I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello - São Paulo

Warning: Sentimental post. All ITA graduates and sang-froids may want to give this one a pass.

I hate goodbyes. Even "so longs" are tough. I do my very best to avoid them and carefully did not arrange any goodbye parties here (though I did get surprised by one, and arranged a second small dinner with the "Fab 5"--don't ask).

I'm on my way back home--twenty-five years after leaving New England, I am heading back. My new blog is live and should be in action shortly--it's all about finding out that repatriation is harder than ex-patriation. Or so everyone tells me.

I think I have explained in other blog posts that I am not leaving Brazil, but rather going to the USA. Why am I going? Not because of security worries, exchange rate problems or even the absolute horror of the thought of four more years of Dilma Rousseff. No. I am going for my kids. My kids are half-Brazilian and half-American. They are seven years old. We have lived here six years which means they have no idea what it means to be American. They can sing the Brazilian anthem; they don't know one word of the American. I want them to ride a yellow bus; I want them to be in public school. I want them to know that the USA is more than a Target store and Disney World.

By no means do I think that the US is all right about everything and everything is better there. No, there are many things I will miss about Brazil and the recent days have made that conviction even more acute. The absolute warmth, humor and generosity of Brazil--as a country and as a people, well, they are unparalleled. I will truly, madly, deeply miss a number of friends here and their capability to make me laugh until I cry. I can only hope that we can carry the humor and love through skype and emails. We must. We have to.

The Alemão

This weekend we said goodbye to the Casa do Alemão, the German house, that we have rented for the last couple of years. It is the closest thing on Earth to paradise, in my opinion. If paradise has giant venomous spiders and cackling monkeys, that is (in the 7 year old twins' minds that is obvious). And though the leaving makes me sad, it also made me smile today.

The view from the Alemão. Which never changes.

As I walked through the remnants of a trail we had cut two years ago for the twins to find some pinhão (pine "berries" from the araucaria trees--kind of like chestnuts. Delicious), I realized that Brazil was already adjusting to our departure. In fact, almost nothing remained of our trail but the memories. The trees and bushes had grown up through everything. Even the monkeys had wiped out the remains--all the pinhão had been eaten and the husks left in a silent mockery. 

Life goes on. The Alemão will have new residents. The spiders, and hawks and monkeys and hummingbirds will have new admirers. The woods and trees have permanent protectors in our friends Rob and Pri. The house and its property will be there when we visit again in December. The trail will be gone, and our personal effects from the house, but the exquisite beauty will still be there.

The new generation: Zoe, age 1 and 1/2

Cafu, age 12

Life, and death, go on. On Friday we spread the ashes of our 14-year old labrador Caju in the ranch's beautiful lake. From whence he came.... Caju was a puppy at the fazenda when the fazenda was itself new to our friends. And as the wind ruffled the fur of his now-forlorn and decrepit best friend, 12-year-old German shepherd Cafu, three other young dogs raced by to chase the horses. And so it goes.

I will miss you, Brazil, but I realized this weekend that I leave you not. I am taking you with me. Every time I kiss a tight-lipped Yankee on the cheek to say hello, I take you with me. Every time I save a fuzzy spider that gives me the creeps, I take you with me. And every time I feel the warm wind blow (perhaps rare in Boston), you are with me. Shall we go?


That's all she wrote.

++++++++++++

Closing the gate on this chapter.

 

 

Or is it?

:)

National Treasures - São Paulo

Painting by my 7 year old son.

Personally I think this painting is brilliant. One of my seven-year olds painted it during his last few weeks of school as we headed towards the world cup. However, it turns out that it (and other paintings) are causing me some major problems in leaving this country.

When I got an estimate for our move almost two months ago, the moving company representative spent some time walking around the house and taking photos of art. Not only the large oil painting of the São Paulo coast that was a present to my husband five years ago and is worth some money. Not only the art created by my artist uncle--paintings, constructions.. Not only the acrylic paintings that my dad and I play around with--copies of Matisses and Tarsilas. Every single canvas.  Including this Brazil flag by one son. Including scribbles of dragons and snakes and whatever else. Including a painting done by my stepson when he was ten--a self-portrait in the style of Miró with a signature of said painter at the bottom.

These photos all go to a place called IPHAN. Instituto do Patrimonio Historico e Artistico Nacional. It's the National Heritage police. They make sure that no one is taking artwork of real cultural value out of the country, at least without paying taxes. That means that every single canvas in our house is being analyzed by the art police.

Normally it takes the art police 20 days to "liberate" your stuff. Unfortunately they decided to have a strike during the review period of my "art" and now the backlog is more than a little long. According to my movers, "maybe this week, maybe not". 

Keep your fingers crossed for no more strikes--remember that customs doesn't work on any Brazil game day...and I can think of more than a few other organizations who might be feeling the need for a strike too.

Change - São Paulo

On Wednesday morning, the for-sale sign went up on our house. It is an extremely strange feeling. My kids, while born in the US, have spent the last 6 years here. There are many memories, laughter and fun in this house. And more than a few scratches in the wood floor.

I will miss this country. It is one embedded deeply in my heart, and fortunately, being married to a Brazilian, I will always visit. Will I live here again? Who knows. There is lots unknown ahead of us: will repatriation really be harder than expatriation as everyone tells me? Will my friends in the US still be my friends when I get there? Will my friends in Brazil still be my friends when we visit for shorter periods of time in the future?

One of the hardest parts is knowing that my kids will not grow up with their third-cousin, now a close friend living right across the river. They won't hear Julia, their first cousin, say her first word. They won't participate in club championships, maybe will give up ballet, capoeira or judo, will lose the "best" in best friend with their school friends...distance does that. Yes, they will always be friends but not like they were. We have experienced that already moving the kids from one school to another across São Paulo.

I worry about great-grandma, who will turn 95 in July. She is on a slow slide now. She lives three hours away now; soon to be 13 by plane. I worry about BH's parents--as much as I like to poke fun and "complain", they are wonderful grandparents full of fun and teachings. My kids will not be a weekend visit away.

I worry about the Portuguese. Fortunately, near Boston there will be many Brazilians. My kids will now have to take language classes to hold that Portuguese. This beautiful language will now become our home language, rather than English.

What keeps me awake at night? Besides my current sinus infection that is... Here's what keeps me awake at night: change. What's that old saying that you can't steal second base while standing on first? (sorry, I may have to explain this to non-Americans). We have a great life here; we are looking to make it better. What if we get called out?

Scary times. And I don't mean the World Cup. I mean the next six months.

And that's Brazil in My Eyes for today.

Welcome Home - EWR, Newark, New Jersey

There is a moment that I love in the immigration line getting back into the US. Usually only one moment, as there is nothing less fun than shuffling around cordons like a bunch of fatigue-filled sheep. 

It comes after the immigration officer looks at my customs declaration, circles Brazil, asks me where I am living and what I am doing and how long I've been there. It is when he, and my experience is that it is usually a "he", says "Welcome home" and stamps that paper with that wonderful metal stamper that echoes in the room.

Welcome home, he says. And this phrase sticks me with me the whole day as I shuttle from rental car counter to lunch date with a new friend to visiting five houses in my quest for a new place to live. And this is not home, not Boston, since I was born and raised in NYC, New York state and Connecticut. And it doesn't feel like home as I drive along these streets with bare trees and snowflakes start to fall on this the first days of spring. 

Welcome home to a place that I haven't lived in 25 years. I am talking about New England now, a place unique, funny and silly in its own way. In two weeks, people will dress up for Patriot's Day and re-enactments on the Lexington Square. The customs officer saw Winchester written on my customs form as the address where I would stay and says "say, I love the name of that town" as he pats his handgun. The crazy accent of "cahs" and "pahking" (cars and parking) that you think only exists in the movies. But it exists, even in the AT&T Wireless store where I get my prepaid card.

As Bill Bryson wrote it, I am a stranger here myself. Not Brazilian, not American. Happy and sad at the same time.

Welcome home.

_________

I will be traveling the week of March 31 and posts may be later or shorter than usual. Still counts for the year of daily posts! ;)