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?

Truth: I *love* to give gifts… but only the RIGHT gifts. Christmas and birthdays stress me out because I don’t *want* to just give for the sake of giving, I want it to be something that SCREAMS someone’s name, not something that they say “thanks!” to, and then forget about for a couple of months.

This is a tricky business when it comes to souvenirs. To me, the whole concept of a souvenir is that, the word means “remember”. HOW is someone who WASN’T THERE going to remember?! Or, is it a way of saying that you were remembering the person when you travelled, so please have this over-priced, mass-produced, stereotypical part of Country X’s cultural mosaic? Heh.

It’s a pickle, I know.

So I approach it like I would Christmas/Birthday shopping—if something jumps out and grabs me, I grab *it*. And from that, for myself, I picked up a scarf in Lima.

Chocolate—good Brazilian stuff (holy expensive) and “I-just-need-to-use-my-Soles-in-Duty-Free” Peruvian stuff.

SensorExcel razors—unavailable in Canada for at least 3 years, I *had* been using my razor from so many years ago I can’t even tell you… and now, I have four new ones.

Thanks to Peruvian duty free, I’m coming home with some Pisco to make Pisco Sours (still wrapped in its duty-free goodness—SO unphotogenic!), and a super-cheap bit of Bobbi Brown make-up, bought on the plane—what a coup! A bit of eyeliner and freshly brushed teeth are my “I’m going out” go-to’s, and this was really a bargain. Also: the short travel brush applicator is really necessary for short-sighted kids NOT to poke their own eyes out. Tried, tested, and true.

And then there are the gifts…

Brasilía has this thing about its architecture; one of the most renowned architects, Athos Bulcão, whose work is in all major cities of Brazil and some other South American locales, sells some paraphernalia with his designs. I’ve been drinking espresso out of Marcella’s Athos Bulcão cups every day, so I got myself a few… and some mugs to give away:

I also bought some “hers and hers” Havaíanas, because, well, OBVIOUSLY! (“Havaíanas” is Portuguese for “Hawaiians”, didja know? Makes it amusing that the footwear is so iconically Brazilian, eh?) I like my shoes with a lot of sole: flip flop wedges are JUST right.

And then I’m also going shopping on Friday to pick up some last gifts that I’ve had in mind for awhile… and I’ve omitted the gifts intended for the couple of people I know who *actually* read my blog.

What’s been really unexpected is that people have given ME gifts!

From Marcella, some coasters of black-and-white, vintage Rio photos, and also a Quechuan bracelet, bought in Cusco—on the same night that we were altitude drunk, and she was buying her own. I said, “we’re bracelet buddies!” and more laughter ensued…

But maybe the most AMAZING thing of all started last weekend and has continued into this week. Last Saturday, through the fog of my cold, I was invited to a barbecue at Carol’s place, with some of the gym community… in my honour! How fun! I was really not that well and failed to take a single photo (WHAT is my PROBLEM?!?), but it was lovely to be there. At the end of the evening, Carol’s father gave me a nice bottle of cachaça from the northeast, where he’s from. He had made me a caipirinha earlier, and now told me “this is NOT for caipirinhas. It’s for sipping.” Why did I deserve such a thing? Because THAT is Brazilian hospitality—once he knew I liked scotch and would drink cachaça straight, I was clearly the right recipient: I would appreciate it.

Well, as if that weren’t the sweetest thing ever… a barbecue, a parting gift… it became TWO parting gifts! Yesterday, at the gym, Carol told me, “my dad got you something.” Because man cannot survive on straight cachaça alone, he bought me a caipirinha mortar and pestle. Not in a breakable material (had he HEARD about my swathe of destruction in Marcella’s kitchen?!?), but something that would travel and wear well:

I’m a lucky kid. I’m a lucky kid who now has to pack…

Tell me: what’s your gift-giving philosophy?

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!