That Paulistan feeling

I’ve been back from Brazil for over two months now and the memories of my 4-month-long trip really seem like a dream... It looks like London life has sucked me in and is determined to keep its clutch on me with the cold, wet and jobless reality. My BF still in São Paulo (according to the latest news, he should be coming back to London in three weeks’ time, yay!), I have to resort to browsing through my facebook photo albums to remind myself that it all really happened. And my saudade is not just about him, it is, strangely enough, about the city, too. Just the other night I had a dream that I was going to perform as a singer with a group right there, in São Paulo. I woke up disappointed it wasn’t true. But then again, who knows; maybe someday!

Is it indeed that strange that I should miss Sampa, as it’s colloquially called? A city with lines of cars longer than from here to the moon, more rain in a week than London had this April (and trust me, it was a lot) and thousands of skyscrapers in an apparent fight for the last bits of sunshine, like thirsty plants in this urban jungle. I remember when, on my first, four-day-long, visit to this city, I asked my host: “So what is the landmark? Where is that place that everybody instantly recognises as pertaining to São Paulo, where people meet, the heart?” He seemed puzzled. What, no Paulistan Big Ben? I silently wondered. No Eiffel Tower? Not to mention Cristo Redentor. Let’s not even go there (there is a fierce competition between SP and Rio de Janeiro that I will talk about a bit later). I just couldn’t believe there isn’t anything characteristic that would help me create a mental image of São Paulo by means of just one token. “Avenida Paulista is quite famous” my friend didn’t give up. Right, a big street that runs through the whole city like a pulsating vein, never stopping pumping more traffic in and out of its borders. That didn’t even come close to meeting my expectations of this specific something.

I discovered what it is during my second trip which was ten times longer. It’s just not where I was looking for it. You know, with such Rio it’s easy; the overwhelming statue welcomes you from the top of the hill with its arms wide open (and says goodbye in much the same candid manner), the extreme heat hits you in the face right after you get off the plane, and walking along the ridiculously and undeservingly famous Copabana beach is bound to leave you with sunburn you won’t quickly forget. With SP, things are rather intangible. Relatively far from the sea, much colder and flat as an ironing board, it doesn’t have much to offer. At the first glance. But it’s enough to start walking the streets to notice. Or to feel, I should say. And four days are not enough to discover what I’m talking about. You need to come, take a bus, visit the MASP, gorge a coxinha*, get lost, lose your flip-flop when running in the sudden downpour, have a cold Brahma in a corner bar or dig into a feijoada after a roda de choro on a Saturday afternoon, get stuck in a traffic jam with a full bladder, leave for a party at 1AM and be sure you’ll still get there before the show starts, have another beer, chat with a taxi driver, watch at least one episode of Ratinho**, have a shot of cachaça to recover from the shock, see your friends play a gig with more swing than all your dance and music teachers put together, visit Museu da Lingua Portuguesa, sink your teeth into an indecently ripe mango and let the juices run down your chin, have one more beer, find out what guioza, hashi and shoyu mean, see live samba somewhere in Vila Madalena, eat in a kilo bar, forget what time of the year it is... and then we’ll talk. For the time being, enjoy this HD video (not mine) with views of the city and please, please, ignore the extremely naive music.

*a kind of pastry filled with shredded chicken (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coxinha)

**Programa do Ratinho, a Jerry-Springer-type TV show for the dumb masses

In the spotlight

Do you want to participate in a TV programme? I was asked one day. As an audience member, of course. Sure, why not, it might be an interesting experience, I thought. When I learned it’s a Jerry-Springer-type show, I winced, but curiosity won. After all, I had never visited a TV station before nor had taken part in any programme. This one was going to be recorded and I silently hoped they would make me sit somewhere where I would be invisible. Not that anyone would recognise me on this hemisphere, but just as a precaution. My boyfriend went with me (it was his idea!), but since the show’s host prefers female audiences, he was sent to the very corner of the bench and told not to stand up. I was granted no such privilege. Just the opposite. I don’t watch TV much and somehow I didn’t realise that the audience in the studio is expected to express loud joy/disapproval at crucial moments. Two production ladies made sure you knew when that was and encouraged you to give  your best. That meant having to clap (ok, I can do that much), wave your arms in the air (erm...),  stand up, sit down, stand up again, cheer when you, or the producers, liked what the guests said and boo when you/they didn’t. Pretty tiring, especially when you have a massive studio light shining right on your head, making you painfully aware of the power of television. Literally. The other females around me (the males were really well hidden) didn’t mind and, judging by the fancy dresses and heavy make-up, most of them seemed to think they were the stars of the night. In my jeans and Garfield top I stood out like a sore thumb.

By now you must be dying to hear what happened in the show. Nothing much. A well-endowed lady in her mid-twenties, and a very short evening dress, was accusing her ex-boyfriend/husband (sorry, I evidently wasn’t paying attention) of having betrayed her with two men at the same time and not paying child support, while he claimed not to be the father of her child. There was some pushing and shoving, with four bodyguards making sure it didn’t get out of hand, as well your regular, I suppose, cursing and blame-shifting. No tears, surprisingly, but instead, wait for it, wait for it! – some singing (the man), booty-shaking  to the rhythms of Brazilian funk (the woman) , shirt-ripping and chest-bearing (the man again)! If it’s your only chance to appear on television, you might as well make the most of it, right?

Spoiler alert. The production had had a DNA test made whose result was revealed towards the end. The man, having fiercely denied betrayal, was proved to be the father, to which the woman reacted: “Now you’re f***.” Steam rose from above the audience. I wanted to hide.

The photo was taken after the show was over.

In case you want to form your own opinion about the show, it's Programa do Ratinho @ SBT. Don't say I didn't warn you.