Gyms in Recife

For a long time I had successfully avoided going to the gym to exercise. I despaired the financial commitments, and the seemingly tortuous routine of lifting weights and setting them back down, pretending not to stare at myself in the mirror, but really obsessing about my every move in a pair of sagging of sweatpants and Goodwill t-shirt. I never cared for sharing the machines, doing 60 seconds of work and waiting another 60 seconds while someone else's sweat mixed with mine on the abused pleather. I loathed the idea of swimming laps, locker room athlete's foot, and the anxiety of trying beating someone else to the sole spin bike that inevitably lost a pedal or had a broken computer. But, after nearly heaving up a lung taking the stairs to our 4th floor apartment, I decided it was finally time for attitude change and a gym membership. Even with regular yoga and walking the dog, my cardiovascular health and overall energy dwindled to an unrecognizable point. Something needed to be done- avoidance wasn't cutting it anymore and I know for darn sure I'd never go for a run on purpose. 

My physical commitment caught up to my mental commitment about a month later. I toured several gyms in my neighborhood and settled on one that fit  my priorities being proximity, variety, and friendliness. In Recife the options and package deals are endless. The city has basic treadmill-type gyms, Italian themed gyms, gyms for women, gyms that give you free headphones, gyms exclusively with weights and stale mats and no air conditioning, tiny gyms, and huge gyms with valet and spa services and child care. 

In any case, I signed up, handed over my dough and got started at R2 Academia. The weight and universal room was milling with red shirted trainers. I avoided that section like the plague with hopes of being ignored. I opted to start with a spin class and afterwards quickly got roped into another one called "functional training." It consisted of 30 second circuits like tugging a rope, yanking on rubber bands and flinging myself in the air all wrapped up in a velcro harness. I didn't love it, but I didn't hate it- and the people above all were very friendly. So I came back.

Unfortunately I couldn't avoid the downstairs area much longer. They'd likely notice my aimless milling and obvious lack of planning- so when a friendly red shirt approached me asking me what my goals were, I couldn't run away. Instead I told him exactly what I was thinking: I have no idea what I am doing here or how to get started, fulling expecting to be patronized. But his introduction to the equipment was no big deal and within minutes I had a plan and strangely enough, motivation and confidence too. It took me a couple of weeks getting over my pride as the trainers guided me to every machine and making the adjustments "just so." Seriously- they do it every time and there's no use in trying to avoid it. You simply have to embrace it. The trainers in Recife, at least at this gym, take their jobs very seriously. Most of them graduate university with a physical education degree, and moonlight as personal trainers too.  So they actually want to be there, standing by the gym's motto: better together. Plus the training plans have expiration dates in efforts to change up the monotony.

Of course, like any gym it's got its characters: the makeup'd bunnies with perfect hair and pouty lips, and the old men who croon at them. There's meaty men and ladies grunting through their sets, cuddling their protein shakes, and there's  bored looking teenagers sauntering around pretending to do actual work. I have developed an appreciation to the various personalities, because I have one of my own: the American who speaks English.  That's not to say people don't speak English here, many Brazilians do to some degree, and they often approach me to practice or to laugh at my bizarre accent. They learn idioms like "charlie horse" and "coin slot moisturizer,"  whereas I learn that "macina crucifixa" refers the "pectoral fly/chest enhancing machine" and not Jesus. 

Fashion trends are fascinating. I've not seen a single person wearing cotton shirts (except myself), but plenty of thick push down socks. Unitards are totally in, as are neon colors, big headphones and Air Jordan's. I think the 80's are enjoying a renaissance. All this in symphony with those high-tech selfie taking things.  No one can go far without their phones- but the trainers never have them. They probably aren't allowed to at work, but I love this. 

I am glad I joined. I feel so much better and I can now climb the stairs without getting winded. I even started swimming- at least when I think I can stand 30 minutes of clogged ears and water up my nose. They don't clean the water with chlorine and the water isn't witch's tit cold, so it's way less painful than the one time I joined swim team at age 11.  All the cool kids wear caps, so I bought one of those too. I swim so slowly that apparently the coaches use my form as a model to beginner adult swimmers. They think it's funny to deliver such a fine-tuned backhand compliment. I will take what I can get. 

There are two things I wish I could change: more than one person has told me to not clean the equipment based on this luxury of having housekeeping who do it all for you. Yet day after day I see drenched individuals hop on and off the bikes, ellipticals, treadmills without bothering to mop up in between. It kind of wigs me out. The second thing is that nothing starts on time, surprise surprise. Classes usually start 10-15 minutes late and the extra machine-side socialization means I often get out of there later than anticipated. Besides that, the gym is fascinating on many levels- sights and sounds galore, plus... a little bit of fitness.

Oh who am I kidding? I check myself out too.

Happy Birthday Margo!

A successful Minion Margo birthday party- my cake pop experiment is completed. And I only "wasted" six hours of experimentation, 2 failed batches, 6 giant bars of chocolate, and 16 bucks for a very un-magical cake-pop maker. Turns out they are best made by hand; a delicate and steady hand which I've never been known to possess. But I made do and the guests devoured them along with the cake and other treats.  Eating, drinking, playing, chatting and nary a tear shed. The kids behaved too. 

The set up.

The drawings. 

The cake.

The pops. 

The Margo. 

The Minions (not pictured: four other mini-Minions)

Praia de Japaratinga

 Mark and I took the kids to Praia de Japaratinga for Labor Day/Brazil Independence Day weekend and it was here that I finally found something I love do to at the beach. And it only took me a year to figure out. Each morning I meandered along the beach looking for seashells and instead of stressing about sunburns, whining children, and the pending dread of combing sand out of my daughter's hair, I felt something vaguely... like happiness. My kids and husband thought my enthusiasm for exploring low-tide was overkill, but they humored me anyway as I yelled at them to come look at the washed up eel, or sand dollar that was desperately escaping to sea while I spilled a shirt-full of shells. This strange feeling of joy and repose kept getting caught in my hair, and I almost didn't know what to do with myself- except collect more. Wander more. It was awesome. Happiness. Huh- go figure. 

Of course our weekend wasn't totally confined to my monastic shell collecting, we actually came to the beach by invitation of some new friends we made at Carnaval. They rented a huge house where we stayed with a group of people we never met before. The arrangement was fantastic with each person  more helpful and laid back than the other, which made the weekend incredibly easy to navigate. We grilled, drank beer, made pancakes, played games and went to the beach. The town of Japaratinga is definitely a beach destination having hundreds of rentals, pousadas, and resorts, but it doesn't feel touristy at all. Not once did I see vendors selling fake tatoos, hair braids, paintings, or ice cream- even with the multiple tour buses that clogged the narrow roads. Instead we saw people crabbing and fishing, playing soccer, and bathing leisurely. Just like the way it should be for a three day weekend. 

Praia de Japaratinga, Alagoas

View from the balcony- eating pork ribs.

My stash. 

Gravata and Hotel Fazenda

The photo we wanted to take of Serra das Russas but didn't get a chance. 

If there's ever a need to escape the relentless sound of crashing ocean waves, indignant drivers, and city noise, a drive into the interior will fill it. About a 1.5 hour drive west along Route 232 brings you into the quiet hilly stretch of Serra das Russas (the Russian Hills.) Farms and tiny city municipalities dot the verdant landscape, while roadside vendors linger on the 232 selling sacks of oranges, strawberries and other locally grown produce. A drive to the town of Gravatá generally means 2 things: you're either passing through to see Passion of the Christ at the Nova Jerusalem Theatre during Lent along with hundreds of thousands of people,  or-- you made a reservation at one of the "hotel fazendas" or farm/resort/hotel for the weekend. Either way, fresh air and cooler weather make a great combination for trying something new. 

It totally felt cliche and totally weird when we checked into the confines of our "all inclusive" resort, Portal de Gravatá: rolling manicured lawns, rows of loungers, pools, playgrounds, and eager, yellow shirted recreation staff who lined the day with activities. All weekend long the staff enthusiastically offered fishing, horseback riding, games, crafts, movies with popcorn, karaoke, even mechanical bull riding- a never ending summer camp. Meals (not drinks) were included in the price, so three times a day we marched into the great spread of cafeteria style Brazilian food: starch, meat, fruit. Repeat.

One really cool aspect about the resort is their sustainability program. Portal Fazenda uses low energy lighting, and they recycle- a big commitment considering everyone drinks bottled water and there's an ongoing love affair with soda drinking in Brazil. Gardeners save all the pruned foliage and leaves which are mixed with the ready supply of cow poo to make fertilizer. Although I didn't see any pigs, the recreation staff mentioned they take leftover fruit and veggies to feed them the scraps. 

Their garden was spectacular. It was here that I finally ate decent tomatoes, almost as good as the ones in Romania. At dinner time I hoarded the romaine lettuce and radicchio too, make-shifting the leaves as hamburger buns, since well... I had already eaten a baking-sheet pan's worth of toasted coconut bread for breakfast. 

After check-out we did attempt to drive around Gravatá proper to get a feel for the town but most shops and restaurants were closed, main church boarded off. Instead I spotted the brown signs indicating landmarks pointing up to visit "Alto do Cruzeiro," a lookout point with a statue of Christ and along with waterfall symbols. As we drove higher up, the neglected roads finally become impassible with piles of junk and detritus blocking the way. It seemed that Gravata had little on offer so we headed back to the highway. Turns out there's Gravatá- then there's tourist Gravatá. On the way out we found the cafes, craft stores, and furniture stores: all high quality products made locally. The tidy, cobbled street was short, but gave an inspiring indication that the town has a lot more on offer.

Would I come back for another round of Catskills lodge living circa 1963? Probably not. It was cute and tranquil but not my taste. But we definitely plan to revisit the towns and scenery off Route 232. The hills might only top off at 1,467 feet elevation, but views on offer remind me that Brazil is more than coconuts and beach. 

Most popular photo spot for all Portal Fazenda visitors:
the fake horse. 

Our excited rec guy and his flock.

The old man on the farm.

Fresh farm smell. 

Watering the horses.

The garden.

Ostrich or avestruz. Mean looking thing.

Chocolate milk as fresh as it gets.

Female hummingbird.

Male hummingbird.

Jardim Botanico de Recife

On July 31, 2015, Brazil's Ministry of Environment announced Recife's botanic gardens as one of the best 5 gardens in the country, and the only one located in northeast Brazil. After reading this, I felt sheepish that I hadn't bothered visit yet- a decision based on several opinions that the gardens were just sort of "meh." My pre-judged opinion changed the minute I was greeted at the gate: kind employees, free entry, and immediate access to an authentic, living rainforest. An ecosystem firmly established in the dark soil cleared the way for entirely different ecosystems up in the canopy with plants growing upon plants upon branches, with vines connecting one end to the other. 

Everywhere I looked there was something worth seeing: pinky-sized mini bee hives, ant farms, flowers, fungi. Agile Sagui monkeys jumped from tree to tree making faces for the cameras, fat lizards raced across the paths, and gasp-worthy spiders perched like sentries on their webs.  I'd hoped to see some wild life and felt satisfied about these discoveries. But then I gazed high into the trees and saw sloths! Up until now we'd only seen sloth-crossing signs while driving to random beaches out of the city, so seeing the real thing was very exciting. These small 3-toed fur balls sat dozing, gazing and munching on leaves. Better than that, some of them began to lithely climb down the vines, seeming to stare at Mark while he took their picture. 

My kids enjoyed the wild life, but what they really loved was the sensory garden, where they could touch different textures of clay, sand, and soil that perpetuates life in the forest. They could smell various herbs and listen to the sound of water falling.  Basically: they played with rocks and dirt, and got completely filthy. But everyone was very happy. My advice: go. The Jardim Botanico de Recife is very much worth peeling yourself away from the beach and coconut water for a true rainforest experience only 30 minutes away.

Peeking through the canopy.

Greenish tint comes from
algae growing in the fur.

Smiley

 Fruit from the Coité Tree meaning "true gourd."
The fruit is used as an instrument in Afro-Brazilian music.
Also a great waterproof container.

Sensory garden where every kid fought
the urge to throw these rocks into the air.

Pond reflection.

Cais do Sertao Museum

Opened April 2014, close to Marco Zero

Imagine a museum that highlights austere living in the backwoods: sunken cracked earth, thorny shrubs, cactus, blistering sun; where the land aches from cattle ranches, cotton farming and chronic drought and the citizens cultivate images of cowboys, leather makers, and lovers of forro music. Sound a little underwhelming? Surprisingly, quite the opposite. The museum, named Cais do Sertão, translates to "Edge of the Backwoods" is one of Recife's proud achievements. Interactive, modern and incredibly artistic, the museum does a fabulous job showing the coastal inhabitants the powerful and beautiful lure of the Brazilian northeast interior.

After paying the entry fee I was sternly lectured about the museum's strict anti-photography rule while they locked up my bag. Directly, the guide shepherded me into a floor-to-ceiling semi-circle theater for a 6 minute video showcasing daily life of the sertão's inhabitants. I felt ensconced in heat, and in the beauty of daily ritual. I felt a little boredom as the day stretched into night perfectly illustrating the slower pace of life. 

Thirst
http://sgrpublicidade.blogspot.com.br/

Beyond the video was the museum space with an running stream full of swimming fish dividing the floor. One side was heavy with historical music movements, particularly Baião, a style that later grew into forró and coco music. This music is a mix of country, polka, mariachi and blues- heavy on the accordion with catchy syncopated rhythms. It highlights homesickness, passion, or jealousy. Instruments, costumes, photos and plenty of listening stations- interestingly ones that played when a listener placed their elbows into some grooves on the display and covering the ears with their hands. 

Luiz Gonzaga, a cactus and a sunset
http://blogs.diariodonordeste.com.br/

The other side contained quite literally a mashup of interactive displays: video art on the statement of guns and violence; quiz games on the harrowing drought problem; touch screens with art; tools and personal belongings. At the far end was a seemingly random ice cave for visitors to walk through, giving the sensation of being watched from all angles. 

Up the stairs to the loft, I wandered through the Baião library and stared at records made by Luiz Gonzaga. The museum attendant in this section told me many students access their book collection for research on Baião music. Admittedly, the collection contained only about 50 books, but they were placed in a comfortable space with couches, conducive to group work and discussion. I cruised by a collection of instruments along with a music teacher ready and waiting with drums, guitars, accordions, cymbals. Perhaps the most interesting exhibit was the recording rooms perfect for karaoke. Forró karaoke- very adorable if not a little weird for those unfamiliar with it.

www.portodorecife.pe.gov.br

There's plenty to read for those who want it, plenty to listen, plenty to watch, plenty to play. The staff were all young, hip and fresh- eager to talk. The value of respecting and remembering this culture was clearly at the top of the list, and everyone at the museum did a great job showing it. I'd say of all the 54 museums Recife has on offer, Cais do Sertão is easily my favorite. 

Brazilian Father's Day

Brazilians know how to celebrate holidays. All the pomp and circumstance comes wrapped in revelry and layered with homages to all things sacred, particularly when it comes to families. So when Brazilian Father's Day rolled around, I had already spent several days mentally prepping Mark with his fatherly duties for the kid's school's Saturday morning presentations. He arrived early with Margo and walked into a gymnasium slathered in manly decorations of soccer balls, kites, and primary colors. Music blared through the speakers in between unintelligible speeches and directions for the kids and fathers to follow as they filed into their assigned spots. First task was to complete an art project together. The second task involved hundreds of men hoisting their children over their heads in a version of Simon Says: carry them like a baby, carry them like an airplane,  carry them on your back while your shirt clings to you and sweat runs into your shoes. Lastly, smile for the hundreds of moms holding their iPhones giddy to catch the memory forever. 

Thirty minutes later Mark got to do it all over again when I arrived with Deets. Several hundred more men filed in with their children to do some art and dance like monkeys. Only this time the kids and dads were assigned group work: build something out of trash. In general it was a great process for creativity if not for two dads who took over like Sith Lords who singlehandedly built a trash robot. No one seemed inclined to add Deets' contribution: an empty plastic bottle wrapped in tissue paper and glue. But he didn't care, he was stoked to have his dad right by his side amongst the throngs of warm bodies. Once the two dads built the robot, they unsuccessfully tried to name the robot Dilma as a sour humored jab to insult the country's president.  Not needing to be part of political mirth, Mark succeeded in naming robot something innocuous. Each class then paraded around the sweltering gym, forced to smile and pose for the cameras before I finally managed to make eye contact with him and sneak out with two exultant and proud children. 

Being a good sport. 

As for the American Father Day version, we spent the actual Father's Day celebrating all things sacred to Mark: eating homemade toast, watching soccer on TV and... happy hour at the gas station. Just the way he likes it.