colorido, brz #8

Sa, 2.11.17
Pelourinho, Salvador

The taxi dropped us off at the civic center which sits on a hill overlooking the sea. We snapped some photos near the Elevador Lacerda, an elevator moving people from the old town’s precipice down to the docks and markets and the sea below.
Cidade Alta.

The old town, Pelourinho, dates back to the 17th century. It’s colorful, colonial, loud, lonely, cunning, creative. These traits have helped it survive.

A large peach-colored building anchored a plaza—the first medical school in Brazil.
“Eu trabalho em escola de médico.”
I work for a medical school.

A Baiana woman in her traditional garments came up wanting me to photograph her.  João stepped in and shooed her away. Later, he said, she pulled him aside and scolded him, showing her certificate and asking why he wouldn’t let her do her fucking job.

Steel drums bang.
Groups come together.
People dance.
Hawk.
Busk.

The cobblestones are rough, jagged, thrown together haphazardly, and yet they make up the street. Neither is the plaza square and tidy. It’s sloping, strangely angled, multi-dimensional. The cotton candy buildings go with it, figure it out, adapt.

Four-hundred years of atrocities, love, violence, samba, slavery, souvenirs, minutiae.
Their pastel hues betray their truth: they are sturdy, resilient, timeless.

So, too, is the Baiana. She is all of these things and more as she struts down the hill and then out of sight. 

caseira, brz #7

Sa, 2.11.17
Jardim Apipema, Salvador 

“O café e bom?” she asked.
“Sim, muito bom. Obrigado!”
“Açúcar é naturale,” she said, opening the sugar so I could have some.
“Ah, obrigado! Eu nao gosto de açúcar branco.”
“Nao acucar branco…
“Naturale!”

It makes sense that my first, authentic conversation in Portuguese with J’s mother is about coffee.
A simple one, sure, but one I am happy about.
Like the sugar…
Naturale.

 

-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Why is the food here so different?
Rose-colored taste buds?
Vacation?
Every morning a lovely spread.

Coffee (with no white sugar to be found, of course).
Plantains, potatoes, pineapples, bananas. Stacks of tropical fruit.
Fresh mango juice.
Something that reminds me of the outside of an English muffin. I make a note that I need to learn how to make this.

Maybe one day.

acarajé, brz #6

Fr, 2.10.17
Rio Vermelho, Salvador

Loose.
Dark.
Sexy.

We parked on a back black cobblestone alley.
The streetlights above cast everything in an intense orange,
          rather than the standard yellow.

A plaza of dancing Soteropolitanos enjoying the late evening.
We line up for acarajé at this shack along the promenade.
A Salvador staple.
A sort of falafel made of beans with tomatoes, shrimp, and a paste of flour and some yellow sauce. Deconstructed or sandwiched.

I’ll try some new juices, I said.
Suco24. J ordered me a caju. The fruit of the cashew. Sort of mango, sort of orange.
He chose correctly.
I snuck some of Danuza’s, graviola (which translates to soursop.) Though I’m not sure what that is, either. It sounds more like an insult than a fruit.
(Crisp and refreshing.)

We sat and ate along the promenade, the black crashing sea at our backs. Bia and Danuza, nervous every time I took out my phone. But am I going to pass up the chance to photograph the punk rock club my fiancé pointed out? One he went to as a surly youth?

(Não)

gamboa, brz #5

Fr, 2.10.17
Solar do Unhão, Salvador

It’s impossible to keep any sense of direction around here. The streets wind up hills and then back down. Everything is gated and guarded.

After lunch we drove to Solar do Unhão — a cluster of buildings built into the mountain next to the sea. It’s an old sugar mill dating back to the 18th century. There’s a chapel and an art museum, but the place was deserted. A security guard told us it was closed.
No further explanation provided.

We poked around, took some photos, walked down to the docks. They overlook a favela— Gamboa—which is wedged between the highway and the water. It’s impoverished but colorful and sits right on top of the ocean facing the setting sun. 

There is a tiny cove carved out underneath the road above.
Their own private beach.
Small mercies.

 

gata, brz #4

Fr, 2.10.17
Lafayette, Bahia Marina, Salvador

I befriended a stray cat who rubbed against my leg during lunch.
She didn’t care that I couldn’t speak Portuguese — she just wanted my salmon.
“Salmão,” she meowed. (miau)
“Você pode ficar com os vegetais.”

(You can keep the vegetables.)

tourismo, brz #3

Fr, 2.10.17
Guarulhos 

“Oi!”

Okay, phew, we’re starting off right.

This was quickly followed, however, by a string of Portuguese I couldn’t understand.
(I tried.)

“Ahhh… ingles?” I put on smiling, defeated look.
Everyone thinks Americans smile too much anyway.

“Yes, yes. My English is not so good.”
“Eu falo portugues so um pouco.” I speak Portuguese but only just a little.

She laughed — “Here for tourismo? Ah, vacation?”

“Sim!”
She smiled.

Stamp, stamp.

o til, brz #2

Mo, 2.13.17
Ibirapuera

Sao Paulo without the tilde is unfamiliar, flat,
          not the São Paulo I came to know and like.

          See?
It needs the tilde… o til.
          A little less exotic without.
                    Don’t you think?

Worth the extra effort, I’d say.

São Paulo is kind,
creative,
familiar…
          that bustle, the drive, the ambition.

People are too busy to bother much with you, though, like in New York
          so you can

                    explore freely.

fourth of july, ny #36

Wednesday, 1.2.19
Brooklyn Bridge

The sixth sojourn back from Michigan, by car.
A full day’s trip.
Normally we cut down 280, catch the Holland Tunnel.
But we had company with us,
          and whenever we have company we take the George Washington Bridge
          to the West Side Highway.

What could I have said to raise you from the dead?
Oh could I be the sky on the Fourth of July?

Sloping, sweeping views—
          they sneak up on you.
It’s a nice introduction to the city.
Once you get past the sterile Trump buildings
          in Midtown.

Where everything was fiction, future, and prediction
Now, where am I?
My fading supply

It’s when things get exciting.
The Freedom Tower sneaking up on you
like that.
But then, always, that same fucking roundabout.
          (Take the second exit,)
          ( (…you spaz.) )

Such a funny thought to wrap you up in cloth
Do you find it all right, my dragonfly?

The GPS was having a good time with us,
          as it does.
Usually a straight shot down Chambers Street
          to the Brooklyn Bridge.
A detour, then. OK

Make the most of your life, while it is rife
While it is light

Down Broadway, and around the elegantly named
          “People With AIDs Plaza.”
Questionable maneuvering of this Cadillac SUV
(am I seventy nine years old?)
          possibly illegal.

Tell me what did you learn from the Tillamook burn?
Or the Fourth of July?
We’re all gonna die

But no one is out on the road at this late hour.
Because, despite everything they tell you,
          New York is the City that sleeps
          roundabout 10:49 p.m.
And so we’re stopped on Park Row, at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge
          for twenty minutes
          for god knows what reason.
          (El Chapo.)

We’re all gonna die

… and then suddenly,
we’re the only ones crossing the Bridge,
and nothing had ever happened at all.

patti, ny #22

Thursday, 5.2.19
Webster Hall, East Village

Patti,
Tell us a story?
//
Once upon a time there was a guitar player who wanted to get to the next song,
but some asshole wanted her to tell a story.

……………

Lenny Kaye: I was worried they’d renovate it in here, make it nice.
Still a shithole…
What every good shithole needs
is some punk rock.

……………

“Jesse! We love you!”
Patti: “Stand in line.”

……………

A storm blew in over the island of Manhattan.
“It’s a little dark in here,” she said.
…they cranked up the volume.

……………

april fool
are you experienced?
redondo beach
my blakean year
beds are burning
dancing barefoot
ain’t it strange?
lenny kaye covers: (lou reed, rolling stone)
after the gold rush
25th floor
southern cross
pissing in a river
gloria
people have the power

 

bambu, brz #1

Fr, 2.10.17
Salvador

And so this is my first foray into Brazil,
          away from the airport,
          where the bamboo leans over into the road.

João’s mother is elegant and kind,
          and is about to veer into one car
          as she flips off another.

And there’s sunlight dappling through the trees.
And the soil is red.
And even though there are dunes in the distance,
it’s unfamiliar and
         exciting.