Don’t kid yourselves…it is hot here. I have already let some of you know (and I am proud to admit) I only passed out once (in public) from the heat. I don’t think we’re in South America. I think we’ve moved to a planet next to the sun.
I just spent an hour on the bus back from Marcos’mom’s house (casa de mommy) and had the pleasure of sitting next to what seems to be the typical Brazilian girl. Her whole body weighs about as much as my right thigh, her skin was a flawless cocoa brown, her face looked like it had been airbrushed and her dry long black hair was cascading down her back. It’s about 147 degrees here and on top of her blanket of dry hair (my hair has not been dry since I landed here a week ago due to all the sweat) she had the absolute nerve to be wearing black heals, black skintight jeans and…yes, wait for it…a BLACK SWEATER. I wanted to spit in her face. But I was too busy fantasizing that an air mask would descend from the ceiling or someone would throw a bucket of water on me like the beached whale I feel like.
Other than the heat…(did I mention it’s a bit warm here?) it really is a beautiful country and I am adapting relatively well considering my normal anxiety. We have spent time in downtown Aracaju (which is lovely), the beach (the water is warmer than baths I used to take), the immediate area where we are living (I can get to the grocery store, bakery and pharmacy all by myself) and of course, for me, the local gym. It’s a bit weird because the Brazilians that work at the gym (acadamea) there spent lots of time asking me questions and taking pictures of me doing everything from talking to the manager to me taking an exercise class to me on a treadmill. Normally, this would make me a bit uncomfortable since I have no idea if they are making fun of me or just think I am an interesting attraction but I’ve shed some inhibitions considering my brain is constantly functioning from a distance through a white hot haze of hot. I spent most of my time thinking about where & when I will stop sweating.
There are some things I do miss like access to a telephone (cell or otherwise), steady internet access and a washing machine. I moved to Gloucester to be with Marcos, I married him, I moved again with him to Brazil… but I don’t think anything proves my love like the fact that I have been handwashing his underwear on a washboard. God, I wish I were kidding!
Okay all. Feliz Natoa! (Merry Christmas)