Vasco Marches On

Last week was the quarterfinals of the Copa do Brasil.

It was a nail-biter.

Vasco da Gama's two away goals in the first-leg stalemate meant Atlético Paranaense and their "fanáticos" needed a win to advance. Vasco only needed another tie.

Kalle, my funny Finnish friend, and I got to São Januário stadium too late (like a couple of idiots). Tickets were sold out. Instead, we joined the hundreds of Vascainos in the streets outside the "Caldeirão". Spending the ticket money on beer was our new goal.

Early into the second half, Atlético capitalized on their first and only chance of the game. A typical Vasco breakdown of defense allowed a black and red uniform to sneak a breakaway touch past a diving goalie. Silence in the street. More beer.

70 minutes later, Vasco decides to make a change in their formation, substituting in veteran attacker Elton. This proved to be touch of managerial genius. A 75th minute cross finds the super-sub's head around the penalty spot. Golasso!

Vasco fends off the opposing attack and finishes the game in fine form.

The street's reaction:

Vasco will play Avaí on Wednesday, a Cinderella team who knocked out São Paulo last week. Tickets have already sold out, but I don't mind celebrating in the street again with these dudes.

Tour de Chapéu

After nearly one month of living in the concrete labyrinth known as Chapéu Mangueira, I've finally recorded a video of my daily ascent. Note the long narrow passageway between the street and the stairs. It's such a segue, literally and metaphorically, into my magical neighborhood. Every day I feel like I'm walking through some kind of teleporting machine--like the CS Lewis wardrobe, spitting me into a land of snow witches and talking beavers.

Um Dia na História

It was long, ugly and ended in a shootout

This sentence can describe either one of the events that shook Rio de Janeiro yesterday--each elbowing  the other for Globo's front page.

Flamengo beat Vasco and Obama beat Osama.

Being anti-Fla (South America's most popular football team), I was on the losing side of the former. In defeat, I accepted the insults hurled at me, clutched proudly the logo of my Vasco jersey, and walked home with an emotional limp. With the latter, however, I can consider myself part of the victory…right?

So why do I feel like I've lost both?

One Tuesday, at the beginning of my junior year of high school, I walked into my 7am class to a group huddled around a TV. The camera was fixed on two skyscrapers, one spewing smoke into the blue sky. A few moments later I watched, live, as a dark object flew into the undamaged building. The rest of the broadcast, like Manhattan's streets that day, is a dusty cloud in my mind.

Roughly 35% of my life has happened since that day. Over one-third of my life has been spent hearing about the war on terror, about Afghanistan, about Al-Qaeda, and about Osama bin Laden (all sometimes used interchangeably).

 The second I heard about bin Laden's death, I was struck with a sense of justice, of resolution. I felt triumphant. Like I've been watching a Disney movie for 10 years and finally witnessed the bad guy fall off the cliff into the fog and the crashing of waves. Fade out to end credits and a Phil Collins song.

I knew immediately, before seeing any live videos at the nation's capital and NYC's ground zero, what the reaction would be in the United States. Masses gathered. Flags waved. Signs. Banners. Smiles. Cheers. Whistles. High-fives.

Perhaps I could imagine the celebration because I had just witnessed one hours earlier. Flamengo chants echoing throughout Rio's streets. Fireworks. Hugs. Spilled beer. Dogs barking. Funk music blasting. Even that guy that sits by the pool table and says nothing...even he was screaming. 

Something is unsettling about this.

Why do we celebrate the death of a human being the same way we celebrate our favorite team winning the championship? Should these two incredibly different aspects of life invoke the same emotions? Is it because competition is built into our DNA, or maybe that government is more successful with its country at war?  

Maybe we can learn from our celebrations instead of spiral into another endless reciprocity of death. Although, judging by our history, I can't think of a more appropriate fate.

It is in this blogger's humble opinion that the human species should focus on a more dangerous enemy than ourselves--one that used to be on our side--our planet.

The New Face of Keepin It Rio

The first picture I took in Rio de Janeiro was of Alex's forehead. He woke up the very first morning with a giant bump that resembled a fat baby hiding under a rosy-pink blanket. The second picture was a dead rat in a deserted downtown street. That rat picture has been the face of Keepin it Rio for over 2 years. It is now time to bury the dead and move on to a fresh, more lively personality.

Meet Lingüinha:

Lingüinha lives in Ilha Grande--the turkey sandwich-island (for those who actually read this blog.) Lingua means tongue in Portuguese, so it's no mystery where this wacky creature gets his name. 

Anyone that knows me knows that I'm not a big dog fan, nor any animal for that matter. Nevertheless, I was captivated. He's got these facial expressions that reveal so much more than just a hungry dog. One glance at his wide-eye, puffy-cheek face and it's like you've had a deep conversation with him, like you know what he's been through and what he wants out of life. 

Thiago threw some pork on the ground for the dog. He had some trouble chewing it...I think maybe because he never managed to pull his lingua in. Once he eventually consumed the meat, he looked up and, with his eyes, said something like, "Thank you sir. I hope you live a full life. And remember, you can always anticipate the difficult by managing the easy."

Welcome to the blog, Lingüinha.

Favela Fight

The other day, a violent fight broke out directly outside our apartment. My roommate, Pablo, caught the whole thing from our kitchen window.

I still haven't left my room.

Bem-vindo ao Chapéu

Welcome to Chapéu Mangueira.

Or in English, The Mango Tree's Hat.

After months of hostelling, couchsurfing and living with a crazy witch-lady who makes cakes all day I've finally found a house in Rio.

Pablo, my Chilean friend, and I decided to look for a place to split between the two of us. We stumbled upon an online post. A man named Sergio had several rooms available in a house he just bought near Copacabana.

The southernmost part of Copacabana is Leme--a quiet nook extending only two or three streets from the beach. It consists entirely of 10-story apartment buildings, hotels and restaurants. Walking away from the beach, you reach the bottom of the hill. Then you reach steps. These steps make the Santa Monica 4th Street stairs look like...well, they make them look like fewer steps...or maybe the same amount of steps, but it makes them seem fewer...I'm bad at things.

Anyway, here are a few of them:

It suffices to say that my legs and arms will be even more disproportionate after living here.

Chapéu Mangueira is a morro, or favela. During the 80's and 90's, this area had a history of drug violence that has burnt a negative image in the minds of many Cariocas today. Tropa de Elite, one of the most popular Brazilian movies, took place in Chapéu Mangueira's next-door favela, Babilônia.

In 2008 it became one of the first pacified favelas in Rio. That means it is now reincorporated into the city and is patrolled by the UPP (Unidades de Polícia Pacificadora). The pacification police just hang out around entrances and pretty much do nothing. Every now and then they'll return a "good morning" or an occasional "hey". But that's about it. Drug trafficking in the community is now nonexistent and it's a safe place to live for a gringo like me.

Everyone in the neighborhood is welcoming and warm-hearted. I've started helping out at the community's main office whenever they need computer help. The first day I walked in, Michelle (the lady that does everything) asked me how to make a new folder on the desktop and add files to it. It's amazing how much simple knowledge I take for granted. Tomorrow morning, I'll be transferring all the community's files to a new computer. I'm the new I.T. guy, I guess. Well, it is the family business.

Here's the three-six from our balcony

Stay tuned for updates. Until then, keep that ish rio!

vocabulaRIO

VOCABULARY
Você está queimando meu filme!

CONTEXT

Last night I was having a few drinks with some Brazilian guys. One dude was checking out a server. His buddies kept laughing at him, mentioning something about a past encounter with a less-than-extraordinary young woman. His response: Você está queimando meu filme!

TRANSLATION

You are burning my film.

EXPLANATION

Film is a transparent strip of material used to record photographic images. When it is placed in contact with fire, the images are irreparably destroyed. (SEE photo a.)

photo a.

In the aforementioned situation at the bar, the person was using the analogy of film to refer to his reputation. By "burning" his image, his friends are hindering his chances of successfully achieving his romantic goals with the employee of the establishment.

As demonstrated in Inglorious Basterds, film is heavily flammable.

This phrase could be used in a multitude of situations.

A boy is getting picked up from his mom at the mall. She is honking at waving at him from the car to get his attention. His friends laugh and he melts. She's burning his film.

Lyricist Bun B from the Underground Kings perhaps puts it best:

So when I raise up, you can keep on layin down

I hate to clown, but that's life as I see it

You're lookin for a full-time man, I can't be it

You're cramping my style

-UGK, "Cramping My Style"