Way Off the Beaten Path in Rio

By

Charles R. Riley

"Once pen is put to paper or thought formed, it is no longer reality, but the truth behind reality we seek. So, please do not sue me." -- the author

It's December 31^st, 2005. We arrived two weeks ago via New York and Sao Paulo. I was a little nervous of the security situation after nefarious reports of crime run rampant by my well-meaning father-in-law, who lives with my mother-in-law, in Gloria, a beautiful district of Rio de Janeiro.

One such report on the phone painted a grim picture in excited tones of roads from the airport blockaded by bandits with sub-machine guns and radar capable of detecting Americans with dollars.

This apparently happened every day and was an inescapable consequence of visiting Rio. The police apparently were helpless to stop this entrepreneurial spirit run wild. They were outgunned and outnumbered and they were corrupt to the last man, woman, and canine member of the police.

As terrifying as all of this sounded, the in-laws insisted everything was fine with them even if the father-in-law could no longer walk and Eunice, his wife was constantly being tended to by doctors, who told her she needed to check into a hospital. Hospitals were places you go to die and she claimed she didn't have time for that.

For three years, we had attempted to arrange for the in-laws to visit us in the states. It would have saved us a fortune in airfares, as there were seven of us in the states, two Carioca sisters, the two husbands and three boys aged 10, 11, and 12.

We arranged two or three times a year to buy tickets for the in-laws, which they generously accepted and then found an excuse to turn down at the last moment. Sometimes, it was a doctor's appointment; sometimes it was a complication with an urgent need to paint the apartment; or they were required by law to show up in person to receive a retirement check and they couldn't change the appointment.

After three years, it dawned upon us that we would never see our in-laws again unless we visited them. We indicated this to them and the reports of violence and mayhem increased in direct proportion to the proximity of our travel date.

By the time we were on the plane, we were resolved to our fate, which appeared to be a fruitless human sacrifice for the sake of doing the right thing if also a very dumb thing.

The boys, being typical boys, didn't seem concerned. Playing game boy on the plane was no different from playing game boy in Brooklyn, where the 11 and 12 year olds lived, or Fredericksburg, Virginia, where the 10-year-old lived.

Gabriel, the 12-year-old, was only concerned that there would be a cello in Rio for him to practice six hours a day in his grandparents' apartment. He was part of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra for Children, and he was something of a prodigy if a pain the neck, but that is what parents are for - abuse.

Somehow, the plan to have a boy practice six hours a day in a two-bedroom apartment with seven people trying to have a pleasant visit catching up on 3 years of news seemed flawed. However, I was only a husband who followed orders and did not understand the intricacies of the Carioca mind. Resistance is futile.

As defined in Carioca folklore, the Carioca mind always reads between the lines. Nothing is straightforward or organized or simple. Nothing is as it seems.

My wife is extremely adept as a Carioca. Any attempt to shed light on or untangle the web of apparent confusion, only leads to torrents of words that sweep all thought in directions far off the compass and any charted areas of the psyche or common understanding.

Fortunately, I have acquired a rich inner life, where I find silence and peace and a center to hold onto when outside currents sweep away any familiar landscape. Thus I was prepared to face certain death in an unfamiliar land, which had been described to me in the worst possible light, far worse than any Hollywood production or nightmare could produce.

Somehow, we made it through customs without any trouble. Only in New York did we encounter a delay when I had my toenail clipper confiscated. I guess in the wrong hands, it could become a dangerous weapon. Though I am not familiar with any martial art applications of a toenail clipper, I'm sure an adept toenail martial artist could apply a clip in a deadly acupuncture point.

Upon exiting customs in Rio, there was a familiar face beaming to welcome us. This was the extraordinary and magnificent Marcelo of family lore, who beamed and frowned in a broad manner that reminded me of the Cheshire Cat of Lewis Carol.

He was a musician and friend of the family, who toured the world and taught in a university in Rio. Encouraged by my wife and her sister, he had developed a career as a musician and professor of music. My wife's sister, Diana, had won many competitions as a classical pianist when she was younger. Her career culminated in a contest, which had the reputation of determining the best pianist in the world. She came in second. Her career might have developed a lot better if she had submitted to the advances of her repugnant agent, like any aspiring artist without any moral character.

Marcelo was our knight in shining armor, who came to save us from the roads blockaded by bands of murderous thugs. In true Brazilian fashion, he paid a small fortune to bring two certifiably safe cabs from the city to the airport. The airport cabs were not to be trusted, as we knew from a secret source, which would not be divulged to me. "It is known!" was the response I often got when I questioned such interesting information. Did our Carioca wives have a network of spies? It's best not to conjecture in such situations as it could lead one off the deep end, which I seemed to be perilously placed most of the time.

I was also assured that the gangsters had informants strategically placed at the airport, most probably in customs, who radioed the arrival of Americans leaving the airport. In fact, I saw several questionable guards looking directly at me and talking surreptitiously into their cell phones.

Brazilians are very warm. Marcello was no exception. We received warm hugs all around. Lili, my wife, and Diana, pronounced Jeeanna in Carioca -- everything sounds better in Carioca, talked animatedly with Marcello. They spoke in Portuguese, which I can understand somewhat if spoken slowly and distinctly, but it is the Brazilian way for everyone to speak at the same time, very fast, and run the words together in lovely if indecipherable waves of sound. This is why I suspect they speak so loudly, so they can be overheard over everyone else who is trying to be heard. In the states, everyone turns their heads as if an emergency happened whenever my wife talks to me in public. I have learned to look calm and reassuring to prevent panic.

I was not without precautions to prevent detection in the airport. One was to say nothing at all in English or Portuguese. If our spouses did all the talking, we would be covered. I also grew an unkempt beard, avoided bathing and grooming for several days. My tee shirt was frayed and my shorts were stained with paint. Of course it didn't help having a ten-year-old who had a million questions that I nervously muttered responses to.

Our cover was completely foiled by my good-natured brother-in-law from Brooklyn who looked like a typical American tourist in shades, a floppy beach had, and brightly colored beach clothes. He also took the opportunity to give the kids a lesson in Portuguese, translating every sign in the airport into English.

I tried to disappear behind the cascade of Portuguese that engulfed Marcelo and our two wives. The cascade was made up of many streams that intertwined in a chorus. It was a ubiquitous sound in Rio. Everywhere one went, everyone was talking mellifluously. Rio was aptly named, as Rio is the word for river.

It looked like we might still make it alive to the in-laws with Marcello as our escort. He had acquired the two cabs we indicated we would need, but no matter how the drivers packed the cabs, there was not enough room for us and all the luggage.

We were only staying two weeks, but there was extra luggage due to Christmas presents, special food treats (which were probably illegal), beach balls and toys, CD's, musical instruments, books, games, appliances, computers, and many other necessities, which I understood was the basic minimum for survival.

There was no question someone would have to take an additional airport cab, which would drive directly to the villains saving them the expense and inconvenience of setting up a roadblock. For some reason, it was assumed that I would go in express cab to my doom with the extra and more expendable luggage.

I gave an very long hug to my wife and child in the hope that they would remember me and wouldn't mind paying a little ransom even if they had to bargain to get the price down to something reasonable. Sometimes, I think they wouldn't be aware of my absence and would require a ransom note with a marriage certificate to certify that I was really related to them.

One thing I have learned about Rio is that Cariocas must pray a lot judging by the fear of death that cab drivers inspire in their riders, as they jockey in front of busses or under them; race bumper to bumper; and ignore traffic signs, signals, and lane markings. I thought a roadblock would be a welcome site on my wild ride from the airport.

To be fair, it was not only cab drivers, but all drivers who seemed to be blending together in wild weaving patterns that defied all sense. Motor cyclists weaved through miniscule spaces between crowded car lanes, where one wouldn't expect room enough between vehicles to insert a sheet of paper.

Then the cab driver turned on the radio. A samba was playing with a lovely plaint and a soft and flowing beat. It was smoothe and harmonious with a human heartbeat. It was different from the high fevered agitation of the American music I was used to. This music was Brazil with its own way of driving and living, still distinct from all the world. Brazil was still its own, while the rest of the world was turning into a gray soulless mass.

There was no hurry in all the speed. There was no rancor or heated contests of inflated egos. The traffic connected in a tribal dance. There were no blasting horns to disturb the flow, no screeching breaks, no shouting of juvenile expletives or inane gestures. Their driving was like their soccer, their dance, their navigation of crowded sidewalks. There was pleasure in the way they moved, the way they ate, the way that talked.

Unlike the states, Brazil managed to avoid the divisiveness, the rancor, the consuming self-importance that marks American political speak, road rage, and dysfunctional social relations.

Somehow Brazil has managed to settle their problems in a peaceful, natural process. There was no war of independence. It was declared and accepted without bloodshed. There was no civil war. Slavery was abolished and inter-marriage accepted without rancor and high handed condemnation. The dictatorship ended without war and democracy is evolving.

Brazil is not without problems. We drove past mile after mile of the poor living conditions in the suburbs.

The airport is located outside of the city. The drive into the City Marvelosa takes one past many miles of makeshift homes. Many of the hills within the city are similarly settled and referred to as Favellas. It is accepted that the poor have no choice but to fashion a home outside of the complex bureaucratic maze of the government.

It is difficult for the poor to improve their situation. There are many young people vying for jobs. Unlike America, the population for the most part is young. This is good for the country as a whole. Goods and services can be provided at a reasonable cost, if the education system was improved, incentives were made for new businesses, and bureaucracy streamlined.

Brazilians are very resourceful. In true Brazilian fashion, many Brazilians do start their businesses outside of the law as vendadores. Streets are lined with merchants whose store is the street.

For Americans looking for bargains, they will be disappointed. Prices after accounting for the exchange rate on the Black Market in Rio, are very similar if not more than U.S. counterparts. This is not quite the same in the interior.

The weak dollar due to our lopsided financial and trade relation with Asia has weakened the dollar's buying power in Brazil.

This does not necessarily mean that Brazilians can not afford to buy products in their own country. A Brazilian buying the same product as an American will bargain for a better price. If a Brazilian asks for the price of a product and it is 40 reals (the equivalent of our dollar). The buyer might say too bad, he only has 30. The salesman will say ok. The American, who is not used to bargaining, would pay 40. Also, vendors do not mark prices, they will assess the cost by how much you look like you can pay.

Also, prices vary widely. It pays for a trip on the ferry across the Bay to Niteroi to buy shrimp for a faction of the cost in Rio.

The trip to Niteroi can be combined with a trip to the bay beach of Icari or Praia de Icari to view the beauty of Rio in the distance, not to bathe in the polluted bay water. The Bay beaches are places to enjoy the beauty and play soccer, volley ball, paddle ball, or juggle a soccer ball with friends. The ocean beach to visit is Praia de Piratininga and it is safe for swimming.

The sidewalks throughout Rio and Niteroi are a wonder in themselves. They are all handmade from marble pieces and fashioned into mosaics that are excellently crafted. The sidewalks, if stretched end to end, would rival in enterprise The Great Wall of China as one of the wonders of the world.

Other beaches to visit of course are Copacabana and Ipanema. They are as safe as any major city can be. In fact Rio currently is a very safe place to visit compared to other major cities in the world. New York City included.

Yes, my fears of immanent death were pleasantly unfounded. My in-laws seem to watch the news a lot and they appear to be overly protective of their children and grandchildren. I could go on about the apparent good intentions leading one down the path to …, but if I go down this road I may unravel in the intricacies of the Carioca mind.

There is still a sense of chivalry that is retained in Brazil. To sacrifice in silence without quid pro quo is still common, so perhaps there is an explanation of parents terrifying their children into making well considered choices.

Other common acts of chivalry are the generous offer of a seat on a bus or metro to the elderly or pregnant. On New Years Eve, at a party on the roof of our in-laws' coop, adults offered the best views from the parapet to the children, anyone's children. Children are generally pampered and doted over by anyone and everyone.

An extraordinary example of chivalry and deep and meaningful relationships is Marcelo, who had not heard from Lilian or Diana for twenty years.

When Diana inquired of him about the possibility of renting a cello in Brazil, he not only arranged one of the best cello's available from one of the most accomplished cellists, but he arranged for cabs to meet us and he treated us to lunch, all at his expense.

When we inquired about finding a piano tuner for the in-laws' piano, he found one for us. The piano tuner did an excellent job and when we tried to pay him, he refused payment, "I was told to not allow you to pay," was his response.

Marcelo's generosity extended to his students, who took private lessons on the piano. Students, who were from a wealthy family, paid handsomely. Students willing to work from a family with little means were charged a token fee.

In the states, Marcelo would probably be sued left and right for unfair practices. The news media would first build him up as a righteous hero of the underdog and then they would have a field day trashing him with sex scandals and discrimination charges based on the reliable sources of convicted felons on death row. It would be good copy; sell a lot of papers and end in a congressional investigation and threat of war with Brazil.

I can't help but think if this world had a few more people like Marcelo or Lili's parents, people would be so confounded they might behave a little better.

The in-laws live in a 12 story coop in Gloria, what we would describe as a borough of Rio. Each borough has its own identity and pride in a soccer team of their own.

Even on weekdays, the choparias, sidewalk beer parlors, are full of excited fans watching the games on tv. Every block has a choparia or two. Some serve excellent pizza. The only place I ever ate similar pizza in the States was at Ray's Pizza in New York City.

Everything tastes better in Rio. People eat for taste, not primarily for fuel. There is a human side to food that would be a tragedy to lose to American business interests.

The in-laws' coop is on Rua do Gloria, facing a park and beyond the park is the bay. The bay used to begin at the street, which was bordered by a promenade and an ornate sea wall of massive stone and stone steps that led down to the water's edge, but now lead down to the broad expanse of park that connects the boroughs on the bay. Instead of building major roads though mountains, they filled along the edge of the bay with parks. Through the parks runs major roads that are conveniently crossed on impressively wide, curvaceous, sensually designed pedestrian bridges. The larger expanse of park is divided into many well-designed smaller parks featuring numerous tropical and exotic plants and trees. Many of the plants and trees sport unusual and festive flowers. Some of the trees in older sections of the park have trees that must date back a thousand years.

One particular type of tree is especially interesting. It appears to be made of a collection of intertwined vines that in time merged into one giant vine that sprouted branches and leaves. Some of these trees grow to gigantic proportions. A few appear to be standing on tiptoe where the vines branch into two sections before touching the earth. Perhaps these trees are doing a very slow form of the tarantella. I'll have to keep an eye on them. I am not a botanist, but if I was, I would call this type of tree "The One And The Many Tree", because it appears to answer the age old philosophical question of how there can be a whole or one if there are many parts.

Large areas of the park are dedicated to soccer and they are lighted for night play. Other areas are devoted to children's playgrounds. There is one particularly beautiful park behind The Museum of the Republic. It has many interesting sculptures intermixed with a wide variety of exotic plants and towering rows of palms and other varieties of exotic trees and flowering plants. There are ponds and streams and a children's small play area. You can buy an expresso and docinoes, delicious sweets, at a reasonable price and enjoy the ambiance seated at an outdoor table.

There is always something surprising to see in Rio. One of the sculptures in the park took my notice. It was of a cherub-like child, muscular, about 6 or 7 of age in Brazilian Indian headdress holding a knife to the throat of a wolf. Another showed a child strangling a huge snake. Within the peaceful setting of the park, the sculptures were particularly persuasive. It takes a peaceful place to contemplate. My brother-in-law discussed provoked thoughts of man-child subduing nature, without and within. In the States, there would probably be animal rights protests, articles from outraged feminists. Children's right groups would sue because they would claim the statues encouraged dangerous activities, and The Museum's insurance premiums would go up 200 fold.

Even though we rented a cello in Brazil to save on luggage for me and Chris to handle, we still managed to bring enough luggage along to fill a one bedroom apartment. Fortunately for us, we had the use of the empty apartment of Lili's aunt and uncle, who passed away some years ago.

Somehow my baggage consisted of a backpack. Of course, I am a fool and ill prepared for the unforeseen complexities of world travel. It's not even a backpack from Land's End or the L.L. Bean Catalogue. It's somewhat old and tattered as it is the same backpack I use to carry materials for Scout Den meetings and campouts for which I am the biggest boy also referred to as Den Leader.

One of the major scout precepts is to "always be prepared". The questions this precept leaves open is to be prepared for what and how. I was prepared for a primitive camping experience more than a sophisticated world traveler experience. I admit I probably did not need the compass especially as I had no maps. Maps of Rio do not exist. It is not the Carioca way. Directions are always discussed in large groups with differing opinions often lasting so long as to discourage travel at all. It is best to just go somewhere, anywhere, and not discuss it with anyone. If you end up somewhere entirely unexpected all the better. I believe this is why the Portuguese were always great explorers, but not much interested in traveling after their exploration was done.

Maybe I didn't need to pack the flint and steal used to start fires under primitive conditions. The girls on the other hand, were well prepared, and they were never even in the girl scouts. They brought a good supply of junk food for the boys, who might have starved not knowing what to do with a mango and terrified of guava and midget bananas that tasted like apples and pears. In fact, the girls may have foreseen the probability of trauma from such culture shock when presented for the first time with miniature bananas. Thanks to their foresight, they were prepared when Gabriel asked if long distance air travel at high speeds or traveling to the bottom of the world caused things to appear smaller like the cars or bananas.

The girls also knew to bring game boys so the children wouldn't fight or play loud games or talk or even look at anyone or anything going on around them.

They also had prepared carefully for any eventuality that game boys were not of sufficient interest and mental stimulation. They brought stereos, music collections on CD's, CD players, laptops with DVD players for movies and games, and video collections. They also brought air mattresses, air pumps, candy, cookies, and presents for everyone in Brazil.

Thanks to the girls, we were saved from any eventuality, so Chris and I loaded and unloaded suitcases that were not only large and bulky, but well beyond what OSHA would set as a safe weight limit for middle aged husbands if there were any laws to protect men from human rights abuse.

This is what it has come down to for the once mighty and revered male members of the human race. For many thousands of years men fought mastodons and saber-toothed tigers to provide safety, food, and fur coats. They moved mountains and forests to build warm homes for their loved ones. They developed language to sing praises of women. They advanced civilization until women only needed men to load luggage and open vacuum-sealed jars. No wonder there is such unrest in the world. Our Muslim brothers of the world are scared out of their wits, perhaps rightfully so. As it is, in the West, we have grown used to the low self-esteem expected of men. We have become so accustomed to the recrimination of males as models of anything but villainy that men have learned to male-bash themselves. This means of self-loathing breast-beating has become a model for winning the admiration of women and their favor, which has put many Troubadours and Shining Knights of Chivalry out of work. Most of them are homeless as most of them have been kicked out of their houses by their wives or never could get the hang of political speak as the official courting language and gave up. Many troubadours gave up in frustration trying to accommodate the word police editors. The bureaucratic maze of he/she rules when writing politically acceptable love songs was particularly troublesome. Many became so confused over what was more acceptable - he/she, she/he, or just she, when he was always accepted as he/she - that they went over the edge and confused their own genders. One day they dressed as he and the other days as she.

For two whole weeks, I was glad to not have to worry about this major life and death situation that didn't seem to have a similar weight in Brazil. In fact, there were much more pressing issues such as finding clothing for women in need.

Evidently, women in Brazil find it very difficult to clothe themselves adequately or at all. I was stunned at the beach to find women wearing dental floss. It seems the government should step in to help these women if not from a moral or charitable justification, then as a reasonable means to save greater sums of money in the long run.

I could not help but notice that the dental floss did little to protect the crevice between the lady's buttocks from the harmful rays of the sun. Such areas of virgin skin suddenly exposed are ripe for cancer. Since chivalry is dead, it is up to the government to secure proper clothing for these forsaken women and save the government untold millions in doctor bills. Such government intervention if not forthcoming, would give new meaning to that famous line from "Oliver", "then the government is an ass, Sir!"

Everywhere you look on newsstands, billboards, even on tv, charitable reminders of a shortage of women's clothing are boldly displayed. This dire need is so evident one would have to be blind to miss it.

Many women are so weak from exposure, that they can be seen in many public places, being resuscitated by enthusiastic young men. It seems to be so common an activity, that most people take it for granted and go about their business.

Poverty is a real problem in Brazil and many people can't afford decent clothing. When we first arrived at Rua da Gloria, we unloaded our small mountain of luggage in little gaps between the blankets and carts that served as display cases for street vendors. Some blankets and carts served as beds for the homeless who were still sleeping in the early morning. Amazingly, we received no requests for money and there was no hard-sell for merchandise. Perhaps it was a cynical acceptance of fate. Perhaps they did not want to drive off possible sources of charity or customers. Perhaps there was an understanding that their situation was tenuous competing with the many small stores that fronted the apartments and coops, and they could be removed by force if they rocked the boat. Perhaps they thought we were insane lugging all that baggage around and judging by my haggard appearance this was probably a more accurate assessment.

The sidewalk was very wide as most sidewalks are in Rio to accommodate not only 12 million pedestrians, but also street vendors, social gatherings, and outdoor seating for choparias, restaurants, pastry and sweet shops. The sidewalk in front of our building on Rua da Gloria was also full of morning commuters who did not seem to take notice of us as Rio is a Cosmopolitan City. Even if we were aliens from another planet, it probably wouldn't raise an eyebrow.

Many of the commuters converge on our in-laws' block of the Gloria district to ride the Metro, which has a stop on the corner by one of the ubiquitous newsstands advertising the plight of women without clothes.

The metro in Gloria is a very quick, efficient and pleasant means of getting to the beach at Copacabana, the Central Business District, or other charming districts such as Flamengo and Botafogo.

The Central District very sensibly banned all but pedestrian traffic. It is an older area and the cobblestone streets are very narrow. There is a large square where the metro station is located. The square is usually crowded with vendors, musicians, acrobats, and jugglers. You can see a futuristic cathedral from the square and many ancient buildings with their distinctive curves, massive masonry work and relief sculpture. An aqueduct from former times arches its way to Santa Teresa, A World Heritage Site. An electric Tram from the square will take you to Santa Teresa, where you will question if you really did step back in time. The views of Santa Teresa, as most anyplace in Rio, are beautiful to behold.

Don't miss Columbo's Confeiteria and Restaurante. It is an ancient institution of culinary and architectural art. Enjoy your pastries of infinite variety, which can be viewed like works of art in ornately designed glass cases. The eating area is spacious and richly designed like a cathedral. An hydraulic lift takes you to a highly elevated dining area surrounding and overlooking the main dining area on the first floor. At lunch, the main meal of the day, an accomplished pianist plays for the diners. There are also balconies overlooking the street.

It's also worth a stop at Largo Machado (Butcher's Square). The square is also served by the metro, but it is mainly a square known to the local inhabitants. The square was built with large stones, which makes me think people of past were of a superhuman race and that somewhere along the line, they became extinct and were replaced with men who can barely open vacuum sealed jars.

Life was tough in the colonial times and even in more recent times. Perhaps we have it too easy now, especially in the States. My generation was never tested. We never had a depression or all out war. Yet we complain a lot and expect everything to go our way or we throw tantrums. We have huge houses and mountains of conveniences that seem to consume all of our money and time. We are not deprived of food, and yet our health is poor. Strong character or even mention of Duty and Loyalty to God, Family, and Country can land you in prison for treason and you will be treated as a pariah. Some of the things we did in WW II and the Cold War were atrocious, but think of the alternatives, a world run by a Stalin, a Mao, a Hitler, or a Fanatical Japanese Military. Most of my generation were useful idiots during the Vietnam War and we remain useful idiots for the most part, happy to open vacuum packed jars. With the opening up of the Soviet Union and the declassification of papers, we now know McCarthy and Nixon were on the right path rooting out Communist Spies from government and industry. They were there and Algier Hiss appears to have been a spy.

My father-in-law had it tough growing up in Brazil. His father immigrated to Brazil from Hungary when he was very young. His father was displaced by WW I. Emre, my father-in-law, had a younger brother, a baby, who didn't make it through the ocean voyage. In Brazil, Emre's father found a job mining in a mine in the jungle. He was a miner in Hungary, so this was familiar to him. When he got to the mine, he asked where were the horses to pull the coal carts up from the shafts in the mine. The manager pointed to him and said he was the horse.

It was a typical mining town. The mine paid just enough for the workers to be always a little behind in payments for food, clothing, and shelter. This way, no one could ever leave.

One night, Emre, was told to get up in the middle of the night, and the family fled for their lives through the jungle at night and continued until they arrived in Sao Paulo. In Sao Paulo, his father found a job with the railroad, loading freight.

My mother-in-law, Eunice, had it even worse. Her mother was left by her husband. She had to raise two children and work as a maid. Eunice was cared for during they day by her older sister in a single room, which they couldn't leave until their mother came home. When Eunice wasn't even old enough to legally work, she managed to get a job in a butcher's shop in Largo Machado, where I recently spent happy hours drawing pictures of sites in the square.

The square has many ancient tropical trees, children playing, and sociable seniors playing games of cards in the shade of the giant trees. There are many interesting shops, including some high brow book shops just off the square on Rua da Cateche. There is a beautiful old church on the square with wonderful relief sculpture. It is the church at which my wife received her first communion.

There are many beautiful old and new churches everywhere you wander in Brazil. One such church is mid way between Gloria and Largo Machado on Rua da Cateche. It is the church in which I was married for the second time to make sure we were properly married if the one in New York wasn't good enough.

Just off the Largo Machado and one half block from the Church going South is a very old local restraunt that is famous for its steak, but also serves other favorites such as balinoes bachalau (cod fish balls, not genitals, but a mixture of cod and spices rolled up in balls), and many other tasty Brazilian and Portugese dishes. The proportions are so large that it is a good idea to share a meal. The restaurant is Lama's and it has been serving excellent food for 131 years.

When you enter the restaurant, it is like many others with a take out area in the front with pastel (meat, fish, and vegetables dishes wrapped in dough), docenoies (sweets that are unbelievable rich like brigaderoes, bourbon balls, and pastries. The food is prepared daily and therefore fresh. Steaks are reasonable in price, and unbelievably tender and tasty. Brazil is a major producer of beef.

There were many hugs and kisses to greet us. Brazilians are very warm and affectionate and talkative and complicated beyond human understanding. The warmth is enough to turn the stomach of a New Yorker, who prides themselves in a well honed, gritty pessimism. I am not immune to such pessimism having lived in New York City for 15 years, but I must admit the hugs felt so good it made me drop my hardened shell of street smarts.

Somehow we managed with Gabriel practicing cello six hours a day. His bother played flute. My son, also Charles, played piano along with my wife, Diana, and Chris. For some reason, the in-laws spent a lot of time in their bedroom. It wasn't the noise. Emre finally asked if we could turn down the air conditioner a little bit. They weren't used to it. This started the air conditioning war. Gabriel wouldn't practice without it and he threatened to go back to New York. He liked his cello better in New York and the air conditioning was better, so he couldn't see why he had to suffer inhuman abuse just to be with his family. This is the type of temperamental behavior one comes to expect in a household of musicians.

We compromised by turning the air conditioner down a little and pointing the air blower to the ceiling instead of on the people in the room. The in-laws wore winter clothes. When no one was looking, Gabriel turned the temperature up and pointed the blower down.

I was the only misfit in the family, with no musical talent. I sat in a corner scribbling or drawing in a sketchbook. No one ever noticed me. This is one of the downsides of visual art and writing. Your audience is not in front of you. Your conversation is mostly with other dead artists and artists of the future. It is a work of faith because more than likely no one will ever read what you write or look at your artwork.

The girls were very frustrated because they wanted to help their parents who were in their eighties, but Eunice kept beating them to the punch. As soon as someone was finished with a dish or a cup, she was washing it. She prepared meals before anyone was awake or before they returned from a trip. She cleaned the house when no one was looking, as she had been forbidden to do this.

My mother-in-law was a blessing. She was never a Girl Scout, but she knew the meaning of help. She never asked for anything in return and she was always looking to do a good turn and she was cheerful about it. She was not in good health, but she would not stop. She did not show her pain and she did not complain.

As good as my mother-in-law is, I did think she went too far when she started ironing my underwear. It did feel softer, but I can live with wrinkled underwear just fine. However, I didn't have the heart to tell her this.

It was the same problem when I first visited my in-laws. Their big meal was at lunch. Eunice and her sister, Abigail, hovered around the table, asking if I wanted more of anything. If I said no, they looked hurt, so I said I would have a little.

They also took pity on me, because they knew I had dinner later in the evening, so they prepared a second big meal for me. I still have a picture of me with a belly that made me look as if I was nine months pregnant, and I had never been overweight in my life.

Apartments in Brazil are somewhat different than apartments in the States. They tend to be more spacious. The ceilings are usually twelve feet high. Not only the floors are tile in the bathroom and kitchen, but the walls up to the ceiling are tiled, often with very picturesque tile.

There are filters for the water, and besides filtering the drinking water, it is boiled for seven minutes. Apartments usually have an additional room and bathroom for a maid. Besides a room for a clothes washing machine, there is a room for hand wash that is also completely tiled. In one corner is a large deep sink with the front side fashioned into a washboard made from stone like marble. A grid of metal rods is suspended from the ceiling with pulleys and ropes for the hanging of clothes to dry.

Furniture is very ornate and usually made of wood by hand craftsmen.

The top floor of the in-laws' coop is open on all sides and is a common area with a playground, a large brick oven, a bar, tables and chairs, and breathtaking views of Sugar Loaf, the grand and magnificent Hotel Gloria, ancient churches, Corcovado and on top overlooking it all Christ the Redeemer.

Our trip ended on a note of magic watching the New Year's Eve celebration from the top of the building, eating steak grilled on the barbecue and drinking chope (beer). We watched fireworks across the bay in Niteroi, in Gloria, Botafogo, and beyond. At midnight everyone hugged and danced to the samba beat.

In the apartment, we watched other celebrations in New York and at Copacabana. At Copacabana, 2 million people came to enjoy the fireworks and music. Five barges in front of the beach launched the ariel bombardment. Simultaneously, fireworks erupted from the hotels. The Normandy invasion of WW II was probably less terrifying. Everyone seemed to love it. Judging from the celebration in Paris, the shortage of women's clothes is not restricted to Rio. The difference is the women in Paris were marching with guns. Civilization seems even more precariously balanced than usual.

We said our farewells to our nephews and their parents, and we took a cab to Penn Station to catch a train to Fredericksburg. We got out of the cab expecting the cab driver to get out and unload the luggage from the trunk. Then my wife said she thought the cabby was trying to get our attention. He said he wouldn't open the trunk until we paid him. I paid him, and he did open the trunk from inside the car. He didn't get out to help.

When I used the men's room in the waiting area, two men were shouting expletives and racial slurs at each other and threatening violence. Apparently, one of them brushed by the other in the crowded bathroom. The headlines in the newspapers showed pictures of Senators shouting expletives at each other and accusing each other of being bigots. Welcome to America.

Maybe we could learn a little from Brazil. I don't think it would hurt to follow their example of 2-hour lunches and mandatory 4 weeks' vacation a year. If we start early to reduce stress in children, we may actually find that elusive right to pursue happiness that the founding fathers thought so crucial. I propose to shorten school days to 4 hours. Maybe we wouldn't be the most productive country in the world, but maybe we could get along a little better.

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