Late Birthday, Early Christmas with Ninhol

While I can't say when I started following Ninhol on Facebook and admiring his artistry, I can pinpoint it was between liking the pages of Steve Martin and Bored Panda. I was immediately drawn to the vibrant colors, striking against the black lines and not a single space of white. Most of his paintings are done this way in fact.  On one hand, it goes against what little I know about art, where white space is sometimes the most important aspect. On the other hand, like great art, his paintings remind me of people, places and moments I hold dear. For example, my mom used to read me the story Rain Makes Applesauce, a non-sensical story filled with odd-end imaginative figures like monkeys eating chimney smoke. Ninhol's art reminds me of this: pages filled with detail and character, being read in the security of my mom's lap. He also reminds me of my childhood (and adult) obsession of filling in my pictures with full, even color. I never did like drawing outside the lines: an early sign of anal retention, I'm sure. 

At any rate, I loved the art and announced to Mark we should track this guy down once we arrived to Brazil and eventually buy one of his works. He went ahead without me and commissioned a piece for my birthday and Christmas gift. That was in September. By December, the artwork was completed and shipped to our home. Mark was so excited to give it to me, he didn't bother wrapping it. He proudly showed me the art in the kitchen while I was elbow deep in dishwater.

I stared at it: a familiar scene of two children and a woman, surrounded by daisies. Mark sent Ninhol a picture of us in similar form for him to work with, and the results were simply beautiful. My only disappointment was Mark's declination to be in the painting. He explained to me this was because he wanted me to pretend he was the photographer/painter- seeing his family as he sees us everyday. That man really does have a romantic side. I routinely look at the picture when I am chasing the kids with the vacuum, wiping up thrown spilled food, reading Richard Scarry books for the millionth time, or the rare moment of stillness in my house... it fits right into my life. 

Doting on my children, in art and in real life.
They've got me trained.
And no, my hair never looks this good.

A little bit about the artist- he's an expert of Pernambuco art and context. (Pernambuco being one of the 26 states of Brazil and is where we live.) If my research is correct Ninhol is from Olinda, a city with a phenomenal cultural reputation (especially known for Carnaval), representing northeast Brazil. Having a knack for bright colors, expressive scenes and historical context, he drew attention across the country with images of stacked apartments and homes, scenes of local neighborhoods, religious icons, dancers, and lovers. He's done artwork found Antarctica beer cans, a Brazilian beer brand (owned by Anheuser-InBev) and more than once has been sought after, create anything from Moleskine sized paintings to murals. Ninhol has a pretty good gig going.

To celebrate the New Year and his Facebook-following reaching 1500, Ninhol announced a raffle to receive a painting. It's a gorgeous painting of a woman and child, filled to the brim with, well everything... so until January 15, 2015, fans of his art can do the following steps to enter: 1. Like his FB page and, 2. Like and share the contest post (from December 31, 2014) to spread the word. So easy- and who knows? A little Brazilian artwork is always fun!

Now part of the permanent Schlink collection.

Holiday Roadside Cheer and Celebration

As fun time-limited assignment, a few weeks ago the kids' teachers gave me 1 day to find a specific cloth (pano de chão) that is wrapped around a broom and used clean floors- the preferred method over mopping. My first instinct was to give them dish rags, followed by old hospital-issue baby blankets, but my conscience got the best of me and I got to work. My Portuguese dictionary wasn't particularly helpful, Google Translate and Images helped a little but I ended up asking the class online Moms' Group just to be sure I wouldn't embarrass my children more than I already do. To my relief, a number moms had no idea what a "pano de chão" was or where to buy them either. 

At any rate, these cloths aren't often sold in stores. Instead, they are better found on the roadside, along with dish towels, fedoras, and other assorted goods sold to passersby. (I saw someone selling a coat rack once!) I remembered seeing one particular stop light that probably sold them. I headed out on foot one morning with the children and dog, dodging traffic, people and potholes to make my purchase. The cloths ended up being made into decorative sacks for Christmas, a cute project actually. 

So when last week the kids came home from school with orders to bring Santa hats for their last day before the holiday break it was a nice surprise considering I had nearly a whole week! I also laughed at this request knowing full well neither one of them would wear a hot and itchy hat without putting up a fight. (But then again, my daughter insists on wearing underwear on her head in public, so I never really know.) 

Of course, when I was faced with finding a Santa hat, I should have known it would be a venture to the roadside stands instead of the mall. But I hadn't spied anything on my walks, so I went to the mall where I got to experience a few things: the agony of persistent sales pitches, the luring of gobby soft serve and acai puree every 30 feet, and the screaming of adolescents working at a pet shop who discovered the gory cannibalism of hamsters. I will never look at a Habitrail again without seeing tiny guts spattered against the translucent plastic walls. All this fun- and no hats.

I suppose patience is a virtue because not one day later, a myriad of road side stands popped up ready to sell! sell! sell! The shops, side-by-side were all advertising shiny, red, polyester holiday cheer. Glittering in the hot sun, the selections and sizes were impressive. What I like best about these shops is that they also sell fireworks. All the highly flammable material we need to ring in the holidays right in one spot. I asked one of the vendors which products were the best sellers. Without missing a beat she told me she regularly sells out of the "Saint Peter Fireworks Combo Packs." I picked out the obligatory hats and marvelled at the adorableness of it all. "Here in Brazil," the woman told me, "they love this end-of-year celebration and that they do it well- just wait and see." Lucky (or maybe unlucky) for me, we will have front row seats to observe the magic she described as "pure joy and hope" on the beach for Christmas and New Years: fireworks, dancing, and drinking all night long.

"No smoking and no dropping fireworks close to the barraca."

Sao Pedro: he's #1

She recommended these sparklers for my children.
These fat suckers put my childhood sparklers to shame.

Knocked him down. Twice. 

The only red shirt I could find for Margo had was her Eric Cantona shirt.
I think that is a fabulous way to celebrate Christmas, personally. 

First Peek Olinda

View from Praca Da Se
121 feet above sea level

Whenever I chat with Recife locals, they always ask me the same questions: 1. How do you like living in Recife? 2. Have you been to Olinda? and 3. Why haven't you visited Olinda yet? They have a lot of admiration for the city, always quick to point out its spectacular ocean views, museums, art galleries, and historical churches. Deciding to ameliorate my guilt, we hopped into a taxi to check out the would-be capital of Pernambuco- had a war between Recife merchants and Olinda sugar financiers not broken out in the early 1700s. At the time sugar, a commodity once king of the Brazilian exports, suffered when West Indies competition blew them out of the water, stagnating Olinda's cash flow to the point of crisis. The growing economic and political differences between the two cities grew, along with piles of Olinda debt and dwindling Dutch power meant something had to give, resulting in war: the Guerra dos Mascates. In the end, Recife took over as the capital. 

I realized as we neared the hilly city (a whopping 6km from Recife) that I was in for a treat. Mark and I would get to hike up the cobble stoned roads to reach the top. I love an integrated workout/touring day- it makes the beer taste so much better. However, our cabbie wasn't inclined to listen and nearly killing his transmission along the way, drove up the steep hill in first gear. We hopped out and began to wander. Basically, everything was closed save for a few snack carts. Like we suspected, turns out most exhibits are closed on Mondays. On one hand, that was disappointing- I'd hoped Lonely Planet was wrong so I could visit the contemporary art museums and see about scratching the last few items off the Christmas list. On the other hand, we admired Olinda's colonial churches; many of which were built in the 1500s. We enjoyed the beautiful tropical landscape, the vivid graffiti and brightly painted walls that lined the winding streets. We laughed at American tourist group making hopeful comments that the pending rainstorm would alleviate the sticky heat. By this time at 10:30am, I already soaked through my clothes, leaving sweaty butt marks wherever I sat. I wondered what these folks would think when summer really arrives. I'm told when it does, the trade winds often dissipate leaving nothing but stagnant, chest heaving heat. Sounds amazing.

At any rate, we worked up an appetite and decided on one of the few open restaurants: a Pizzaria/Creperia knowing full well, no restaurant ever makes pizza midday. I mortified my husband by ordering fried cod balls, known as bacalhau. I think he barely held down his carrot-chicken-crepe as he watched me drown my delicious cod balls in vinegar, lemon juice and pepper. For someone who routinely avoids eating pickles just because her husband hates the smell of vinegar, I deserved this free pass since it was my birthday after all. Burning off lunch we hiked back up the hill for a second pass. We saw many signs in windows advertising for rental space specifically for Carnival. It's prime real estate and with little surprise- the stretches of road are barely wide enough for two cars and the sidewalks are broken, sometimes non-existent. A rental right in the heart of millions of people dancing shoulder to shoulder in the streets is the perfect way to enjoy what all the locals say is total madness, joy and celebration. Mark thinks I could hang with the crowds. In theory I love the idea it all, but let's be honest- I'm a bigger chicken than the 88.5" (27m) chicken that roams the Pernambuco streets for Carnival every year, aka O Galo Da Madrugada. I guess time will tell. 

Igreja da Conceição

Igreja da Misericordia

Background: Igreja de Sé

Igreja do Carmo

View of Recife

Igreja do Amparo

Praia de Sao Francisco

My Turn To Get Hacked

I suppose it was only a matter of time until someone invaded my email account: as the story goes, a piss ant hacker was pleading with my address book to send money to Cyprus for financial rescue. Come on. If you're going to hack my account, come up with a better story will ya? Maybe I should be thanking this individual, because it saved me from writing a scintillating blog post about cleaning rags in Brazil. At least for now. These past few days I was whining to Mark how I needed something funny to happen to me so I could find an excuse to write a blog post. I realize two things now: one, shame on me. I should be writing regardless of how tranquil and quiet my life may feel. Two, be careful what you ask for.

Once I got over the initial panic and annoyance of resetting all my passwords, I got really angry when I found out that this person created a Yahoo account with my full name to forward messages. The hacker also screwed with every single one of my contacts by inserting an extra "s" into the addresses. All this when my children were fighting, spilling food and generally making it clear they needed attention. Of course it was a recipe for disaster: when Margo is "unsupervised" she tends to antagonize her brother with hair pulling and chases him with toys she stole directly from him, while our pacifist Deets, screams like a teapot and cowers in her giant toddler shadow. I felt like a pretty big slacker as I tossed both kids into bed for an extra long nap time so I could simultaneously stare down the computer and stress sweat all over our Drexel furniture. 

At the moment, it seems my account is back to its old self but I can't shake the paranoia that my information has sunk into the netherworld, ammunition for another day. I feel so naked! For now, I will consider myself lucky to have friends, family, and acquaintances who took the time to let me know their suspicions. The good news is, it was a good opportunity refresh my address book and make it look pretty again. I mean, if you are into that sort of thing.  

Pipa- The Wild(ish) Side

For our last full day in Pipa, Mark and I decided to spend the morning exploring Pipa's Ecological Sanctuary. Since it was located above the cliffs of Madeira Beach, he reasoned we could enjoy a potential bonus of finding backdoor access to the ocean below and adding one more beach to our list.  We heard it could be tricky, some friends tried hiking earlier in the week with their 5 year old and didn't have luck.  I already felt like a cross between an old salted shoe and poorly cured beef jerky so I wouldn't have minded too much if we couldn't find it. Yet, we dressed for the occasion anyway and headed out.

The sanctuary's sandy hiking path was meticulously raked and beautiful. The kids could freely lead the way as they followed the animal coded trail signs on the lookout for wildlife. Did we see anything? Not really, because my children likely scared them off with their whooping and stamping around. We did enjoy a family of fenced off turtles, but the tour was totally worth it because we had shade. Of course about to call it a day, one of the employees helpfully directed us to the Pirate Trail, leading straight to Madeira Beach. Peeking through the trees and over the cliff, we could already see the dolphins. I couldn't possibly say no to that. The trail was by far the steepest terrain we encountered but gripping Margo in one arm and the well-used guide rope in the other, down we went. 

I can't say this beach visit was my greatest victory: Margo was insufferable and exhausted, Deets was oblivious and distracted, and Mark was his usual affable self, seemingly impermeable to my rapidly depleting tolerance to sun exposure. Alas, I rallied. We played, swam, kayaked, and hiked straight back up from whence we came. Thirty minutes later with one less shoe (darn it Margo!) we sat in our own dusty, sandy filth and cruised home for another fully clothed shower and a nap.

At some point during the afternoon while we wandered about and visited a local brewery, the electricity went out for the entire town. Everyone stood outside in the shade, conversing and relaxing as they waited for the juice to kick back on. Tiny sagui monkeys took advantage of the situation, climbing and swinging along the black cabled jungle. The monkeys drew even more crowds to the street, blocking traffic and irritating drivers. I loved the spectacle they created thought this totally completed my vacation experience.

Until the next day.

Having slept poorly and up early again, all of us were very excited to go home.  Mark corralled the children in the back patio while I enjoyed the relative peace of stuffing organizing unwashed clothes into our bags and moving them to the doorway. Walking into our room, I laid my eyes upon a spider crawling casually along the edge of the bed. Now when I say spider, I really mean to say: TARANTULA. A Brazilian Bird-Eating Tarantula. Bigger than my hand and hairier than Jim-dog, the tarantula took no notice of my shrieking and knee-high prancing. It just kept on crawling as I ran away to make Mark 'do something' about the biggest f*king spider I had ever seen. At the time I lacked the mental capacity to come up with the word tarantula. (Earlier this week I made him 'do something' about a cockroach that I thought died on the kitchen floor. I didn't realize that cockroaches also play dead sometimes as a form of self-preservation. So when Mark resigned himself to picking up the carcass and found it was still alive, he was fairly displeased with his newfound task of killing it too.)

Anyway, seeing as how I have a dramatic flair for creepy bugs, Mark thought I was totally exaggerating until he saw it himself. He kept asking me specifically where it was, and all I could say was "you can't miss it!"  Well what did he do? Took pictures of the damn thing! He reasoned it would not be nice to kill it, and that it would probably break his flip flop. I had to agree with him there. I don't even know how one would get tarantula-gut stains out of the sheets anyway. The kids were fascinated, eager to watch him crawl along the shadows of our unmade bed. As Mark took photos, Deets reminded him to not let the spider eat his lens cap. I squirmed, feeling nauseated and horrified- but unable to look away. 

Mark dumped out all of our bags and repacked, reassuring me no that other uninvited guests would come home with us. Exhilarated, yet calm and sensible, Mark spent a considerable amount of time convincing me the tarantula's debut was only a one time thing, and that it didn't sleep with us all week; that it likely crawled into our open window just that morning. However, if there was ever a sign that it was time to go home, this had to be it.

Pipa: The Beachy Side

Praia de Centro
Peeking out from under the canopy.

Before we geared up for our first Brazilian vacation this week, I scoffed at the idea of traveling from the beach right out our front door to, well... another beach. How different could it be? In my mind, all sand is the same: sneaky, itchy, hot, and filled with crabs. While the sand in Pipa really wasn't much different than the sand in Recife, the experience was indeed totally different, and in a good way. For starters in Pipa, there was no threat of shark attacks. Instead, this insanely popular hippie town promised dolphins. Sure enough, from the beach (and from a tour boat) we could watch slick, bottle-nose dolphins swimming amongst the paddle-boarders and surfers. Even though I saw them appear probably 50 times, my reaction was always the same: a startled shout with an exaggerated arm fling and a finger point in hopes they'd freeze for only a moment longer. This was followed up with a jostling of either child dumb enough to stand near me as I'd yell "Did you SEE that?!" Oh the joy.

Praia de Madeira
for beginner surfers and paddlers. 

Kayaking with dolphins. 

We saw a bit more than dolphins- obviously a multitude of fish and crabs, some monkeys, turtles and lizards. (More on this later.) The people watching here was impressive as well. Since Pipa has evolved from a fishing town to a tourist destination, visitors from all walks of life filled the streets to dine and shop along the cobblestone main street, after energy draining days of swimming, tanning and surfing. I'm talking HOT and sunny- I went through three bottles of sunscreen, chasing after the family as they'd dash to the water, pretending they didn't hear me.

Everyday after espresso and pastries we'd hike down the 100-130 foot cliffs to explore the various beaches. We'd find a giant umbrella with lounge chairs, crack open beers and order fresh squeezed juice. It was pretty surreal, especially when I managed to get the kids to nap- yes NAP on the beach. Mark dared to suggest I just might be a beach expert like the ones I enviously wrote about recently. I wouldn't go that far. But it did help stretch the time of "vacationing" with toddlers. When Deets wasn't trying to battle the ocean with his spoon, and Margo wasn't obliging me to bury her in the sand, we collected sea shells, spied on crabs, and wandered the long stretches of beach during low tide. It was about as tropical as one could get, and considering my tolerance for intense weather it wasn't half bad. I might even say I had fun.

Crease face.

Praia de Amor for advanced surfers. And Deets.

By the afternoon we'd truck back up the cliff side with the kids on our shoulders and back to our house where I'd stand in the backyard shower fully clothed. Only after my initial cool down, could the defrocking commence as the children and husband followed suit. With all the effort of "relaxing" in paradise, I never knew we could smell so bad. Hanging clothes up to dry outside was mandatory for the entire family- especially since we packed only four outfits for each person. Big mistake. I wished I packed more considering how filthy we got; one child still in diapers and another who didn't have any underwear packed for the week. I wonder who forgot that detail? Afternoons dwindled into early dinners of meat and beer followed by copious amounts of ice cream. By 8:00pm, with another shower,  the majority of us already passed out ready to be woken up bright and sweaty at 5:30am- ready for another day at the beach. 

A Sweaty Recife Halloween

To my extreme disappointment, I missed out on the consulate's Halloween festivities this year. My children had school Halloween parties scheduled at the same time, so I had to choose one. I figured I could rock out in a festive costume, fawn over the adorable children,  and maybe even meet some local moms. I even was assigned to bring juice! Unfortunately, I found out too late that the parties were only for children and thus found myself uninvited to a party I apparently was never invited to attend.  So when the time came to get ready for school, sighing in resignation, I dressed Deets up in his much anticipated costume and Margo in a party dress. Incidentally (and my apologies to Grandma Kaye and Grandpa Tom) Margo's costume, though listed to fit children ages 2-4 didn't quite fit her growing toddler body-  I squashed her into the pink taffeta dress, but instead of looking like a glowing princess, she looked like an sweaty encased sausage. A very unhappy sausage at that. 

Waiting outside for the school bus to pick up the kids, a perfect stranger sitting in his car saw Deets in his Dr. Who costume. Summoning him over to his car, I warily watched as he reached into his bag. I was curious to whether it would be candy or food- an occurrence that happened frequently in Romania but I hadn't experienced it here yet. Back then Deets would get anything from oranges to chocolate cake from bread to pork chops.  I figured this time would be something also food related, but no.  What else would the driver produce, but... a spiral notebook? An unused, hardback, lined notebook- not too shabby for a random, road side gift. I realized that the guy probably thought Deets was a professor for Halloween thus adding to his persona. For whatever reason, Deets was stoked and decided he'd use this notebook to specifically write his name and draw light sabers, sperm whales, and Daleks. Margo wasn't too pleased with the whole matter.

It got me thinking about the random things strangers have offered me and the family. Margo has been gifted cakes, ribbons and jewelry. On multiple occasions Mark received liquor often homemade, stored in water bottles or in little green bottles labeled with a cross. He got copious amounts of religious material and on one occasion received both at the same time in Bratislava. I have been given mostly benign items like pins or flowers, but once I was given two peeled hard boiled eggs from the pocketed sweatpants of a patient who came to the urology clinic I used to work at. How she didn't crush them on her lengthy metro ride into the city, I'll never know. 

In the end, after my lonely pity party I did some yoga and felt immensely better about my lack of pedagogical judgement. The kids came home exhilarated with copious amounts of candy, Play Doh, and books- and the prized possession of all time: vampire teeth. The two of them shoved those food crusted, spit soaked plastic fangs in our mouths with such joy, I had no choice but to revel in their happiness. It was a very good Halloween after all. 

Despite the heat, he was ALL about his 100% unbreathable polyester jacket.

At the newsstand practicing with their makeshift Sonic Screwdrivers.

The one notebook-two kid ratio is its own form of torture.
Thanks guy.