DAy 196 Back in Brasília

It is good to be back in Brasil for many reasons. The most important one is obviously my beautiful Patrícia. Also high on my list are her family, the weather, food, people, and many little things like these two parrots who were perched above my bedroom window and singing for me.

The one negative I can say is that I still don't know enough Portuguese yet. I have been trying to study in Europe despite how hard it was to learn multiple languages at the same time. I know that with time it will come to me as long as I keep it up. The challenge is really in hearing the spoken language for me. There are many ways to say even the simplest of things and many more ways people can inflect their speech. If people speak slowly and enunciate I can usually do pretty well. If they talk fast, are excited, mumble, slur, use slang, speak quietly, talk over each other, or if there is too much extraneous noise...I am lost. I keep telling myself it will take time.

Patrícia starts her new job as Corporate Manager of Human Resources at Politec (very big IT company)tomorrow and will unfortunately be working a lot. It is a great job and I am very proud of her. She is very intelligent, professional, and sexy too. With that combination she can go far. Her working so much means that I will have plenty of time to study the language during the day. And hopefully catch up on blogging. We will see how well I do.

For some reason I always get about a half dozen mosquito bites right at first when I arrive here and then rarely after that. I don't know if it changes because I start eating the Brasilian diet or I develop an immunity and don't react as much. I don't care as long as I stop itching. Luckily this is not a malarial area.

Day 193 Transit Limbo

I was impressed by TAM Airlines on my flight to São Paulo. In my economy class window seat I had on demand movies on the seat back screen, great service, good food, and a free travel kit with a toothbrush, toothpaste, eye mask, and comb in a nice reusable plastic case. It was even better than Lufthansa, which is hard to beat.

With the flight delay I got into São Paulo at about 12:30am, missing my connecting flight to Brasília by two and a half hours. After waiting in three lines, because I kept asking clueless people, I got a taxi, dinner, and hotel vouchers from TAM. It was a good hotel, but after waiting with all of the other weary travelers for another half hour at the reception desk, I was not interested in the free dinner, only sleep. It was 1:30am and I had to go back to the airport at 6:00am, which did not leave me much time. I had my free breakfast at 5:00am with a bunch of Japanese business men and headed back to the airport. The flight to Brasília was especially short because I slept the whole way.

The thing that bothered me most about the whole experience was not the inconvenience or lack of sleep or dragging extra bags all over. It was that we flew directly over Brasília on the way, continuing another hour and a half south so I could, wait for eight hours and then turn around and come back. I saw the illuminated shape of Brasìlia below us as we flew. The airplane shaped layout of the city is hard to miss and I could even see the neighborhood where I would be staying. I had tried convincing the gate desk clerk that since the flight was delayed they should drop me off on the way to São Paulo, but she would not budge. I told her that Patrícia was waiting for me and I had to get there soon. Still no luck.

In DC I had to apply for a new visa to Brasil because my last one was a tourist visa valid for only 90 days. A longer term visa, up to five years, is up to the discretion of the consular officer. I went to the embassy early, ready with my documents, and dressed well. I was second in line behind a cranky old guy that was only going to be transiting through Brasil on his way to a ship. Because his brother had gotten robbed in Rio he thought Brasil was a dreadful country and didn’t bother to hide his opinion, rather, he seemed to enjoy loudly sharing it. I was surprised that even though he was rude and demanding, the consular officer remained courteous and patient with him. He had no right to go to Brasil. He was asking permission. He is lucky that Brasilians are such nice people; most other countries would have refused the visa.

When old cranky pants finally left, I pleaded my case for a long-term visa. I had to have a compelling reason, so I was honest: I was traveling the world and the woman I loved lived in Brasil and it would be bad if I neglected her. I showed a picture of Patrícia and me and chatted a bit. She said that Patrícia was very beautiful and understood why I wanted the visa. She could not say if I would get the five year visa, but told me to come back the next afternoon to pick it up and not to bother waiting in line. The next day I was making my way through the lobby full of waiting people when the consular officer saw me and excitedly waved and yelled for me to come up to the window. I think she was as happy as I was to see the five year visa in my passport. It seems that love may not be able to redirect a plane but it is a compelling enough of a reason to get a visa.

Day 192 Dead in New York

The dead body in the hostel lobby might have struck me as a bad sign if I had not been so tired. I didn’t kill the guy so I really didn’t care—just as long as they changed the sheets. The only thing that did bother me was the disinfectant that the maintenance guy was spraying everywhere but especially on whatever was dripping from the body as they carried it out. It wasn’t blood and my curiosity didn’t go so far as to make me ask.

Then the clerk told me that they did not have any record of my online reservation or deposit. Even worse, they only had two beds available, both more expensive than the one I had booked. I pled my case and got a discount on the one that wasn’t recently occupied by a corpse.

It had been a long day of travel by bus and subway from DC and by the time I got into my dorm room I was ready for bed. The first thing I did was to sniff for disinfectant to see if I got the right bed. It was the only time I was ever reassured by the lack of disinfectant, usually the opposite is true. It was midnight and I hit the pillow hard. I had to get up at 4:30 in the morning to get to the airport for my flight to Brasil so I needed all the sleep I could get.

Needless to say that I was less than pleased when, at 1:30 am, the security guard woke me from a deep, peaceful sleep by yelling at me. He was under the impression that I was in the bed under false pretenses and demanded to see my receipt. I groggily and irritably dug it out and thrust it at him. After checking it, making a call to the reception, and saying only, “sorry,” he left. They had overbooked the room and someone had come up to find me where they were supposed to be. It only took about 5 minutes but I was so irritated by the whole thing, I almost did not go back to sleep. I was even less thrilled in the morning when I found that one of my roommates had left the door ajar; anyone could have come in while we were sleeping and taken our bags.

Sleep deprived, I stumbled out into the frigid morning air at 5:00 am. I did not have time to stop at my favorite bagel shop across the street. I was loaded down with an extra bag of clothes and my new Rollerblades and could not sit down to enjoy my usual NY breakfast of a coffee, bagel, eggs, and home fries ($5). It was snowing hard and the two blocks to the subway left me fluffy white. That is, until it melted and it left me unpleasantly damp. While it took almost an hour to get to the airport, I was happy that I did not have to take a taxi.

The check-in line was short, I was right on time, and security went smoothly. I should have known something was wrong. The plane had been delayed coming from Brasil and was going to be departing three and a half hours late. I was going to miss my connection in São Paulo and would have to stay in a hotel. On the positive side, I had plenty of time to get some overpriced breakfast to eat. I got coffee and a bagel and paid 8 bucks for a days worth of wi-fi (for which I found out later they double charged my card).

I was happy to finally get on the plane. Even the hour of de-icing time sitting on the tarmac did not bother me. I was on my way to what my mother aptly called my “happy place.”

Day 188 Spy vs. Spy Museum

They were asking for it. It is not my fault. They made me do it. Numerous signs and staff inform visitors that no photography is allowed—this is in a museum that has extensive exhibits of secret photography methods and equipment. There was no way I could pass up that challenge. Particularly when I have a tiny camera I purchased just for discreet photography as I travel. There are many places I do not feel comfortable to wave my big camera around and yet I want to take pictures. In this case, it was verboten! Nein! Perfect!

So maybe I wasn’t risking incarceration, torture, or death, but I could very easily have gotten a stern warning from the cherubic twentyish guard. I know what you are thinking; I was really living on the edge, pushing the envelope. You know, sometimes you have to take risks to truly live life. In exchange for a little danger I was able to smuggle out a few blurry pictures of Eric and a lipstick gun, and some decent video of the automated spy car exhibit. I could have served my country well.

Eric was dying to see the spy museum. It was my third time because I had first gone by myself, then with Patrícia, and now with Eric. The museum is very slick and has an impressive collection of actual historical spy gear and info as well as pop culture exhibits. The difference between the two is striking. The popular media glorification of the profession is completely opposite of the terrifying and occasionally mundane reality. The last thing a spy wants is to stand out and end up getting caught. There have been a few spies that did it for ego, but even they knew well enough not to cruise around Monte Carlo in a tricked out Aston Martin, throwing their reputation and libido around like craps dice. Also, I think being a spy was generally dangerous, scary, and difficult enough of work that people avoided things like fake volcanoes equipped with huge laser cannons and/or moon rockets, but that is the evil doctor department anyway.

I think the best part of the whole thing for Eric was the gift shop afterward. It is good to end the often somber museum experience with some joyful, unbridled consumerism. Spy toys! And nothing says that you are a spy like branded plastic gear from the International Spy Museum does. They do have a lot of cool stuff. It is too bad that the little bit of really cool gear is priced accordingly.

I picked up a t-shirt with a Chinese cultural revolution design that I thought was really cool. Under a picture of some people looking nobly forward, it said, “Working toward a glorious future.” I assumed that the Chinese writing said the same. Once again my assumption was wrong. A few days later at breakfast in the guesthouse, a fellow traveler, Jasmine (Chou Fei (spelling?)) told me what it actually said: “We criticize the honor of the criminals that came before us.” Or something equally non-glorious. It was kind of like someone telling you that your favorite jeans make your butt look fat. I still like wearing the blatant propaganda but I feel self-conscious in front of Chinese people.

Luckily, Jasmine did not hold it against me and went with me (in the shirt) to watch congress debate a bill for tracking where our money in Iraq goes. The Republicans opposed it for a reason that escaped me. Why would we want to know how our tax dollars were spent? Hmmmn…. Then we had lunch in one of the House of Representatives office buildings with some of our elected leaders and half a billion lobbyists. I didn’t see “freedom fries” on the menu, thank God.

Before Eric went back home, we squeezed in a visit to the Bureau of Engraving, also known as the Mint, where we saw them print millions of dollars of our beloved greenbacks. The process is complicated and very controlled. They keep track of every tiny bit of paper to keep people from taking their work home with them. It was weird to pull out a bill from my wallet and know that those guys behind the glass printed it. It wasn’t a long tour, but as always, it ended in the gift shop. Eric couldn’t resist the big bag of shredded money. I wonder if anyone has ever tried to paste it back together; for $4 you can get a bag of $500 worth of shredded bills. I am sure someone has tried.

Day 187 Eric and My DC

As I have described before, going back to the same city is easier and comfortable. Going back to DC was much more than that. Everywhere I went I was reminded of the three weeks I spent with Patrícia there. It is where we met and fell for each other. From the moment the bus carried me back into the capitol city, the bliss of our early days surged back. I love DC. I love all the metro trains, platforms, escalators, bus stops, buses, street corners, monuments, museums, restaurants, food carts, movie theaters, and the infinite interstices where time stopped for us. I keep feeling like she is just around the corner.

I was of course eager to share the city with Eric. Not because of my experience here, but because it is a fascinating place to visit. I had not seen him for three months so the first thing to do was to load him up with trinkets from my travels: country flags, Asterix figures, Banania, etc.... Then I surprised him with Rollerblades of his own (and pads). The second thing we did was to hit the Washington Mall and see the monuments at night. He was very surprised to find out how far apart everything is because pictures tend to compress the distances. For instance, it is 2.2 miles from one end of the mall to the other.

The Washington Monument, or the pencil as Eric calls it, is cool at night. As a warning though, do not be tempted into standing on the steam vents at the base even if it is chilly out. Eric and I had fun playing with the swirling steam in the spot lights until a big burst gave Eric a little burn above his ankle socks. As mothers always say, "It is all fun and games until someone gets hurt." It was only a mild burn, but it was just in the right spot for his shoe to rub. I told him it was George Washington getting him back for calling his monument a pencil.

I think the Lincoln Memorial is best at night. The great man looks down at you, not dominantly or dismissively, but with concern. Concern for preserving the integrity of our democracy and our individual rights and freedoms we too frequently take for granted. Gazing up into that grave visage, I feel honored to be a small part of my nation's history. I may not make much of an impact, but I will try my best.

Day 184 Foreign Service Oral Assessment

I had waited a year for to take my Foreign Service Oral Assessment. I knew what I had to do to pass.

I missed the cutoff score last year by only one-third of a point because I screwed up the Case Management memo section. I was distracted and ran out of time, turning in a hasty and inadequate memo. This year I was prepared and finished that section with a satisfactory memo and time to spare. That went as planned; unfortunately, my six months of traveling left me unprepared for one of the other two sections, the interview.

The interview was my favorite part last year. This year, after six months of travel and intentionally forgetting everything about having a job, I could not come up with examples for their questions about my work experience. I blacked it all out. I rambled and struggled, and became nervous because I knew I was biffing it. It was terrible—my worst interview performance ever in my life.

At the end of the nerve wracking day I ended up with almost exactly the same score, one quarter of a point short. It was disappointing because it was my own stupid fault for not mentally preparing. I could have easily done better and passed I think. On the positive side, I get to continue traveling as planned rather than jumping into a demanding job. I will try again next year. It will be better timing anyway. Maybe I didn't really want it this year. I don’t feel overly disappointed.

The best part of the OA process is meeting the other applicants. I have been very impressed both times with the intelligence, skills, and experience of the other people. Not surprisingly, the challenging nature of the FS draws very interesting people from all over the world. Lucky for us, the OA process is riddled with long breaks between tasks, allowing everyone to share their stories. It was a good, albeit nerve wracking, day.

Day 181 The Worm in the Apple

I strolled across the Brooklyn Bridge yesterday and enjoyed the good weather. I could not bring myself to go to any museums or visit any other sights. After Paris I only wanted to walk and relax. I walked about 70 or 80 blocks and only took the grungy subway twice.

I had the unfortunate need to ask for help with the bus to DC. It is a discount bus run by a Chinatown company and does not have a storefront. At only $20 for oneway, I had no complaints other than I could not find the stop. Everyone I asked was brusque and not helpful, even customer service people at the bus station. It was amazing to see people go from friendly to rude as soon as I asked them to think a little. I talked to maybe ten people and none of them were glad to help me, not that they were helpful anyway. I am glad I was not staying longer. I finally found another Chinatown bus and I made my way to DC for my Foreign Service Oral Assessment.

Day 179 New York

I love good surprises and New York was it. My last visit to NY was when I was working as fashion photographer. The agency I was working for flew me and a group of models to a fashion convention for two weeks. The models were a pain, everything was overpriced, and people were rude everywhere I went. Needless to say, the Big Sour Apple left me with a lasting distaste.

To my astonishment this time, the people I met were outwardly friendly, prices were good, and I didn’t have to deal with models. Okay, so the last part wasn’t a surprise. Seriously, I was baffled by how nice people were. But of course, I did not need anything this time. I could manage to do things and get around without help. Patrícia had an experience more like my first time. She thinks that if I needed something of people they would have been rude. I’ll see if it is true. I don’t know if the prices are better than last time or if I shop at different places now. Also, compared to Paris and the bad exchange rate, NY is not bad at all.

I bought Rollerblades today and went to Central Park to try them out. It was a beautiful sunny day—that was good. The park is big with many places to skate—that was good. Everyone else in NY thought it was the perfect day to be in the park too—that was bad. The people that sold me my skates didn’t offer to sell me protective gear—that was bad. I was thinking it was like ice skating and didn’t consider protective gear—that was bad. I failed to learn how to stop well before I went down a big hill—that was very bad. I managed to not fall down—that was good. I did remove a chunk of skin from my hand—that was bad.

After my mishap, I put on my winter gloves, (it was cool anyway) and skated around about two thirds of the park, stopping occasionally to watch experienced skaters make me feel like I was mentally disabled. They make it look soooooo easy. I consoled myself with the fact that everything I had read about in-line skates said all beginners look like idiots. I will try again, but only with some pads.

I am working on a idea that I will continue to explore in my travels. It is this: If any busy food place claims to be the king of anything, I have to eat there. In NY's Chinatown I ran across the Custard King and could not resist. It looked as if it had been there a long time and I doubted that such a grand claim made on a giant cartoon sign, could be entirely wrong.

In exchange for my 75 cents the clerk handed me the warm little bundle of custard. I knew it was going to be good from the way it tried to escape the flakey pastry as I carried it. I took a seat in the sun drenched window and lifted it to my mouth, careful to not crush the delicate shell. The aroma of warm vanilla custard filled my senses as I took the first bite. Oh...delicious. So delicous, I had to set it down and take the picture above. And then I ate two more even though I wasn't hungry. I just cannot help myself when I am face with culinary genius.

Two other notable food "Kings" are Taco King in Washington/Oregon and The Kebab King in Granada. I will certainly keep my eyes peeled for more food nobility to test this theory.

Day 176 Going Rome Again

There is a certain pleasure inreturning to a familiar city. Specifically, everything is easier. On the first visit, I have to figure out how everything works. It takes a few days to work out the details of what is expected in stores (in which ones to pay first or later, self serve or not, etc..), how the metro and buses work (tickets, passes, automated kiosks, routes, transfers, etc..), what the accepted level of courtesy is, good places to eat and shop, and so on.

When I arrived back in Rome it was like an old friend. I knew how most everything worked, where things were, and what was expected. I could relax from the start. I easily found a better hostel than on my last visit and it was close to the central train station, Termini. Too bad I was only there for a day an a half.

After a nap, the first thing I did was to get some giant scoops of pistachio and coconut gelato from Old Bridge Gelato. OMG. I love that stuff. It was even better than I had remembered and I had to fight the urge to get seconds. Instead I walked the two blocks over to St. Peter’s Square and savored the grandeur of the enormous space as darkness enveloped the ancient city.

The next day I took a train to the town of Macarresse to check out a house for rent for my friend Chuck. I was hoping for a cute little Italian village but I ended up wandering in a bedroom community that could have been in almost any country. The house was nice though. On the trip back, I could not find anyplace to buy a return ticket and ended up riding for without one. I figured it was a small payback for the airport taxis in Paris.

I made it back to Rome in time for a free pasta dinner at the hostel. The little hunched-over Italian grandma in the hostel kitchen handed me a plate of penne that was barely coated with sauce and sparsely strewn with tomato chucks and beans. It looked like it needed a big scoop of sauce. I was wrong. Very wrong. I do not know how she managed to pack that much flavor into so little sauce. It was fantastic. Eating the perfectly al dente pasta, I felt guilty about my initial doubts and had to erase them with the distracting pleasure of another plate. I love travel!