on the floor. But the shootout is irrelevant because my phone started working again two days later and then went dead again. Perhaps it was a miracle? I want someone to come check my line like you’ve been promising me for a week. Are you listening to me??? I know there was gunfire and that it damaged the lines. But my phone WORKED after that, at least for one phone call. No, I can’t hear you. I’m putting the mouthpiece right to my mouth and you’re going to have to listen to everything I want to say to you until I’m finished. Pay attention...what I want is for a Telemar guy to come to my house and check my phone line. Send someone, anyone, in Telemar clothing who even looks like they know something about phones, and I’ll be satisfied.,..
Telemar: Okay, Ms. Jenna...
Jenna: Okay? Okay what? I’ve worked in telemarketing too, and I know that okay is not the same thing as a yes. You tell me exactly what I want to hear or send me to a supervisor, because you’ve been telling me every day that tomorrow is the magical day. Guess what? I don’t want to call you again...but I know I will be. This is ridiculous. You have today, and only today, to fix my phone. After today, I’m taking all the paperwork and names and numbers that I’ve been acquiring in the past week and a half and I’m going to take them to my attorney and we’re going to sue you. And I’ll win. You know why? It’s not just because you’re lying to me each and every day that I call. It’s because in addition to charging me for this month, as you most surely will do, you’re not going to reimburse me for the money I’ve had to shell out in cellphone calls while I wait for my telephone to be fixed, or the money I’m wasting at internet cafés. My business is in my home. Are you willing to pay me for the lost time? I thought not. So just do your jobs and do what you’ve been promising you’ll do ever since the 12th and send someone over here to look at my phone line....What’s that? Your workers aren’t permitted to work in the favela? It’s a risk zone? Well then WHY IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY IS THERE A TELEMAR GUY WALKING PAST MY HOUSE RIGHT THIS SECOND?????
Somehow, I think it was after I shouted at the technician through my window grating to please, please come fix my phone line and insinuated that someone was lying to someone, that they transferred me to Adriana, the Calming Angry Clients Supervisor.
She promised me that someone would come to my house today. And then Erica called me, on my land line and I though, Praise the Lord! And then the phone went dead. Well, at least I can call and complain again. But it’s doing a number on my blood pressure, though the neighbors are finding it highly amusing to see me get all hoity-toity nasty. It doesn’t help matters to curse at the poor operators, (which I don’t do, by the way, having previously been a telemarketer), but threatening to take them to court (which they actually WILL lose) and harassing them until they do their jobs really seems to work. Harassment in this sense isn’t necessarily bad. Big company operators are recorded, so they learn to play verbal games with people, never really promising anything, trying to placate you before you realize that they haven’t done anything about the situation and are not planning on doing anything either. I’m getting good at the games too, though. Poor Telemar operators. At the end of each exchange, I wish them a good day and offer my hope that they won’t encounter any more clients such as myself. But with their track record, that’s a pipe dream!
(That was Thursday. Today, Monday, I got to speak to Adriana again...and now have my technician's cell phone number. The phone worked long enough for my mother to call internationally and be assured that I'm alive and safe. Then it went dead again. I guess I should be happy with small miracles...)
Telemar: I can’t hear you very well...bad connection.
Jenna: That’s because I’m on a cellphone, my only contact with the outside worls, because my phone has been out since the 11th. Yes there was a shootout. I know that, I spent the night sleeping on the floor. But the shootout is irrelevant because my phone started working again two days later and then went dead again. Perhaps it was a miracle? I want someone to come check my line like you’ve been promising me for a week. Are you listening to me??? I know there was gunfire and that it damaged the lines. But my phone WORKED after that, at least for one phone call. No, I can’t hear you. I’m putting the mouthpiece right to my mouth and you’re going to have to listen to everything I want to say to you until I’m finished. Pay attention...what I want is for a Telemar guy to come to my house and check my phone line. Send someone, anyone, in Telemar clothing who even looks like they know something about phones, and I’ll be satisfied.,..
Telemar: Okay, Ms. Jenna...
Jenna: Okay? Okay what? I’ve worked in telemarketing too, and I know that okay is not the same thing as a yes. You tell me exactly what I want to hear or send me to a supervisor, because you’ve been telling me every day that tomorrow is the magical day. Guess what? I don’t want to call you again...but I know I will be. This is ridiculous. You have today, and only today, to fix my phone. After today, I’m taking all the paperwork and names and numbers that I’ve been acquiring in the past week and a half and I’m going to take them to my attorney and we’re going to sue you. And I’ll win. You know why? It’s not just because you’re lying to me each and every day that I call. It’s because in addition to charging me for this month, as you most surely will do, you’re not going to reimburse me for the money I’ve had to shell out in cellphone calls while I wait for my telephone to be fixed, or the money I’m wasting at internet cafés. My business is in my home. Are you willing to pay me for the lost time? I thought not. So just do your jobs and do what you’ve been promising you’ll do ever since the 12th and send someone over here to look at my phone line....What’s that? Your workers aren’t permitted to work in the favela? It’s a risk zone? Well then WHY IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY IS THERE A TELEMAR GUY WALKING PAST MY HOUSE RIGHT THIS SECOND?????
Somehow, I think it was after I shouted at the technician through my window grating to please, please come fix my phone line and insinuated that someone was lying to someone, that they transferred me to Adriana, the Calming Angry Clients Supervisor.
She promised me that someone would come to my house today. And then Erica called me, on my land line and I though, Praise the Lord! And then the phone went dead. Well, at least I can call and complain again. But it’s doing a number on my blood pressure, though the neighbors are finding it highly amusing to see me get all hoity-toity nasty. It doesn’t help matters to curse at the poor operators, (which I don’t do, by the way, having previously been a telemarketer), but threatening to take them to court (which they actually WILL lose) and harassing them until they do their jobs really seems to work. Harassment in this sense isn’t necessarily bad. Big company operators are recorded, so they learn to play verbal games with people, never really promising anything, trying to placate you before you realize that they haven’t done anything about the situation and are not planning on doing anything either. I’m getting good at the games too, though. Poor Telemar operators. At the end of each exchange, I wish them a good day and offer my hope that they won’t encounter any more clients such as myself. But with their track record, that’s a pipe dream!
(That was Thursday. Today, Monday, I got to speak to Adriana again...and now have my technician's cell phone number. The phone worked long enough for my mother to call internationally and be assured that I'm alive and safe. Then it went dead again. I guess I should be happy with small miracles...)
Thursday, July 20, 2006
24 hours
is the consistent response I'm getting from Telemar, the useless telephone company that supplies a dead line to my house.
That's why you're not hearing much from me.
They promise me tomorrow will be the magical day, but they've been doing that for a week. Pretty soon now, I'm going to get to discover what class action suits in Brazil are like! (Just kidding...though I might be entering into the Justiça if it's true that they're padding the bills. My phone bills seemed awfully high these last few months...)
So if you don't hear from me for a few more days, it's because of Telemar. If you're in Brazil, feel free to call them for me. Their number is 10331!
That's why you're not hearing much from me.
They promise me tomorrow will be the magical day, but they've been doing that for a week. Pretty soon now, I'm going to get to discover what class action suits in Brazil are like! (Just kidding...though I might be entering into the Justiça if it's true that they're padding the bills. My phone bills seemed awfully high these last few months...)
So if you don't hear from me for a few more days, it's because of Telemar. If you're in Brazil, feel free to call them for me. Their number is 10331!
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Somehow, I forgot
to mention that the botijão finally quit. It was the day I went to help out translating with Tiago...and had to be up at five am to get ready to catch a bus at 6 am, which is, by my standards, an ungodly hour to wake.
It was another night of loud shooting and waking up and not sleeping and I finally said to myself, "Jenna, this is stupid. Sleeping on the floor isn't working, your stomach is growling a mile a minute...and you'd be better off just getting up now anyhow." My nerves were shot and I was worried that I would oversleep and miss my cool date with Tiago. So I thought: fried eggs. Yummy, easy, breakfast food at 4:23 am. I got about twenty four seconds of gas before the canister quit. A half-lick of blue flame and then nothing.
And of course, I don't have another one in the house because I don't know how to change the gas.
So not only was I without eggs, I was without coffee, hot chocolate, or toast. I don't own a microwave or a hot pot.
Grr.
Thankfully, they served breakfast at the mission when we got there...and the day was not only wonderful, but for the two and a half or three hours of sleep that I did get, I felt like I'd had twelve! That was the day I translated for the dentists and assisted in the pulling of eleven or so teeth...there's a reason why I didn't go into the medical field...
It was another night of loud shooting and waking up and not sleeping and I finally said to myself, "Jenna, this is stupid. Sleeping on the floor isn't working, your stomach is growling a mile a minute...and you'd be better off just getting up now anyhow." My nerves were shot and I was worried that I would oversleep and miss my cool date with Tiago. So I thought: fried eggs. Yummy, easy, breakfast food at 4:23 am. I got about twenty four seconds of gas before the canister quit. A half-lick of blue flame and then nothing.
And of course, I don't have another one in the house because I don't know how to change the gas.
So not only was I without eggs, I was without coffee, hot chocolate, or toast. I don't own a microwave or a hot pot.
Grr.
Thankfully, they served breakfast at the mission when we got there...and the day was not only wonderful, but for the two and a half or three hours of sleep that I did get, I felt like I'd had twelve! That was the day I translated for the dentists and assisted in the pulling of eleven or so teeth...there's a reason why I didn't go into the medical field...
On the beach, they sell
these bags of cookie cracker things that come in two flavors: salty or sweet. Light as air, they're a bit like packing peanuts, only round and with a slight taste of either salt or sugar. Mildly disgusting, but you get used to them. "Biscoito Globo" are what they're called.
So on Saturday, at the beach, this man comes wandering down towards us, selling these biscuits. In his sixties, if not older, he shuffled along with a gritty, weary voice mumbling, "Oh biscoito Globo, salgado, doce, do'rei..." One arm was raised over his head and he shielded his face from the sun with a Bible...and he kicked his way through the sand in a full black suit: jacket, tie, and pants, with black leather closed-toe shoes and a permanent scowl.
I place my bets he was with the Assemblies of God. I felt so sorry for him, I bought a bag of the stupid things, even though they are useless to eat...
So on Saturday, at the beach, this man comes wandering down towards us, selling these biscuits. In his sixties, if not older, he shuffled along with a gritty, weary voice mumbling, "Oh biscoito Globo, salgado, doce, do'rei..." One arm was raised over his head and he shielded his face from the sun with a Bible...and he kicked his way through the sand in a full black suit: jacket, tie, and pants, with black leather closed-toe shoes and a permanent scowl.
I place my bets he was with the Assemblies of God. I felt so sorry for him, I bought a bag of the stupid things, even though they are useless to eat...
Monday, July 10, 2006
storytelling
This passeio (field trip) with the Projeto Vidinha kids had been in the plans for a while. I'd invited Tiago, as he's on vacation these two weeks, to come along as an extra volunteer. The day started off with a phone call. And then another. All in all, Dandy called me five or six times before 1 pm! First it was to confirm that I was coming. Then it was to remind me about something. Then it was, "Julia (her daughter) is in the hospital with appendicitis..." and "you and Tiago are the only adults going!" That's right. The American, the Brazilian visitor, and a teenager, in charge of eleven wired kids on an air conditioned bus heading to downtown Rio. Well, of course, they're only half expecting us, which means that once we find the right door in this huge bank building with at least three entrances, we still have to wait in the lobby for another fifteen minutes as the actors get ready and they find the people who are supposed to show us around. This means lots of kicking, punching, wriggling, and general ADD behavior from each of the identically dressed boys, tattling and preening from the girls, and lots of threats from me. Good thing Tiago knows how to keep order...he disappeared halfway through our wait and I thought, "here it is...scared him off for good!" So I'm running my fingers through my hair and remembering how much he's mentioned how he dislikes wild children and trying to figure out how I'm going to handle them all by my lonesome...when he appears out of nowhere with a sack full of candy to distribute as a nice bribe for silence. He may attempt gruffness and grumpiness, but the man's got a heart of gold! The play was fabulous, a bit of music and banter thrown in with first-class storytelling. I loved it as much as the kids did, and was disappointed that it only lasted an hour.
Ben's back in Rio, so the three of us went out to eat at the outdoor "street" cafe area in the Nova America mall. It's all cobblestones and soft lighting and there was even live music playing...definitely not your typical food court. I ate so much pizza that I feel slightly off-balance. Lost count of the slices. Uck. Tomorrow I eat things that are good for me!
I guess here's as good of a time as any to mention that Tiago and I have moved from just dating to namorado/namorada! And that's enough for tonight, because at this hour, and with the full moon, I could wax quite sappy. I'll spare you that!
Ben's back in Rio, so the three of us went out to eat at the outdoor "street" cafe area in the Nova America mall. It's all cobblestones and soft lighting and there was even live music playing...definitely not your typical food court. I ate so much pizza that I feel slightly off-balance. Lost count of the slices. Uck. Tomorrow I eat things that are good for me!
I guess here's as good of a time as any to mention that Tiago and I have moved from just dating to namorado/namorada! And that's enough for tonight, because at this hour, and with the full moon, I could wax quite sappy. I'll spare you that!
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Fourth of July
Celebrations in Brazil by the lone WMF staff member included:
-cleaning a home in Jacarezinho of one very wet and four dried clumps of dog droppings and a copious amount of bright orange, toxic-waste smelling urine. Thanks, whoever left the portão open. And I hate the neighbors' dogs.
-my ATM card not working, the cd to print the documents I needed to deliver today not working...
-an unexpected almost-two-hour meeting where the aforementioned documents would have been nice
-eating Italian food with Tiago and then watching "Cars" dubbed over in Portuguese. I love digital animation!
-receiving a canister of peanut butter from the previously mentioned translator dude. This man knows the way to a woman's heart...
And I think I will celebrate some more with a nice early bedtime!
One more day of working and then I'm off for a couple of days of vacation! Sweet bliss!
-cleaning a home in Jacarezinho of one very wet and four dried clumps of dog droppings and a copious amount of bright orange, toxic-waste smelling urine. Thanks, whoever left the portão open. And I hate the neighbors' dogs.
-my ATM card not working, the cd to print the documents I needed to deliver today not working...
-an unexpected almost-two-hour meeting where the aforementioned documents would have been nice
-eating Italian food with Tiago and then watching "Cars" dubbed over in Portuguese. I love digital animation!
-receiving a canister of peanut butter from the previously mentioned translator dude. This man knows the way to a woman's heart...
And I think I will celebrate some more with a nice early bedtime!
One more day of working and then I'm off for a couple of days of vacation! Sweet bliss!
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