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.