Dear Blog,
I judge this has been enough time to hype up the ending to my last blog, which promised an explanation to how I could enjoy, nay, appreciate even, a romantic comedy. So here is the promised explanation: you may alert your favorite periodicals. First, the title (which I was able to find in English via google) is The Accidental Husband. If you have seen this movie and thought it was really great, feel gratified, for I concur, and thus its cinematic quality is beyond doubt. Anyway, the main reason I thought it was so good was that I really liked the way that the two protagonists (or I suppose antagonists to one another - the lead lovers, you guessed it) had qualities exemplifying extreme behaviors of their respective sex which, at first, caused an emotional separation, but ultimately brought them together. The plot had a sort of elliptical elegance (I'm going to spoil the plot now - sorry, but I'm making a point and I'm very insensitive; but really, you know they're going to end up together, and these points aren't really emphasized in the movie, so it's not too big a loss I think):
The Woman, who just wrote a book, has a radio program, and when the Man's fiancee calls in because she's having second thoughts, the Woman tells her that she should hold out for a more suitable match - the Woman displays her pragmatically feminine and even harsh attitude towards love, and thus ends the marriage between the Man and his fiancee. And wouldn't you know it, the Man happened to be tuned in just at the right moment to hear the Woman give this advice, and is piping mad at her. So his marriage ends and he is most angry, and when he comes home to his apartment above a family-owned Indian restaurant (the owner of which, I might add, is worth half the cost of admission for his minor soliloquys) he seeks out the technology-smart adolescent of the house and asks him to try to get even, and the adolescent devises a way. He hacks into some government file and finds the Woman's birth-certificate (or some such document - I'm not savvy in such matters), and offers to change it to make the Man legally married to the Woman. The Man consents to this plan - he displays his impulsive and reckless masculinity, and thus jeopardizes the Woman's forthcoming marriage to a well-off publisher. So the Woman (unaware of the Man's instrumentality in the apparent mistake in her marital status) seeks out the Man to try to sort it out. So a lot of quite interesting and humorous things happen (which are, unfortunately, too incidental to divulge in this blog entry), each bringing the two emotionally closer together while, paradoxically, displaying two personalities which are in complete opposition. And the woman experiences exponentially increasing doubts about her marriage and, indeed, about her entire philosophy concerning love. Eventually, however, the Woman finds out about the part that the man played in their "accidental" marriage, and feels entirely betrayed, and retreats to the safety of her boring, stable fiancee, and her cost-benefit analysis approach to love. But she still experiences doubts up to the marriage, doubts on a much more serious scale - in the heat of passion with the Man, she doubted, but in the calm of marriage, she questioned: is there a sound way to calculate a suitable match? How can such a system be tested? How can evidence for or against the system be documented? (Of course she did not say these things specifically, but I imagined them because they seemed to get the issue's goat, as it were.) And on the day of her wedding, her fiancee comes to her and tells her that the only sensible solution is to leave him for the Man. This, I think, is the profound moment in the film: the fiancee, representative to a degree of the Woman's own intellectuality regarding love, forfeits her to the impulsive, reckless energy of the Man. In essence, two opposing energies, entirely of their own accord, compromised themselves in order to join together. It's like the unbreakable wall stopped stopping, and the unstoppable force stopped forcing. It was beautifully representative, to me, of the fundamental paradox of love itself, and the movie got me to contemplating that paradox as well: how can these two energies be better described? How exactly do they balance? How can one consciously nurture this balance? Are these two opposing energies ends in and of themselves, or do they contribute to a greater force, which is both the pinnacle and the foundation of true love? What else contributes to the relationship? I thought of answers to those questions that I thought were adequate, and I may explore them more thoroughly later in an essay or something when I feel like it; it may appear in this blog, or perhaps in some prestigious love magazine like Cosmo.
But this is old news - the night of the movie is close to a week past, and the pressing event of this evening is, you guessed it, berries-er, I mean, school, as is clearly indicated by my title, you fools. So - what to say about school, and where to begin. Well, perhaps I should begin with the preparation for school. Yes. (whoa! if anybody else just disassociated the word "yes," please post a comment - it would make my year.) First, I think it's interesting that there is no "first day" as we think of it - no orientation, no shortened day to get settled in. It doesn't even feel like the first day; it feels like everybody's already been there all year, knows what to do right away. The teachers don't even review, or try any rapport-establishing, or try to get to know you, or anything - they just jump right into the first lesson. I found that quite interesting, as well as increasing the fun level and decreasing the work level (you know how orientations always have forms or requirements or supplies that serve as a kind of pre-homework). But on an individual level, the question remains: what does one need for school in Brazil? Well, lucky for me, nobody told me anything, so nothing! You can imagine how relieved I was when everyone else seemed to have workbooks and monstrous notebooks and such, and I had one pencil and one small notebook, half-filled with other random writings. And when every teacher asked me if I had supplies (keep in mind that I can't be sure, but I think that's what they said), I was able to just shake my head and shrug my shoulders and be off the hook immediately - one never felt so free. Now if only one could combine that freedom with senioritis... ... ... Anyway, I shall now describe the overall schedule of the day: school begins at 7 o'clock (ungodly for such a religious nation), and people begin coming to class about 15 minutes later. There are two 15 minute breaks, before and after lunch, and then there is, of course, lunch. I didn't notice when classes changed because I've got myself into a schedule of going to sleep at about 4 am and getting up at about 2 pm, so I was a bit sleep deprived. So moving on now, I will first discuss the language barrier, which of course, is coming into much sharper relief in school. I found it rather fun having only a vague idea of the subject at hand - it especially enables you to really judge how good a teacher is. You all of a sudden see clearly which teachers can control a room, which have charisma and poise, and which ones struggle to find leadership qualities in themselves, or resort to immaturity to maintain control. In my opinion, operating under these criteria, the best teacher was the math teacher, Tomas (they all go by first names here). He was energetic and forceful and could make students laugh and get them involved rather elegantly - I also liked him a lot because he reminded me of some divine combination of Mr. Jorgenson and Mr. Bjerke (BHS students should be caught breathless just at hearing such an idea put forth). But unfortunately, math was the subject in which I understood the most, because it's hard not to recognize factorials (what with the exclamation point and all), and I did factorials like two years ago. But the subject in which I understood least, and thus was the most interesting, was physics. It was so fun watching him draw all those neat lines and the equations that were equal to Va and Vb, and when he got to electrical currents (it's hard to not naturally interpret "Corrantes Eletric," what with all the postives and negatives floating around on the board, so I did know what he was talking about; luckily, though, I know nothing about that, so I remained happily oblivious and thus rapt and attentive), he began drawing all sorts of cool diagrams of batteries and pools of water, no doubt describing the proper way to assasinate someone by hot-wiring their pool.
Speaking of purposefully misinterpreting what teachers say, there is an occasion in which I did so which will later bring me to a whole new avenue of discussion, so I shall relate it now - not because it is funny or interesting or unoffensive, but because I am a pragmatic writer, and you will just have to endure this next unendurable portion if you want a smooth transition to the rest of my blog. Ah, but before I relate that, it would perhaps be timely to tell you that in this school, it is not the students who go from room to room after each class - it is the teachers who are made to trek across the halls with no company but the sound of their footsteps and each other's hesitant and paranoid attempts at eye contact in passing and the incessant sound of the bell that is their taskmaster and owns their souls. I was tearfully proud of the Brazilian school system. Truly, Brazilian students have achieved a victory that should be trumpeted and celebrated across the world, and I hope that those reading this blog will take up that baton of freedom, run the half-lap of revolution, and pass it on to the teammate of sweet, sweet liberation in this struggle that we students struggle in for our rights and dignity. Anyway, so the gist I'm getting at here is that the teachers move around instead of us, and so the fourth teacher we had today was both our sociology and geography teacher. During her geography class, the first thing we discussed was racism. She had the rather awkward habit of every now and then asking me (in Portuguese of course) if I was understanding everything (which would be no problem if she just said "Entendi?" because I know that word, but she always seemed to choose some other wording that made it unclear to me who she was even addressing), and on one such occasion, she asked the girl in front of me (who had very kindly offered to be an interpreter of sorts, yet at the same time a nuisance because she was always asking me if I needed help, which interefered with my desire to not understand what was being taught) if I understood the subject matter. The girl asked me if I knew what "Racismo" was, and I said, yes, and thought the whole venture of communication all the more pointless. And then I was inspired to misunderstand it. So, the way I heard it (and this shall henceforth be my official version of her words, because I do love fabrication), she said, "[name I can't remember], would you please tell Felipe that he is at no point to be racist during class?" Ah, that was quite fun, quite fun.
And I suppose you're all wondering who this "Felipe" is, so I suppose that shall be the next avenue that I take. I'm not sure why, but from the first day I set foot in the school (a few weeks ago was when I first visited), the school officials insisted upon calling me by my middle name, or the Portuguese version of it anyway, Phillip (Felipe). I'll admit, it is much easier to introduce oneself as Felipe, than Dorian. I suspect I shall introduce myself as such to most people I meet from now on, for convenience's sake. So that's the story of how I came to be called by my middle name in Brazil. I think I shall discuss one last point before cutting off this monstrosity of a post (I do apologize for the length, but the first day of school is an important event indeed, and I had to resolve the romantic comedy cliff-hanger, so cest' la vie I suppose). This last point I unfortunately did not get to earlier, for it did not seem to relate easily to other topics, so I shall have to end this blog entry awkwardly and with a bit of an anticlimax, for I shall be discussing merely this: the boistrousnes of my Brazilian classmates. They are certainly a fun group to be in class with; it makes me appreciate all the more Brazilian teachers, for they must learn to talk at most unnatural volumes to rise above the din, as well as ignore the daunting numbers of students either chatting loudly or sleeping (another triumph - vive l'revolution!). I was most tempted to fall asleep many times as well, but opted not to to try to make myself more tired tonight, so that I might get more sleep. And on that note, I am beginning to feel the intended effects of my austerity, and so am most unfit to continue blog-writing, and so until next time, happy clicking.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Currant events
Dear Blog,
So first off, don't ask about the title - it was originally going to be spelled right, but at the last minute I was inspired by some muse of pure evil to change it, just to spite you and mess with your minds. I apologize, but you'll just have to live with it.
But by now it should be clear what the topic of this blog entry is; no, it's not fun happenings related to berries (not that those aren't in abundance right now), it's about general recent occurences, the first of which I shall waste no more time in getting to. Last friday was the day my host brother, Leo, left for Thailand, and since there was only room in the car for this mother, father, sister, and girlfriend to say goodbye, I was left to my own devices around the house. I chose to use my time in the wisest of ways - youtube, facebook, and pokemon. After a few hours of this, I decided to watch a movie. I looked through their collection of films, finding a great deal of concert DVDs of Christian rock bands and Elvis and various action films, when I noticed two films that I hadn't expected in the least: Life is Beautiful, and Good Will Hunting. Having seen the latter and being in the mood for something less life-affirmingly macabre, I opted for Good Will Hunting. Now while watching the movie (and I would be remiss in not mentioning briefly that it is an amazing film) two currant events of note happened. The les interesting event is that I discovered how important it is to manage almost constantly both the windows and the lights in the house. Why? Because there is a delicate balance that must be upheld between keeping the house cool, the house lit (and thus navigable), and the bugs out. For me, the latter-most of the items holds the most weight in the scheme of measuring. So, as I found out, one cannot keep the house cool and lit while keeping the bugs out, because obviously bugs waste no time in taking advantage of open windows to get to pretty lights. But it unfortunately took me some time to realize that such a balance existed, for I had never noticed the periodic dimming of lights and closing of windows throughout the house because my family are apparently adept enough at maintaining the balance that the changes administered were subtle, yet precise and effective. So I ended up spending a great deal of my time warding insects away from my food, and rushing in and out of lit rooms and hallways to avoid the bugs.
The rest of my time not consumed either in cowaring from bugs or Matt Damons long, lustrous locks was consumed in doubt and paranoia. The reason for this was that throughout the day, from the moment my family had left, it seemed, the phone would ring at an interval seemingly designed to utterly crush and break someone in my position. Now first I should clarify my position: I am an exchange student, and I know very little Portuguese, and I learned on the first day of my exchange an important lesson about phones - on my way from Sao Paulo to Campinas, my host parents handed me a phone telling me it was Aline, my sister. I took the phone and put it to my ear, and awaited something to happen. Nothing happened. She didn't speak, I didn't speak; my family tried to hold back laughter and told me to say "Tudo bem," and I said it, and Aline just chuckled, and after a few more moments of silence, my host mother took the phone and began chatting. Lesson learned: never try to talk to someone on the phone, unless they speak English. Communication with anyone who is less than fluent requires a great deal of gesturing and you must be able to pick up on every inflection and body movement to get an idea of what they're talking about. So the reason that the phone calls caused me such agony is that I was 75% sure that it was not my family calling, that it was someone else who needed to speak with them. And as the phone rang over and over again, I kept repeating that to myself, over and over - "You don't know who that is, it could be anybody. Don't pick up that phone, no! Some gruff sounding man is just going to start speaking Portuguese very quickly, and you won't be able to take a name and number or anything-no, get away from that! It's not your family, it's not!" But the same doubt rang through my head at the same time, over and over - "But who would call 15 times in one day, only after your family left! Who has the kind of urgent business that is worth calling 15 times? Your parents aren't government officials! It must be them - they're calling because they need some piece of information that they left at the house or something that Leo needs to go to Thailand. He's probably missed his plane! And it's your fault!" "No, no! It's not them, it's not them... We mustn't risk it, we mustn't risk it!" So you can imagine how warped my state of mind was, with my Smeagle/Gollum complex at work, combined with my insect shell-shock and my Damon-induced-dizziness. Luckily my family returned and the movie ended before my mental infrastructure collapsed, and were able to restore the house to its bugless state. And as for the phone calls, I was a picture of joyful and, yes, tearful vindication when, after they had returned, the phone rang once more, right on schedule, and (since my family had returned without Leo and it wouldn't make much sense for them to call home when at home) I felt the sweetest sensation of redemption, probably akin to what Smeagle felt after telling Gollum to "Leave now, and never, come back!"
Well good night; I had more eventful currants today, but 3 am is not the time for such things. I've always wanted a cliff-hanger, so here's to a dream come true: today I watched a romantic comedy... and liked it! Now you'll all be conferring fervently to discuss this heretofore impossible anomaly, so go ahead and get started, and until next time, happy clicking.
So first off, don't ask about the title - it was originally going to be spelled right, but at the last minute I was inspired by some muse of pure evil to change it, just to spite you and mess with your minds. I apologize, but you'll just have to live with it.
But by now it should be clear what the topic of this blog entry is; no, it's not fun happenings related to berries (not that those aren't in abundance right now), it's about general recent occurences, the first of which I shall waste no more time in getting to. Last friday was the day my host brother, Leo, left for Thailand, and since there was only room in the car for this mother, father, sister, and girlfriend to say goodbye, I was left to my own devices around the house. I chose to use my time in the wisest of ways - youtube, facebook, and pokemon. After a few hours of this, I decided to watch a movie. I looked through their collection of films, finding a great deal of concert DVDs of Christian rock bands and Elvis and various action films, when I noticed two films that I hadn't expected in the least: Life is Beautiful, and Good Will Hunting. Having seen the latter and being in the mood for something less life-affirmingly macabre, I opted for Good Will Hunting. Now while watching the movie (and I would be remiss in not mentioning briefly that it is an amazing film) two currant events of note happened. The les interesting event is that I discovered how important it is to manage almost constantly both the windows and the lights in the house. Why? Because there is a delicate balance that must be upheld between keeping the house cool, the house lit (and thus navigable), and the bugs out. For me, the latter-most of the items holds the most weight in the scheme of measuring. So, as I found out, one cannot keep the house cool and lit while keeping the bugs out, because obviously bugs waste no time in taking advantage of open windows to get to pretty lights. But it unfortunately took me some time to realize that such a balance existed, for I had never noticed the periodic dimming of lights and closing of windows throughout the house because my family are apparently adept enough at maintaining the balance that the changes administered were subtle, yet precise and effective. So I ended up spending a great deal of my time warding insects away from my food, and rushing in and out of lit rooms and hallways to avoid the bugs.
The rest of my time not consumed either in cowaring from bugs or Matt Damons long, lustrous locks was consumed in doubt and paranoia. The reason for this was that throughout the day, from the moment my family had left, it seemed, the phone would ring at an interval seemingly designed to utterly crush and break someone in my position. Now first I should clarify my position: I am an exchange student, and I know very little Portuguese, and I learned on the first day of my exchange an important lesson about phones - on my way from Sao Paulo to Campinas, my host parents handed me a phone telling me it was Aline, my sister. I took the phone and put it to my ear, and awaited something to happen. Nothing happened. She didn't speak, I didn't speak; my family tried to hold back laughter and told me to say "Tudo bem," and I said it, and Aline just chuckled, and after a few more moments of silence, my host mother took the phone and began chatting. Lesson learned: never try to talk to someone on the phone, unless they speak English. Communication with anyone who is less than fluent requires a great deal of gesturing and you must be able to pick up on every inflection and body movement to get an idea of what they're talking about. So the reason that the phone calls caused me such agony is that I was 75% sure that it was not my family calling, that it was someone else who needed to speak with them. And as the phone rang over and over again, I kept repeating that to myself, over and over - "You don't know who that is, it could be anybody. Don't pick up that phone, no! Some gruff sounding man is just going to start speaking Portuguese very quickly, and you won't be able to take a name and number or anything-no, get away from that! It's not your family, it's not!" But the same doubt rang through my head at the same time, over and over - "But who would call 15 times in one day, only after your family left! Who has the kind of urgent business that is worth calling 15 times? Your parents aren't government officials! It must be them - they're calling because they need some piece of information that they left at the house or something that Leo needs to go to Thailand. He's probably missed his plane! And it's your fault!" "No, no! It's not them, it's not them... We mustn't risk it, we mustn't risk it!" So you can imagine how warped my state of mind was, with my Smeagle/Gollum complex at work, combined with my insect shell-shock and my Damon-induced-dizziness. Luckily my family returned and the movie ended before my mental infrastructure collapsed, and were able to restore the house to its bugless state. And as for the phone calls, I was a picture of joyful and, yes, tearful vindication when, after they had returned, the phone rang once more, right on schedule, and (since my family had returned without Leo and it wouldn't make much sense for them to call home when at home) I felt the sweetest sensation of redemption, probably akin to what Smeagle felt after telling Gollum to "Leave now, and never, come back!"
Well good night; I had more eventful currants today, but 3 am is not the time for such things. I've always wanted a cliff-hanger, so here's to a dream come true: today I watched a romantic comedy... and liked it! Now you'll all be conferring fervently to discuss this heretofore impossible anomaly, so go ahead and get started, and until next time, happy clicking.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Teenagers
So the other day I was sitting in my room, playing the guitar, when this young man walked into the room (all Brazilian teenagers look much older because of the amounts of hair gel they apply) and introduced himself (rather pointless, since remembering names in a different language is, I've found, much harder than learning the actual language). Then we started chatting, in English, about the things that strangers usually chat about, and then he asked me if I wanted to go to church with he and Aline (clearly the reason he had come). This seemed odd to me, since it was, well I wasn't quite sure which day it was, but I was pretty sure that sunday had just been recently. But, as is my general rule about such things, I consented, and got ready to go. Then he told me that this was just for "chins." Rather quickly, I am not modest to admit, I picked up that he was trying to say "teens," and then I realized that this must be some special youth gathering, and sure enough when we got there there was no one there except youths frittering about, sitting, chatting, even playing fussball (which they just called futebol, to my great confusion). Not too late on, I realized that on the stage at the front of the long rectangular room, there were a number of instruments of the rock bent, a drum-set among them. From this point on, my base heart-rate increased by about 10 bpm, always at least at a brisk pitter-patter. As I found out in the car, Stevan (I'm not sure of the spelling, or even if that is his name, but I'm about 80% sure) told me that he played the drums, and thus he seemed like the most logical person at the time to ask: "Could I, um... [gesture towards drum-set and pantamime drumming]." He said yes, later. Later was better than I thought it might be. Of course, the best case scenario was that they'd tell their regular drummer to take a hike and let me play the set with them, but I suppose it takes awhile for one's drumming prowess to reach the level of international recognition necessary for said scenario to be realistic.
But on to the actual event - the show. I hesitate to call it a sermon, because it blurred the lines between church and a rock show as much as I imagine such a line could be blurred. The part immediatly after the rock show bit was an attempt of some sort to imitate variety show interviews. The main pastor-or-sorts would sit in a chair and call on people to come up and sit on a couch to the side and ask them questions of some sort (most likely about how the music affected them, or problems they'd been having, or some such thing), and before long, the pastor-of-sorts seemed to remember meetin me before the service, and, according to Aline, invited me up to the couch. I'd come to enjoy being such an object of curiosity, so up I went, and he then fielded questions from the audience and interpreted them for me. They were of the typical sort, and eventually they got to the question, "What is your biggest dream?" Still feeling a little drugged by their presence on stage, I pointed to the drums and said to play drums; I actually didn't really mean "in the future," I meant right now, and seeming to sense this, he asked me if I wanted to play for them, to which I didn't respond, but got up and sat down at the set and played Whole Lotta Love on the drums. After awhile I realized that I may have surpassed the realm of demonstration (also noticed the nods of the pastor-of-sorts), and rather awkwardly stopped, and the only fitting way to end such a cathartic experience is the explosive applause that followed. Even if it was for the novelty of an exchange student playing drums rather than for skill, it was an immense relief. And after the service was over, I got my chance to really play, which felt even better. And after awhile, Stevan came over and asked to play drums, and then I switched to the bass (incidentally, all the instruments and equipment were left lying out ready to play again - I don't know why, but it was most convenient), and we had a veritable jam session. So that was in itself a very important experience for me, but that night was also significant in a different way - it was my first real immersion in teenage Brazilian culture. But my first real interaction with teens would come later.
The occasion to which I allude was a bit later (it may have been the next day, it may have been the next week - I lost the ability to gauge time when I got off the airplane in Sao Paulo), when we went to a restaurant - a party of sorts. I think the occasion was a farewell to a friend of Leo's who was also going on an exchange. Anyway, once again it was an all-teenager assembly, and my immersion began immediately. Although throughout the evening I grew friendlier with everyone there, I also felt rather intimidated by them; as is true for teenage culture in America and most other places in the world I should imagine, the standards for fitting in are much stricter. Not to say that teenagers are mean (these were insanely friendly), but you can feel in the way they dress and carry themselves that they put emphasis on appearance, as well as the subconscious judgements being made, some by them, but most by you. For a lot of the evening, I even had the song Teenagers by My Chemical Romance stuck in my head. In the US, though, I don't have this problem. Why? This is a legit question, good job! (that's right - my blog has it's own self-referential inside jokes) The reason is because I know all my friends very well - well enough that if I break the norms, it's a joke, rather than a turn-off. That's the big lesson I've learned about teenage culture - one must get to know the people whose norms you defy before you defy them, otherwise you're just weird or even insulting. So I suppose I'll just have to let my inner iconoclast sit below the surface for awhile. Then, when they trust me and have their backs turned, I'll spring it on them. They wno't know what hit them. But I've already said too much - this information may be leaked by nosy and misguidedly conscientious friends to the people in college who will become my future victims. To those "friends" I have but this to say: it happened to you once - don't think it can't happen again.
But on to the actual event - the show. I hesitate to call it a sermon, because it blurred the lines between church and a rock show as much as I imagine such a line could be blurred. The part immediatly after the rock show bit was an attempt of some sort to imitate variety show interviews. The main pastor-or-sorts would sit in a chair and call on people to come up and sit on a couch to the side and ask them questions of some sort (most likely about how the music affected them, or problems they'd been having, or some such thing), and before long, the pastor-of-sorts seemed to remember meetin me before the service, and, according to Aline, invited me up to the couch. I'd come to enjoy being such an object of curiosity, so up I went, and he then fielded questions from the audience and interpreted them for me. They were of the typical sort, and eventually they got to the question, "What is your biggest dream?" Still feeling a little drugged by their presence on stage, I pointed to the drums and said to play drums; I actually didn't really mean "in the future," I meant right now, and seeming to sense this, he asked me if I wanted to play for them, to which I didn't respond, but got up and sat down at the set and played Whole Lotta Love on the drums. After awhile I realized that I may have surpassed the realm of demonstration (also noticed the nods of the pastor-of-sorts), and rather awkwardly stopped, and the only fitting way to end such a cathartic experience is the explosive applause that followed. Even if it was for the novelty of an exchange student playing drums rather than for skill, it was an immense relief. And after the service was over, I got my chance to really play, which felt even better. And after awhile, Stevan came over and asked to play drums, and then I switched to the bass (incidentally, all the instruments and equipment were left lying out ready to play again - I don't know why, but it was most convenient), and we had a veritable jam session. So that was in itself a very important experience for me, but that night was also significant in a different way - it was my first real immersion in teenage Brazilian culture. But my first real interaction with teens would come later.
The occasion to which I allude was a bit later (it may have been the next day, it may have been the next week - I lost the ability to gauge time when I got off the airplane in Sao Paulo), when we went to a restaurant - a party of sorts. I think the occasion was a farewell to a friend of Leo's who was also going on an exchange. Anyway, once again it was an all-teenager assembly, and my immersion began immediately. Although throughout the evening I grew friendlier with everyone there, I also felt rather intimidated by them; as is true for teenage culture in America and most other places in the world I should imagine, the standards for fitting in are much stricter. Not to say that teenagers are mean (these were insanely friendly), but you can feel in the way they dress and carry themselves that they put emphasis on appearance, as well as the subconscious judgements being made, some by them, but most by you. For a lot of the evening, I even had the song Teenagers by My Chemical Romance stuck in my head. In the US, though, I don't have this problem. Why? This is a legit question, good job! (that's right - my blog has it's own self-referential inside jokes) The reason is because I know all my friends very well - well enough that if I break the norms, it's a joke, rather than a turn-off. That's the big lesson I've learned about teenage culture - one must get to know the people whose norms you defy before you defy them, otherwise you're just weird or even insulting. So I suppose I'll just have to let my inner iconoclast sit below the surface for awhile. Then, when they trust me and have their backs turned, I'll spring it on them. They wno't know what hit them. But I've already said too much - this information may be leaked by nosy and misguidedly conscientious friends to the people in college who will become my future victims. To those "friends" I have but this to say: it happened to you once - don't think it can't happen again.
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