A
Day at the Beach
February 9, 2005
My room here
at the beach house in Florianopolis has the look of one of those laundry
detergent commercials, with a lacy curtain lazily sighing into the room
before getting sucked back in, clinging ever so lightly to the wall. One
of the shutters is closed, keeping out a bit of the heat, but the white
light punching through the holes in the veil has that magical freshness
that only the coast can offer. Sadly, this tasty sight hasn't greeted
me every day here at the beach, but it's one of the staples I've come
to love about life at the beach.
Right now I'm sitting with my laptop at my makeshift workstation, plugged
up against the weathered stone wall. The temperature outside yesterday
was a beach-perfect 85, but my gringo skin and permavacation lethargy
kept me from hopping the 200 yards to one of the most glorious beaches
you've never seen. Today will be different, though, I tell myself.
So here it is: a day at the beach. House.
11:30 AM This morning I awoke to find the rest of the
beach-house residents — my aunts and uncle — had already made
the short walk to the beach. But they've left me some squishy slices of
too-ripe mango, which I slurp down piece by slippery piece. It's gone
in 30 seconds.
12:15 PM Closing the bathroom door behind me, I see that
my bath towel again is not where I left it. This means that the cleaning
aunts have gotten to it again, managing to wash and dry it on the line
without my knowledge. Whatever their trick, it has unsurpassed softness
and a fragrance just like that which you imagine in the Downey commercials,
but never quite get with machines and plastic containers. The Kramer in
me wants to bottle up this smell and sell it to CK, bottle it up in one
of those little medicine jars or whatevers with the corks and the sand
that the girls always used to make on vacation.
On to the shower. It's surprisingly warm, which I figure is because of
the sun heating the big tank on top of the house, but then I realize it's
the doing of an electrical device attached to the showerhead. After drying
off I put my towel back in the same place I left it last, secretly hoping
it'll disappear again before tomorrow's shower.
12:30 PM And the ‘tives are back, swingin' into
full gear with lunch, which will commence about 1 or 1:30. The Beatles
are belting out their best next door at the adjoined residence of my uncle's
fam, and I wander over there to see what's cookin'. My feeble offers for
help denied, I wait on the couch.
1:15 PM The meal once again delivers, with fish and salt
and salad and salt. I help myself to seconds before I realize the table
is being cleared, and people are already jockeying for dish duty. Understanding
this is best left to those inexperienced in the ways of the kitchen, I
find the nearest sponge and hip-check my aunts away from the sink.
1:45 PM The afternoon is consumed by lazy activities:
novelas and resting and jornal-reading and hammock-lying and sunbathing
and all-around indolence. My aunt is taking a nap in her hammock, and
the stone floor roasting my feet convinces me I should do the same. My
tome of choice today is a piece on social networks — not exactly
beach material, but it'll do.
5:00 PM The sun has nestled its way down between the
trees behind the house, and the temperature has knocked itself down a
few notches, cool enough to consider goin' for a run. As I don my trusty
sneaks, I see that the yesterday's run through the dusty red roads has
managed to rust up my silver Adidas. Though not as bad as the other “treats”
that stuck to the bottom of my shoes last week, the dirt is enough to
convince me to switch routes today, take off my shoes, and run on the
beach.
8:00 PM Back, showered, and working on my projects at
the laptop, I'm hailed from my room by my tia Lilian, who has laid out
the fixins for dinner — sandwich stuff — which I am happy
to consume. The ham is watery, the bologna flat and stiff, and the cheese
processed, but it's not the Ritz. I balance it with a little $3 red wine
– gelada – from the refrigerator, and all is back to fine.
12:30 AM Evening novelas over, the elder statesmen of
the beach house withdraw to their quartos, and the few fuzzy channels
on the TV are mine. I turn it on to a little of the Carnaval show up in
Rio, about to start.
Carnaval On TV
(Disclaimer: I really should give more space to Carnaval, I know; but
the REAL, everyday, black-beans-and-rice family in Brazil experiences
Carnaval like many of us in the US experience the ball drop on New Year's
— on TV.)
12:50 AM It takes me about 20 minutes to realize this
Carnaval thing is going to take all night. You see, there are all these
different schools in the Carnaval parade, and each Carnaval school (literally
thousands of people of all ages) gets about 45 minutes to strut their
stuff in front of a grandstand. So, it's not really much of a parade in
the American high-school / college football / Macy's sense, where the
whole thing is over in a couple hours. It's more of a now-it's-your-turn-to-show-us-your-cool-outfits
runway show, where each show takes 45 minutes and then you wait like 30
minutes for the next show to start. Not exactly instant gratification.
For months all these schools have been meeting at nights and weekends
perfecting ostentatious floats, costumes (or lack thereof), and their
walking/dancing choreography. Before each school gets started, the reporters
go up to all of the main people and ask them questions about stuff I don't
understand, while I just sit in my folding chair propped in the living
room wondering when the real thing is gonna get goin'. Then finally, finally!
the first school is ready.
1:10 AM Beija Flor's music leaders — a gang of
about 15 guys in a side staging area — are belting out their chosen
musical chant/song thing that they'll repeat for the next 40 minutes,
while the mob of people in crazy outfits — orange, yellow, and white
— start their presentation for the crowd amassed above. You'd think
hearing a song over and over for 45 minutes would be rough, and you'd
be right. But the parade of color is enough to compensate.
1:40 AM I move my chair a bit closer to the 10-inch screen
and look for hot chicks jiggling. I closely examine each of the jewels
adorning every shimmying model-hot dancer, hoping maybe the jewel-putter-onner
missed some crucial areas. Evidently having similar thoughts, the cameraman
zooms and pans and tilts, leaving no stoned unturned, so to speak.
2:15 AM The shame of drooling in front of scantily clad
7-inch-tall dancers and the shame of actually turning off such a magical
spectacle collide, and I'm caught in the gooey middle. After contorting
my face in self-disgust, I decide to give in to my tired eyes and reach
for the power button. The room goes black, and I zombie-walk to my bedroom,
the buzz of the still-hot TV fading away and the images of those misplaced
jewels burned on my brain.
I'll sleep well.
Carl Winter is a Taiwan-born
Brazilian/American dual-citizen, living in Brazil for the first time at
the age of 27. The posted stories, pictures, and digit$ are meant to give
an indication of the daily fabric of Brazil — from an outsider's
inside perspective.
If you are planning a trip to Brazil, or just want to say hi, email him
here.
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