Happy News Nonsense

Hello world. Hello sunshine. Hello happiness.

I received minute criticism, of sorts, for my apparently negative previous post. Contrary to what it might appear, everything is peachy. But let me introduce you all to something called the News Media Effect (my name): no one wants to read happy, positive news. I mean, think about it, the news networks discuss what will draw viewers, so why shouldn't I? Here, let's test out my theory with some happy stuff:

Today, I woke up after hitting snooze only three times! A record. There was sunshine on Friday. Yesterday's dinner of small, lightly-fried beef steaks was delish.

Look! You're falling asleep already! I bet my readership was just cut in half, to one. You see, I could ramble on and on about how two of the pillows on my bed are nice and soft, or how I saw a yellow, plump little woodpecker-like bird outside my window on Saturday, or how the bus driver this morning looked kind-of like Barack Obama...but no one cares. Instead, people want to read that now, instead of Michael Jackson's doctor poisoning him, aliens actually stole his soul so they could replicate the Eighties, or that I have swine flu (which I don't). Just by typing those words, those billions of little Google spiders are going to discover that content and pretty soon I'll have millions of hits to this site.

But don't worry. Things are good. Work's not bad (although I could still use a window...I mean, I've only got one month left to look out of an office window and see palm trees). But let's try a tiny bit of this happy news nonsense.

It's been cool to see my improvement over the last month and a half in speaking and understanding the language. Recall back to one of my first posts, when I mentioned that first lunch I had with the Portuguese professor and how I was as talkative as a wall. Compare that to the last day of the class before winter break, where I could talk with him and classmates rather freely. Picking out words in rapid conversations between native speakers is slowly becoming easier, too, and it's a good feeling when one has an "a-ha!"moment upon finally realizing what a certain sentence or phrase means. This, of course, does not mean I'm fluent; there are still moments when I am as effective in understanding or communicating as a five year old, but all in all I'm pleased with the progress I'm making. Of course, the real challenge will be to avoid losing the language skills once I cease using it every day. That, and my Spanish for the first week or so in Spain will be a horrendous mash-up of the two languages. I can't even think or read in Spanish without pronouncing or using a Portuguese word every other sentence. But I guess that's a good sign, because when I arrived my problem was the opposite.

Hmm. Ooh. So one night I was watching that X-Files: I Want to Believe nonsense (actually, it's not nearly as far-fetched as the TV show) at about 11 o'clock. The house is quiet, I'm slumped peacefully on the couch, with the cat Manuel laying there on the cushion. Everything is nice, peaceful, etc, save for a little wind and rain outside. Suddenly, little Manuel jolts out of his sleep and sits straight up, ears perked and eyes looking out of the TV room. Not one second later, the power goes out. He stays alert, peering out into the rest of the house, as though something is there. After about thirty seconds or so, the power comes back, but he's still looking around. About 10 minutes later, Carol, the professor's oldest daughter, comes down to ask me if my window is locked, because open windows are an invitation for burglary (which is uncommon in the housing complex, but not unheard of). Of course my window was locked, and there was no incident of any sort, but it was all a very bizarre and coincidental set of events. That, or the cable packages down here include interactive TV to enhance the movies.

Another positive - I haven't run into any more talkative janitors in the bathroom, but last week there were two guys speaking English. Ah, such foreigners...

This past weekend, I went out with some friends. Being that Morumbi is so far removed from a lot of things in the city (although, São Paulo is so big that technically every part is so far from a lot of things), I had to take a bus at 10 at night and another, to return home, at 5:30. In Pittsburgh, yeah, whatever. Easy. But here in SP everyone hypes up nighttime buses to be hotbeds of crime and death. Alright, not quite that, but I had enough people warn me to be careful in the streets and bus stops. But actually, it was quite simple and trouble free. I had nary an evil eye nor a mugging for all my cash and gold tooth fillings (of which I fortunately have none. Do people even steal those?). I place my success and safety solely on my beard, which makes me look rugged and dangerous. Kind-of like the Brawny guy if he had a beard, except instead of selling the competitor to the Quilted-Quicker-Picker-Upper, I sell iron punches and lightning-fast drop kicks. So back off. The biggest risk on the ride home was me falling asleep in the very rear middle seat, open to the aisle, and flying out of it when the bus stopped. Although walking to the bus stop the night before, I was honked at and screamed at by a little car full of guys. I'm not sure what that was about. Maybe they thought I'd give out free paper towels.

For breakfast that morning, we ate at this chain called Black Dog, which sells hot dogs (say it like hotchi doggis). Except these aren't the lame, American dogs, oh no. These dogs are manly. Or, at least my Original dog was. They take a hot dog bun bread, except larger, and wrap it around two hot dogs, mashed potatoes, cheese, corn, and onion, then put it in a press just like everyone's favorite health food, the Grilled Stuft Burrito. It was an incredible, and edible, hot dog experience.

It's nuts how many bars, cafés, and lanches (basically somewhere between a café and restaurant) are packed full of people at five in the morning.

Besides my language skills improving, so have my bus riding skills. Americans don't really have to learn this ability; maybe that's why so many of our children are out of shape and wearing über-strong eyeglasses. You see, to effectively survive a bus, one needs a combination of strength, endurance, and lightning fast eagle eyes.
My ride home starts on a relatively unfilled bus, meaning that just about every seat is taken. But okay, no worries, the aisle is open, one can still breath, etc, etc. 20 minutes later, whoah, it's another story. There are these capacity limits posted at the front of the bus, but I seriously doubt the drivers know those limits exist. By the time my bus passes Shopping Morumbi, every last inch of space is filled. It's ridiculous. So, about 10-15 minutes before my stop (the first of two stops - I catch two buses home) I have to force my way up and out of my seat, and then begin the process of moving toward the door. Obviously the strength is needed to wedge your way through the bodies, and I recommend taking calcium supplements so the ribcage can withstand extreme pressures. The eyesight comes into play as people slowly shift: you've got to be vigilant and ready to make a move at any second. When a gap opens, I quickly turn sideways and throw myself between people and then squirm out the other side. Repeat, repeat, repeat. All this while the manual bus rockets around curves and slams on the brakes before each stop. Port Authority of Allegheny County? Child's play.

That's all for now; go eat a cow (unless you're vegetarian - then you must eat whatever plant rhymes with now).