Cry Baby Christmas

Brazilians are emotional people.  If you watch the nightly news, the response to eight out of ten questions posed to eye witnesses on the street involves the words 'tanta emoção' (it's just so emotional).  It's how Brazilians feel after a disaster, a miracle or a slice of pizza. 

On Friday, Mr Becoming and his work colleagues had their Christmas day out, and what did all these big tough guys get together to do?  Weep.  Yes, they wept at the emotion of it all.  At one point, each manager had a personal letter, written by one of their nearest and dearest, read aloud to the assembled team.  The managers had to identify themselves from these letters, in which their wives and children waxed lyrical about how much they loved and couldn't live them.  It turned into a sob-fest, as each person, identifying themselves from their eulogy, would well-up with tears.  The person who was reading out the letters choked and passed the mike to his neighbour, hilariously blubbing "I might be in security, but I also have a degree in architecture" by means of an explanation.  Even the interpreter,  simultaneously translating the goings-on for the benefit of a few perplexed Canadians, had a breakdown.

Of course I had to compose a letter of my own for Mr Becoming.  Since I didn't remotely understand what I was supposed to be doing,  he ended up having with something more akin to a letter of complaint; that he didn't talk much, didn't trust anyone and worked too much. Oh well, at least I saved him of the indignity of crying in front of a crowd.

For my part, I might be more Brazilian than I think: I teared-up myself when I went to get the kids from school on Friday.  School was breaking up for the long summer holidays.  I'm not sure if I was emotional on the behalf of the kids, who were having to say goodbye to their beloved teachers, or on my own behalf, at the thought of actually having to parent my children for eight straight weeks.  Either way; "tanta emoção".

No Back Door Entry: Deal Breaker

No Back Door Entry...but There's A Great City View

We thought Christmas was coming a little early this year, with the long-awaited sale of our flat in Sao Paulo looking like it was really going to go happen.  But e-tidings received from the almost-buyers yesterday quashed our festive joy:

"We were at the apartment again over the weekend and identified a problem that we hadn't noticed upon our previous visits: the property does not have a service entrance.  This seriously depreciates its value, since the circulation of maids, supermarket delivery men etc will pass through the living room.   Besides this, just imagine when it comes to taking out the rubbish.  Sorry for the inconvenience but we will not be proceeding with the purchase"

Just imagine, indeed.  Oh well, I guess for Brazilians the whole back door entry thing really is a big deal, and not just figuratively.

It's true that our place is rare in this respect.  The layout of most Brazilian city dwellings reflects a culture in which domestic chores like cooking, cleaning and shopping are performed by hired domestic staff.  Usually, an out-dated kitchen, laundry facilities and a maid's bedroom and bathroom comprise a dedicated service area tucked at the recesses of the property, with it's own access.  These are areas in which the owner barely ventures, let alone lingers.  (FYI potential buyers, ours has all that except the apparently crucial door)

Aside from the fact that unused maid's rooms are great places to stack suitcases and junk, the architectural norms of Brazil are completely at odds with my lifestyle.  I love cooking and hosting.  In my dreams I have an open-plan kitchen (they call this a "cosinha Americana" here in Brazil, oh the irony) where friends drink cocktails and eat heart-shaped canapes while I effortlessly throw together prawn ceviche and home made profiteroles.  In these dreams I suppose my guests would be witness to the demeaning task of - shock, horror - kitchen waste disposal.  But isn't that the whole point of having made Mr Becoming lug a a 50 litre, chrome, Brabantia 'touch bin' back from a recent business trip?

Babies, Bumps and Queue-Jumps

It's about time I got me another baby.  Not because I adore the sticky lickle munchkins, but because I need a legit way to barge queues.

In Brazil, if you are pregnant or with a small child, you do not have to wait in line.  Not for anything, anywhere, ever.  At the post-office, the supermarket or passing through customs, checking-in, checking-out or cashing a cheque.  You can simply waltz straight to the front of the line, or, in many places, to the dedicated express desk exclusively for priority citizens.

And it's not like this is just some kind of unwritten rule in a chivalrous society.  This is a fully blown "priority law" that is posted on sign-posts everywhere, and which also applies to the elderly, the sick and the handicapped.  Accordingly, for the past four years, I have pretty much skipped to the front of every line I have encountered.

It takes some getting used to.  I didn't dare skip any queues until I was visibly pregnant with my first born, even although it's during those first few invisible weeks when you really need the 'get out of here without throwing-up' card.  But once I'd done it a few times I became quite confident. So confident, in fact, that over the past few years I have had quite a few near fist-fights while asserting my legal rights.

With my second baby I started jumping to the front right from the start of the pregnancy, and more than a few times I was challenged by check-out girls.  One told me I had to be 5 months pregnant to get priority, which is simply not true.  Another told me I needed to carry proof of pregnancy.  Really?  She wants me to hand over a positive pee-stick with a credit card? There is also a general belief that people have to be on their own to benefit from the priority pass, which is also not the case. (I'm talking about the legal standpoint not the ethical one!)

But the real altercations occur within the blessed ranks of priority citizens themselves.  You see, the law doesn't make it very clear who gets priority if there is an old woman, a pregnant woman and a handicapped woman in the same line;

"Hey I"m dying"

"Out of my way, my waters just broke"

"Can't you see, I have no legs?"

Once, swear to god, I was hit by an old lady during one of these type of ridiculous arguments, and I was holding a 2 month old infant.  Of course I think the living dead are the clear winners in the priority stakes, but I also think that whoever is skipping the queue should at least proffer a vaguely apologetic smile at the other people waiting.  On this particular occasion I was waiting to change the baby's nappy in an aircraft loo when a Brazilian granny pushed past, head down to avoid eye contact, and slammed the door in my face.  When she came out and I commented on her rudeness, she started screaming and hitting me. Goes to show that you can legislate, but you can't force good manners on anyone.

Anyway, my Little Dove is almost two, going on sixteen, and I definitely can't consider her a 'crianca de colo' ('lap baby') anymore.  Suddenly she's lost her value as an expediator of tedious chores like the post-office, bank and federal police.  But I love the sticky lickle munchkin anyway.