It’s hot. Too hot. Small beads of sweat are forming on my forehead as the heavy weight of humidity presses in around me. The power has gone off in the school, and the kids sit fidgeting, struggle to complete their science experiments with the air conditioning turned off.
Last night, Vivi and I strolled past the noisy avenues of our Rio Vermelho neighborhood, searching for some place to grab a bite to eat after work. We ducked in and out of busses, lamenting at the accumulated aches and pains of our twelve hour day. How nice it would be to have a car, to escape the purgatory of public transport, to jump in a little Fiat and cruise around the city with the wind whipping through our hair.
With a frosty draft gripped listlessly between my fingers, a light foam mustache glistening on my face, I have begun to appreciate the brief respite of a Thursday night out. Time is short when you work full time, a kind of floating void of space that lives to be filled. Which activities shall I divert my attention to, what shall I do when I finally get home?
On this Thursday, time was chicken fingers smothered in garlic, hot pimenta sauce with some Arabian sides. Vivi sipped on a beer, as I glared lazily into my choppe. When I stop to think (on the rare occasion that I do), it is intimidating to think how fast life can change. Just over a year ago, I had arrived in Salvador with no job, no prospects, no girlfriend, and no Portuguese. My apartment was a cockroach infested dirty little corner of the universe, void of furniture or other complimentary marks of civilization. I was stressed, but free, hungry, but determined, swimming in the desire to find another life. Now, sitting on that stout totem of future earned, my life is much changed. I have a job, career prospects, a girlfriend, and hard won fluency. I have a new apartment full of stuff, blessedly free of rodents, and plenty of material trappings to gather dust on my shelves. Is this the natural way of things, to move from wanderer to a sedentary man—to sling oneself from the void of space to the material matrix of planet and place?
I do not know. I know little for sure with this sweat on my brow. Life remains, concrete or otherwise, a mystery better left unsolved. Strolling down the black and white sidewalks of Portuguese stone, the warm generosity of a woman marching at my side, I remain a butterfly floating through this silly world.
With a frosty draft gripped listlessly between my fingers, a light foam mustache glistening on my face, I have begun to appreciate the brief respite of a Thursday night out. Time is short when you work full time, a kind of floating void of space that lives to be filled. Which activities shall I divert my attention to, what shall I do when I finally get home?
On this Thursday, time was chicken fingers smothered in garlic, hot pimenta sauce with some Arabian sides. Vivi sipped on a beer, as I glared lazily into my choppe. When I stop to think (on the rare occasion that I do), it is intimidating to think how fast life can change. Just over a year ago, I had arrived in Salvador with no job, no prospects, no girlfriend, and no Portuguese. My apartment was a cockroach infested dirty little corner of the universe, void of furniture or other complimentary marks of civilization. I was stressed, but free, hungry, but determined, swimming in the desire to find another life. Now, sitting on that stout totem of future earned, my life is much changed. I have a job, career prospects, a girlfriend, and hard won fluency. I have a new apartment full of stuff, blessedly free of rodents, and plenty of material trappings to gather dust on my shelves. Is this the natural way of things, to move from wanderer to a sedentary man—to sling oneself from the void of space to the material matrix of planet and place?
I do not know. I know little for sure with this sweat on my brow. Life remains, concrete or otherwise, a mystery better left unsolved. Strolling down the black and white sidewalks of Portuguese stone, the warm generosity of a woman marching at my side, I remain a butterfly floating through this silly world.
4 comments:
Damn, I like your blog.
Ahh....I have never tried Choppe. Does it come draft from the tap, by the bottle or both? Boa tarde a voce e Vi.
Ahh...I have never tried choppe. Does it come from the tap, the bottle or both? Boa tarde a voce e Vi.
Butterfly needs to escape to Queimadas with me.
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