12 hours in São Paulo

quick reminder: show in harlem on february 5!

it’s 10am in São Paulo. the trees are lush and green because it rained last night, and the night before, and it’s likely going to rain today as well. it rains so frequently here that Paulistas refer to their town by its distinctive style of fine, almost invisible droplets that seem to suspend in the air: “Cidade de Garoa”, or city of rain.

it’s january, however, and so this light drizzle has been replaced by summer downpours. the city flooded less than a week ago, and while life has more or less returned to normal, various shades of grey hang literally overhead, threatening further chaos.

It’s my last day in Brazil, and in twelve hours I’ve got a flight to catch back to Newark Int’l—but for now, the weather is my primary concern. “we take a jacket today?” I ask my friend Victor, a bespectacled philosophy student with dreams of being a professor. “we take”, he nods his head back.

as we set out after coffee and a breakfast of nutella and banana on fried tapioca, the rain has picked up so hard that Victor and I only make it a couple blocks before we are forced to crowd underneath the awning of a nearby convenience store.

there, we join a dozen other people with ponchos and folded umbrellas waiting for a brief reprieve from the showers. some folks are in a hurry, and take their chances before the barrage has let up. luckily, after another ten minutes, the skies have cleared slightly and we feel confident enough to bid “good day” to our compatriots and head on our way.

Victor and I make it three more blocks before being forced to take shelter again. “espere”, he says. “I know a lunch place just around the corner here, it is better to wait.” and so we run to the sanctuary of a nearby lanchonete for a plate of sausage, rice, beans, and farofa: a delicious, course meal made of ground cassava plant to be sprinkled across the rest of the dish. by the time we finish, the rain has gone and will let us be for the rest of the day.

Later, I ask Victor if he knows of any ways to appeal for some kindness from the rain gods. he said Brazilians will put an egg in a tree—not as an offering or anything, you put it up and then just take it down once you don’t need it there anymore. that, he said, or you sing Jorge Ben’s “Santa Clara Clareou”.

we spend the afternoon walking around downtown São Paulo. “see how traditional architecture mashes up against modern glass buildings” Victor points out. “it’s easier to build something new than to improve what we already have. the city is always trying to make this area safer and better for tourists, but underlying issues are never addressed.”

this manifests in a feeling of unease that permeates the area. we walk past restaurants advertising in e

nglish (a rarity in Brazil) side by side with shops blaring music that almost threatens passersby to enter. the tension is palpable, and as a kid springs up from seemingly nowhere to ask for the time, Victor explains the teen is hoping one of us would pull out a phone so he can run off with it. it’s the oldest trick in the book, but there’s enough going on around us I see how someone could let their guard down.

unperturbed, we continue our tour down a road that overlooks a cramped, crowded market that reminded me of canal street. the last of my dinero was burning a hole in my pocket and I saw a chance to procure my favorite type of souvenir: a bootleg jersey from a local soccer team. “we call that the 25th of March street, or the 25th for short” my tour guide told me. “you can definitely find something there.”

minutes later, we were descending down a steep alley that was even louder than the previous neighborhood. lojas blared deals and discounts over their loudspeakers—looped recordings that compelled you to act out of fear as much as curiosity. Victor taps me on the shoulder and we duck into a small shop with jerseys from every major Paulistan team, as well as national shirts and assorted others from across the globe.

“oi cara, quero uma camisa de Corinthians” I assert, hoping some extra confidence overcomes any grammatical missteps.

“bem amigo, temos três tipos: aqui está nossa primeira linha …” and we were off.

I explain to the two kids working there that I was from Canada (better to go with my location of birth than NYC, I was advised) and was catching a plane home later that day. the primeira linha shirts were 80 réis, but I had only 62.50 in cash left. could we make a deal?

they turned to their boss in the back, who gave a gruff nod. with that, we were all high fiving, the deal a coisa feita: me with my new prize, and the two kids with a story to tell about how they went toe to toe with a gringo. “outsiders rarely come through this part of town,” Victor explained.

“look around—you’re the only foreigner here. and they gave you a 17 réis discount!” he shook his head incredulously. “you’ve got some luck.”

as we walked back up the same alley we had previously descended, Vic reflected a bit more on what had just happened. “I can be very fearful sometimes, living in this city,” he admitted. “it seems so dangerous and I usually avoid going out at night at all costs.”

but, he continued, you lose a sense for the magic of a new situation or environment. uncertainty can lead to hurt and pain, but it can also lead to unexpected joy.

“by the way, why Corinthians?” asked the fervent São Paulo fan as I was about to leave, having just taken me to see his beloved SP beat third-division Portuguesa the night before.

“honestly, I’d been looking for a local team to follow” I replied, “and every Corinthians supporter I’ve talked to has shown nothing but excitement for their team. even if they have had a few recent tough years, there’s an inescapable optimism and positivity I connect with.”

he shrugged his shoulders and helped me bring my bags down to the street. out from a red fiat jumps Jose, my uber driver:

“boa tarde cara! pra o aeroporto?”

he’s clad in a black and white Corinthians shirt. Vic and I look at each other and laugh as I climb into the back seat.

“eu vou!”

“there is one rule in the garden above all others. you must give more than you take.“ –Alan Chadwick