In my new life this weekend, there was work… there was A LOT of baking. There was watching Euro-movies on my laptop in the background. AND THEN… there was a baptism?

One of these things is not like the others, I KNOW, but do you remember this?

When I arrived in Calgary at the end of October, the little bean had grown to this:

And now, she’s a WHOLE KID! In honour of her jettisoning her original sin this weekend, by mom’s request, I baked a vanilla cake with lemon curd and vanilla bean frosting that read, “Yay yay, Sia’s baptised today”, and then 12 cupcakes with a lemon centre and 12 plain vanilla—all with a baby foot on them. I did it because Sia’s a baby (and has feet), but the more religious amongst us preferred to see something divine in the decoration. I was told not to ask, lest the conversation devolve into politics. (!!)

ANYWAY: for my new best friend, Sia, I spent a ton of hours in my new kitchen (which I haven’t learned to love yet)—but I will do anything for my best friend. She’s that awesome, at just 5 months old…

and it’s her party, so she can pick at the fondant if she wants to… (ick, baby! Please don’t eat it!)

I *love* this kid. Funniest, most easy-going bébé I’ve ever seen. Currently the best person I know.

So I guess my life is kinda the same, but long live the differences!

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?

Sipping Absinthe and enjoying some pre-schnitzel appetisers:

I’m up in Prince George, experiencing one of the last New Year’s of the globe. And I, for one, am SO GLAD 2011 is over. It was a hard year—not bad, per se, but not easy at all. I’m not afraid of a challenge, but some of this year was just garbage-y. Some smoother sailing would be A-OK by me.

I probably set some great resolutions last year and then proceeded NOT to follow through on any of them… I’ve never been as slack as I have been the second half of 2011. But there are some things I want to see happen in the first half of 2012 because Slack Stephanie doesn’t feel quite like home.

I want to send more letters. I suck at mailing, but I’d like to overcome that particular limitation. Send me an address if you want to be included in this particular desire.

I want finally to start writing the historical fiction I’ve been thinking about.

I want to do yoga every day. Not a whole HOUR everyday, maybe, but my hamstring/quad issue on the right side has sidelined my group fitness intentions, and that shit makes me feel old. If I can’t jump, run, kick, lunge, squat and make merry, what’s the point?

And most of all, I want to live more. It’s hard freaking work for me (and a lot easier to stick my head into individual endeavours and avoid living REAL LIFE), but it’s coming along.

I’m a little bit too afraid of the still burnt-out kid that I am to make any more defined resolutions than that—my lack of stamina these days still scares me. Maybe just being patient with myself (yay! My strength! :S ) till the burn-out recedes is the key. For that reason, while I do *really* mean to come back to blogging—and reading blogs—sometimes, sleep and / or doing nothing will take precedence.

You guys are so great, however, that I do plan to celebrate all of you a whole lot more in 2012, too.

Be well.

Be happy.

Be. And I will be thrilled to be with you all in the interweb, too.

Happy New Year, everyone!

I have a job.

I LOVE my job.

This is a GREAT day for me:

Me, my laptop playing Christmas carols, and the endless binders I sift through doing research. SWEET! But even better… see that cup? The ampersand means love. Love, and a quad Phil & Sebastian cappuccino.

But I’m really posting this because I want advice: this weekend, I’m painting my soon-to-be room. After 6 months and 2 weeks as a homeless couch-surfer, I’m reasserting my personhood and getting my own space again.

My entire house in Prince George was white. Outside, inside: it was 100% asylum, all the time. Now that the lunatic is on the loose, she’s going for some colour…

(photo from RealSimple.com, right here)

Thoughts?

Especially—pink ceiling: love it or hate it? I’m also considering doing the ceiling in a creamy off-white (’cause I can’t afford to replace my RED comforter.)

… …

… … … 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!

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?

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?

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.

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 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?