Ice Cream

Ok, so I wanted to write first about the weird weather we have been having here. It has been fluctuating on a daily basis between 10 degrees and 25 degrees. Right now I'm sitting here in my dead-of-winter sweater and heavy wool socks, and my fingers are still turning blue. My body is confused, and my head feels like it has been stuffed with cotton wool. JUST MAKE UP YOUR MIND, Sao Paulo!! It would be nice to know whether or not I should go to the beach this weekend.... and if I DO decide to go to know whether or not I will freeze my ass off.
That feels better.
Now. I wanted to write about my unreal big city small town Ice Cream experience. Yesterday, Jasper came out of school very upset. It appeared that his friend wanted him dead, and this somehow disturbed him. So as the weather had decided to co-operate for the moment, I thought an ice-cream would calm his fears that death could come by way of a mate's casual whim. We thought carefully about what ice-cream (if you could call it that) treat would be most desireable, and went for the twister lime green and candy floss pink creation. Once the treat was in the little man's (literally) hot hands, I opened my bag to pay, and, lo and behold, the cupboard was bare. I was amazed when the ice cream vendor smiled, nodded, and told me to come back and pay him next time. Anytime. He took my first name. That's it. Unreal. Savy. He has won a customer for life, and has dashed my most recent attempts to keep sweets to a minimum. Damn!

The Big Shiver

I just want to tell you all that it is DAMN COLD here in Sao Paulo.

Brazilian Khunying

Well. I found her. Last night Jasper was invited to a Birthday party, and oh boy...
His new school seems to be a breeding ground for rich, vain, and image-obsessed parents. The Khunying in question had her hair styled into the biggest, crunchiest, helmet I have seen yet in my Brazil days; big enough to rival the haughtiest Khunying in Thailand. Ironically enough, she was one of the few who was taking the time to spend time with the child in her charge. The hostess of the party had been augmented completely out of proportion, and was obviously keen to show it off. Her blouse was cut as low as decently (or actually not so decently) possible. I wonder how she picked up her daughter without her saline wonders popping out to greet the partygoers. The men, on the other hand, seem to have had a massive throwback to the 80's. Hair styled and swooped into place, a few who had already spent some time at the hair club for men, and collars turned up - with Don Johnson being emulated at every turn. It appeared to me that these people were floating in a sea of white. That sea of course being made up by vast numbers of babas dressed head to toe in the requisite white, undulating in waves after the coddled children in their charge. Next time I think I had better wear white too. I spent the majority of the evening with one of them, who is an intelligent delight, and full of insight into the ways of the rich Brazilian. Oh yes, and Japser - the reason we were all there. Well, in my champage-induced haze (oh yes - take your choice - champage, whiskey, beer, or coke. No juice - for god's sake this was a kid's party) it appeared that Jasper reached the essence of a hyper-active, coke-induced party-time high. His favourite diversion all night was a shooting game, which although at first I highly disapproved of, I rather came to enjoy. We worked together to get rid of all the "bad guys" and I am embarassingly proud to say I managed to get us to level three by shooting about 150 of those evil men. Sadly, in my bloodlust, I did manage to take out three civilians, but I barely felt any remorse. I am worried, however, as I also felt minimal remorse at making no effort to meet and thank our hosts. Oh god - could it be? No! I can't be turning Brazilian, can I?

Back on the Block

After a rather interesting 5 weeks abroad, it is wonderful to be back in Sao Paulo with both feet on the ground. The constant humming of helicopters overhead, the pollution, and the wonderful crusty bread. Oh how I have missed them! My 35th birthday was spent at a golf course between SP and Rio, at a St. Andrews Society function. The aging and extensive grounds of the club were a curiosity in themselves. I had a flashback to Thailand in the quantity of livestock roaming around at leisure, but the quality of the animals was certainly Brazilian. Geese, ducks, preening roosters, and the occasional vain chicken were on the loose, as were a number of magnificent parrot-like birds and of course dogs and cats. The hotel rooms were located in freestanding rectangular bungalows containing strips of ten rooms apiece lined up in "bunkers" at seemingly random parallel locations. Instead of walking out onto the lawn or terrace, the sliding door at one end of the very plain rectangular room was closed off with a lean-to of concrete punctured regularly with small portholes. Although I found it strange at first, (almost prison-like), the effect was rather nice. The patterns the portholes made against the plain interior as the sun moved through the day was actually lovely. And so Oscar Niemeyer redeemed himself in my eyes. Indeed, on the very plain wall of our humble room was a plaque stating that we were staying in a little piece of history. A building which Niemeyer (famous Brazilian post-modern architect) had designed in the 1950's. Cool! Wish I had taken a photo to show you.
Next year perhaps....