…

… …

… … … how to start, after almost 3 months?

Hi!

How are you?

I’m fine, thanks. And a few people have asked me if I’m “ever coming back”… so to them I say, “thanks for asking!” and, “I guess so!”

For awhile, it didn’t seem like it. I never did my final post from Brazil.

I never posted anything when I came home.

And the reason for both of these things is that it just felt wrong—blogging, for one thing, but just *being*, for another.

I picked up a hitchhiker in Peru. Blastocystis hominis, to be exact. That was part of it—and the other part of it was burn-out. Burn-out is the BIGGEST BITCH I know.

It’s hard to imagine that 3 months hanging out in South America wouldn’t take the edge off—how many people said almost exactly that to me, I can’t even guess—but it didn’t. Instead, it’s like it set up great, big floodlamps to HIGHLIGHT the edge, and yet the edge was still there when I came home. Pointier, sharper, crueler than ever.

I hit Vancouver EXHAUSTED.

DEPRESSED.

DEMORALISED.

And man, was my stomach off. I couldn’t understand why (for about 3 weeks, until I finally had blood work done), and I couldn’t really face the idea of “healthy living”—not my own (hence why I stopped blogging, so as not to be a hypocrite), but nor could I handle others’. Honestly, I stopped reading YOUR BLOGS because I felt SO BAD that I couldn’t even watch other people do well.

It sounds petty to say it out loud. To see it in print. But there you have it. Honesty, in all its ugliness.

A lot has changed since 20 September, when I came back to Canada… a real rollercoaster that I’m still riding, in some ways. But I’m cycling high these days, and it seemed like the right time to come back.

… but with a new purpose, I think.

So I’m jumping in…

Feet first.

I missed you guys! (Even though, if you’re reading this, you’re likely someone I talk to or know in the FB world…).

If you want to share an ugly truth about yourself with me below (it need not be current nor permanent), please feel free. No judgment here!

Yesterday, I spent 3 hours at the gym, all of it working out. I went slowly, admittedly, because through crossed wires and SP traffic, Carol was SO late that it was funny, and I became seriously dehydrated. Dear Brazilian Standard Time, I will NOT miss you.

How to replenish from a calorie spend-a-thon? I had 4 egg whites with basil (before bequeathing my ever-bountiful basil plant to Marcella), and then Carol and I went out for Açaí. [SIDEBAR: SERIOUSLY, basil plant, SERIOUSLY. In Canada, I can hardly keep you alive / I consume you and then you're gone, but in Brazil, I plucked you clean yesterday, watered you, and then you ALREADY had new growth the next day?!? Maybe I *have* a green thumb, it just needs a more fertile climate?]

I had had Açaí powdered before—I liked the taste well enough, but suspected that something was lost in the processing. (Wikipedia states that scientific studies agree with that).

In Brazil, where the Açaí palm grows, the berry (which looks just like a blueberry) is harvested in the north, the pulp is mulched out and then frozen for shipment, and you can then either buy the pulp in ice cream tubs at an Açaí bar anywhere in the country, or you can eat it in. And in Rio and other beach places, it’s just sold on the beach.

Marcella says that in the north they eat it savoury, with dried shrimp in it. Now that I’ve tasted it (and my shellfish allergy notwithstanding), I can only say, “GROSS”.

In the south, it comes in a bowl. You can get “crazy small”, which is about 1/4 cup, “small”, which is about 1 cup, and then “large”, which is disgusting. And about 2 cups’ worth. Possibly those are not the ACTUAL Brazilian words for the sizes. Possibly.

Small was as good as I was gonna get, and after that, because the menu had about 17 varieties of Açaí, I let Carol guide me. Out of the myriad of toppings and presentations, she advised me to start “small” (as if I needed THAT clue!), and then, “to me, it’s not Açaí if there’s no granola.”

So I got granola.

And because I’ve developed a taste for condensed milk, I got that, too—all on the side so I could try it pure, first. Carol also got bananas on hers, and though I tried to photograph my own bowl, my camera just couldn’t handle photographing the amorphous purple blob… so I took a phot of Carol attacking hers, instead. I think the fact that she had bananas on top made hers somehow more focus-able.

Everybody, purple sludge. Purple sludge, everybody.

I would describe the Açaí itself as sweet, strongly-flavoured, like a hybrid of blueberry and something else that I can’t put my finger on. Kind of perfume-y really; basically a HUGELY calorie dense smoothie. With the granola on top, it gave it a more pleasing texture—a little crunch was perfect. And the condensed milk made it like a dessert—sweet and creamy. It was really good, I won’t lie—almost makes it worth it that the Voldemort gods have pummeled me with 4,000 Voldemorts in the last month, most of which have been medicine-related, many of which have been about Açaí as a superfood. WELL, Voldemort, the real deal IS amazing, though maybe nor worth 3,000 comments in 1 month.

I couldn’t eat all of mine—once my toppings were gone, I got a bit tired of the taste, but we saw some people from our gym come in, order the large bowls, mow down and leave, so it definitely has some purchase in the idea of it being a health-food. They treat it like it’s a meal replacement, and as a recovery food… to me, it would be a sweet treat, but for Brazilians, that’s when they’d really go for frozen yogurt (or so it came from several horses’ mouths). To me, I think that Açaí fits all those categories: meal replacement, recovery food, sweet treat. Yum.

And MAN, does it ever make my sad, dried, powdered version seem just as inferior as it was.

With 48 hours left in Brazil, I’m glad I can check one more thing off my “kinda would like to do” list, though I fear I will NOT be learning crack caipirinha skills. With Marcella leaving for New York this evening—I think my future might be home-made Caipi-free. Somehow, I shall endure.

I have a funny post about interpersonal relationships and missing boats (figuratively speaking) for you tomorrow, partly in honour of Sophia’s recent post, partly in honour of the fact that I’m an idiot. I love my life. However, I don’t know that I’ll have internet at my final destination, so you might just have to give me until repatriation.

Y’all come back now (all two readers!), ya hear?

Have you had Açaí? What form was it in, and did you like it?

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.