The Key to Losing

They say "quitters never win."  Well, ain't that the truth.

You can't really lose a half-marathon.  You can win, sure.  Anyone who has ever crossed the finish line first can attest to that.  But you can't lose at running 21K.  You show up and finish or you don't.

You can lose your keys.

At some point just after km 3, a fellow racer tapped my shoulder and said something about dropping things.  I quickly assessed my being - ipod (check), timing chip on shoe (check), water bottles in belt (check, check), apartment key in back pocket (oh, crap).

Thus began the next fifteen minutes of retracing my steps, like a salmon against the flow of runners, eyes on the ground, asking each race official, "Perdi minha chave; você sabe algo disso?" (Loosely translated to: My dumb ass didn't zip the back pocket to my shorts and my key came flying out; have you seen it?)

I think Bruno Mars was telling me something...

On my second lap of the area where the key was mostly likely to have been lost, the third race monitor I spoke with approached me with the missing door-opening implement.  By that point the slower of the 10K racers were passing by.  Relieved, I thanked the guy and he wished me a boa prova.  "Agora, não vale a pena," I replied (It's not worth it now).

Fortunately, the course essentially wrapped around the neighborhood where I live, so I removed my conspicuous race number and walked home.  On the way I thought about how grateful I was that the gentleman in the race tapped my shoulder to let me know I dropped the key.  Obrigado, Sir!  This sentiment was short-lived, however, when I thought about the fact that this was a key.  Not a few coins, or a water bottle.  This is something people need to get into important life things, like cars and houses and safes.

So I call bullshit, Sir.  Had I been running behind someone and they unknowingly dropped a key, I would pick it up.  This was km 3, after all.  You have not hit your wall; your brain is still functional for logical thinking.  A considerate person picks that shit up.  I'm just saying.

I'm not passing the blame here - I should have triple-check the zipper on the pocket - I'm just disappointed.  It was a good three kilometers, though...

Race Swagg
What amounts to the most expensive bottle of sunscreen ever.

Growing Accustomed

They say it takes about six or seven months living in a new place - foreign or domestic - before you begin to feel as if you've found a niche.  While I wouldn't go that far, I would say there have been some major affirmations making it easier to call Campinas home:

• First and foremost, the barista at Starbucks greeted me by name without me having to give it.  She actually turned to her co-worker and her what to write on my café americano com leite.  Full disclosure: she had her write "Sergio" but in my mind it still counts!
• My confidence in Portuguese is growing.  Recently the buses upped their rates from R$3 (roughly US$1.50) to the inanely obnoxious, pocket scrounging R$3.30.  One afternoon on the way home from work I paid with a R$5 bill and the attendant, after inexplicably rolling his eyes, gave me R$0.70 in change.  With a full bus watching I kindly pointed out his "error."  Jerk.  Also, hey six months of Portuguese being useful!
• The annual saga that is the school science fair is over, and successfully, nonetheless!  Somehow, all 46 of the projects under my "guidance" came to fruition.  Be it noted: this is not the baking soda and vinegar volcano of your youth's science fair.  This is a months-long process, culminating in a formal - yes, little sixth grader, you must dress up - judges' interview and professional poster display. This year was also the 30th Anniversary of the fair's existence and the evening awards ceremony held the day after the judging reflected that.  I am proud to say, in the Middle School category, I had seventh graders win the first place individual prize, the first and second place team prizes, and the Hyundai-sponsored Innovation Award.  Honestly, though the students who won did most of the work themselves and were very self-driven; at best I was a glorified editor.

Top: Sign welcoming guests to the 30th Annual Science Fair!
Middle: One of the eventual winners discusses her project with a judge.
Bottom: The gymnasium transformed.

Pants On Fire

There are two lies people living abroad in a country not of their native tongue deal with more than any other.  One they are told, the other they tell.

The former is how "good your new language is!"  It truly is amazing that even I know I pronounced things funny, conjugated everything in the wrong tense, and called you a woman, sir, but thank you.  Also, since I am aware of my own awfulness, this is no longer a compliment, but a perverse slap in the face.

The lie we tend to tell ourselves is actually more of a stretched untruth:

"Que pena, pero no hablo español." 

"Je suis très désolé, je ne parle pas français." 

"Me desculpe, mas não falo português."  

Sorry dude, I just don't speak your language.

This is an untruth on several levels, all of the speaker's own choosing.  For me, I understand a good deal in Portuguese, but if the speaker is too fast, slangy, or accented, then "I don't speak Portuguese."  However, since I do understand some things, oftentimes I use this catch-phrase to avoid a conversation.

Case in point, today at the grocery store on the way home from work:  All I needed was to grab some bananas, detergent, and eggs.  In and out.  Except when the oldest man in all of Campinas steps in front of me to complain about the price of papayas.  (This is not a figure of speech; he honestly wanted to vent his rage over the mark-up of the fruit compared to another shadier grocer a few blocks away.)

He spoke.  I understood the gist of his topic of conversation.  I decided I wanted no part in it.  I smiled and told him I didn't speak Portuguese.  You don't put yourself between the deer and the rifle unless you want to get shot.  I wanted to go home, not discuss the economic principles of papayas in Brazil.

Usually this lie works.  Normally people either smile back out of embarrassment or pity - sometimes suspicious eyebrow raised contempt - and step slowly away, lest they catch whatever language-related contagion you're carrying.  Not Grandpa Papaya!  He eyed me with a look that was both inconvenienced and stern; as if to say, "I didn't ask you if you spoke anything.  I told you the price of papayas is ridiculous!  Do you agree or not?!"

Also, I should mention I was cornered.  The man with a cane and four liver spots on his left cheek had me between a stocker's push-cart, the yogurts in the freezer case, and the now-infamous papayas.  And he was waving the ad from the other grocer in my face, clearly enough that I could see - thanks to the circle he drew around it - that, indeed, the papayas are cheaper a ten minute walk from here.  He was so adamant about them that I actually looked down at the bananas in my hand, concerned I had grabbed something else and he was just trying to be a good fellow consumer.

I reminded myself on the walk home that I used to use the verb "to comprehend" in lieu of "to understand" when I was trying to avoid conversation in Colombia.  Even the street beggars would look at you with pity and shake their heads with that one.  Time to go to the dictionary...

Positive Thinking

Remember back when you were in elementary school and the one true thing you wanted to know more than anything after a teacher assigned any piece of work was...

Does this need to be in complete sentences?

The worst, right?  Welcome to Portuguese.

You can't answer my opening question with a simple "yes."  The verb must be involved in all cases affirmative.  Você se lembra? (Do you remember?) is then answered Sim, me lembro. (Yes, I remember.)

It's like every fourth grader's worst nightmare realized: you must answer in complete sentences FOREVER.

Except for the negative.  Then you can just say no.  

Você gosta?  

Não.

Hot Flash

I knew no Spanish when I moved my life to Colombia, save for the limited counting vocabulary supplied to me by 1980's Sesame Street programming, pleasantries, and basic "life words" like baño and cerveza.  Now that is all my brain wants to fall back on.

Fortunately, Brazilians understand the gist of spoken Spanish.  Unfortunately, it only gets me so far and the conversation quickly becomes one-sided.

Cambuí neighborhood Starbucks

After two classes of basic Portuguese - grunting an moaning made up a good portion of the first one - I felt I needed to put myself out there and not permit my Spanish to be a crutch.  I went to the Starbucks in my neighborhood to order a coffee and muffin.  (There is a bakery closer to my apartment but it was too crowded and the threat of an audience was too much pressure.)

As I stood awkwardly alone in front of the pastry case, the barista asked if she could help me.  Nope, just looking for some Portuguese sounds in here, thanks!  As I pretended to scan the scone options with unnecessary intensity, I thought about how, right now, Portuguese seems to have a thousand more vowels in play at any given moment than Spanish does; many words sound the same to the ear, but to get them out the mouth requires the tongue to juggle a few more O's and company.

Smile.  Why am I sweating?

"Eu queria um café com leite por favor."*  Breathe.  At least the "por favor" came out right.

Wow, it is hot. in. here!

Oh, wait!  The muffin!  
No time.  
Forget it. 
You don't need it.  
Stop while you're ahead.

Aaaand...congratulations, you're sweating more.

So many of the words in Portuguese are so close to the Spanish that my habit-formed brain and mouth aren't accustomed to adding, changing, or eliminating a sound.  I want to say "es" when I need to say "é" but the "s" keeps finding its way back into the word.  Slithering, probably; I feel like S's do that.

I have 80 hours of one-on-one Portuguese language instruction coming at me in the next few months.  At the very least I will hopefully be able to not break into an anxious perspiring mess from a simple coffee order.

* I can not express how slowly this came out.  It was painful.  Possibly more painful than reading this post.  I hope my future traumatic experiences are more entertaining than this one.