Currently, I am reading the "Silence of the Rain" by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza-- this title could not be anymore correct for Rio lately. As I sit on my veranda dressed with my sweatshirt, jeans and tennis shoes, watching the water stream down from the roof, I am reminded that I am in Rio de Janeiro: it should be warm with rays of sun hitting the pavement instead of gallons of rain. The rain has been relentless for the past week, and on and off for the month I have been here.
It's a good day to be lazy and tuck into a book. My book happens to be a mystery novel that takes place in Rio de Janeiro: Downtown, to be more exact, but meanders throughout the city as Inspector Espinoza tries to uncover a peculiar killing in a parking garage downtown that is morphing into more and more killings.
As I frequently look up to watch the rain while reading my book, I can't help but to feel like I haven't accomplished anything today. That poses another question: what really is accomplishment? Accomplishment is so subjective. I went to the bank today in Copacabana and waiting in line for one and a half hours to be attended without blowing a gasket, when it should have taken 30 mins. That's quite an accomplishment. A couple people waiting gave up and left. Not I! Also, I accomplished adding more pictures to my facebook account with my snail connection that similarily took forever, but I did it! It seems to me that today has been a productive day. The best news is that it isn't over yet.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Arrival
September 7, 2009, 10:11 a.m.
Tom Jobim International Airport, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Exhausted from less than three hours of sleep and bad inflight movies, I emerged from the plane, only to find myself in another line waiting to pass through customs. "Ma'am, is this your computer? Will this computer be returning with you to the United States? Did you bring any other electronics with you?" the custom's officer queried, as it is his job to be nosey, but not really caring. "Oh, you're going to study here and you speak Portuguese?" surprised, as if it was some type of novelty- an American that speaks another language besides English. Amazing.
After customs, one gets bombarded with taxi agents trying to get you an outrageously overpriced taxi ride, most likely if you are a "gringo," to the Zona Sul area. If this happens, sometimes, you can just go outside and ask for a metered taxi. It's easy to get duped in Rio when it comes to services as a foreigner. My thoughts on that are the following: it isn't that much more money and this is their only income- I make three times what they do, so it's hardly worth fighting about. It's just not nice to feel like someone is trying to take advantage of you.
So, R$80 poorer and slight grossed out by the taxi driver's gas (stopped once to use the bathroom, claiming it was from having an acai), I arrived safely at my little apartment in Copacabana- little is not an exageration, plus the hookers and pimps on the street at night give it a fabulous added touch.
Safe and sound, as the cliche is, I relaxed.
Tom Jobim International Airport, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Exhausted from less than three hours of sleep and bad inflight movies, I emerged from the plane, only to find myself in another line waiting to pass through customs. "Ma'am, is this your computer? Will this computer be returning with you to the United States? Did you bring any other electronics with you?" the custom's officer queried, as it is his job to be nosey, but not really caring. "Oh, you're going to study here and you speak Portuguese?" surprised, as if it was some type of novelty- an American that speaks another language besides English. Amazing.
After customs, one gets bombarded with taxi agents trying to get you an outrageously overpriced taxi ride, most likely if you are a "gringo," to the Zona Sul area. If this happens, sometimes, you can just go outside and ask for a metered taxi. It's easy to get duped in Rio when it comes to services as a foreigner. My thoughts on that are the following: it isn't that much more money and this is their only income- I make three times what they do, so it's hardly worth fighting about. It's just not nice to feel like someone is trying to take advantage of you.
So, R$80 poorer and slight grossed out by the taxi driver's gas (stopped once to use the bathroom, claiming it was from having an acai), I arrived safely at my little apartment in Copacabana- little is not an exageration, plus the hookers and pimps on the street at night give it a fabulous added touch.
Safe and sound, as the cliche is, I relaxed.
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