Our First Week In Brazil

We've been in Brazil one week. As soon as we arrived at the Seatac airport my worries about Antarctica receded. I settled into the immediate bustle of ticketing and security checks and last-minute calls to say goodbye before turning off my cell phone for two weeks.

The flights (from Seattle to Atlanta and then Atlanta to Sao Paulo) were smooth, except that I was upgraded to Business Class for our first leg and Bill was abandoned to the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed back in coach. I smuggled him a warm sandwich and a bag of chips but, alas, there was nothing I could do to get him my bottomless glass of chardonay.

In Sao Paulo we were met by Bill's friend, Dimas and Dimas' son, Lucas. Back in 1967Bill had come to Brazil as an exchange student and lived with Dimas' family for six months. I watched as Dimas walked gingerly up to Bill and studied his face before uttering a very tentative, "Bill?"

Bill returned Dimas' gaze, blank for a moment and then I saw recognition dawn on both men's faces.

"Dimas!" Bill acknowledged and there were hugs and kisses and introductions all around.

We stayed our first several days with Lucas in an apartment on the sixth floor of a building in the heart of Sao Paulo. Lucas oriented us and gave us a good deal of his time, showing us a few of the city's best views and explaining televised "futebol" matches to us.

Once Bill and I had our bearings, we ventured out on our own and visited museums, parks and monuments until we were ready to collapse. We figure we clocked in with about forty miles of walking and exploring last week.

Bill and I agree that our favorite stop in Sao Paulo was at a temporary exhibition in the MASP (the Art Museum of Sao Paulo) by a Brazilian artist named Vik Muniz. "Vik" lived in the United States for many years but traveled extensively, creating his images in and from unusual artistic media. His portaits of several people who made their home at one of the world's largest garbage dumps, for example, were formed in the white space beneath thousands of objects retrieved from the trash heaps. Vik then took photographs of his works and blew them up to a huge scale. They stood anywhere from six to twenty feet in height. Look him up.

After Sao Paulo, we took a five-hour bus ride to Ribeirao Preto. This is the place Bill called home for six months after his junior year of high school. He had been back only one other time in 1973 for about six weeks. The city, then a town of 100,000 people, is now populated by 500,000 and is much changed from Bill's memory of it.

Dimas again collected us, this time from the bus station, and took us to the home he shares with his wife, Ana Rosa, in a downtown condominium. We've been here a few days now.

How can I describe the homecoming of a prodigal son? I've sat back and watched the kissing and hugging and questioning and the muddling through of two languages to give the answers. We've spent countless hours over food and drink and conversation with this lovely, large family. And Bill has said to me he feels that something in his life has finally come full circle.

I've been the observer, the silent capturer of images these past few days. I see the body language of a big, loving family and the volley of words passing between them. Occasionally I hear a phrase or a syllable that resembles French or English and I guess at the topic of conversation. Sometimes someone translates the gist for me. And then there are long stretches when everyone switches to English, however inconfident they may be with the language, purely for my benefit. I'm embarrassed by but grateful for this gift when it happens. The rest of the time I am understandiong what is happening through my intuition and my understanding of family systems.

Everyone should do this, by the way - sit a few hours with people who do not speak your language. It's a wonderful way to hone other kinds of knowing besides just that which comes from words.

Speaking of words, one of my quests in the last few days has been to find a book in English. I only brought one novel along with me and I've finished it. In a couple of days we'll make our way to Rio de Janeiro on a bus ride that will take about twelve hours. I can't see doing that without at least one book.

Dimas took us to the mall here in Ribeirao and I found a paperback copy of The Kite Runner in English. I took it to the cash register. They rang it up and told us it would be 78 Reais. That's 39 dollars to you and me, folks! I looked over at Bill. He was pulling out the money and counting out the bills, unthinking. I knew once he realized the actual price, his placid expression would be replaced with (how shall I say this delicately?) rage, horror, shock.

"That's 39 bucks, Bill. Forget it," I said. Then I turned to Dimas. "It's 78 Reais. Isn't that a lot?" I asked.

"Too much. Let's go," Dimas decided and we walked out.

I've never paid 39 dollars for a paperback book, and I'm not desperate enough to do it now (plus my marital bliss is far more valuable to me than that particular book), but I'm still in need of reading material for the bus. So last night I put the problem to the whole extended family.

"We found an English book at the mall, but it was too much money. Can I get one cheaper?" I asked. There was a flurry of conversation in Portuguese. The internet was consulted. Another flurry. There were questions I had to address. Did I like romances? (Not so much.) How about mysteries? (A little better, but not a lot.)

It was finally discovered that there is a used bookstore in town with thousands of books in English. And in the meantime, Dimas would search his shelves for something that would tide me over until we could get there. After much rummaging, there was one book in English in Dimas' and Ana Rosa's house, a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach, left in Brazil some thirty-six years ago by one William P., my own dear Bill. Talk about coming full circle!

So, today we're having lunch at the family's sports club, visiting a used book store and generally enjoying this beautiful town. There's more to tell about (like Ana Rosa's concert with the symphony, our visit to an old sugar plant and Brazil's conversion to ethanol alcohol in lieu of gasoline for their cars), but it will have to wait.

The marathon is on Sunday the 28th in Rio. I'll post a race report when I'm home (and perhaps a book report on J. L. Seagull).

Love to all.