I've been thinking about home a lot lately.
What makes a home? How do you locate home?
What words, ideas, images define a home? What does "home" really mean to you?

How would you answer?

I've been asking around. Since I am in a community of expats, I thought their range of experiences would be enlightening. Some have been moving around for over a decade, some have created their families abroad- and some are wrapping it up, heading back..."home".

Many times I got straight forward answers. Some expected, and others not so much.
Once in a while I was told I think too much and should just look for the good times-- live in the moment. Not bad advice, but also not the point.

I am not feeling as critical of my own situation as I did a few months ago. I no longer plan my escape late nights while listening to the traffic sing its incessant tune of breaks and engines and horns in the streets below. But I do continue to ask myself what is home? Am I home now? Where is.... what is...what do I tell my children? Where is their home? How should they feel anchored - build a sense of self if this apartment is not home?
How should I?
And yet, I can say this place is definitely not fulfilling my sense of home.

While I roam around in search of a sense of home for myself and my family, I feel bound to ask: What do you think? What/ Where is home?

What is home? I am beginning to feel home as a memory, rather than an experience or a place I can pin point with a detailed description anyone could follow and find for themselves.

Where is home? Home is where my children and spouse are.

What is home? Home is where I grew up- my point of reference.

Where is home? Home is where I can laugh with ease.

What is home? Home is where my native tongue is spoken.

Where is home? Home is where my parents live.

Where is home? Home is lots of places all at once. We are in the grand scheme of things nomadic. World travelers. We arrive, settle, make friends and share some time with others. We form bonds. It hurts when they are broken. And then, we too move on. I know how our friends back home feel. Here, we are left behind too. And yet, we move on. And after a while back home feels like the starting place, and perhaps the finishing place. But it is one of many stops along the way as well.

Home. Place, people, sounds, smells, memories.

What is home? Home is a place of memories we to which we cling. But if we ever tried to return there, we would be miserably disappointed.

Where is home? Home is where my spiritual center is.

Where is home? Home is the space between 2 people.

What is home? Home is a place of strength, renewal. A place full of people you can return to any time. Home is where you go when you feel lost. Home is where you are loved unconditionally, and can love back that way.

The Stuff

Coming back to the US for Christmas break was a marathon of packing.
Shopping for gifts small enough or light enough to fit into three bags. What? Yes, I traveled with six big red bags to the US. The other three? Oh, they were filled with empty cardboard boxes and one extra large duffel bag. Yes, I was planning on filling three suitcases and the extra large duffel bag while in the States. And I did. Thank- you- very- much.

One month later, packing for the return trip was very much like packing that first time around back in July. Stressful.
How to cram everything into seven suitcases?! A 6-month supply of so many items we felt we really needed but couldn't find or didn't want to fork over the extortioner's prices charged in S.P.., new toys I thought they would , "get so much out of", stuff for the kitchen, stuff for the winter season, stuff for Alex, stuff for me... And still many things were left behind....

Things carry great weight. Is it because things cause such stress? Stress to find the right things, at the right price. Stress to purchase over the Internet and pay the shipping fee, or trudge out into the winter landscape of Chicago's suburban malls - to find or not to find....
stress over how much it weighs, and how to package it just right so that in case the suitcase is opened, I am not exposed for what I am: an importer! will they charge me if I have 10 tubes of crest extra whitening tooth paste in my suitcase? do I pack them all together or waste plastic zip lock baggies on 10 separate tubes and disperse them? how many fit into a sneaker?

And once the stuff is in the suitcase, and the red bag is zipped, it has to be weighed. 70 lbs, not an ounce more. Shit! just over the mark! lug the thing back down to the floor, unzip it, and rummage around to find the one thing that will make the difference. I feel I am trapped in a Froggie book: zoop! zap! zip! and still, after all his efforts, little Froggie does not go out to play in the snow because he forgot his long under ware, and now he is just too tired to take all his clothes off one more time. So, he goes back to bed.
But I can't go to bed. In fact I can't sleep! No! This has to be done. Zoop! Zap! Zip! This organizing of the Stuff. And indeed, for three days, it is the all consuming project. Stuff over flows and over takes my "vacation".

Do we really need all the stuff?
The thoughts swirl, hovering above "no".

On the other side, I think, things will look different. That is once we have successfully passed through customs. Hmmm....

Our I-can't-get-these-kids-to-stand-still-and-be-quiet kids were for once a boon.

Just imagine adding another hour or more to an already long painful morning of: landing, standing in line, sweating, standing in line more, running off for the bathroom, running back for Kleenex because there is no toilet paper, running back to the bathroom and finally back to the line only to find it hadn't moved much, sweating more, drinking warm water, playing every version of 'I spy' one can think of, standing, sitting, children crawling around on the floor, children whining, children crying, children running under all the lane barriers to the very far end of the room and refusing to come back into the line (who can blame them really)...and then finally(!) the passports are pushed under the glass barrier, the official at her computer terminal asks us about the stamps, the forms, the extra papers. While we are trying to answer all her questions in Portuguese without loosing track of the kids or saying the wrong things (= confusing her and standing around some more), I am wondering if the customs official at the end of the hall way will stop us and demand to go through our stuff.
As we approach, each pushing a towering cart of suitcases, he waves Alex over. The kids get restless again, and I sigh, and then they explode as they sense our newly found forward momentum is coming to an end. They melt quickly. The light in the customs official's eyes fades. His almost hungry look turns to a sour apathy. He counts, he remarks on how much stuff we are pushing, Alex makes a 'second half of the move' joke- to which the customs official retorts 'better be careful next time'.

IS HE KIDDING?!

Right then, all I want to do is yell, 'Hey! What about that family of four right in front of us! They are pushing at least 15 bags! You didn't say anything to them about THEIR STUFF!' But I restrain myself and we move on.

Had the customs official actually stopped us and rummaged through the bags, I think we would all have imploded. Right there- a puddle of American frustrations- yuck.

Once in the lobby area of the airport, we scan for a driver holding a "Navarrete"sign. The boys are elated with this new space, and begin to run around in big circles yelling and playing a spontaneously created Stars Wars game. The carts of luggage function like shields, bases, "Darth Vader's hideout!". No other child in the terminal lets loose like this. With our bags towering above us like the leaning Tower of Pisa in technicolor and two loud stir crazed children, we quickly become the focus of attention from every direction. Despite our discomfort, we give them a minute to release some steam, hoping the driver for the van we hired will rise from beneath floor tiles like a genie out of a bottle at any minute.
But he does not.
It takes some time to figure out he is at another terminal. Then it takes him an hour to find us. As he arrives, the boys are reigned in and confined to the area just around our two carts. The few Reais I had in my purse went for cantina-like coffee, dry sandwiches, and cold water. It must have been 85 degrees in the airport lobby area. Even our stuff looked like it was sweating.

By early afternoon, we are all loaded up, and ready for the hour-long drive to our Brazilian home.

As the clouds gather for the daily afternoon downpour, we arrive.
The big red bags are unloaded on the sidewalk because the van does not fit through the security gates. Together, Alex and I carry them one by one up a small set of stairs through the security gates and into our lobby. Cool air greets us.
Once we, the car seats, the kids and all seven bags are upstairs - several trips in the small elevator- I am filled with childlike anticipation at the thought of opening all that stuff!

A day later, the daunting task begins.
For many days, I am absorbed in the undoing of the carefully packed suitcases. In a way it feels like peeling a gigantic onion, or unwinding a huge ball of yarn. Unloading the clothes, the shoes, the extra clothes for next season, the spices, cleaning products, toiletries, games, stuff wrapped in stuff and more stuff. At some point I stop and look around. Quickly I tally the days... it seems I have spent an inordinate number of days thinking about and dealing with all this stuff.
Is it worth it?

Suddenly the suitcases see small.
The contents seem all wrong.
So much is missing.

I wish we'd brought back different stuff!
Well, not entirely. Some items bring a tingle of joy- an elation of sorts- as if a small victory had been won.

And this leads me to ask, to try to ask:
What is the importance of stuff in our lives?
We all collect more than we need. Some of us collect more than that. Some of us are good at recycling- giving it away- tossing it away, never buying it in the first place. Some of us are less good at this. But regardless, why all the effort?

Stuff collects dust. Stuff attracts mold. Stuff binds emotions- emotions tied up in memories we are afraid we will forget. Stuff, our physical reminder that we have done something, been somewhere, said something that was once meaningful. And still is meaningful because we can share it all over again, relive it in some way- because we have the stuff to show for it.

Stuff is a burden. A reminder of something not accomplished. A nagging, a gnawing, a persistent scratching of the surface.

Stuff is heavy. Seven times 70 pounds of stuff! My back hurts, my shoulder hurts. I have bruises from hauling it, pushing it, pulling it.

Stuff once unpacked, and put into context: a home: becomes a part of the fabric of home. Stuff transforms. We feel transformed by the stuff. Oh look at my new pillow cases! Now the sofa is comfortable to sit on, and I have something to hold while I read, or talk.......Oh look at the vase on the table, now the table doesn't look so empty- it looks more" alive". Now I feel like I am here- the stuff has personalized this otherwise impersonal space.

I just love this new pot! Can't wait to cook with it!
Microfiber to save the day!

Stuff.
That Crest toothpaste is soooo great! It doesn't get all gooey like the Crest I can buy here, and it tastes "better". So glad I used all those plastic baggies.

But once stored in cupboards or put to use, the importance of the stuff, the expectation of the relief the stuff will bring, ultimately fades.

On occasion I delight in something I brought back. Like the new coffee pot. I have steaming coffee in three minutes every morning. And the nice smelling hand cream does bring on a smile whenever I pass a hand in front of my face- say in traffic as I am about to collide with a bulldozer like SUV. And I do like the Crest better.

Stuff is not a total waste of time. However, for the first time I am really coming to realize how many things we gather around us to create comfort. And this in turn prompts me to wonder about comfort. Where and how we seek it, for example. And the role of all these things in securing this feeling. How deeply we feel the ability to "be comfortable" in ourselves vs. the creation of comfort zones outside ourselves seems to be at the heart of the matter.

Whilst I try to come to some deeper conclusion about comfort, I will undoubtedly continue to seek out those things which I feel we need for our life here in Brazil filling my suitcases with stuff on each return trip.

Tethered to the top of our building

Writing every week was my goal. Hmmm....it seems I am lucky if I get here once a month.
Life in this city- rather this location because I still do not feel that I live in this city, is slowly taking a shape.
How?
Well, for starters, I started driving.
As much as I fear the roads here, I have come to realize that I don't feel I am here- a part of being here if I am not behind the wheel of my own car.
-- Which at the moment is the company car, a black Toyota Corolla, with tinted windows, and cream leather interior. So the ride is not one of my choice. But expressing my self through my car has never really been one of my priorities. It is better to be one of thousands of black Toyota Corollas on the roads in this city. It is also a good idea to write down your parking spot number whenever you park anywhere but in your own garage... on your hand .... or you'll NEVER find your car again!--

Driving here is an odd experience once the adrenaline releases the brain, of course. My instincts are all way out of sync with the, er... "rhythm" here. We are trained to follow rules, even when we break them, we know which rules we are breaking. Here, it seems that the rule is drive with the flow, interrupt the flow to show you have power, break out of the flow to show others what bad drivers they all are, and take any open spot not matter how small or how much it will add to congestion because it may just be your ticket out of the mess they call daily traffic. And always everything is "all good".
One does not take turns. One uses one's signals as a warning sign to motorcyclists who weave between lanes of traffic tooting their horns as they zip around cars and trucks. However, one does give way, and and give signs of thanks with a show of thumbs up- when it is safe to open a window- or through the front windshield when it is not safe.... and some even toot their horns in cute little farty tones to show "its all good".

This morning, I had my first "I can't believe this" experience as a driver. In order to turn from the street into the driveway of our condo, I had to roll my window down, hold out my hand for the traffic to stop cutting around me while I made the 3 second turn, and at the same time watch for motorcyclists, and on-coming traffic which did not stop of its own choice, but rather because I drove out in front of them. Investing in good breaks is a must.

Now, one might wonder why I am driving my own car when we have employed a driver. And there are two reasons. Primarily, I had to send the driver "motorista" home yesterday when I saw that he was breaking out in a sweaty fever, and looking more like the ashen streets than his usual tan self.
He protested as he tried to put my children into their car seats and buckle them in; breathing his clearly contagious germs all over them, the car, and me!
In my broken Portuguese, I finally said something like, "I do not want to take your sickness." Lovely.

Now, I could have called in a temporary replacement, or given over to taxi services, but instead I chose to jump in. Why take on this madness??
Because there was something else nagging me: I needed to drive.
I've been thinking a lot about what our lives are going to be like in January. Our plan was I would drive with my new license when we return from our visit back home. Clearly, however, the need to get behind the wheel took over the time table.
And the return on the experience of swallowing my heart as I push my way across traffic is: I am suddenly connected in a way I didn't imagine.

So, day #2 I am still driving.
Note, I am not going too far. Nothing crazy like crossing the river into the big city. No. I am battling truck, bikers, crazy drivers, cyclists, dogs, and occasional pedestrians on the streets I recognize.

Streets.
Names of streets are long. No simple "Pine Street". Always something like Rua Dr. Nelson Gamma de Oliveria. And after an intersection, or a even a three way intersection the name of the street changes. I wonder: is that because there are just sooo many important people whose contribution must be honored, that there are not enough streets for each to have his (very few women) own? Maybe. There are, after all 25 million people currently living here. If one can count living in a favela ( aka slum, ghetto, shanty town) as "living" rather than surviving. But that is for another post.

The other interesting thing about trying to figure out where one is- or how to get somewhere else based on names of streets, is that the whole name for a street is usually too long to fit on a small blue sign. So, the sign carries only one part of the name in bold, large enough for a person traveling at 35 miles per hour to read. One might think that choosing the last name as the primary identifier would be a good idea, but there are soo many streets sharing the last name that in many cases the second to last name is used. But sometimes just the first name with the title is used, for example, "Rua Dr. Alfonso". And in this last case, there are, when one looks 'Rua Dr. Alfonso' up, at least 20 of those.

And finally, over 80% of the streets here are one way. Many of the two way streets do not allow a left handed turn. The result? One drives miles out of one's way just to cross the street. No wonder the traffic is madness.

Now I don't know about you but I tend to associate with the names of the streets near my home. So there might be a fondness for, say the name of the street my apartment building is located on. Even if it minor. I create a kind of identification with the street. Strange? perhaps. I associate feelings of calm or joy or stress or irritation with other streets as the character of those streets becomes familiar to me. But if I can't actually name the street, if I can't give you directions to my house using the names, because I can't figure out what to call them, the very streets that make up my daily reality, that constitute the visuals of my "life" here remain as incomprehensible as the rest of the city.
Well, as I said before, I feel as though I am tethered to the top of this building; we swing past the sights as if the bungee cord would slow down long enough for us to catch the name, and in doing so find the comfort zone needed to let go and land on the street, claiming it from the back drop of all the thousands of streets we can see but not name as we go around and around and around.

Driving helps. I still can't give or understand good directions, but at least I can make it to the store to buy milk.

Walking would help.
And I try.
But I am told over and over: it is not safe. period. don't do it.
I will figure out where we can walk, and then walk we will! I fear if we don't we'll never let go of this tether.

Short Lists, part 2

SHORT LISTS

things i like :

the patience of all the people around us
smiling
the blooming flowers
tons and tons of wild green plants
the kids' school
open air fruit& veggie market on Friday
a double sided fridge with ice maker and water dispenser
a double oven
a big living room
5 bathrooms
a swimming pool
kd lange
speakers in every room
watching the weather roll in
garbage disposal
easy recycling
parking the car in the garage
leaving the city


things i do not like:

the social inequality is so extreme and so ingrained and in our faces in a way that makes this ultimately an unbearable place to live

crime potential and real
grammar
the unnecessary complication of all actions seemingly simple
the extreme expense of daily living
pollution
traffic noise 24/7
traffic
crazy driving
not enough safe places to walk- to go for a walk

serving, servants, service.....

serving, servants, service.....


"Dona Marie-Louise, "Now you are a Madame!""
"Don't worry about this, you'll never do laundry again."
"Do you think they have shades or screens where they come from? They are used to working like this."
"He is so pleased to be serving you, that he'll work for free on Saturdays."
"Don't worry, he'll wait. This is what he is paid to do."

please. thank you. you are welcome.

you are welcome. welcome. I don't get to say that much. You are welcome usually follows a thank you for something you have done for someone else. Here, I don't do much for others. Instead, they are doing for me. But after the first few days of 'thank you', I felt like I was meditating on thanks- i was saying it at the end of almost every sentence. Granted I didn't have many other words to reach for at the end of a ride, or for an open door, or a cooked meal, or directions, or a phone call, or just telling me where the bathroom can be found! Thank you. I-- I don't know what else to say.

thumbs up. that's cool. okay. right on. all good. thank you.

*but I am being served...

*i show humility by showing I am aware that someone is doing something for me-

*but what is being done? nothing special. a job. too much gratefulness makes the employee loose respect, makes the position seem lame- turns it into a kind of jello- makes the doer of the task question the strength of the employer... i don't want to work for a weak person, be part of a weak group. no. i want to be part of a strong group- a proud group- have a fearless leader. Belong to the elite! don't you?

* hmmm.....i just don't buy it....

i am being served. I am the Dona. The Madame. I set the tone.
I am also in need of help. I don't have enough language...don't know where to buy things...how to ask for.... can't actually set up my household....without many many many thanks....

Pride and humility
Respectful employer
New Expat on the block
Smile and wave, thumbs up and thank you, again.

I can't wait to say "you're welcome"!

Water and Star Wars

here the water from the tap is suspect. Although the water from our tap comes from a well deep beneath the building, and is fit to drink, we use the filter and the grocery store. We'll do a taste test soon though and find out whether we like well water too.
For most, water comes through a filter or from plastic bottles. Mineral water is really big here, and after drinking the plastic water for two months, our whole family converted to the bubbly water. This too comes in plastic but the bubbles negate the plastic taste. Water, water everywhere- but no where to drink....
For example one often sees water running down the street, in little gullies along the sidewalk- where there is one- sometimes crossing the street creating a deep enough dip that cars go over them as if they were speed bumps. This water comes from fresh springs under the pavement, and forces its way up to the surface. because there are so many of them, architects devise outlets for the water when they design new buildings. So in some areas of the city there is a constant flow of water in the gutter along the sidewalk.
Or in our case, they use the spring to feed the building.

Water is used in copious amounts to clean terraces- bathrooms, kitchens. All are built with drains in the middle of the floor, and water is just splashed around. Then comes a broom with a cloth on the end of it to scrub the surfaces. Some kind of soap is also used, sometimes. Mostly people wash everything down, on a weekly or even daily basis.
This seems especially important now, in the Winter when the weather is so dry. Dust cruises the air, trolling for open spaces to invade and surfaces on which to settle.
But dust is not alone. In fact it might blow past some of the balconies and open windows if it weren't for its sidekick: pollution. I know many people reading this blog will note that I talk about pollution frequently. Let me tell you I do not mention it as often as I clean it away from my face. The pollution here is a little sticky, blacker than dust, and stubborn. Often we sense that rain is coming, then we look out and see what appears to be a gray cloud rolling in. Rain! I say. Pollution, says the maid.

The water is soft here. For those of you who do not know soft water, this mean your skin does not dry out as quickly, and when you wash your hands, the soap does not rinse off easily. Since hot water only comes into the bathroom and kitchen taps, and not into the laundry room, washing machines here wash in cold soft water. Hence, a cycle can take up to 2 hours to run! Wow-

While we lived in NY, I had shirts made for Alex. These shirts did not need to be dry cleaned, nor did they need to be ironed. Eureeka! I thought. Environmentally sound dress shirts that can be cleaned in an hour! And then we moved here, and I could not get them clean in the cold soft water.(yes, I was doing our laundry in the fancy pansy hotel on Sunday mornings at 7 AM- different story)

So, when shopping for a washing machine for our apartment, I bought one of the only models which will warm the water. I think this cycle takes 2.5hours- but in the end, we'll be sitting pretty!

More water:
To clean the service stair wells in our apartment building - a person stands on the top floor ( 23 flights up) with a hose and sprays water for about 45 minutes and then watches as it cascades down.... finally dripping endlessly from stair well to stair well.
Lets hope there is a restroom at the top and he/she doesn't have to make a quick exit down the service stairs....

My driver: Antonio
We hired a driver in part because my license was expired, and in part because I don't speak enough language to navigate my way out of a fender bender.(frequent ocurrences) Until Tuesday night I was in traffic up to 4 hours a day getting the kids to and from school. Tobias has to be picked up at 12, while Zachary is finished at 3 PM.
My driver's word for the traffic is : "oh-orr-hee-vil" the Portuguese word for horrible. but when he says it he sounds like one of the characters from the Adams Family.

Now that we live in Panamby I spend about 30 minutes in "ho-evil" traffic.

When we moved here, we had to leave all our furniture behind. In fact we were given such a small allotment for shipping that we left most of our household items behind. Including things like hangers- which cost a small fortune here- who knew?!

So, once we found an apartment- which we did over the course of our first few days here in the pouring rain with both kids moaning and groaning behind us-- Alex went off to work, and the kids and I went out to buy furniture.
Shop till you drop... yes we dropped over and over and over.
Final decisions and initial bargaining were done with Alex back in the mix. But in between, the three of us, our relocation manager and a driver cris-crossed the city in search of.....everything.

Zachary and Tobias were understandably bored. Thank the stars for the driver who spoke English! He would take them to other parts of the mall or store or find a park for them to run in. It took about about 2 weeks until most of the big items were ordered- couches, chairs, dining room table, breakfast room table and chairs, beds, night stands, stove, etc etc.

We still have things like curtains and rugs to find, but we can live here, and be thankful for a spacious apartment with new stuff to jump on! The delivery of the stuff was quite an experience.
Many pieces did not fit in the service elevator. So, the delivery men brought in a small crane company. These three men came in and installed a winch/motor set up on the balcony. Cable was run down the side of the building to the courtyard below. There the pieces of furniture were cabled and then slowly hoisted up 17 floors to the balcony, guided at the bottom by one man, and hauled over the balcony edge by the other two. It was exciting for the boys! I have to admit I found it pretty cool too.


Zachary turns 6 on Monday! WOW!!!!
There are many ways to celebrate here. A typical Brazilian Family (of the type who can afford to send their kids to private school) invites the whole class, and their families to a party place or to the party room in their building, and the hires in the entertainment, the food, etc. I am told an average bill runs about R 12,000.00 (6-7,000.00 dollars)
Sounds like a plan?
Maybe.
We are opting for a trip to the zoo with some friends we've made here, and a party in his classroom. I found a person who makes cupcakes. Now there is no way they will rival Lori Walsh's gourmet treats, but we'll make do!
We thought about heading out to the shore for a few days since Monday and Tuesday are holidays. When I asked Zachary about this, the look on his face was grim. NO more cars! he said. Okay. I get it. we just moved into our new home, and there is still soooo much to do. they just want to be "home".

Star Wars is the theme these past few weeks. Zachary is begging for more figures. We currently have 2 and a few leggo pieces until our sea shipment arrives, and then I think we'll have a few more- I hope because I can't remember what I packed up in May!

Oh-and a star ship, and well- you know the whole thing...so we'll see what we can find for less than the cost of a plane ticket back to NY. Taxes are the culprit. For imported toys (all toys pretty much) the gov't adds something between 100- 200%.
you do the math.
The tax on sugar made here is 27%- just to give perspective.

Now that we are in a home and have figured out how to turn the boiler on, and not blow up the dishwasher, we look forward to settling in and establishing a routine.
We'd like to find a used piano and start lessons. i want to find a drumming class... and we all want to falla Portuguese really soon!

Here is to Spring Water!

Connections

Connections here are like the wind -
-- they come and go, sometimes with ferocity, always with a lot of pollution....
We lost all communication with the world beyond the immediate reach of my cell phone (which then promptly ran out of credits), about 8 days ago. The connection remained down for nearly 5 days, and then came back only intermittently.
The phone was easy to remedy. The internet was not. It took this luxury palace of a place 6 days to restore all connections. No explanation.
Much like the laundry here.... no knows why there are black smears on Alex's white business shirts- not even me and I put them in the drier!
Mind you, no other piece of clothing got the smears. Just the white business shirts.... ARGH!!! I could not of the life of me explain to the laundry lady what I wanted her to do. I kept saying something akin to 'boil the nuts' instead of wash in warm water please... because she gave me such a look! Anyway, the problem is now solved.
We are getting ready to move - finally!!!! In 2 weeks I get to try it all over again in my own apartment.

While a fine residence hotel is nothing to sneeze at- the experience of making a temporary home out of one for 2 months is challenging nonetheless.

Try playing soccer in the "courtyard" and not kick one of the many decorative lights, crush the withering plants, or mangle the droopy red flowers. And don't forge to tell your children NOT to pick up the left over cigareet butts in the grass.
Ohh- but we have fun, and usually get a couple other kids from the hotel to join in.

I can say we have some very interesting neighbors. So when all else fails, I turn my attention to them:
Neighbor A) right across the hall: young and hip. big bank roll. lots and lots of really potent ganja. In fact it is often so strong at 9 AM that it floats or clings rather to me as I pass through it to open our apartment door.

Neighbor B) diagonally across from us does lots of singing, chanting and occasionally, screaming. They also burn a lot of incense. The combination of smells on some mornings is like a momentary transport to another place altogether. The maids posted to these rooms would have something else to say, I am sure. But I don't understand enough Portuguese to listen in their conversations.

School is going really well. Tobias and Zachary have made a few friends. Tobias belongs to a posse, Zachary is still working on one. They paint and sing, read and write to various degrees. Zachary now experiments with foods- "but only at school", he explains to me when I try to get him to eat salad at dinner.
Tobias is picking up the language mostly by repeating words over and over and over again. It is a little like have a walking parrot around.
According to Tobias we " do NOT live in Brazil, mommy. we LIVE in New York."
Well, in fact we often think of ourselves as very temporary.

There are so many differences to absorb. One forgets sometimes to just be- I forget to stop trying to understand, to stop cobbling words together in an effort to reach out, to stop and just be still. The stillness in body and the silence of the tongue are as important a part of this process of being here as "fitting in". In the stillness I remember me. In the silence I hear my own voice in a comforting tone, with confidence say, 'okay try again later.' And in those rare moments, I re-connect with the me I packed into 8 suitcases and brought over here.