Embaixada Dos Bonecos

Mark and I enjoyed a touristy afternoon in Recife Antigo (Old Town Recife) and Marco Zero, the official starting point of road measurements around the city. With his usual scoffing of the map, we simply wandered through the streets admiring old buildings, churches, and markets. Neither of us had visions of hitting up museums, but just as quickly as we discussed this we walked right into the Embaixada dos Bonecos Gigantes, or Embassy of Giant Dolls. It is the headquarters for these 88 pound, top heavy, fiber glass dolls that are worn over the shoulders of parade marchers, most notably during Carnaval.  

Tiptoeing in, the entrance felt a much like the mysterious entry of a carnival freak show; the rainbow streamers lifted in the breeze creating just enough to get a glimpse of hair, glitter and plastic smiles. I was startled when we entered through the curtain because there they were: big heads and unblinking eyes staring us down as if we interrupted their important meeting. We circled the room, exploring the faces and goofing off. It was short visit, but one definitely worth taking- especially if you have kids.

Want one with your own likeness? You could go all out and get a handmade boneco, mini-sized or giant. The process is fairly simple: you give them a picture and chitchat about clothing options and the artists get to it. They cost between 250 to 1,800 USD and takes 2-3 months to complete. Imagine one of these bonecos in your living room! I think it would be the greatest conversation starter ever. Mark morbidly jokes that when he kicks off, I should stuff him and put him on my couch. I'm thinking this could be more fun...

Beaching It- Practice Makes Perfect

Recife: 8.0500° S, 34.9000° W 

I don't know how other families do the beach thing with such finesse. All around me, I see tranquil children who are happy digging holes in the shade, others content with splashing together near the shore. They linger for hours, laughing and playing, snoozing between activities and eating fried cheese on a stick. After some hours these harmonious families head home, happy and without the telltale waddle of too much sand in their cracks.  And don't even get me started on their beautifully tousled beach hair. These families clearly are beach experts. Or- they have magical powers. 

I want to know their secret because on the occasions that I take Deets and Margo to the beach without Mark it usually goes down like this: first I have to negotiate with Deets. He always wants to swim- always in the frigid pool, never in the ocean (though I can understand why). When he finally acquiesces, I chase both kids around the apartment for about twenty minutes to slather on sunscreen and I end up pinning one of them down to put on a swim suit on while the other pretends not to know how. I then squish into my own bathing suit and put on an elaborate show trying to put sunscreen on my back. It involves a lot of grunting and reaching but eventually, I can feel confident that I am somewhere between 85-95% covered. 

We walk across the street with one child tossed over my shoulder, angry that she can't 'just walk into traffic' and, the other insisting pausing in the middle of the crosswalk yelling at the cars to stop- because he's a super hero. We've arrived to the beach and Deets immediately wants to go straight into the water clothes and all, whereas Margo runs in the opposite direction just to prove a point. This means I have to repeatedly drag Deets back onto shore, chasing her down and at the same time getting inundated with unwanted shark attack advice from other beach goers. Or questions about whether they are twins. What time we do have in the water together is relatively entertaining: Deets jumps the waves and I bend over swinging Margo in my arms, giving the onlookers a primetime view of me squatting like a sumo wrestler. We never do go in further than my knees. Because quite frankly, there are sharks out there.

At some point I convince them to retreat to the shade for some bubbly water while I catch my breath, profusely sweating from exertion, sunscreen running in my eyes. The break lasts about 30 seconds and the cycle of herding cats begins again. I am chasing them amongst the various vendors showcasing obnoxiously loud toys, kiddie pools, ice cream, nuts, and again- quail eggs. Finally, after forty-five minutes  a long day in the surf we slink back to the sidewalk half dressed, tired and dehydrated (because someone decides to use the bubbly water as foot wash) with an obscene amount of sand matted into our rat's nest hair. Our other, darker places are also crusted in sand.

When I finally cajole the kids into the shower for a rinse,  I swear I will never take them out alone again.  Then another day comes; the waves tease, the sun beckons and distant music lures all of us back out there to explore. I become entranced once again and fall in love with living here.  I am sure one day WE will be the beach experts with harmonious, glowing auras. Or maybe that's the sun exposure talking.