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Soccer game
Stadium in Sao Paolo
I had the fortunate experience of going to a semi-final soccer game last night to watch Cruzeiro beat Sao Paolo, although it wasn’t supposed to happen like that.
“If Sao Paolo wins, we go out, if they lose, we go home,” is what Patrick said.
The game was at 10 PM, but we had to leave at 7:30 PM to pick up a few of Patrick’s friends and sit in notorious Sao Paolo traffic for a while. Of course, I was rooting for Sao Paolo to win, but I haven’t gotten to the point of the trip (yet) where I’m interested in staying out until 7 AM only to be completely unproductive the following day. (Rio’s next on the agenda, and if I decide to couchsurf there my first two nights, I’m sure I’ll need to party late to adjust to the described sleeping arrangement: a mattress on the floor of the CS host.)
In any case, as a traveler and not a tourist, I am trying to be a go-with-the-flow kind of person, maybe stray a bit from my comfort zone, do things I wouldn’t get to do at home, so long as I feel safe.
So, when Patrick invited me to the game, I immediately accepted, even though I am not a soccer fan. Not one bit. I knew the game was a big deal though, and I felt priviliged to have been given a ticket. I’m happy to report that the evening was a success, minus Sao Paolo’s loss, that is.
Game night things I found interesting:
-No beer is sold in the stadium; beer is purchased from the car as you get closer to the stadium and parking, if you like.
-As we sat in traffic close to the stadium, I noticed people tailgating and asked if they called it the same thing in Portuguese. They refer to pre-drinking as a warm-up.
-A stadium clock is forbidden. The players are not supposed to know how much time has elapsed.
-Seats are first come, first serve; however, if you are an owner, as Patrick and his friends are, your first come, first serve choices are better. We were, apparently, sitting in the elite, la-ti-da section.
-I could count on one hand how many women were seated in our section.
-Groups of people from Sao Paolo favelas, or slums, were loud and colorful fans, not to missed in the stands. Supposedly, they would rather spend their money on futbol than on food.
-The clock, which is kept only by officials (and devoted fans) never stops.
-Singing is the preferred form of cheering.
-Fights among opposing fans broke out with frequency, and when they did, attention moved from the field to the fight.
-My guess is that about 80% of the fans were sporting their team’s paraphenelia.
-When your team loses, you don’t drown your sorrows in chopp (draft or keg beer). You go home.
After only three days in Sao Paolo, I’ve learned that enjoying Brazil on a budget is not so easy. Obviously, I am saving money on accommodations by couchsurfing; furthermore, the family that is hosting me has invited me to consume any food I find in the house.
Last night, Patrick was working late, so I enjoyed dinner with Sylvia and Mark, his lovely parents. My contribution was a bottle of Malbec that ran me about $8 USD. I realize that I am in a fortunate situation. Jardins is, indeed, a ritzy area, much like the upper east side near Central Park, I imagine. All of the buildings are highly secured and gated. I am buzzed in and out every time I come and go, and it feels safe walking around during the day. It is questionable at night, which helps with staying on a budget because I won’t venture out and about by myself, but as I’m sure all of you know, it doesn’t take much time to spend a lot of money.
On my first night, I attended the couchsurfing meeting. They call it a meeting, but it’s really a bar gathering. I am happy to confirm that Brazilians are as nice as everyone says. Aside from a Greece couchsurfer and a guy from Westchester who was doing what I’m doing until he landed a job editing a Web site for an American company based in Buenos Aires (I know, pretty sweet, right?), the group consisted of Sao Paolo folks. I ended up staying for several hours and spent about $30 USD, which I understand is not terribly expensive for a Tuesday night out, but the caipirhinha deal didn’t apply to me because I ordered it with the Brazilian liquor. (Patrick would later tell me I was overcharged.)
I met some of the couchsurfing people for lunch today and ate a pastel de baccalau, a fried rectangular pie filled with dried, salted cod, onion, and plump green olives. At about $5 USD, it wasn’t exactly as inexpensive as I’d have liked. A filling slice of pizza in New York City, after all, will run you about $2-3 USD.
Food and drink aside, the main cost is proving to be travel within Brazil’s borders. For example, bus rides are pricey and pricier depending on the amount of luxury one chooses. I’ve decided to fly from Rio to Salvador because I found a flight for only $82 USD, whereas a bus ticket would have been close to $100 USD. At this point, I have little idea of where I’ll go from Salvador, but I’ll probably end up spending a pretty penny to fly to Central West Brazil. Fortunately, all of my couchsurfing requests have been accepted, and before I meet up with a friend from the states in Rio on Monday, I’ll be staying with Marcelo, who lives in Ipanema Beach. Gabriel, a resident in Salvador, an African-influenced area, has agreed to host me for a couple of nights. I’d couchsurf in every city if I could, but the problem is that only the big cities have a lot of CS hosts. Outside the Pantanal, where I’d like to do an ecological expedition, there are few, if any CS hosts.
After Brazil, I’ll be in Bolivia, which *should* help me stay on budget. My budget, in case you are curious, is about $25-30 a day, not including tours or excursions or flights. What I need to do is sit down and do some math.
Not everything in Brazil is as expensive as it is in New York, however. This afternoon I got a bikini wax for only $7 USD. That’s unbelievably cheap! Tomorrow I need to purchase a Brazilian bikini, something I’m not looking forward to donning.
When in Brazil…
I’ve been in Sao Paolo, Brazil for less than six hours, and I’m alternating between two thoughts: “Oh my God, what on earth am I doing?” and “This is so great.”
I’m confident that the latter thought will win out in just a few days’ time. In spite of a non-working, cumbersome, seventeen inch laptop, a Continental flight attendant who warned me that without proof of onward travel out of Brazil, I may get deported, and several extra hours at Newark International, the trip is off to a great start. My couchsurfing host, Patrick, spotted me immediately and showed no signs of annoyance at having had to wait around the airport.
As we drove to his place, I asked many questions, particularly interested in where I could grab a quick, cheap bite before a bit of rest.
“My maid will make you something,” he said as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and surely, for him, it was. Patrick showed me to my “couch,” which turned out to be his sister’s pretty, pink bedroom complete with attached bathroom. She is traveling in Italy this summer, so the room is all mine for the week.
Not long after Patrick left me to my devices–a hot shower and a nap–I was summoned by the maid, whose name I haven’t quite caught due to her thick accent. She’d laid out a spread big enough for three people, but the only place setting was for me. I greedily dug into the white rice, buttery corn kernels, garlicky chicken cutlets, and tomato and iceburg salad. A tray of condiments was set before me, and I drank peach nectar.
I slept for several hours after eating, and when I rose, I took some pictures of the city from the balcony. On the drive to the apartment, I noticed the slums, the incredibly dirty little shacks, the poverty that is so prevalent in this city, and ahead I saw the skyscrapers, the looming, colorful city.
Patrick’s family lives in Jardin Paulista, a seemingly swanky neighborhood with lots of green trees and fancy shops. I may check out a couchsurfing meeting this evening. It’s at a pub located a few subway stops away. Or I may call, Pablo, a Brazilian I met while traveling in China. I’m still sort of reeling from the idea of what I’m doing, and when I pause to think of the time frame I’ve set up for myself, I get kind of freaked out. One day at a time. One Portuguese phrase at a time.
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