No Pobrema

We have had three gorgeous days in a row, a true miracle given the temperamental nature of Rio’s winter. The sky is an intense cloudless blue that almost rivals the sky in New Mexico and the sun is just strong enough to make it comfortable to wear shorts. Definitely a welcome break from the weather the first few days I was here. Tropical winters just frustrate me. It’s never really cold enough to merit an overcoat, although everyone here pulls out the wool outerwear as soon as the clouds roll in and the temperature drops below 70F, but somehow you feel cold and dreary nonetheless. Winter here is so bipolar – beautiful clear skies for 20 minutes, then fast-rolling clouds cover everything, then some drizzle, then sun again, followed by a walloping thunderstorm for an hour, then shameless sunshine to round it out. You never know how to dress…the ultimate frustration!

Luis the handyman just arrived to check out latest set of things needing to be fixed here in the Casa Rosa. Luis is from the northeastern state of Paraiba and is basically the Brazilian equivalent of the guys Erin and I met from Wallace, Louisiana. He has a thick, sing-songy accent and switches consonants all over the place, especially ‘l’s and ‘r’s, sometimes adding them where they don’t belong, sometimes dropping them altogether. Problema becomes pobrema, and vidro becomes vridro, all increasingly garbled by the fact that Luis slurs and stutters through the remaining letters. It took me a full year to finally understand what the hell Luis was saying without Beth interpreting for me.

It never ceases to amaze me how Brazilians (and Latin Americans in general, for that matter) offer their unsolicited opinions about the way you look. People casually say things like, “Have you been eating a lot of chocolate lately? Because your skin has gotten really bad. You didn’t used to have this many pimples.” Or “You know, I liked your hair much more before you cut it. Long hair made your face look less round.” These comments aren’t meant to be offensive, they are just observations, the good honest truth that we all *obviously* want and need to hear.

So Luis walks in this morning, asks how my mom is doing, comments about the weather – the regular line of socially appropriate small talk. And then he drops the bomb. “Você está mais fortinha, né?” Translated verbatim, he basically said that I’m “stronger” than the last time he saw me. Really just one of the many euphemisms people here use to say that you’ve gotten fatter. Another one of my favorites is fofinha, or fluffy. I used to get that one all the time when I lived in Maringá in high school. Beth, the woman who looks after our house, was standing outside with Luis and me and jumped in the conversation.

“Não, não. De jeito nenhum. Ela tá mais magra.” No way. Ali’s thinner than before.

Luis gave her a cockeyed look and then reevaluated my supposedly “stronger” silhouette. He furrowed his brow as if doing a really hard math equation, lips pursed, head nodding slightly. “Nao, ela tá gordinha.” Nope, she’s definitely chubby.

Beth and Luis went back and forth for about five minutes debating whether or not I’d gained or lost weight since the last time I was in Rio in January. I stood in the middle of it all sending Luis dagger eyes and thinking it’s no wonder I have body image issues. The handyman and the housekeeper are openly discussing my weight. Great.

After that little exchange, we hauled out the 18-foot ladder and maneuvered it up the curved staircase to the crawlspace hatch door. Luis is here to look at the roof for, like, the millionth time. There is this skylight made of glass shingles over the stairway that has given us problems since we bought the house nearly four years ago. Luis re-shingled it, put in a clear impermeable tarp, and sealed the edges but somehow water still drips down the walls every time it rains. Admittedly, there has been some improvement from when this process first started and we had literal waterfalls cascading onto the stairs. I think we ran through four sets of towels sopping up the leaks, and there was a perpetual array of mixing bowls and plastic buckets on the landing to collect the water. But the stupid roof still leaks. Luis thinks some of the shingles have shifted and there is now a space between the glass, but I fear the problem is a more complicated structural issue. I hope we don’t have to rip up the roof again.

So my plans for this beautiful day are wholly focused on Porcão, the best churrascaria restaurant in all of Rio. Porcão literally means “Big Pig” and it is the most fabulous dining experience possible. It’s an all-you-can-eat restaurant where waiters circle around with spits of various meats – filet mignon, picanha, sausages, chicken wings, spare ribs – and you pick what you want and they slice it right onto your plate for you. When you need a break from meat, you fill your plate at this amazing salad bar with heart of palm, crab soufflé, sushi, mussels, stroganoff, collard greens, and other delicious items. We’re going to hit the Big Pork about 3pm, eat for several hours, then come back home for a nap in the hammock on the verandah. Nothing like a day of gorging myself to forget about Luis’ comments earlier this morning. Ha!!