My So-Called Brazilian Life

The psychological pressure of living in Brazil can sometimes be good, a way to strengthen character , I’d say. You get to the point that seeing an old drunk naked man sitting in your apartment hallway fails to alarm you.

You hustle just short of getting by day- by- day and yet you still have time for the beach and live with an ocean view.

Somehow the middle-class has maids while unemployment is high and salary is low.

It’s the adrenaline of Surviving but with the pleasure of a hammock that first-world only experience through art.

The probability of a bike path falling and killing someone because they forgot to consider that the ocean has waves adds to the thrill of everyday adventures.

One day the president can be kicked out. The next day be replaced by a long-line of evermore corrupted politicians.

Don’t know what the next day will bring, so just worry about the Now.

No matter how posh or perfectly tree-lined street is , there will always be characters reminding you that this is one crazy show. Rich housewives exercising along The homeless going through the garbage in front of high rise condos and the ripped shirtless men running on the sidewalk many call home.

You can grocery shop and ride the bus with your tiny speedo. But maids have to take the back elevator.

You clap for every sunset, but look the other way for the mother and baby sleeping on the street.

EVERYTHING is possible. But NOTHING is guaranteed.

Except that there will also be a man with a beard and dress. ALWAYS.

There will always be the fashionable meninas with shaved heads who exude more femininity and sensuality than any of the the Victorias Secret models and the meninas with bright color afros all about Black(e)Power.

Because no matter how blonde they might be, everyone seems to have a black grannie and its cultural mixtures and economic dichotomies defy all the -isms on the books your were made to read in college

Follow more #mysocalledbrazilianlife. Everyday a little more crazy to keep me sane.