It's a given that diet plays a role in auto-immune diseases. Patients, like myself, will tell you that nothing feels better than a few days of fasting. Except for the fasting itself, which is excruciatingly difficult. And of course, as soon as the food comes back in, so does the pain.
There's got to be a way to eat and yet beat this thing. One journal had a promising article that I came across at about the same time that an acquaintance with RA asked me if I'd tried the raw food diet.
That's kind of a silly question.
Of COURSE not! Why would I give up cooking, unless I was stranded on a desert island with no way to use my Girl Scout fire badge training? Raw food is exactly what you think it is. Not heat processed in any way. Which requires a lot of creativity, at the very least.
But I decided to give it a go this week. Monday, with the exception of a banana chip (fried) and some toasted almonds (raw almonds??? no way!) I made it all raw. I avoided the office crackers with a superhuman strength. I said "no!" to wheat products, sugar, and coffee. Oh. Coffee.
And I felt great. A bounce in my step and all! Tuesday, however, I was hounded by the carbohydrate addiction and finally gave in to crackers and peanut butter in the evening, leading to Reeses Pieces by bedtime. What is it they say about gateway drugs?
My experience is that I have no success with "cold-turkey" methods. I'll have to work some of these things in little by little, until I find a rhythm and a diet that works well for me. But here's one of the recipes that is staying in my cupboard, especially for those hot Rio nights:
Cold Mexican Soup
1/4 onion, minced
small handful of cilantro, minced
1 large lime, juiced
1-2 tomatoes, minced
1 clove garlic, smashed and minced
salt and cayenne to taste
avocado, pepper slices, etc...
Mix the lime juice with the minced vegetables and let sit for 20 minutes to overnight. Serve with avocado slices and call this soup instead of salsa. Now you have an excuse to eat it right out of the bowl!
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
A homework assignment for my readers
I'm starting to find some extra hours to write, which is really exciting. It might mean even fewer blog posts, though, as I'm trying to put stories together for a book, rather than little isolated incidents and thoughts like this blog has become. But, for now, I'm going to try to encourage you to become more active participants and help me out! What follows is the beginning of a story that I've been working on. I'd love to hear your thoughts and criticisms. Just post them in the comments section of the blog...
Pablo, on a good day, would probably be able to tell you that he’s 14 years old, that he’s got 6 brothers and sisters and his mom is raising them with stepfather number two (or three—he can’t really remember). Someone who knows how to ask the right questions, preferably accompanied by a burger and fries, would be able to elicit responses about his education level (just past second grade but he can’t really read), his interests (funk music), and how long he’s been addicted to crack (just over a year). The problem is, Pablo doesn’t have too many good days. And no one has ever bothered to ask him those questions. Usually, he’s just one of the many children that scatter the sidewalks of Rio de Janeiro with their limbs splayed in the sun, passed out from a night of drug use. Homeless, he only returns to his mother’s place from time to time, where if he can withstand the beating and the tongue lashing, he’ll eat everything in sight, sleep for two straight days, and then hightail it back to the streets, where he makes money for drugs by doing odd jobs, stealing, and washing car windows. Very few people know his name. His days are spent in utter inertia.
Yesterday, for example, Pablo decided to sleep near a telephone booth. It was a miserable, wet night. He couldn’t find shelter and was too tired to bother looking, so he slept with his head under the little protection the booth offered and let the rain soak into his clothes. They needed a good washing, one way or another. The telephone booth, located on a main thoroughfare that gets pretty crowded during the morning rush hour, also happens to be at a bus stop. Pablo didn’t wake up until nearly 4pm the next day, even though the sun and the summer heat were scorching. In spite of his unconscious state, Pablo managed to make a lot of people uncomfortable. Fifty-two people, to be exact, plus the uncounted commuters who were briefly moved by the sight of his skinny legs sticking out at such an uncomfortable angle.
The first to be disturbed by Pablo’s presence is the street sweeper, who, tired of these little street punks who throw trash all over the street in their attempt to find recyclable materials, gives him a vindictive jab with his push broom. Pablo is unresponsive, but the street sweeper immediately feels terrible and inflicts upon himself a dozen “Ave Marias” as penance.
Little Granny A-, out early to catch a bus for her appointment at the public hospital, and anxious to avoid the crowds, tiptoes nervously around Pablo’s body. She is sure he’s alive, but goodness, where are families these days? That poor, poor child. Asleep on the sidewalk. She opens a worn pocketbook and pads through wads of faded papers and identity documents until she finds a few coins, which she puts into Pablo’s open hand. She gets on her bus and notices a nice looking man looking down at Pablo. Maybe he’ll take the boy to get some help. She smiles, pats her handbag with pleasure, and settles back for a long trip.
The man standing over Pablo is Marcio, unemployed and feeding a slight habit of his own, who is briefly considering taking the coins from Pablo's palm. After all, isn’t that actually contributing to the delinquency of a minor, leaving money for them when everyone knows they’re just going to use it to buy drugs? He refrains, though, because of the growing crowd of people waiting for their buses.
The crowd of bus-waiters is comprised of 11 people at 7:45 am: Marcio, a young couple out apartment hunting, 3 cashiers, 2 students, a dentist, a bricklayer and one very pretty girl with a baby in tow. The women all look with pity and fear at Pablo, his dirty shorts and rumpled hair, the thin line of dried saliva that appears at the corner of his mouth to his chin. The men grip their newspapers, pretending not to notice, but all of them stand in direct sun so that their shadows fall on his little body. Coincidence?
By 8:15, the number of passerby is up to twenty-six, and no one but the street sweeper and Granny A have actually touched little Pablo. Most people are keeping a respectful distance, with perhaps a sneer of disgust disguised as an aversion to the sun. If they are wearing sunglasses, they sneak surreptitious glances his way, marveling at the deep cracks in his heels (made from months of walking the streets without sandals), the way he is sleeping with his head cranked to one side and his arms flailed out, twisted like a broken toy.
Pablo, on a good day, would probably be able to tell you that he’s 14 years old, that he’s got 6 brothers and sisters and his mom is raising them with stepfather number two (or three—he can’t really remember). Someone who knows how to ask the right questions, preferably accompanied by a burger and fries, would be able to elicit responses about his education level (just past second grade but he can’t really read), his interests (funk music), and how long he’s been addicted to crack (just over a year). The problem is, Pablo doesn’t have too many good days. And no one has ever bothered to ask him those questions. Usually, he’s just one of the many children that scatter the sidewalks of Rio de Janeiro with their limbs splayed in the sun, passed out from a night of drug use. Homeless, he only returns to his mother’s place from time to time, where if he can withstand the beating and the tongue lashing, he’ll eat everything in sight, sleep for two straight days, and then hightail it back to the streets, where he makes money for drugs by doing odd jobs, stealing, and washing car windows. Very few people know his name. His days are spent in utter inertia.
Yesterday, for example, Pablo decided to sleep near a telephone booth. It was a miserable, wet night. He couldn’t find shelter and was too tired to bother looking, so he slept with his head under the little protection the booth offered and let the rain soak into his clothes. They needed a good washing, one way or another. The telephone booth, located on a main thoroughfare that gets pretty crowded during the morning rush hour, also happens to be at a bus stop. Pablo didn’t wake up until nearly 4pm the next day, even though the sun and the summer heat were scorching. In spite of his unconscious state, Pablo managed to make a lot of people uncomfortable. Fifty-two people, to be exact, plus the uncounted commuters who were briefly moved by the sight of his skinny legs sticking out at such an uncomfortable angle.
The first to be disturbed by Pablo’s presence is the street sweeper, who, tired of these little street punks who throw trash all over the street in their attempt to find recyclable materials, gives him a vindictive jab with his push broom. Pablo is unresponsive, but the street sweeper immediately feels terrible and inflicts upon himself a dozen “Ave Marias” as penance.
Little Granny A-, out early to catch a bus for her appointment at the public hospital, and anxious to avoid the crowds, tiptoes nervously around Pablo’s body. She is sure he’s alive, but goodness, where are families these days? That poor, poor child. Asleep on the sidewalk. She opens a worn pocketbook and pads through wads of faded papers and identity documents until she finds a few coins, which she puts into Pablo’s open hand. She gets on her bus and notices a nice looking man looking down at Pablo. Maybe he’ll take the boy to get some help. She smiles, pats her handbag with pleasure, and settles back for a long trip.
The man standing over Pablo is Marcio, unemployed and feeding a slight habit of his own, who is briefly considering taking the coins from Pablo's palm. After all, isn’t that actually contributing to the delinquency of a minor, leaving money for them when everyone knows they’re just going to use it to buy drugs? He refrains, though, because of the growing crowd of people waiting for their buses.
The crowd of bus-waiters is comprised of 11 people at 7:45 am: Marcio, a young couple out apartment hunting, 3 cashiers, 2 students, a dentist, a bricklayer and one very pretty girl with a baby in tow. The women all look with pity and fear at Pablo, his dirty shorts and rumpled hair, the thin line of dried saliva that appears at the corner of his mouth to his chin. The men grip their newspapers, pretending not to notice, but all of them stand in direct sun so that their shadows fall on his little body. Coincidence?
By 8:15, the number of passerby is up to twenty-six, and no one but the street sweeper and Granny A have actually touched little Pablo. Most people are keeping a respectful distance, with perhaps a sneer of disgust disguised as an aversion to the sun. If they are wearing sunglasses, they sneak surreptitious glances his way, marveling at the deep cracks in his heels (made from months of walking the streets without sandals), the way he is sleeping with his head cranked to one side and his arms flailed out, twisted like a broken toy.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Down the alley...
Sioux lives in a house made of wooden planks and assorted bits of rusty things that don't seem to hold up well against the Brazilian humidity. It's a bit like the Doctor's TARDIS: it's bigger inside than it looks from the outside. There's room for a fridge and a stove, the requisite television, a bathroom where the shower almost rains directly into the toilet, and a bed, on which tottering stacks of foam mattresses are piled. These mattresses line the floor at night, providing beds for Sioux's sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts and any other assorted bodies that might need a place to stay. It takes a lot of sheets to cover the beds during the cooler winter nights. The place is cramped and the children mostly play in the street during the day, making mud pies, playing dolls and avoiding with terrified screams the horses and pigs that occasionally take a stroll down the alley.
Sioux's home now includes bloodstains and a few holes in the floor, after last week's police invasion. With the help of the helicopter coverage, they recovered a few stolen cars, some 30 odd stolen motorcycles, pounds and pounds of pot and crack, and racked up some more statistics on police killings in Rio de Janeiro. Including three who had the bad luck to try to hide in Sioux's home. The police followed them in. There was nowhere to go. They ordered the children out. And then they used the sheets as body bags.
The children still play in the street, terrified of helicopters, horses, running men. Sioux stamps her chubby little feet, worried about how her mother is going to tuck them into bed at night, now that their sheets are gone, buried or tossed like garbage, like the bodies they held. I tell her story and wonder how it is that we have gotten used to this.
Sioux's home now includes bloodstains and a few holes in the floor, after last week's police invasion. With the help of the helicopter coverage, they recovered a few stolen cars, some 30 odd stolen motorcycles, pounds and pounds of pot and crack, and racked up some more statistics on police killings in Rio de Janeiro. Including three who had the bad luck to try to hide in Sioux's home. The police followed them in. There was nowhere to go. They ordered the children out. And then they used the sheets as body bags.
The children still play in the street, terrified of helicopters, horses, running men. Sioux stamps her chubby little feet, worried about how her mother is going to tuck them into bed at night, now that their sheets are gone, buried or tossed like garbage, like the bodies they held. I tell her story and wonder how it is that we have gotten used to this.
Random Daily Occurrence
I’m wearing a long yellow dress, which stands out on the dusty road leading from the subway stop to Manguinhos. I come up with a stupid children’s song to keep myself busy as I avoid the potholes and dust and dog feces:
Three little crackheads lying on the street/splayed out arms and crumpled legs/frying on the concrete…
A police car stops twice, but they say nothing to me and I ignore them. Maybe they’re just having problems with their brakes? When I cross the street, I have to walk through their impromptu frisking station. One has his machine gun trained on a sleeping crackhead. He must be quite dangerous, drooling on the ground. But no one so much as blinks an eye at me. I guess I’m invisible!
On my way home, I wait at the bus stop for an interminable length of time, as every bus but the one I need passes by. Typical. I shake my bag, trying to find the change necessary for the bus fare, when a skinny guy with a handful of coins walks up. It’s your typical generic, “Don’t you want to give me twenty-five cents or so?” begging routine. I laugh.
“Dude, I’m shaking my bag here trying to find the last ten centavos I need for the bus!”
He breaks into a big grin. “Oh, you need money? I can give you ten centavos!” And he flips a bronze-colored coin between his thumb and forefinger. I declined, politely, as I heard the change clanging around, and he wandered away, looking for someone else to help him out. Or help out. Because anyone who has to pay with change for the bus is apparently in need of a helping hand...
Three little crackheads lying on the street/splayed out arms and crumpled legs/frying on the concrete…
A police car stops twice, but they say nothing to me and I ignore them. Maybe they’re just having problems with their brakes? When I cross the street, I have to walk through their impromptu frisking station. One has his machine gun trained on a sleeping crackhead. He must be quite dangerous, drooling on the ground. But no one so much as blinks an eye at me. I guess I’m invisible!
On my way home, I wait at the bus stop for an interminable length of time, as every bus but the one I need passes by. Typical. I shake my bag, trying to find the change necessary for the bus fare, when a skinny guy with a handful of coins walks up. It’s your typical generic, “Don’t you want to give me twenty-five cents or so?” begging routine. I laugh.
“Dude, I’m shaking my bag here trying to find the last ten centavos I need for the bus!”
He breaks into a big grin. “Oh, you need money? I can give you ten centavos!” And he flips a bronze-colored coin between his thumb and forefinger. I declined, politely, as I heard the change clanging around, and he wandered away, looking for someone else to help him out. Or help out. Because anyone who has to pay with change for the bus is apparently in need of a helping hand...
Thursday, May 07, 2009
What Pavarotti sounded like at 12...
I need to find a way to record this boy.
He's been begging me for weeks to bring my MP3 player so he can hear some "real" opera. I remembered today, and what happened after blew me away...but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Let's start from the beginning...
Ney is obnoxious, loud, exuberant, hyperactive. He and his sisters try my patience every few seconds at the children's project in the favela, and it's all we can do as teachers to find ways to NOT kick them out of every class for disruptive behavior.
A couple of months ago, Ney heard me singing opera to some of the kids, and imitated me. His original intention was to be annoying, but I was surprised by what I heard and encouraged him to sing more. Pretty soon, every week he was asking for some mini-lessons or to sing a song with him, and he would skip downstairs to play while belting out operatic-like melodic creations. I promised to bring him some music that I thought he would like, and made good on that promise today.
After class, I gave him my MP3 player and turned the volume up on Pavarotti singing "Nessun Dorma." Ney's eyes glittered as the notes soared, and as soon as he'd heard the song once through, he ran off with the MP3 player to an empty room.
Pretty soon, I'm hearing snippets of something that sounds like music. Some little girls poke their heads in and are ordered out with a "Leave me alone! I'm PRACTICING!"
They rush off, giggling. "Tia, Ney's in the room. And he's dancing...and singing!"
I open the door.
"Can I listen?"
"You can stay if you turn around," he says, but even when I face the wall, it's obvious that he's embarrassed, so after some praise, I leave him alone with the music.
And he keeps on singing. Oh, and how he is singing. Loudly and impressively enough that everyone is noticing, and even the director comes over to see what's going on.
"Who's in there?"
"Ney."
The director's surprise registers. "He has a stupendous voice!" I couldn't agree more. Goosebumps don't lie.
I wish I could show you not only what it is like to hear a 12 year old boy reproducing such a glorious piece of music after hearing it for the first time, but to see it in context, the faded pink walls and the concrete floors, the knowledge that just 30 feet away on the other side of the wall are dozens of crack addicts and armed drug dealers buying and selling their wares, many not much older than this young boy. That working in the drug trade could very well be his future if he doesn't find something to inspire him soon...and like so many other boys, he could be seduced by the easy money and violent lifestyle. That perhaps today changed his life forever. That today, as some were watching their horizons shrink into a packet of powder no bigger than a postage stamp, his horizons expanded in great leaps and bounds as high as the "Vincerò" ("I have won") that crowns the aria, as wide as the smile of a young boy who has found a dream worth dreaming, as inspiring as a future worth making a reality, and as suddenly as an unknown talent is unexpectedly brought to life.
If anyone knows a Brazilian voice teacher who wants to take Ney under their wing, let me know!
He's been begging me for weeks to bring my MP3 player so he can hear some "real" opera. I remembered today, and what happened after blew me away...but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Let's start from the beginning...
Ney is obnoxious, loud, exuberant, hyperactive. He and his sisters try my patience every few seconds at the children's project in the favela, and it's all we can do as teachers to find ways to NOT kick them out of every class for disruptive behavior.
A couple of months ago, Ney heard me singing opera to some of the kids, and imitated me. His original intention was to be annoying, but I was surprised by what I heard and encouraged him to sing more. Pretty soon, every week he was asking for some mini-lessons or to sing a song with him, and he would skip downstairs to play while belting out operatic-like melodic creations. I promised to bring him some music that I thought he would like, and made good on that promise today.
After class, I gave him my MP3 player and turned the volume up on Pavarotti singing "Nessun Dorma." Ney's eyes glittered as the notes soared, and as soon as he'd heard the song once through, he ran off with the MP3 player to an empty room.
Pretty soon, I'm hearing snippets of something that sounds like music. Some little girls poke their heads in and are ordered out with a "Leave me alone! I'm PRACTICING!"
They rush off, giggling. "Tia, Ney's in the room. And he's dancing...and singing!"
I open the door.
"Can I listen?"
"You can stay if you turn around," he says, but even when I face the wall, it's obvious that he's embarrassed, so after some praise, I leave him alone with the music.
And he keeps on singing. Oh, and how he is singing. Loudly and impressively enough that everyone is noticing, and even the director comes over to see what's going on.
"Who's in there?"
"Ney."
The director's surprise registers. "He has a stupendous voice!" I couldn't agree more. Goosebumps don't lie.
I wish I could show you not only what it is like to hear a 12 year old boy reproducing such a glorious piece of music after hearing it for the first time, but to see it in context, the faded pink walls and the concrete floors, the knowledge that just 30 feet away on the other side of the wall are dozens of crack addicts and armed drug dealers buying and selling their wares, many not much older than this young boy. That working in the drug trade could very well be his future if he doesn't find something to inspire him soon...and like so many other boys, he could be seduced by the easy money and violent lifestyle. That perhaps today changed his life forever. That today, as some were watching their horizons shrink into a packet of powder no bigger than a postage stamp, his horizons expanded in great leaps and bounds as high as the "Vincerò" ("I have won") that crowns the aria, as wide as the smile of a young boy who has found a dream worth dreaming, as inspiring as a future worth making a reality, and as suddenly as an unknown talent is unexpectedly brought to life.
If anyone knows a Brazilian voice teacher who wants to take Ney under their wing, let me know!
Aguas Profundas...Deep Waters
We've been taking cold showers for a couple of weeks now. There's something wrong with the gas water heater. Andreia, the domestic assistant, is freaked. She says the pilot light is going out on its own...and she doesn't want to be in the laundry room anymore until it's better. So, we're on a quest to find out how these things are repaired in Brazil.
This is not as easy as it sounds.
Everyone tells us to call CEG, the municipal gas company, because independent repairmen aren't very reliable. And CEG has a great website, with actual information and a current pricing table, so we are prepared for about a R$200 charge for routine maintenance and a house visit. Steep, but if we get water, worth it.
There's a problem though. Not a single service company in Rio makes appointments. They say, "We'll be there tomorrow between 9 and 5, or in the next three days between working hours (10-4). As if everyone had an elderly mother watching soap operas all day, a maid to answer the door or a housewife baking cookies just hanging around for eight hours a day. We can't ask for time off work to sit around waiting for the repairman to show!(That's not entirely true. If you buy groceries online, for a nice fee of R$15, they'll deliver to your home. I guess they assume that all single full-timers are independently wealthy, but they do recognize our schedules, and only deliver after 8 pm.)
So we have to schedule for the day Andreia is here and hope that she's got a lot of work to keep her busy until the gas man cometh. She does. And he does. But... no hot water at the end of the day. No literal hot water. There is, however, a bill or an estimated expense sheet, to the tune of R$850, a dismantled hot water heater that is otherwise untouched by new parts, and a business card and a handwritten index card with the cost for a new water heater that we can purchase from the repairman's personal place of business. How touching.
My roommate looks at me with big eyes and says,
"I'm hoping you can help me decipher this..."
We decide it HAS to be an estimate. There's no way they'd do work THAT expensive without the renter's signature...and surely the maid's doesn't count, right? And we're poring over the repairman's bad handwriting. Roomie says,
"Okay, well, I looked at the hot water heater. I don't know what a CRG is but I know what a solenoide is and he hasn't installed one..."
"Good Lord, you're so sexy!"
Gotta love living with an engineer...even if we're taking Artic showers at the moment. I can't wait to see her arguing solenoides with the stupefied CEG guy trying to rip us off...
This is not as easy as it sounds.
Everyone tells us to call CEG, the municipal gas company, because independent repairmen aren't very reliable. And CEG has a great website, with actual information and a current pricing table, so we are prepared for about a R$200 charge for routine maintenance and a house visit. Steep, but if we get water, worth it.
There's a problem though. Not a single service company in Rio makes appointments. They say, "We'll be there tomorrow between 9 and 5, or in the next three days between working hours (10-4). As if everyone had an elderly mother watching soap operas all day, a maid to answer the door or a housewife baking cookies just hanging around for eight hours a day. We can't ask for time off work to sit around waiting for the repairman to show!(That's not entirely true. If you buy groceries online, for a nice fee of R$15, they'll deliver to your home. I guess they assume that all single full-timers are independently wealthy, but they do recognize our schedules, and only deliver after 8 pm.)
So we have to schedule for the day Andreia is here and hope that she's got a lot of work to keep her busy until the gas man cometh. She does. And he does. But... no hot water at the end of the day. No literal hot water. There is, however, a bill or an estimated expense sheet, to the tune of R$850, a dismantled hot water heater that is otherwise untouched by new parts, and a business card and a handwritten index card with the cost for a new water heater that we can purchase from the repairman's personal place of business. How touching.
My roommate looks at me with big eyes and says,
"I'm hoping you can help me decipher this..."
We decide it HAS to be an estimate. There's no way they'd do work THAT expensive without the renter's signature...and surely the maid's doesn't count, right? And we're poring over the repairman's bad handwriting. Roomie says,
"Okay, well, I looked at the hot water heater. I don't know what a CRG is but I know what a solenoide is and he hasn't installed one..."
"Good Lord, you're so sexy!"
Gotta love living with an engineer...even if we're taking Artic showers at the moment. I can't wait to see her arguing solenoides with the stupefied CEG guy trying to rip us off...
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Random Daily Occurences
(These have been previously posted on Facebook...apologies to any readers who are getting a double dose!)
2/May
Going to get bread for the project in the slums is always a fun chore. First, one must avoid pigs and horses standing in front of the gate, as well as the brown feces that they so unthoughtfully left in the middle of the dirt road. Then, one must walk across the open square and ignore the crowds of cocaine junkies huddled in the shade of the soccer field's low brick wall. The "padaria" is located half-way down the most crowded drug road on this side of the slum, and the crush of dealers and purchasers can be overwhelming. Not to mention the children running underfoot, the women doing braids on the sidewalk, motorcyclists slowly weaving through the pedestrians and the odd junkie trying to sell some stolen goods for their next hit. (Classic: I am standing in line to buy my bread, and a shriveled wisp of a woman sneaks up beside me. "Wanna buy a breadmaker?" The dealer beside me, an oily teenager, laughed at her-"She don't want no breadmaker, she's gonna buy it fresh right now!")
This week, the lady behind the counter was showing me pictures of her grandson, just two or three months old. Dude beside me asks, "Well, why doesn't his momma bring him to visit?" We, good women, begin to explain to him why the dust and the marijuana smoke isn't good for a baby's lungs...but he doesn't seem too convinced. I shuffle away with 30 pieces of bread and a zillion clanging thoughts, narrowly missing being smacked in the face by a machine gun strapped to some skinny boy's back. I never did like crowds...
28/April
Standing in line at the overly crowded supermarket, watching elderly women create traffic jams in the produce section, I wondered at the usefulness of the child-sized shopping carts. Mindlessly gazing over to the aisles of imported foods, I struck up a casual conversation with the woman in front of me. She was carrying a heavy bag, and we argued as to who should go first in line...as I wasn't in a hurry, I think age and a couple pounds of meat and vegetables put her in t he favored spot. She smiled and shuffled down the street; I huffed and puffed over the price of croissants before going to the bank and the pharmacy. So it was kind of surprising to walk into my apartment building and see her holding the elevator door with a quizzical half-smile. It's a small world after all! We're neighbors, two floors removed!
2/May
Going to get bread for the project in the slums is always a fun chore. First, one must avoid pigs and horses standing in front of the gate, as well as the brown feces that they so unthoughtfully left in the middle of the dirt road. Then, one must walk across the open square and ignore the crowds of cocaine junkies huddled in the shade of the soccer field's low brick wall. The "padaria" is located half-way down the most crowded drug road on this side of the slum, and the crush of dealers and purchasers can be overwhelming. Not to mention the children running underfoot, the women doing braids on the sidewalk, motorcyclists slowly weaving through the pedestrians and the odd junkie trying to sell some stolen goods for their next hit. (Classic: I am standing in line to buy my bread, and a shriveled wisp of a woman sneaks up beside me. "Wanna buy a breadmaker?" The dealer beside me, an oily teenager, laughed at her-"She don't want no breadmaker, she's gonna buy it fresh right now!")
This week, the lady behind the counter was showing me pictures of her grandson, just two or three months old. Dude beside me asks, "Well, why doesn't his momma bring him to visit?" We, good women, begin to explain to him why the dust and the marijuana smoke isn't good for a baby's lungs...but he doesn't seem too convinced. I shuffle away with 30 pieces of bread and a zillion clanging thoughts, narrowly missing being smacked in the face by a machine gun strapped to some skinny boy's back. I never did like crowds...
28/April
Standing in line at the overly crowded supermarket, watching elderly women create traffic jams in the produce section, I wondered at the usefulness of the child-sized shopping carts. Mindlessly gazing over to the aisles of imported foods, I struck up a casual conversation with the woman in front of me. She was carrying a heavy bag, and we argued as to who should go first in line...as I wasn't in a hurry, I think age and a couple pounds of meat and vegetables put her in t he favored spot. She smiled and shuffled down the street; I huffed and puffed over the price of croissants before going to the bank and the pharmacy. So it was kind of surprising to walk into my apartment building and see her holding the elevator door with a quizzical half-smile. It's a small world after all! We're neighbors, two floors removed!
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