Waiting for fejoada

Before Brazil, I knew about rice and beans; I did not know about fejoada.  Upon arriving in Sao Paolo a couple of weeks ago, I quickly learned that fejoada–black beans with pork sausage and meat, served with rice and other accompaniments–was the authentic dish of Brazil.  Because it is not just your standard peasant fare of rice and beans but a heavy, middle-of-the-day meal, the kind that encourages a siesta after consumption, most restaurants only serve it on Saturdays or Sundays.

I consulted the locals and The Lonely Planet and decided on fejoada on Saturday at Bar do Mineiro in Santa Teresa, a hip, artsy, hillside neighborhood in Rio.

After a few hours of being chauffered around to see various sites of the city, we three made it to Bar do Mineiro.  Erin’s friend Adriana, a Salvador native recently-returned to Rio after years  studying and working abroad, had offered us the use of a driver for the day.  Her father had insisted, for he wanted us to enjoy Rio.  Adriana, who clearly takes after her generous father, wouldn’t accept a cent from Erin nor I, simply saying that she wanted us to feel at home.

Always excellent to see the sites with the locals, Adriana’s presence exceeded typical expectations and made for the best day in Brazil thus far.  Well-traveled, easy-going, smart, and cosmopolitan (without the slightest hint of pretention), Adriana is a lively and lovely person, not to mention a champion beer drinker, who (sneaky tactics of paying the bill aside) made me feel right at home in her city.  Our Saturday in Rio was experienced as though we were true cariocas, or Rio locals.

The fejoada was just one of many reasons.

Bar do Mineiro

As the picture indicates, when we arrived at the much vaunted place for fejoada, there was a 30-40 minute wait for a table.  Having lived in New York City the past two years and frequented restaurants that only take reservations for parties of six or more people, I was prepared to wait.

It’s common in Brazil to drink outside, for people to spill into the streets of an open door cafe with drink in hand.  At Bar do Mineiro, there were even groups of people who set up camp across the street.  It is a much different scenario in New York, where street drinking is forbidden and a sure way to get hit with a heavy fine.

The 30-40 minute wait turned into 90 minutes, by which point, we three ladies were tipsy and famished.  Without necessarily criticizing the Brazilian way of doing things (with much less speed and efficiency than I am used to), I commented on how in NYC we were likely to have been compensated with a drink or appetizer on the house if a similar thing occurred.  After hostessing at ‘inoteca, a bustling, cool wine bar on New York’s lower east side, I know from experience that accuracy with wait times is rather important, despite its not being a science.  Adriana, who graduated from George Washington University in D.C. and later lived in Europe, agreed that customer service (the customer is always right) in the United States is better than it is in Brazil.

After inquiring about our table, Adriana ordered us another round of drinks, and soon we were seated.  We ordered the fejoada completa for two people and not three as we were told it would be enough for us.

“Are you sure?” Erin asked, and I wanted to know the same thing.  In anticipation of the meal, I had eaten only a handful of granola in the morning.

Fejoada completa (greens, rice, and another starchy side dish studded with crispy, greasy chunks of pork skin and fat) for two was enough to feed three very hungry girls and fill a to-go container, which we later gave to a young, skinny Brazilian boy juggling tennis balls (read: begging) in the street.  “God be with you,” he said and sauntered happily away with his comida.

It was, by all non-vegetarian, meat-loving foodie accounts, ridiculouslyy delicious.  Worth the wait.  And the calories.  And the food coma.

fejoada completa

yummy pork fat

Following fejoada. Erin, Adriana, Stacey.

Minor scrapes and bruises

Although Marcelo had arranged for a car to take me to the bus station, where I was confident I could pick up my pre-purchased ticket and board the correct bus to Arraial do Cabo, a beach town a few hours from Rio de Janeiro, when the driver arrived, he expected to be told where to go.

“Omnibus…” I said.  Then, “Estacion?”  He seemed to understand omnibus (bus), but instead of driving along, he pointed to the right hand lane where the city buses were lining up and making stops.  Clearly, he hadn’t understood.  In a panic and not wanting to miss my bus–for how to explain in extremely limited Portuguese that I ought to be able to use my ticket for a later bus–I furiously whipped out the few pages on Portuguese phrases I’d torn from Lonely Planet and tried again to explain where I needed to go.  Smart driver, he stopped outside of a hotel and found someone who spoke English to assist us, and we were on our way.

My bus station experience was simple, and I boarded the correct bus at the right time.  I had a dorm bed booked in Arraial do Cabo, and I was anxious to find my way to the hostel from the station in Arraial do Cabo as I knew it was only about a ten minute walk.

Unfortunately, I stepped off the bus too soon, and because things are not clearly marked in Brazil, I didn’t see any signs indicating that I was actually in Cabo Frio and not Arraial do Cabo.

Several friendly cab drivers, despite their not speaking English, informed me of my mistake.  One man, Luiz, spoke English however, and when he started to tell me that I’d have to pay another R$26 to take a bus to my desired destination, I felt my eyes well up and my throat tighten.  I knew I was close to where I wanted to be and couldn’t justify spending the same money for a twenty minute ride as I’d just paid for nearly three hours on the bus.  And, besides, I’d asked the bus driver, “Arraial do Cabo?” when I’d gotten off the bus, and I could swear he’d nodded.  I should get the ride for free, I thought indignantly.

Indignation led to frustrated tears and Luiz asked me in clear English why I was crying.

Why was I crying?  I wasn’t scared.  I trusted the cab drivers.  People were trying to help me.  The first two men had found the only English speaking driver to talk to me, and now this kind man was offering to save me the trouble of purchasing another bus ticket or attempting to find my way on a local city bus.

But, I was displeased with myself.  All I’d wanted to do was make an independent move, find my way, get it done.  On my own.  If I couldn’t get to where I needed to be this time without any hassle or snags–a short trip compared to the ones in my future–how was I ever going to make it to around South America by myself?

Wiping my face, telling Luiz I was just tired, and inwardly blaming my (over)reaction on hormones, I talked Luiz into taking me directly to the hostel for R$15 instead of the R$25 he’d suggested.  He agreed, and twenty minutes later I was taking a hot shower and minding the not-so-small red ants who occupied the space with me.

In the end, I made it to where I wanted to be, and I also learned a valuable lesson (one of many more to come, I’m sure):  just because everyone else is getting off the bus, it doesn’t mean it’s the last stop or my stop!

Solo and female!

I’ve had quite the easy time so far: ride from the airport in Sao Paolo, maid service upon arrival, my own bedroom and private bathroom, the father of my couchsurfing host refusing to accept any money for shipping my laptop to NYC, ride from the bus station in Rio with help from friendly Brazilian I met while en route to Rio, assistance from current couchsurfing host, Marcelo, with purchasing bus tickets, booking accommodations and offering pleasant company for various things to do and see (read: everything).

I haven’t had any truly challenging days (unless you consider underestimating the strength of the bottomless caipirinha while on a boat in the middle of the sea a challenge), only a couple of snags along the way, but as a foreign female traveling by herself, I think I may even be at an advantage at times.  Recently, my friend Paula sent me an excellent (and brief) link to both the male and female perspective on the solo female traveler: does she have it easier than the solo male?

As Paula and I once backpacked together through Greece, Italy, and Spain for five weeks the summer after we graduated college (yes, we were overnight ferrying it to the pristine but festive island of Mykonos while the majority of our friends became acquainted with the cubicle), I can attest to the luxury of leaving my bag with a friend while I hopped on over to the restroom before the train’s (or ferry’s) departure.

However, safety and, ahem, pee issues aside, I think traveling alone is empowering, liberating, and thrilling.  While I don’t know if I’m ready after only a week and a half to conclude that we solo ladies have it easier than the solo guys, I am happy to share a couple of my positive solo travel experiences.  Social interaction, for example, Dave’s (aka the male perspective’s) first point, is not difficult for the woman by her lonesome; I’ve found myself bonding easily with foreign women who don’t speak a word of my language.  It’s not the kind of  bonding that leads to a best friendship, mind you, but it’s the small connection that warms the soul and reminds me that words aren’t always necessary.  (And, of course, it’s not all that hard following a little eye contact to make friends of the opposite sex either!)

Nilda (prnounced New-duh), the maid in the Patrick household, took a liking to me and I to her.  Though verbal communication was difficult, we had our moments.  One evening when I was leaving the townhouse, Nilda rushed to the door to ask me if I was staying for dinner.  I understood as  much from her gesturing towards the set table and the smells of food cooking in the kitchen.  What I wasn’t sure was how to ask her what time dinner was so that I could make an informed decision.  I struggled with trying to get her to uderstand me, and eventually I just took out my watch and pointed to the time (7 PM), which is when Nilda said “oito” for 8 PM.

“Ate mais tarde (see you later)”, I said, and when I returned with a bottle of wine and showed it to Nilda, she nodded, opened it and placed it on the table with the other dinner beverages.

In the afternoons, unable to tear myself away from my twice-daily caffeine habit, I’d timidly (still completely unaccustomed to havig a live-in maid) seek Nilda’s help with making the coffee.  Each time, she seemed to do it happily but not without looking at me in my tank top and bare arms and asking me if I was cold (frio?).  Once I put a sweater on, Nilda seemed content.

The day before I left, I took out my camera and indicated to Nilda that I wanted to take a picture of us.  Even though she wasn’t pleased with her appearance (something I figured out by her expression and quick removal of her hat) we smiled for the camera.  And when I left, she came over to say goodbye, and I asked Patrick to thank her for me and tell her I enjoyed meeting her.

When I was in China, I had similar bonding experiences in spite of the impossible language barrier.  There was the woman who owned the hostel in Yangshuo who gave me breakfast porridge and laughed when her daughters translated that iId named the kitten that lived with them.  We say together and drank tea, but we did not speak.   And then there was the old and sage Great Wall tour guide who looked out for me as I was the only one among the group traveling by myself.  When I showed her the picture taken of us, she smiled her big, toothless grin again.

Earlier today, an Argentine woman started began speaking to me.  She had somewhat of an ulterior (but harmless) motive, for she was practiing English, doing her homework as she told me.  A lovely woman, she stressed the importance of my safety, told me to be very careful in Argentina.  Certainly, we were in a safe and relaxing environment, on a boat in Arraial do Cabo, a small, sleepy (at this time of year, anyway) beach village a few hours from Rio.  (Next to Sao Paolo and Rio, it felt like an oasis of safety, but I was grateful for her insight.)

There are, undoubtedly, plenty of obstacles I’ll face by myself on my journey, feelings of homesickness notwithstanding, but I hope none of them will be serious or detrimental.  For now, I am mixing it up a little actually and will be traveling with a friend from college for a few weeks in Brazil.  I excaped on my own yesterday to Arraial do Cabo, and not without some minor scrapes and bruises either (story to come), but Erin and I will say goodbye to Marcelo on Monday and bid him billions of thanks for his incredible hospitality before we head to Salvador, which is, according to Lonely Planet’s South America on a Shoestring, *the* place travelers are most likely to get mugged.  They say there’s safety in numbers, so perhaps this junction of my solo travels is best interrupted.