Putting fire to that drowning - São Paulo

Risk of "Afogamento"!! Photo credit: www.surfing-waves.com

There are certain words in Portuguese that just don't work for me. No, I'm not suggesting changing this beautiful language but just commenting that I get them wrong at least 50% of the time. To get them right, I have to really think about them. They are my false friends, my Waterloo, my quicksand... here are the top three words that mess me up.

1. Afogar, verb. To "afogar" is to drown. I will never understand how a word that has a root of "fogo" or fire means to drown. When I hear someone say that a child or whoever "afogou", I immediately think that someone has been immolated or fried up to a tiny crisp. Yep, so when I'm on the beach and the signs say something about the danger of drowning "Risco de afogamento", I pretty much look for matches. I can't get this one. Yes, I do know there is also a double-meaning with geese involved but I'm going to skip that.

2. Aceso, adjective. If you have your headlights "aceso" (or acesa in the feminine form) then the lights are on. To me, "aceso" (pronounced "Ah-seh-ZO") sounds like "ceasing" or stopping and that to me sounds like the lights are off. So when I see a sign on the highway that says "mantenham as luzes acesas", I generally turn off the headlights, then realize what I've done and turn them back on again and then the driver in front of me flips me the bird because he thinks I'm telling him to move over. Sigh. Yes, I am also aware of the double-meaning involving breasts. Never mind.

3. Laticínio, noun. A laticínio or in another version "lacticínio" means a dairy product. Harmless, right? Unless you're lactose-intolerant of course. But I keep mixing it up with "latrocínio" which is robbery following by killing. This is not harmless. It is what always gives me pause while I'm on the Pão de Açucar supermarket site and one of the categories for delivery is "laticínios." You can see why I don't often order those because of the fear factor. No thanks, no robbery-killing today.  I did not include a photo of those since yeah, you don't want to think about that. Do NOT google it. Seriously. Here, this is a nice photo of milk.

Photo credit: www.aliment-ata.com.br

 I am sure there are other false friends but I did hear all three of these today on my adventure to the car repair place. Yep, again.

 

Zebras on the Podium - São Paulo

gold, silver and bronze medalists...image credit: wikipedia

I turned on the TV this morning at 6 am to watch the winter Olympic games. Not because I love the Olympics thaaaat much (though I do love them) but because I was waiting for the personal trainer who ended up not arriving due to traffic. 

There is much to love about the Olympic games -- the culmination of these athletes' years of training and sacrifice --and much to dislike (okay, more specifically Mr. Putin so not really the games). My favorite sport of the moment is that ski around and shoot --what is that? Biathlon? That's just wacky.

This morning, I flicked past curling (hello?), hockey and then started watching the Super Combined downhill skiing--Super Combined involves the sum of a downhill race result and a giant slalom race result. I watch downhill with a permanent wince as I am always wary of seeing some spectacular crack-up that will ruin my life. And the skier's.

The best skiers had already gone down and I was left with the riff-raff from Argentina (wearing polka dots the first one, and blue the second--must have run out of funds for uniforms), Monaco and Belorussia. The scoreboard came up and besides marveling that that sport was essentially European, BH and I did not recognize a name.

Finally they got to 12th place and there was Bode Miller's name. I like Bode as long as he does not open his mouth. I love that a New Hampshire boy can take on the Coloradans and Swiss on the snow. He is a multiple medal holder. But not this year. Apparently none of the favorites are in contention.

While analyzing the placement results, the announcer said this year "deu zebra" (resulted in a zebra) since Mayer (?) was not in the top 3. A zebra? Now the Argentinians were wearing some wacky stuff but those were dots not stripes. And I can't really see a stripey horse on four skis.

What's the deal? I looked up the expression on Terra's helpful site called "Voce sabia?" (Did you know?). So it turns out that "deu zebra" is a result that classified as an "unexpected tragedy." It is frequently used in sports talk.

Let's use it in a sentence: "Spain deu zebra in the World Cup and lost in the first round."  It has to be a very unlikely situation for a zebra to get involved. 

Apparently the expression came from the illegal lottery called the "Jogo dos Bichos" or Animal Game. There are 24 animals in the game, none of which is a zebra. So if you got a zebra, it was an unexpected loss - since you weren't supposed to have a zebra anyway. Or something like that. I don't really understand the "Jogo dos Bichos" but I promise to study.

Now I have to go turn on the TV because by the time this gets posted, the Super Combined will be over. Bode has already skied and came in fifth overall -- so far, with the leaders of the downhill yet to ski. Let's see how wide are the zebra's stripes.

This just doesn't stick - São Paulo

Pizzolato. Photo credit: http://www1.folha.uol.com.br/

When I lived in Miami from 2002-2008, I briefly volunteered for an organization run by the sister of IndyCar driver Tony Kanaan. Tony is Brazilian as is Karen, and I did some translations from Portuguese to English of their literature. During a meeting at their headquarters, Karen taught me an expression that I love. 

Frustrated by a particular argument about how the place should run an event, Karen pinched her index finger and the side of her thumb together and made a pinching motion a couple of times, saying "isso não cola." Literally this means "this doesn't glue" or "this doesn't stick." I had to ask what the expression really meant and she said "that argument doesn't work" or "that argument doesn't hold water." Basically you are saying that the glue that was holding together your argument is not sticking.

This just doesn't stick! Image: Sprint

I thought of this expression today as I am reading the news that one of the men sentenced in the Mensalão corruption scandal had been caught. After being sentenced to 12 years for his role in the scheme, Henrique Pizzolato had fled through Argentina to Spain and then to Italy. The Italian and Brazilian police found him in his nephew's apartment in a small town in Italy. Personally, I don't think he was trying too hard not to get caught. You see, Italy has no extradition law, and Pizzolato is an Italian passport holder (lots of Brazilians of Italian descent are able to get an Italian passport, even a hundred years after their family has left the old country). 

Now, how did he get into Europe, where the Brazilian police suspected he would go, if he had no Brazilian passport to leave the country? It had been confiscated during the Mensalão judgement. Apparently he walked. Not on water. No, he drove to border of Brazil and Argentina in Santa Catarina, walked across then flew onto Spain, and finally got to Italy. 

But here's the part that gets sticky...then unsticky.  Since 2007, this Henrique Pizzolato has been planning his escape route. His brother Celso had died in 1978 at the age of 24 in a car accident, I believe. But he was resuscitated in 2007. He still had his identity documents in order (don't you have to report death here and wipe out the numbers? Hmmm) and so he registered to vote and to get a passport. And Celso, the dead guy, voted in the 2008 election (for which candidates, I'd like to know) and got himself his Brazilian and Italian passports. 
 
Really? The Brazilian federal police didn't notice that the RG (like a social security number) was for a dead guy? Yes, it had Pizzolato's photo, not a dead guy in a casket photo but seriously. Isso não cola. It doesn't stick. Maybe I should apply for citizenship of random countries by checking through the obituaries. It sure would be easier than applying the legal way through the federal police as an American. (Dear US authorities aka NSA, I do not want dual citizenship. I am not applying under any person's name, dead or alive, for Brazilian or Italian citizenship).

Photo credit http://oglobo.globo.com/pais/pizzolato-preso-na-italia-com-documento-falso-diz-policia-federal-11509979

So here's a copy of "Celso"'s passport. Wow, does he look like Henrique. And not too bad for a dead guy. Now what I hear the Italian authorities are saying is that he cannot be deported because he holds Italian citizenship. But do both Celso and Henrique hold Italian citizenship? Because if Henrique's got revoked, I think there might be a loophole on sending the dead guy Celso home. 

Why does Brazil even bother coming up with original stories for novelas? Piada pronta! Ready joke! No one seems to worry about "isso não cola" here. So what if it doesn't make sense?

In any case, Pizzolato seems to think he's pretty safe where he is. As one of my other favorite expressions goes (blog post here): "Tudo acaba em pizza." Everything will be fine...for him.

 

Party rice - São Paulo

One of my favorite expressions here is "arroz da festa" or "party rice." It's what you call people who never miss a party (whether they are invited or not). Many of the socialites of São Paulo who litter the inside page of Folha's Illustrada section would be example (I am careful to not name names, no?)

The origin of the expression is somewhat unclear. It could be the custom of throwing rice at the newly-married. But most likely it comes from the colonizers. In Portuguese traditional family parties and celebrations, there were always desserts made with rice and sugar (sweet rice)--and these were known as "arroz da festa" or party rice.

I would suggest using this phrase only with people who you know well because it could be taken the wrong way if you accuse someone of being party rice. I have never once been accused of being party rice, as I am mostly asleep by 10 pm these days.

Source: http://www.brasilescola.com/curiosidades/arroz-festa.htm

Keep your sacks in the right place - Joanópolis

This is one of the simple and efficient tools that I most love in Brazil. It is called a “guarda-sacos” or “where you put your bags.” It is essentially a tube of cloth with an elasticized end, kind of like a sleeve has. When you are done with your plastic bags from groceries or whatever, you ball them up and stuff them into this tube, which gets chubbier with every bag.  I have seen all kinds of these devices—some in the figure of a woman with an apron, who gets fatter and fatter with every plastic bag stuffed up her…well, you get the point. It is a cute and fun place to hide non-pretty plastic

Another guarda-saco. You can buy this one at: http://decoracao-casa-jardim.vivanuncios.com/artigos-decoracao+manaus/guarda-saco-de-lixo-em-formato-de-boneca/78364258

Now, you need to make sure that you use this term properly because there are some similar phrases that can get you into trouble quickly. First there is the “puxa-saco." This means something like a "brown-noser" or someone who "kisses up" in American English. A little research shows that the expression comes from the long-ago military hierarchy. The soldier who carried around, or dragged around, a superior's bags was known as the "puxa-saco" or "pull bag."  But now it is used like this: that kid got an "A" in math, not because he is smart but because he is a “puxa-saco" and charms the teacher.

Then there is “gela-saco” which is “freeze your balls” or ball, really. That is when you go over one of the little rises in the road that drops off quickly and you get that queasy feeling in your…well, I would have said stomach but the Brazilians think lower. When I was confirming my understanding of this one, I ran across this fun blog called SuperSogra (Super Mother-in-Law--in spite of the fact that it is a man who writes it) where he posts about his belief that men feel fear first in their nether regions. If you wish to test this, and you are a boy, watch the video in his post. It doesn't matter if you don't understand Portuguese or Russian, that made me want to throw up. It did not freeze any nether regions.

Apparently there is an old type of air conditioning (mostly in VW Beetles) that was also called "gela-saco" so I'm guessing the vents were positioned appropriately.

And don't forget the exclamation "que saco!" which can translate "what a pain!" or "what a bore!". As in, you just missed your train by one minute: "que saco!" Or you can just say "saco" which means "darn".

Or "encher o saco" (fill your sack) or be "de saco cheio". This is when someone or something irritates you. "Estou de saco cheio com o transito" (I'm annoyed by the traffic) or "Esta mosca está enchendo o saco" which is "this fly is irritating me." Supposedly this last expression is from the 17th century when the agricultural workers brought large sacks to the field, filled them up and at the end of the day, they were "com saco cheio" or with their sacks full--you could not fit one more thing in. Fed up.  So says globo anyway (sorry, Portuguese only).

Now if I were you I would use “saco” as little as possible. Argentinians refer to their suit jackets as “sacos” which brings great hilarity to any office environment. My former boss (from Buenos Aires) once said during lunch that he had left his "saco" in the office and one of my Brazilian co-workers nearly choked on his french fry.  Fortunately we knew the Heimlich.

 

Na raça - São Paulo

Brazil: The country of football. Photo credit: www.calangos.net

Brazil is known as the country of football (futebol if you are Brazilian, soccer if you are American). Everyone, except 41 million Argentinians, know that Pelé was the best player to ever live, and there is no shortage of great players coming out of here most years, Neymar being the most recent. What you don't get a feel for if you've never visited or lived in this country is how deeply football runs in the blood of many male Brazilians. 

I am not talking about spectator sports. I am not talking about watching Palmeiras, Corinthians, Flamengo, Gremio, etc on any given Saturday or Sunday. I am talking about playing it. From the poorest residents of the favelas to the wealthiest members of the social clubs here, most boys-to-men can play and will play for much of their lives. Everyone has heard Ronaldo Fenomeno's stories of wrapping socks one over the other to make a ball and playing with that. One of my own sons will kick anything that is remotely round--playing with a rock in front of a cage in South Africa attracted a fierce reaction from an apparently-Corinthiano cheetah.

You can play it anywhere. Photo credit: www.quadradodosloucos.com.br

My husband is one of those who has played his entire life. Starting on the campus of a university in the interior where his parents were professors, he has played football as often as he can. At the university where he started playing, there are still games every Saturday one hour before sunset. Everyone knows when it is time to show up. No one calls to confirm; not a single email is exchanged. I watched them once at this grass and dirt field surrounded by tall trees. The age range went from 17-75. The teenagers ran and ran, the older men selected strategically their moves. The oldest, with a large beer belly, played goalie and shouted out "encouragement" in colorful language. These men are not necessarily friends off the field, and sometimes not even on the field, but for an hour and a half every Saturday, until it is too dark to see, they are out there playing football. Na raça.

"Na raça" is translated indirectly as participating in something with energy and enthusiasm. If you speak Portuguese, you can look here. If you don't, you're going to have to trust me because I could not find a Portuguese-English translation. Literally translated, "raça" means people (or race) that share a common origin or physical, linguistic or social characteristics. I like to think of it as the race of footballers who share a common love of this game.

Photo credit: http://blogdoodir.com.br/2010/02/entre-agora-no-bolao-para-mirassol-e-santos/

My husband is now in his mid-40s and has played football since he could walk. He loves it. Besides the Saturday football game, he has played on school teams (including at our grad school in the US and in primary school in England), corporate teams, whenever invited (conferences sometimes have a social football game where no one is social on the field, but all the enmity is also left there) anywhere, and now he has started to play at the club after a five month hiatus from soccer. 

The hiatus was provoked by a game in June where he broke two arms and had five stitches in his head. When I say my husband plays football "na raça", this would be an understatement. At that time he was playing with a group of former co-workers at a society-sized field in the city. "Society" fields in the city are around 50 meters x 30 meters (regular fields are twice this) and normally surrounded by low concrete walls topped by chain link fence. My husband decided he needed to make a goal against two 20-year olds and ran too fast to stop in time for the wall--and went in head first with his two arms outstretched to protect his head. Two fractured arms and stitched head at the emergency room later, he only comments that the worst part is that he missed the goal. 

This particular group of players has since disbanded (fear factor from seeing how my husband will eat concrete rather than lose a game) and my husband went to check out the "racha" at our club this Monday. Now, don't confuse "racha" with "raça"--a "racha" is a pick-up game with whoever shows up that day. The racha starts at 4:15 pm and ends at 6:45 pm. How this group of men (guesstimate on ages from 24 to 64) have this time period free every Monday and Wednesday is a mystery to me. 

Playing "na raça" at the club

My husband had to start out in goal because he was the 11th to arrive (5x5) and the game was on. I know nothing about the sport, as you all know, but I have to say that it looked like some good fun, good running and good swearing. So much for the "no swearing" sign.  They play hard. My husband went down a couple of times, and I sweated a re-break of an arm and the possible resurgence of my life as a chauffeur. But except for some major soreness yesterday and today, there is no semi-permanent damage.

I absolutely love the idea of this sport that courses through the blood of many Brazilians. It does not course through mine, but I see how it is deeply within one of my sons as well. I hope he will play it always, and always with the same enthusiasm as his dad (minus the concrete wall). Na raça.

Go Fish! - São Paulo

Gratuitous photo of Diego Forlán, who didn't even play yesterday

Taking a short break from South Africa vs Brasil comparisons, I have to mention another one of my favorite Brazilian expressions. But first, let me set the story.

I must tell you that I cheer for Brazil in the World Cup. Always. Yes, I am American and I feel almost bad about cheering for another country, but I love how much this country loves the World Cup. I didn't even know what it was until I was 20 years old and the World Cup was playing down the road from me in Palo Alto. I am not alone among the Americans. Though I still do not love the game (unless played by my six year olds!), I am entertained by the spectacle.

The second team I cheer for is the Netherlands. It's in my genes. They wear orange. I like orange. The third team is Uruguay...and this brings me closer to my point. In 2010, I went to the World Cup in South Africa and watched most of the games even when back in Brazil. And I saw a player named Diego Forlán, from Uruguay. He played the Cup with a joy and skill way beyond how he played in the regular season (this all my friends tell me). He ended up being MVP of the Cup, and I started following Uruguay, a teeny tiny country (pop. 3.4 million) with a noble World Cup history (2 titles).

So last night was the final night of deciding which four teams qualify for the Cup from South America. In one of those complex soccer statistical things, Uruguay had to beat Argentina (the leader in South America), and Ecuador or Chile had to lose rather than tie, and then they had to get six or four or something more goals than Chile or Ecuador (clearly I am at the very limit of my knowledge). Uruguay won, and Ecuador lost but Uruguay did not have the required number of goals to be the fourth team to qualify. So what next?

Well, the fifth team in Asia gets to play the fifth team in South America in a winner-take-all playoff (2 games). In Brazilian, it is not a playoff but a "repescagem". Literally translated this is to "pescar outra vez" or "fish another time." 

Personally, I would like to translate it as "go fish" which some of you may know as a card game in the US (and maybe other places). I love "repescagem"--it sounds so much more fun than a playoff--I can almost picture the teams with fishing poles.

Uruguay will meet Jordan. Hopefully they'll let Diego Forlan off the bench. Someone needs to relieve that arm-muncher Suarez once in a while.

Awaiting comments from my soccer genius fan base about how many things I got wrong here. I got "repescagem" totally right though.

Hey! I've seen you before! - São Paulo

Sidney Harris cartoon - The New Yorker magazine

Today I am having "já te vi" or "I've seen you before"  for lunch. What is that, exactly? Leftovers of course, and such a nice way to say it. 

Once I heard a comedy routine about how a food item would feel to be called a "leftover".  It made me feel very sorry for the food (sorry, I could not find a link to this). I think I'd rather have someone say "hey, I've seen you before" with a tone of voice like "yay! I am seeing you again!"  And, by the way, I do love leftovers.

Já te vi is one of my favorite Brazilian expressions but is not universally known. I learned it first from my in-laws who are from the interior of São Paulo state--maybe it's localized there. A few paulistana friends (from the city of São Paulo) have just laughed at my use of it. Something I have also seen before...people laughing at my Portuguese...

Everything ends in pizza - São Paulo

Yesterday morning I sat down to read the Folha de São Paulo at my local bakery. Folha, as most of you know, is the daily newspaper that I love to ummm, tweak. If you want to know why I am biased against it, you'll have to look back at a little editorial they ran a few years back about how the city being largely without internet for three days was a "Technological 9/11". One might see how an American would not find humor in that image since internet failure vs. people throwing themselves out of buildings is really not the same level of distress.

But I digress. I opened up the paper and there was a huge photo on the front with headlines about the Mensalão scandal. Again, I would be out of my league to try to give the details of the scandal, but the general idea is that some politicians who were very corrupt were convicted as being very corrupt and sentenced to prison. Then the supreme court re-looked at some of the charges, and the last judge who waffled around for a few days (unlike the US, apparently judges can come back with their decisions at separate times) broke the tie with a vote for "yes", let's re-look at these charges and maybe some of these bad guys won't have to go to prison. They can spend a few years under house arrest. Judgement on this is not expected until early next year.

This is a big deal. This is not Dilma saying no, I won't break bread with you, Mr. Obama, because you read my e-mail. This is justice at its worst. And yes it happens in the US too. I is an emotional and disastrous result of a long and seemingly certain road to bringing bad politicians to justice for corruption. Now they get to stay in "home prison" and probably eat pizza.

Speaking of pizza, let me look at that first photo again. It is a protester chucking pizza at the supreme court building. What? Not eggs? Pizza? What a waste. I am laughing about this, and then realize I must be missing something. An email is sent off to the Brazilian husband (who is out of the country): Is there a significance to throwing pizza? Yes, the response is, there is. Turns out there is a wonderful expression in Portuguese that goes like this "Everything ends in pizza." I like it even before I know what it means.

Where did it come from? According to my online sources (of middling to high confidence level), the phrase came from a newspaper article about a political dispute in the Palmeiras Football Club in the 1960s. No, I don't know if Folha was responsible. Though I'd like to find out.

Look, I digressed again. Wow, I am going to get in trouble for defamation one day. Anyway, there was huge fight in the Palmeiras club with lots of accusations flying from both sides. While the reporter was there watching the fight, the two sides finally made their peace. And to celebrate the peace, they went to a pizzeria to celebrate. The next day, the newspaper published an article with the title "Briga no Palmeiras termina em pizza. ("Fight in Palmeiras ends in pizza" )

Over time the expression began to be used for political scandals that build into huge fights...and then work out in the end to be just fine for all parties involved. So the protester was saying "hey nice for you politicians, it has again all ended in pizza all around." No one pays for their corruption.

Apparently the expression has even changed from an earlier version of "everything ends in samba." Either way, it is a brilliant image of an unhappy protester. Tudo termina em pizza.

Owl mothers - São Paulo

What do you think you're doing, young man???

One of my favorite Brazilian expressions is "mãe coruja" or owl mom. The general idea is that a mãe coruja is  ever-protective and ever-proud of her kids. In this link to definitions of various expressions, mãe coruja is a mom who sees her child as having no faults.

Where did the expression come from? According to the site, the term refers to a LaFontaine fable about an owl and an eagle. To cut the fable and poor Mr. LaFontaine short, the main idea is that the owl mom tells the eagle not to eat her beautiful chicks who are in a nest in the forest. The eagle goes and finds the chicks and eats every last one. The owl mom then says to the eagle "hey, what's the deal?" (see how I translate directly from the French? I am in the wrong career here. If I were the mom owl, I would have added some expletives. LaFontaine did not). The eagle replies "well, lady, you said to me 'don't eat those beautiful chicks in the forest'. I didn't. I ate the ugly ones with scruffy grey fluff." Moral:  The mom always sees beauty in her own kids regardless of actuality.

Arguably-ugly little owlets

Before I knew the "real" meaning of a mãe coruja, I had my own image built up of an owl mom. You know the way owls can turn their heads almost completely around to see what is behind them? Yes, that was my image of a so-called owl mom. The mom who has eyes on the back of her head for when her six-year olds decide that well-digging is an excellent thing to do in the backyard. For when they think that tiptoeing across the six-foot high wall is a fun activity. For when they decide that their stuffed animals need a haircut. Or the 13 year-old labrador.

Now imagine if I could turn my head all the way around like owls do and see what they were doing at any time.  Like an Exorcist mom. Eyes on the back of the head. Either way you define it, mãe coruja is a wonderful evocative expression. Now excuse me because I hear the kids working on the plumbing.