All that glitters in not gold

I got in quite by chance. I found out about the auditions through our samba school. Shall I be a dancer or a drummer? I pondered... At the school I was neither - I sang. I'd done some dance classes so I was pretty certain I could shake it. Not sure if I'd dare in front of the supposed 8 billion. Scrapped. As for drumming, I'd had literally one bateria class. Oh well, I've nothing to lose! Shake it, shake it, shake it, shhh-k-chk, shhh-k-chk, shhh-k-chk... I went for chocalho* because I discovered that playing it was quite similar to playing the "egg" - a small shaker that I had already mastered. Only a hundred times faster and with both hands.

And there I was, suddenly part of the 80-strong bateria, rehearsing twice a week for god knows how many hours in some horrid warehouse with acoustics that reminded me of Heathrow Airport during rush hour. Having to put up with delays, misconceptions, lack of organisation... and the worst sandwiches London had ever seen. All because I wanted to perform at the Olympics Closing Ceremony, representing Brazil during the 8 minutes generously assigned to the Rio Flag Handover team. Of course I was excited. It was going to be BIG, they told us, the whole world would be watching this greatest ceremony on earth.  

 

At every rehearsal I learned something new. How big the stage would be. Where we would stand. How many steps left, how many steps right. What great an honour it was. That our costumes would be golden. And our faces. That we would wear these huge drums over our heads. Hmmm... drummers with drums before them and drums above them.  Movements restricted by harnesses and antlers. Still expected to smile and dance (and play the drums!).

    Hanging around aimessly in plain sunshine duirng one of the final rehersals. Patience. 
 

I learned that people from various samba schools could play together and have fun.

With guys from Portela, one of the oldest samba schools in Rio de Janeiro  

 

I learned the meaning of the word volunteer (and wasn't impressed). Once I even learned, 2 weeks before the show, that I wasn't on the list anymore. They had taken in more people than needed in case some dropped out. I DIDN’T drop out. My name was just thrown out like a useless prop. Welcome to showbusiness.

 

My tears hadn’t dried when I got a call from the team congratulating me that I was back on the show. No joke. Pride in my pocket, I dragged myself to Dartford again and again, and then to Daggenham. Put on the harness. Check. Put on the golden costume. Check. Golden make-up. Check. Antlers. Check. The crown. Check. The drum. Check. Chocalho in hand. Check. There was only one occasion to see the Olympics stadium from the perspective of a performer and I didn’t want to miss it.

On our way to the stadium

 

And here's the video from the moments leading up to the show:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QfpqdxO1LVw

 

Try squeezing 8 weeks into 8 minutes. What do you get? Three seconds of excitement before they say “go” and a feeling you watched it all fast forward in HD and with lots of fireworks.   Boom, boom, done. My memory of that night includes switching the effing drums with someone next to me, just before the show, because they were all numbered and were going to light up in a special order; queuing nervously at the starting line waiting for the signal, that one second I caught a glimpse of Marisa Monte singing, and walking off the stadium.

Seconds before going in....

 

Good job they allowed us all back in when the official ceremony finished to celebrate with everyone who’d participated throughout the night and the medallists who joined the dancing crowd. Suddenly, the pressure now gone, I forgot all about the blood, sweat'n'tears that were the inextricable part of the preparation for the Olympics. I forgot, for that bit, about the frustration of hanging around aimlessly for hours on end before we got to practise, sweating in our golden attires and having to fight for our ancient right to have a cup of tea (and I mean fight!).  I didn’t feel the weight of the drum that kept bouncing off another drummer’s, the antlers didn’t bother me anymore, my gold-painted face didn’t itch. Shaking my chocalho tirelessly, absolutely elated, I was overcome by the ultimate sense of accomplishment. But the best thing of all was doing it with a bunch of really cool people who, like me, love Brazilian culture. Thank you fellow drummers and RFH participants. It was worth it.
 

 Pure bliss...

As for the show itself, it's not for me to judge, 'cause I didn't see it! You can't have a cake and eat it, eh, so I'm only catching up on it now. If you want a reminder of how it was, we start at 7 minutes into the video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iY6-TEOUwBQ

Source unknown or rather forgotten, but all rights (of the rightful owners) reserved.

 * a large powerful shaker made of wood or metal with a number of steel jingles

A Brazilian Dream... in London

London life indeed did suck me in (hope you enjoyed the silence). But if you think I’ve given up on my Brazilian Dream, think again. I am living it, every day, here under the grey sky, where the weather is cold and the beer is warm.

My BF finally came to the UK, 3 months after my return (!), and he is here is to stay. In the UK I mean, and hopefully by my side. And no, we didn’t have to marry.  He would have it stamped on his forehead that he is now Portuguese as well, if he could. That’s why it took so bloody long! So, I now speak Portuguese more than my mother tongue* (I even dream in Portuguese, for those of you who’ve asked me about it) or even English, and my exploration of Brazilian music has gained new heights. We rehearse regularly (did I ever say he’s a flippin’ good guitarist?), that is, if we manage to find time in our crazy, mutually exclusive timetables.

I continue to sing with Paraíso Samba School, doing gigs at least once a month**; not that it’s terribly creative – those enredos really are repetitive, mas uma coisa é*** – it’s good fun! I may come home nearly deaf, having stood next to the bateria during the show, hardly being able to hear my own thoughts, let alone my voice, but there seems to be a direct link between the intensity of rhythmic drumming and the level of endorphins in my brain. That’s why I do it. Oh, and also so that I can say I belong... Hey, you will surely agree that passing all these delirious crowds at the Notting Hill Carnival, waving at them while trying not to drop the mic, and basically giving it all, is not something you do every day. OK, I do it every year (this was my 3^rd time) and I am still not bored.

Photo by bellaphon

Can it get more Brazilian than parading in the carnival? Yes it can. Taking part in the Olympics closing ceremony beats it. Damn hard. And frankly, that deserves a separate post. Promise! A little teaser beneath, but what I want to say is – you will now be hearing news from Brazilian London. One thing though; I will be absolutely subjective, partial, biased and frank. If something deserves my praise, it will get it, if it’s below any standards, I won’t think twice about tearing it to pieces. You’ve been warned.

*Polish

**usually at Guanabara, the next one is this Saturday! http://www.paraisosamba.co.uk/events/

***one of my BF’s favourite phrases, which simply means “one thing for sure”

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

Aprenda a língua com música!

Olha que coisa mais linda
Mais cheia de graça
É ela menina
Que vem e que passa
No doce balanço, a caminho do mar

If you are one of those lucky ones able to understand those words (from "Garota de Ipanema" by Tom Jobim), don't bother reading the rest as this post is not meant for you. If, however, you're dying to find out what they mean and using google translator just doesn't do it for you, you've come to the right place. 

Why? Well, having brushed up on my Portuguese which is now more fluent than ever, with fresh colloquialisms and a myriad new expressions picked up straight from the streets, bars, clubs and educated daily conversations in Brazil, I am offering language classes. They're not just your regular (i.e. boring) repetitions of grammar or memorizing lists of words. No, no, no, no. The lessons I am now offering are a skilful combination of the language and... music. 

Senhoras e senhores, what some of you have been dreaming of - learning Portuguese through songs! This may come as a surprise to some, but I am actually a fully trained and experienced language teacher. So, it doesn't have to be the Girl from Ipanema we'll be working on, but any song in (Brazilian) Portuguese you like (I unwillingly accept even Ai se eu te pego, if that tickles your fancy) and soon you will not only be able to understand your the lyrics, but even hold a proper conversation with your Brazilian friends.  No miracles though.    If you don't do your homework, don't expect to suddenly start chatting like a carioca or a paulista (mineiro/baiano/pernambucano, etc.). 

The reason why I am offering this kind of classes (apart from the obvious), is that you learn the language a lot faster with music, as you will unconsciously repeat the melody in your head, which is bound to solidify words and idioms in your memory. This is how I learned Portuguese and I can assure you, it works. 

Interested? Drop a line at: portuguesethroughsongs@gmail.com

Mind you, the lessons are available in London only!

P.S. For any Brazilians out there who read the post anyway, pssst, I also give English classes. 

Because love is not a sin

After a longer pause, I’m back. My absence was due to a virtual whirlpool of events in my family life which has seen one person leave this vale of tears and another one appear, on the same day. It was a time that made me appreciate who I am, where I am and where I am going. And perhaps what life is all about.

Thinking about a lot of things that happen to us during our existence, I realised it’s all about love. Now, mind you, I’m not going to share my very personal love story with you, uh-uh. Let’s keep private stuff private. What I want to tell you is how Brazilians love, or where, to be precise.

Motels. If you think I mean roadside hotels, think again. It’s Brazil we’re talking about. A motel is a place where you never go alone. It’s a love spot. The suggestive names leave you in no doubt; Belle, Black Horse, Free Love Motel, Lamour, Sedutti... The more obvious the name, the more raunchy the atmosphere and decor. More classy places have less explicit names (Magnata, Lumini or Elegance Hotel) but they all have one thing in common: you pay per 4, 6 or 12 hours and are guaranteed maximum privacy. Motels are usually located in less frequented zones, and are guarded off the main road by high walls. You register at the entrance from the safety of your car and then drive straight to the private garage linked with the chosen room. There are no corridors (to avoid bumping into an acquaintance in the least suitable circumstances), no “windows with a view” (except for the most luxurious venues) and you never see the staff. If you make an order, for anything from snacks, to drinks, to food, to lubricants and sex toys, they bring it to you on a silver plate through a rotating window.

In São Paulo, motels are highly visible from the road, with their neon signs blinking seductively at night. They are sometimes so clustered together in one area that for example Rodovia Raposo Tavares, peppered with tiny and bigger motels of all sorts, earned itself a name of a Love Road (Rodovia do Amor).

Source: http://www.guiademoteis.com.br/sao-paulo/zona-oeste/moteis/Motel-Belle

What can you expect inside them? A large bed, of course. After all, that’s what you’re going to need most. And then, depending on the chosen standard and theme (luxurious, super-luxurious, African, Romantic, Erotic, etc.) , you can enjoy a swimming pool, jacuzzi, sauna, a solar roof or even a spider-looking erotic chair and god knows what else.

For the curious, and Portuguese-speaking, I can recommend www.guiademoteis.com.br, a comprehensive guide to motels in Brazil, which aided my research.

A bit about the history. Apparently, motels started to spring up in the 60s when unmarried couples needed somewhere to exchange affection and most hotels wouldn’t let them stay unless they produced a marriage certificate. Obviously, that attitude started to change with time, but these days, due to strained budgets, some young people still live with their parents and thus the motel is the only place they can enjoy the so-much-needed intimacy. Let’s not be so prude, though. The fact that many people are attracted by the brash façades, at times extremely kitsch interiors with fake waterfalls and wild tiger wallpapers, plus a variety of porn channels on TV, is ever so glaring. Also, the season when motels are bursting is... surprise, surprise, the carnival! 

Source: http://www.guiademoteis.com.br/sao-paulo/zona-oeste/moteis/Motel-Belle

Interestingly enough, motels are often recommended in travel guides as a cheap accommodation alternative to the ridiculously expensive hotels, especially in Rio. In fact, it has been suggested that participants of the upcoming UN summit be put up in the city’s numerous motels, as a solution to the apparent bed shortage. (read the article here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-latin-america-17656123). Hilarious. But then again, who would object to sleeping in a large comfortable bed, relaxing in a sauna and then jumping into the whirlpool while admiring the night sky? I suppose they would prefer to have company, since, as one of the motel’s slogan says, “love is not a sin”. 

Is it the size that matters?

Think about Rio de Janeiro. What is the first image that comes to your mind, even if you've never been there? And I mean image, not your late-night fantasies.

Copacabana and its snaky black and white cobbled pavement?

Sipping cold coconut water on the hot sand?

Golden bodies in Brazilian bikinis?

Carnival parade?

Hopefully some of you did think of Christ the Redeemer with his outstretched arms, overlooking Guanabara Bay. Whether you are religious or not, there’s no point denying that this statue is one of the most commonly recognised landmarks of Brazil (and Rio de Janeiro in particular) and due to its impressive size (between 30 m /98.5 ft and 39m – there is contrasting info) has often been envied.

I was surprised to find out that in my motherland, Poland, a similar construction was raised in 2010 in a tiny winy towny of Świebodzin. I think the intention was to make it even bigger than the one in Rio. Was it to show the magnitude of Polish religiousness or ego, I wonder. So, our Polish Christ the King is 33 metres tall, to mark the age at Jesus’ death, apparently, and together with the mound on which it is built it reaches 52.5 metres. One way or another, it’s taller than the Rio statue. In your face, Rio!

Source: http://www.giganticstatues.com/christ-the-king-statue/

 Ok, perhaps this take is a bit unfortunate, let’s try again...

Source: http://www.skyscrapercity.com/showthread.php?p=67552699

Erm... the view doesn't seem quite right...

But what do I see? Another Jesus? In Cochabamba, Bolivia. No way Jose, only 40 metres, including the pedestal. What a joke. 

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cristo_de_la_Concordia_02.jpg

The priest of Świebodzin must have been sad to learn that it stands competition also from Lima, Peru, where Cristo del Pacífico was kindly left by the president to look after the Peruvian nation. 30 metres. No chance.

Source: http://ayaviri.info/2011/06/presidente-alan-garcia-inaugura-cristo-del-pacifico/

Early this year, news spread that a replica of Cristo Redentor might appear on the skyline of... Wait for it, wait for it! London. Primrose Hill to be precise. With the permission (and financial contribution) of the Brazilian government, the monument would mark the moment London passes the Olympic torch over to Rio. Metaphorically, of course. Primrose Hill may not be Corcovado, but perhaps it’s worth a go.  From a mass of comments under the article in the Guardian on the matter, I picked the following few: 

"how about a 6 inch marquette of Borris the irredeemable instead"

"The Olympics are surely a secular celebration of physical excellence? If you MUST align it to a fictional deity, surely Zeus would be far more appropriate in this instance?"

"Can we have Gisele instead?"

Hilarious.

They’re all forgetting one thing. You may have the tallest Jesus on this planet, but what really counts is the view! 

Source:http://www.lovethesepics.com/2011/04/christ-the-redeemer-statue-1-of-7-new-wonders-of-the-world-45-inspiring-pics/

The truth about the Internet

I have a confession to make. I have been checking the blog statistics. Religiously. Well, for one, it doesn’t hurt to know who’s reading your blog and where most of the traffic source comes from. Understandably, my audience is mainly from the UK, Poland and Brazil, as I’ve got friends and family in all three of them. Thanks to a fellow blogger link, I’ve gained relative popularity in the US, which now tops the list. Two, by finding out which post are most read I get valuable insight. Or so I thought.

Obviously you can stumble across my blog just by typing in google (or some other browser) key words which I happened to include.  Hence, I wasn’t surprised that suddenly people read me in, say, Germany, Russia, India or Canada. Normal. After all, the blog is entirely searchable. But then suddenly Kuwait, Ghana, Saudi Arabia. Wow, I’m getting popular around the world, I thought naively. And don’t get me wrong, I’d be more than happy to know that residents of those and other countries have an interest in Brazil and my Brazilian adventures. You’re welcome, guys!

But somehow I failed to notice, until last night, that I can actually check by which  searchwords my blog is usually found. So here we go: “carnival 2012 boobs”, ”breasts samba”, ”sexy carnaval 2012”… True, I did write about boobs at the sambadrome (and that post is the most popular indeed), but how come typing in “miss bumbum” redirects to The Brazilian Dream??

It dawned on me. Most Internet users are interested in Brazil not as a country, but as a land of big bums and boobs, hot bodies, Brazilian bikini and ass-shaking. How sad. I think I need to drown my sorrows in a caipirinha. And in a few days’ time I’ll check if this post got the most visits. C’mon, it’s bound to.