My First Visit to Brazil, Part 3: Vitoria Arrival

Junior, Simone, and I fled the rodizio and made our connecting flight to Vitoria.

Vitoria and Vila Velha

Vitoria and Vlia Veha2

Vitoria’s airport, in contrast to Rio’s Galeão, was tiny. It was easy to retrieve our bags, as there was only one baggage carousel!  I helped Junior to hoist his collection of overstuffed bags from the belt.

Junior’s father, Ozair senior, was waiting for us outside. After quick embraces all around (that included me), me managed (just) to get everything into the family sedan and off we went.

Junior had told me a bit about Ozair. He was very proud of his father, who was evidently a self-made man. He was recently retired, but still owned a couple of rental properties that he managed. While Junior’s two brothers had jobs working for large companies, Junior prepared to follow in his father’s footsteps and start his own business. He was not sure just what yet. He wanted to assess opportunities.

We were greeted by Junior’s mother, Marlene. We had barely deposited bags when we were whisked down the street to the home of Simone’s parents. Junior and Simone had been childhood sweethearts, having grown up on the same block. I was treated to more rounds of handshakes, hugs, and backslapping. In Latin cultures, if you are introduced by family or a close friend, you are readily invited into the circle.

Later, Junior extricated us from the mob that had developed, perhaps sensing that I was feeling overwhelmed. We changed to shorts and walked the short distance to the beach.

Junior’s parents don’t live in Vitoria proper, which is on an island just off the coast. They live in Vila Velha, or “Old Town”, on the mainland. Junior thought Vila Velha was much better, and I couldn’t argue. The beach was long, clean, and not at all crowded. Although I had seen the ocean a few times, I had never lived near one, and the gorgeous South Atlantic entranced me.

Praia da costa, Vila Velha

It was now late afternoon, but still oppressively hot. We headed for the surf, wading out to chest level.

What I remember most of that first day were the waves. They were wonderful, cool and inviting. Most were swells, lifting us and trying to knock us from our little sandbar. Many broke farther out. But a few, a wonderful few, rolled through our spot and ran on into the shallows before breaking. Junior showed me how to spot a good wave. We didn’t have boards, but we did manage to grab a few waves successfully and ride them in to shore.

The strand, Vila Velha

This was my first experience body surfing. I think it was also when I knew that one day Brazil would be my home.

Wonderfully exhausted and waterlogged, we slogged onto shore and grabbed chairs at a kiosk. Junior told me that there was good opportunity there in the area, that I could invest and do well. At the time I had little to invest, but Junior’s predictions were correct. Vitoria and the surrounding area grew through tourism, and then oil was discovered offshore. This was only one of many opportunities I missed in Brazil. But at least I am here now.

***

Fast forward to the next afternoon…

As Junior and Simone had been in the US for 4 ½ years, and it had been about 2 ½ years since their last visit, a party was in order – not that Brazilians require much reason to throw a party!

The party was another barbecue, but this time at the home of Junior’s parents on the back patio. Their home, like so many in Brazil, had a built-in barbecue grill. Barbecue here is tradition, as it is in Texas or Down East North Carolina.

People began showing up around 2:00, and I soon lost track of who was who. Many of the names were strange for me at that time and difficult for me to remember, and the sheer volume became too much. It was embarrassing, because everyone knew me, the gringo!

(Incidentally, I found that I was often referred to as “o alemão”, or, “the German”. In this area, anyone blond and blue-eyed was referred to in this way – just as the Russians used to refer to all Europeans as “Germans”.)

Brazilian barbecue, I discovered, was not brushed with sweet tomato-based sauce, as in Texas, or basted in white vinegar and pepper sauce as in Eastern North Carolina. Instead, it was liberally sprinkled with coarse-grained salt. Not as good as a Down East pig pickin’, but still tasty.

The excessive amount of salt fueled my thirst, and I found myself freely enjoying Brahmas, one of the local beers. In Brazil, and throughout Latin America, it’s common for a few friends to share a beer from a liter bottle. Everyone has a small glass which is refilled magically whenever he turns his head for 5 seconds.

I still like this custom, which you don’t find in the US. Sharing a beer in this way is practical in that the beer has less time in which to grow warm – a real consideration in such a hot climate. More than that, it is just a friendlier way to drink together.

Simone’s father and one of her brother’s spoke some English, but almost no one else did. I struggled, using my limited Spanish to good advantage, but it only took me so far. It was then I think that I first noticed a curious phenomenon: If someone speaks Spanish to a Brazilian, the Brazilian will understand a good deal of it, very often enough to get the gist of the sentence. But when he speaks Portuguese back, the Spanish speaker will likely grasp very little. It is curious but true. I’ve seen this repeated often. I think the Brazilian accent is what confounds Hispanics. The two languages read similarly, but sound quite different.

So, with everything, I soon found my head swimming. I stumbled inside to the living room, which was blissfully quiet. All of the action was on the patio or in the kitchen.

Sitting back in an easy chair, I closed my eyes for a moment. It is difficult to describe the effect of trying actively to communicate in a new language for an extended period. It is really exhausting. The left side of my head – the left side specifically – was throbbing over my ear.

I heard rustling. I opened my eyes to find myself surrounded by children. I felt like Gulliver among the Lilliputians. I was alone with perhaps a dozen small children, who eyed me curiously. I have no doubt that I was the first outsider many had ever seen.

By nudging and silent acclamation, the oldest girl, who might have been 8 or 9, was nominated spokesperson for the gang. Somewhat hesitant, but obviously curious, and seeming to take her role as spokesperson seriously, she advanced forward.

We had an interesting exchange. I actually managed to have a decent conversation, her level of Portuguese being closer (if still superior) to my own.

The children were just like children everywhere, but I noticed throughout my stay that they seemed to get along better than kids back home. There were few fights or disagreements. Sharing was done without thinking, as a matter of course. Consensus was reached quickly. I still see this among kids here in Brazil, and among adults, too. There is a high value placed on getting along here.

Junior came to look for me after a bit. He understood my struggle with the language. He had wrestled with the same transition when he and Simone had moved to the US. What, after all, is more basic than your language, your toolbox for thinking?

Oddly, Junior was having some difficulty switching smoothly back to Portuguese. He frequently slipped and spoke to me in Portuguese, but to members of his family in English. It took a couple of days for him to sort it all out.

Word must have been passed to Junior’s mother that I was having difficulties, because the next day, she had invited over a cousin of some variety or another who spoke some English. Claudete became my guide and companion for the next week, and is still a friend today.

Next installment: Claudete and the perfect week.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Share  Print This Post