So I spent New Year’s in my old stomping grounds. And I *loved* it! It was confusing—I was so socially unhappy there, but I had a career. I was respected, I had authority, I had value.

In Calgary, I have a social life. I have a job. I’m still respected (so much sometimes that I don’t understand where it comes from!), but my life here isn’t revolving around a clearly defined career. I don’t think I mentioned it, but I’m doing legal research (etc) at a small personal injury firm. I LOVE IT. And sometimes, I’m doing legal work, too… sure, some days are brutal when I have painful, tedious tasks to fulfill, but a lot of the time I get to be like my old self: I read a lot, I analyse, I write it up, I present it to the lawyers, and they say, “wow.” Which is very affirming as I go through this flux, but… then I remember that it’s just that they’ve never been exposed to my kind of skill set at my kind of level… and I hate that that sounds WAY UP MYSELF, so let me qualify that by saying that I have about 5 more years’ of schooling than the average lawyer, and I spent a LOT of time refining the particular wow-inducing skill set—I don’t have the legal background or knowledge (my first day I was told, “I want you to write this brief”. I said, “absolutely. What’s a brief?”) , but you want research? You want it written up? Game, set and match.

Returning to my past life (and knowing I didn’t have to stay) was a bit magical. Everywhere I went, I was greated with bear hugs and open arms. I slept in a cottage, surrounded by snow and huge trees. I stoked my own fire every night, (see exhibit A, at right—I MADE THAT!! And shortly after taking this shot I learned that there’s a fine line between “well-stoked fire” and “sweat lodge”) and restarted it, freezing, in the mornings. That part was like my childhood dreams come true: I have ALWAYS loved having space for just me.

This might sound crazy and pedagogical, but I learn best by modelling: show me how, and then I can rock it. That goes double for… LIFE. I’m FASCINATED by seeing how other people do things differently, and totally inspired (or disgusted, if I’m being honest!) by people’s habits. A positive exmaple: my old Norwegian roommate in Prince George, May Kristin. She embodied traits that I wanted to see in myself so much that I wish she had stayed longer, so I could have learned more from her. On the negative, well, who doesn’t know handfuls of cautionary tales?

I mention this because it was SO COOL to see how Jacqueline and her family live. Her kids are home schooled. They live free and wild, governed by curiosity, not rules and structure. When I met Jacqueline, her then-8-year old daughter had taken an interest in Medieval times, and had built a smithy in the back of the house (up above there), where she was forging Medieval-style weapons (out of wood, in fairness…)—all for educational purposes. In PG, I bought my eggs from Jacqueline, because her family have chickens, roosters and rabbits—for consumption purposes. At their house, I’ve had rabbit stew and coq au vin (made with the annoying coq who was driving all the hens mad, and thus met THE AXE) at their house. It’s more gourmet than it sounds, really, especially when Jacqueline’s daughter (the former “blacksmith”, now 13 years old and a phenomenal mixologist SHE DOESN’T DRINK, THOUGH), tends the bar and produces artful concoctions.

All of this to say, it was a New Year’s like no other.

We walked the huskies in the clear cut nearby, nicknamed “Siberia” by Jacqueline’s daughters for reasons you can see at right: a touch desolate? But in a GOOD way! And on our walk, we found a spine.

A moose spine.

Left behind by some hunters who, apparently, didn’t need it anymore.

You just don’t see that every day…

It also wasn’t the only animal carnage we found. On the side of the road there was a moose carcass, skinned and less the head and feet, wrapped in a tarp.

It got extensive news coverage, which will help you to understand when I say that the place I used to live was like being on the moon: THIS WAS BIG, FOLKS. I especially enjoyed the comments devolving into moose humour, i.e., “in the US they’d call this a moose-da-meaner”, and “did the RCMP put in a Moosing persons report?” (until chastised with, “you moosen’t joke about such things”…)

But lest you think I’m just trying to scare and disgust you with images of northern life, I actually just wanted to say that New Year’s included more than appies and Absinthe. There was also an outstanding spread that made me celebrate Jaqueline’s family’s Austrian heritage: I’ve lived in Germany. I’ve visited Austria.

I had never before had schnitzel until this NYE.

And it was *awesome*. Even *awesomer* the next day, cold, for breakfast. Don’t judge me until you’ve tried it.

There was rotkohl and root vegetable puree, smashed potatoes and cucumber salad…

It was all new to me: from the vorspiel, walking in “Siberia”, to schnitzel for dinner, to the nachspiel: I have long known that Prince Georgians blow shit up to commemorate every holiday—and for once, instead of sitting in my house thinking I was being shot at, I was part of the action. And lo: my NYE in photos:

PS: know how everyone apologises for iPhone photos? ALL OF THESE WERE iPHONE. And I’m not sorry.

I like pepper.

Yep: I lived in the north for 4 years, but… I never really LIVED the north. And out of that unknown came one of my best NYE’s ever.

Spill! What was your best NYE ever… and why?

Because this *had* to be here… after all—what else do you think of when you think of Rio, but this?

This is just any given Sunday, at Ipanema. And if you were wondering, I was wearing sensible clothes, a sunhat, sitting in a chair directly under one of those umbrellas. Because I am “muito brancinha”—a whole lotta gringa—and I had every intention of staying that way.

I only snapped one pic because it seemed intrusive to me to photograph randomly at the beach, so let me just tell you this: EVERYONE, and I do mean EVERYONE (except me), from grannies to quite large-ish people, wear bikinis at the beach. So if you ever go to Rio and hit Copacabana, Ipanema or Leblon, A) don’t go in their summer or you will die of the heat (says Marcella), and B) no matter who you are, what your shape, and what your body issues, this IS the place to let it all hang out. No one cares. No one judges. And virtually everyone is just a REAL PERSON. I thought that was really awesome. In fact, you’re more an object of funny looks if you’re NOT in a bikini just like everyone—but I still guard my general paleness fiercely.

Rio is the opposite of São Paulo in all the ways that mattered to me: it didn’t feel oppressively large, it has a walking culture, it’s bus-friendly, and it’s got green spaces (not just for homeless people to sleep in…). On that last point, our visit to the Botanical Gardens was a high point. If I lived in Rio, I would try very, very hard to live directly IN the Botanical Gardens. Let me show you why, starting with my future house:

from my future house, you can see this AWESOME sculpture in honour of Matisse, which basically sums up how I feel about Rio:

and from my future home, you can also see the Christ… if you peek between the trees and squint a little:

So. The Gardens are perfect!

For the History buffs among us, there used to be a gunpowder factory on the site, and some of the old wheels used to grind the powder are still there:

but the highlight, and for me, the symbol of Rio, were the orchids. In Rio, people bind orchids to tree trunks, so there are these random orchids *everywhere*. It’s so lovely! And they thrive!! But I’ve never seen species like those in the Botanical Gardens… so prepare yourselves for the onslaught, which I’ll thumbnail so we don’t all lose our minds.

Phew. Bummer about my tendency to over-expose, eh? I have to tell you—I had no idea that orchids could look SO different! So pretty—I heart the orchideario!

And closing off our weekend in Rio, we went out to Urca—home of our future inn, don’t you know? Sure, it doesn’t have the immediate beach access like Ipanema or Leblon, but what it does have is a view!

And a picturesque, non-crazy-busy waterfront!

And at the end of the road, there’s Bar Urca, which has waiters running pails of beer out to all the people sitting on the sea wall outside—for a 40 metre stretch! The bar itself is small with a cosy resto upstairs, but the real thrill comes from just sitting outside, enjoying the vibe, and, if you’re lucky like we were, an impromptu gathering of samba musicians.

I’ve been to some pretty amazing cities the world over, and Rio is right up there with the best.

This is not a trip recap.

That will come later… however, 83 days ago, I wrote a post by (almost) the same name. And since then, my days have changed.

I also had a lot of ideas about how my trip would go, and it hasn’t quite been what I expected… Now that my final week has been up-ended by Marcella’s sudden departure, I’m mentally packing it all in RIGHT NOW. I’m relocating to Andrea and Ivan’s on Saturday for my last few days, because though I love time to myself and being on my own (and would have been great had Marcella gone to NY anytime earlier in my trip—better than great since I would have asked her to bring me a couple of staples!!), I’d just rather be with friendly faces as I say goodbye to my home of the last 3 months.

(my “big move”—from A to B… 16.5km, but an eternity to drive in the omnipresent SP traffic…)

I had had a vision for my trip that I’d read a ton… and that dried up somewhat. I found myself enjoying TV on DVD, or even all the English language channels with Portuguese subtitles on Marcella’s TV. I’ve never owned a TV, myself, so this has been a nice, little novelty… it’s not that I don’t love to read, mind you, but reading and writing were my all-day, every-day for so many years that this is REALLY like having a break. But do you know what the biggest factor is, in terms of why I haven’t been reading?

I lack a suitable chair for it.

I’m pretty sure that makes me the Princess and the Pea.

(source-)

But when I go out with people who I know won’t speak any English to me, I bring my Kindle and get some reading in. So I AM still in the process of reading a book about physical limits, which I still mean to write about later. But I didn’t read all the works of Jane Austen, or any more historical fiction (to say nothing of not having written a WORD!). But I DID start reading The History of Brazil and The Penguin History of Latin America. I guess you can’t take the Historian out of the girl, after all.

I also had a vision about how much Portuguese I would learn. Well, my language book SUCKED, as I’ve mentioned before. Totally and completely. And that torpedoed some of my desire to learn—so I’m at a point now where “eu entendi mais ou menos” (I understand more or less), but that’s worth nothing considering I never had words when I needed to make them. Which is too bad, because there was an absolutely adorable guy at the gym that I would have been VERY happy to chat to. But I only speak the International Language of Smile, so grins were about as good as it got. Please don’t ask me about his abs. I can’t even talk about it.

But since I wrote that first “what do you do all day” post, there *is* one thing that has come to take front and centre in my daily life, making my slack-assitude in all other things more understandable: I LOVE THE GYM. Holy smokes, how has anyone stood to be AROUND me for the last 4 years?!? I am positively charming when I get a good hefty dose of endorphins every day (and I mean EVERY day). It’s been downright inspiring, and now I have new plans. Yay. But don’t ask me about my plans, because everything is a theory until my plane touches down in Vancouver next week. THEN, then I’ll pay the piper.

So what *do* I do all day? Well, for the last 5 weeks, it’s been steadily creeping towards spending between 2 and 4 hours at the gym—but when it hits 4, it’s always because there are a couple of social breaks, and some serious kinesiological discussions that take place as the day progresses… I’ve said it before, but what I love about Brazil is that there are a serious number of awesome females lifting a LOT of weight, so even when we chat and linger at the gym, this is interspersed with a lot of iron. LOVE IT.

My days now revolve around gym time—and while it’s not for everyone, can I just go on the record saying that I’m sleeping on an air mattress, and yet I have no more back pain, no daily headaches, and no trouble sleeping. Win, win, win, and that’s all because of weight training. And as an added bonus, on the days where I do some sprinting intervals and lift, lift, lift, it means that I’ve totally earned going home and having two or three of these little beauties:

Pão de Queijo [Cheese Bread---yay! It's gluten-free!]

These are ubiquitous in Brazil, always served warm, and so, so good! They come from the state of Minas Gerais, so the cheese used in Brazilian Pão de Queijo is Minas Gerais cheese. Marcella tells me she used Gouda when she made them in France, and I think an accent of something sharp mixed in there would make a good thing even better. Once you start mixing up your cheeses it takes it away from pure Pão de Queijo as nature intended, but THERE ARE NO RULES. Go wild, and let me know what works for you.

(source)

You need:

• 500g tapioca flour
• 300ml milk
• 50 ml vegetable oil
• 2 eggs
• 500g cheese, grated
• salt, to taste

You must:

Place the flour in a large bowl. In a saucepan, heat the milk and oil to the boil. Let it cook for about 15 seconds, and then remove from the heat and add to the tapioca flour. Stir to combine at first, and then use your hands to combine completely.

As the dough cools, beat the eggs slightly and begin adding them to the dough, alternating with the cheese and kneading thoroughly to incorporate the cheese as evenly as possible. (If the dough is too dry, you can beat another egg lightly and add parts of it to bring the dough together.)

Section out bits of dough, make balls of the desired size, using oil to grease the palms as necessary. The dough can be baked immediately at 220°C (450°F) for 20-25 minutes, until golden brown—or freeze the balled dough, and then bake from frozen later.

And now, a photographic essay in honour of Pão de Queijo, ’cause it’s THAT good…

(Marcella’s interpretation of “put the eggs in a warm place to bring them to room temperature”)

(oh yeah, it’s all coming together…)

(just before the egg and cheese is added…)

(have you ever seen someone remove the membrane from the yolk, or is Marcella really part nuts?)

(action shot! A bit o’ egg, a bit o’ cheese…)

(and after a whole lotta kneading, the dough is ready—nicely marbelled with cheese)

(and roll into balls—we like little Pão de Queijo, so just a bit bigger than 50 centavos…)

(and bake, bake, bake!)

(till puffed and golden brown!)

serve warm… and just try to stop!

One post, two big happies. I dare you to make some Pão de Queijo!

I guess I can just sit back and be amazed it didn’t happen sooner… I’m writing this post on day 5 of an epic cold. Only from a place of recovering burnout does one get sick when it’s been 20+ degrees C here for weeks. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Brazilians suck at keeping their germs to themselves, but this shouldn’t have happened!

I am intensely peeved at the fact that this has now curttailed my socialising in the dying days of Brazil, to say nothing of the fact that I’ve been sitting out on the gym now, too. And I’ve just learned that my gracious hostess is going to New York on Saturday this week. My fate, days 90, 91 and 92 of my trip—aka, THE END—are uncertain. I wish I could change my ticket… but I can’t. Hm.

So now, let’s accentuate the positive for awhile… and for that, I want to tell you something I know to be true, under my second heading for this post:

Rio de Janeiro, Part I: no river, no January

When people die and say they want to go to Heaven, what they really mean is, “I want to go to Rio”.

Rio de Janeiro is what you imagine Brazil is all about. The beaches, the mountains, the bikinis… it’s all there! Marcella calls Rio “her happy place”. Now that I’ve been there, I know why.

When we travel, Marcella and I play two games. The first one is, “create the backstory”. We like to meet people (or observe them), and decide what they’re all about, how they fit together, who they are… that’s a fun one. We *also* play, “where will our inn go?” because we’ve decided we’re going to have a series of inns one day in places we love. The first one will be in Freiburg, where we met, and then one in Cusco, and now: one in Rio…

Because you can’t NOT love Rio.

Even if you arrive and Marcella says “I’ve never been to Rio when it was this cold.”

Now: first rule of Brazilians is that there are two temperatures: hot and cold. They don’t know about “chilly” or “warmish”. So if the mercury drops below 20°C, it’s “cold”.

So my first view of Ipanema,  by Brailian logic, should have made me miserable and chilled to the bone… but I actually *loved* it. The beach was empty because there was no sun, but that just kicked the surf up into a lot more awesome. See? (Plus: please note the sidewalk pattern—that’s how you know this girl was in Ipanema).

See?!?!?

I like the look of the buildings along the boardwalk—narrow fronts, some pretty tall, each one going for thousands to tens of thousands per square footage.

I could have, would have, stayed sitting there all day, watching the waves… but we were hungry. Marcella bought beach food from a vendor, but that doesn’t really count. Have I told you about biscoitos de polvilho?:

More specifically, they’re like a puffed air snack. Actually, made with corn starch, tapioca flour and eggs, but still—the taste is pure, crunchy air. Shaped like a doughnut.

We adjourned to a bar on the beach and it began to rain… so my pictures for Friday end here… Rio was a trip of relaxation… but also not really a tourist trip. I took a fraction of the photos I had in Peru because there, we were experiencing new things as visitors. In Rio, we ended up doing a bunch of non-touristy things, and being in non-touristy places, many of which made it feel weird to take out my camera. Huh.

So now, we take up Saturday, when we went for a walk down the beach from Arpoador to Leblon; unbeknownst to me, we were going to meet up with Marcella’s cousin whom she calls her brother because he lived with her for a few years when they were young… and when Gabriel and his girlfriend showed up—both Carioca—it became even more absurd for me to take out my camera. But it was still a lovely day!

If you go to Rio, eat at Chico e Alaíde in Leblon. Little, local, very popular, and very, very good.

(source)

After lunch, Gabriel, who plays in a band, had a gig up at the ruins in Santa Teresa… so we took a bus to his house, picked up his gear, and took a cab up to the ruins. I spotted this on the bus:

Being obese gets you special seating on the bus. Huh. I thought that was interesting also because just *getting* on the bus involves going through a turnstyle that’s SO tight that I couldn’t go through it with my bag on my shoulder. So I guess if you can somehow get *on* the bus, you deserve a little preferential treatment…

My sunhat of joy and happiness and I, riding the bus (man, I need a haircut):

and then as we reached Casas das Ruinas in Santa Teresa… (pretty! No clue what it’s about!)…

… and we realised we were there, but the band was not. What the what? Here, Gabriel is phoning to find out where everyone is, and Marcella is sleeping. But the story could also so easily be, “Marcella passed out, and Gabriel phoned for help”, eh?

Turns out, the band decided not to play. No one told Gabriel. A very Brazilian trait… So I contented myself with taking pics of the fabulous view—like the iconic Pão de Açucar (the Sugarloaf), which is probably the most distinctive sign of Rio besides the Christ:

tall and skinny = Sugarloaf. Short and greenish = Urca. I want our future inn to be at Urca. Marcella wants it at Copacabana, Ipanema or Leblon. We shall see…

And in the other direction from the Pão de Açucar was downtown Rio:

Santa Teresa was pretty… and as we walked the streets in search of another cab, I just took some photos of… Carioca life:

(FAVELA:)

(heh):

… and then we found our cab. And took a ride up to the top of the Corcovado mountain to see the statue of Christ the Redeemer.

We got there just as the sun was setting…

(lagoon!)

the largest Art Deco statue in the world, apparently…

and on his left:

It was impressive, and I’m not even religious. Which is maybe a good thing, because I might have been slightly offended by the touristy claptrap, but since, as of 2007, the Christ is one of the Seven New Wonders of the World… it’s also to be expected.

When we left the Christ we nearly got stranded (we should have paid the cab to wait—though no one told *us* that!), but ultimately made it to Gabriel’s girlfriend’s place for a drink. She lives with her artist grandmother and architect grandfather in a penthouse flat that has a view of the lagoon, the Christ, the Pão de Açucar… but since it was 17 degrees, the Brazilians all clustered inside to get out of the ‘cold’. I joined them so as not to be rude, but not before a little midnight Jesus:

It’s the best I could do, sans tripod, and I kind of like that it looks like there’s some kind of celestial event going on. In actual fact, it’s just LEDs.

See?

That’s Rio, Part I… le sigh!

I’m really happy about the US Open today.

Are you happy?