Grocery Shopping

I love grocery shopping. I have a sneaky suspicion that I just love food. But no, come to think of it, I love all that grocery shopping entails. Reading labels. Comparing prices. Developing a pathway through the store. Discovering new products. Spending money. Getting inspired to make this food or that food. Buying myself a special treat. Or two. Or thr- alright, that's enough. I even love re-stocking the empty cupboards and fridge when I arrive home with a load of bags. Aaaaaah. Just thinking of it makes me haaaaappy!

When I'm on my bike, I try to make sure that I don't buy more than I should carry. Or at least, I will now. On one particular bike ride home from the grocery store I was overloaded, to say the least. And as I tried to maintain a very precarious balance between this and that side of me, it dawned on me that I was doing the exact type of thing that would make my mother worry about if she could see a snapshot of my life at that particular moment. The good thing is, God answers prayer. I kid you not: people and cars moved out of my pathway in miraculous fashion. As I finally reached my apartment I thought to myself, Well, it's too bad that worked out. Now I'll probably do it again. (Just kidding, Mom.)

When I go by foot or by bus, however, it's a whole different ball game, so to speak. A No Weight-Limit rule comes into effect and I'm allowed to get everything. This past month, I got on the bus and the money collector man asked me if I wanted help getting my things over the turnstyle. Yes, I certainly did. He lifted two bags over and was like, Woah. Then he lifted another, and another . . . and his surprise made me realize I really was carrying a decent amount of weight. So as I passed by a drugstore at the end of my bus ride, I decided to pop in and weigh myself with all my bags. I was carrying 21kg. A little less than half my weight. Now I don't wonder why I've got more muscle than I've ever had before. :)

Ode to Roach

Early one morning . . .
Enter Joy, in semi-darkness.
Shadow creeps along Floor in Shower Stall.
Light.
Shadow stops.
Shadow is Cockroach.
Joy stares at Cockroach.
Cockroach pretends not to exist.
Joy stares at Cockroach.
Cockroach observes he is observed.
Skuttle, skuttle, skuttle.
Exit Joy, in search of Flip Flop.
Re-enter Joy, in search of Cockroach.
Cockroach has disappeared.
Hide-and-seek.
Cockroach is good.
But not good enough.
Dark Corner does not make Cockroach invisible.
Enter Flip Flop.
Skuttle, skuttle, skuttle.
Skuttle, skuttle, SMACK.
Smack.Smack.Smack.
Flip Flop: 1.
Cockroach: Dead.
Poor Cockroach.

Remember to Always be Late

I’ve been living here in Brazil for two and a half years now, and the longer I’m here, the more all things Brazilian feel normal. I don’t even think of things as being Brazilian in the sense of being different than me or different to what I’m used to. In so many ways I have adjusted internally to my external surroundings. Things simply are what they are, and there is something right about them being that way. It’s the way they are supposed to be.

Everything except for one thing. There is something inside of me that defies adaptation. My relationship to Time.

About a month ago I was invited to a baby shower at 3:30pm on a Sunday afternoon. I gussied up and hopped on my bike at 3:20pm, heading off to my destination in a bit of a hurry because I should have given myself 15 minutes to get there instead of ten. As I approached the apartment building where the shower was being held it dawned on me that I was in Brazil, and was probably arriving way, way too early for the party. In fact, I was right on time . . . to help the people throwing the party set up. Stymied.

Three short days later I had arranged to go out for pizza at 7pm with some girls from school. I left my apartment with time to spare, this time on foot. I got distracted by a cute little store along the way. Not too distracted, however, thanks to my internal alarm clock that sent me out the door in good time to arrive on schedule. As I reached the threshold of the restaurant entrance, a familiar feeling passed over me along with a thought, – Oh MAN, I might be the only one here. Indeed I was. I chose a table and proceeded to read everything in sight. Then I read through all the text messages on my cell phone. Next I scrutinized the decor of the restaurant and contemplated it’s effect upon the atmosphere of the place. I read through the one piece of paper I had in my purse. Then I just sat and thought. After half an hour I got a phone call letting me know that someone was on their way. Foiled again.

Yesterday I went to the movies. I went by myself because I’d been wondering what it would feel like to go see a movie alone (my life is one such experiment after another these days). I bought my ticket and went off in search of reasonably priced food at the grocery store, only to realize that the movie was going to start in five minutes. I gave up on the food and went into the theater, arriving at 2:20, just as the movie was about to start. Well, let me rephrase that. Just as the movie was supposed to start. It turns out I was the only one there for a while, being ambienced by pre-movie music. Eventually people straggled in and eventually the movie got rolling. I didn’t even pay attention to when.

It would be nice to say that now I’ve definitely learned my lesson: Remember to always be late. But I know I haven’t and I know I can´t. There’s no reset button on my internal alarm clock to reconfigure the culture I’m from.