Waterfalls are the Brazilian Mountain

Context is everything, right? I love to hike and, if given a choice, I spend my free time outdoors. For me, as a Wyomingite, a hike means an ascent, a sense of accomplishment, and a view. With my husband, we have had many a debate between my concept of hike and the German sense of wanderung. Basically, my version involves a mountain and a scramble to the top and his version involves more of a walk... I remember when I was a student at Augustana and meeting fellow students from Minnesota who went camping at lakes! (Yup. For me, camping involves mountains.) In Indonesia, I understood that hiking might mean walking on a trail in town or climbing up a volcano, probably in flip flops.

Here in Brazil, it seems that the attraction that pulls people out of their urban lives and draws them to nature is the waterfall. Or at least that is the case around Brasilia. And it probably involves proper hiking gear -- you know, a bikini or speedo and flip flops.

My fellow hiking friends and I headed outside of town last weekend to a waterfall trail head about 40 minutes away. We saw four waterfalls, including the Spanish waterfall, Indaia, the Bride's Veil, and the backside of Itiquira. It was not a mountain, but it was beautiful. Take a look.

Remembering Gussy

The moments we have together can be so fleeting and can seem so inconsequential. Life is structured that way, I suppose, so that humans don't realize how precious each moment is or how normal interactions shape who we are. In this post, I want to share my rememberings about my dad's youngest sister who passed away two days after her 52nd birthday in November from cancer. I am not sure that there are any words that make her death less tragic. She was the aunt who still lived on the farm when I was a little girl, the one most available to us when we visited. Although we did not see each other often in recent years, I have many memories connected to her  - and most of them make me smile. It's strange, isn't it, how family and friends are in our lives and, whether in the foreground or background, they comprise important bits of our stories.

So, in the form of a small tribute, I would like to share some of the scraps of memories I have about my Aunt Stephanie, although we called her Gussy.

• When we were kids, she lived on the farm and was still in school. After all, she was only a decade older than me! We went to watch her cheer lead at some basketball games. When she was at home on the farm, she would read stories with us, bake cookies and cakes, and sometimes sit down at the piano and play. She and my other aunts would play with my long hair. I loved the attention. My brother and I loved to visit the farm in part because of my youngest aunt hanging around.
• I can remember going outside to climb and play on bails of hay during a particular Christmas visit in the snow. We ascended to hide and peek down on one another. I can also remember riding in the car with her and cranking up the music. It was so cool.
• Once I wrote a letter to the farm and addressed it "Uncle Gus" as a joke that seemed funny to me as an adolescent. My Uncle Steve and my Aunt Gussy didn't open it for some time because they weren't sure who it was for! That was goofy.
• My two youngest aunts were really close and lived together in a nearby town when they were probably in their twenties. Joe and I got to visit and hang out with them in Bowman. That was really cool! My memories do not totally connect but I can remember them taking us cruising and also to the movies, perhaps to get us to be sleepy so we wouldn't be so attentive at a movie that kids normally wouldn't watch... We also made cookies, of course.
• When my aunt went to school for a while in Dickinson, we exchanged old-fashioned, snail mail letters. I loved pen pals and had several. Aunt Gussy wrote back and forth with me quite a bit to tell me her happenings and respond to mine. Even in the last years, I would pop a postcard in the mail now and then to randomly say hello. Sometimes, my aunt would send me a card with a stick of gum in it. That always made me smile. It's kind of cute, right?
• There were a lot of celebrations that happened in North Dakota. Anniversary parties for my grandparents and the weddings of almost all of my aunts and uncles. This was a blast. Getting dressed up and running around with the other kids, watching the grown ups dance, and just enjoying the big family. I remember my aunt at these events as she paid attention to all of us rugrats. I even remember her pretty (and fun) wedding when I must have been in junior high school!
• Gussy had a really dry sense of humor that made people laugh. She made up a song about Missoula, Montana that still sticks in my memory. She would tell stories about her dog that were hilarious. Some of her jokes weren't very funny except for the telling. We loved her for that.
• I really looked forward to seeing my aunt as an adult and thought it was cool to have her around. She visited my family in Wyoming when I was a teenager and lived with us for a short while. Because they lived "Out West" (to my family this means Washington state), we didn't see each other often. But I do remember looking forward to seeing my aunt when there were gatherings here and there. It was always special when they came, and I was super excited when she came to celebrate my wedding to Uli a decade ago. 
• When I went to Seattle for a conference a couple of years ago, we met up for an evening to have dinner and wander around the city. She and Troy were great hosts, and I enjoyed reconnecting with them. In fact, we talked about coming out to visit at some point with Uli. That would have been fun.

All in all, I would not say that my aunt and I were particularly close in recent years. But she will always be part of my tribe and a piece of my story. It is heartbreaking that she left us all so soon and was so sick. It happened so fast and so unexpectedly. I loved that even when she must have been feeling really icky, we exchanged emails, often with her stories of baby bunnies in the yard or a short note about her faith and peace. I imagine this small tribute might have made her smile - I hope it would have - and she may have had other stories to add. I'm grateful that these shiny fragments remain to remember the moments we shared together. Rest in peace, Aunt Gussy.

Feeling green

It's summer time in Brazil, and we are almost upon the summer solstice in the southern hemisphere (seems weird, right?). You might imagine that it is hot here. But, it's not really. Instead, we are in the middle of the rainy season. When it rains here, it pours. And it is raining a lot. The skies clear between storms but sometimes we have a downpour more than once a day. Driving during a storm can be particularly hazardous as visibility gets pretty abysmal and the streets flood with several feet of water to plow through with the car. The high plain of Brasilia is bursting with green outdoors, looking lush in stark contrast to the dry season when everything gets brown and dehydrated.

The truth is that I kind of like the weather and the moisture, but the truth for my houseplants is something different. One plant has already been sacrificed to the winter rains in a sad, withering death spiral that finished in the compost bin. The others are not so happy with the diminished sunlight and cool temperatures. Today, I moved all of my greenery next to the windows in hopes that they might perk up and begin to dry out a bit. Who knew that it would be so hard to keep them feeling happy and green?

Rio de Janeiro

...is so fabulous I did not take many pictures. And, yes, it is as wonderful as everyone says it is.

Coffee in three pictures

Because these express exactly how I caffeinate...

Home is where your heart is

Last week I made the long sojourn to the U.S. for Thanksgiving via São Paulo and Mexico City and finally to Mexicali where my folks picked me up.

It's funny because my home has always been in Wyoming in the same red house on the top of the hill on the north side of town. In my mind, it is a fixed, immutable space where I could imagine sitting at the kitchen table or counter drinking coffee in the morning, watching the occasional cow or horse approach the back fence, listening to birds chirp, or, very rarely, see a squirrel be chased up a tree by whichever lucky mutt was part of the family. The familiar. The routine. Memories stacking up one against another of the brown cabinets and sitting clad in robes to read the paper or watch the morning news. This is not romanticized. This is the fabric of the every day home to which I have returned from every corner of the earth. The richness of the fabric was not in its presentation but in its details, the little frog figurine that hung from the bar stool counter top, the mismash of coffee mugs in the cupboard, the treasures in the junk drawer under the counter, the grandfather clock chiming on the quarter hour, my dad's storage in the cabinetry above his space... I do not know if any of this is very important, and I wondered how I would feel about not returning to that home any more.

What is even funnier is that this time I returned "home" to a place that was not home. My parents' new place in Arizona is nothing like the split-level I grew up in. But, even situated in a retirement community underneath the flat, wide skies of the desert, it maintained the heart of a home. Some of the familiar pieces of childhood made their way south to this new location, even the grandfather clock. But, I am not sure that those things really matter. It felt like home because of the people who were in it. Resuming conversations, deepening relationships, retelling stories, and returning to family made it home. The dog racing after a ball, the turkey in the roaster, getting creamed at Scrabble by my mother, Dad "resting his eyes" in his chair after making lefse, and drinking coffee around the table in the morning. These are perhaps the pieces that make a place home and I enjoyed the return.

In the Neighborhood

The human mind is a miraculously curious organ, isn't it? Every single day on my drive to or from work I follow blindly the GPS through "Avenida das Jaqueiras." Severely mispronounced by a computer-automated English speaker, the street is part of my neighborhood. I can locate it and successfully navigate its dangerous roundabouts and even get gas or a car wash nearby. Without blinking, I know this street. What never occurred to me was to investigate the meaning of "jaqueiras." So much for curiosity. 

Last weekend, we were out with a friend and turned onto the famed "Avenida das Jaqueiras" when I noticed large fruits protruding from the trees along the route. Every tree had tons of spiky, enormous jack fruit protruding from its branches. Suspicious that every tree on the road seemed to be producing jack fruit. I said as much to our Brazilian friend, who replied, "of course, that is why it is called Jack Fruit Avenue."

Really, what could be more obvious to decode? 

Three days in Floripa

Work travel took me to southern Brazil to the city of Florianópolis. Most famous for its beaches during summertime vacations (in January-March), this "small" Brazilian city is located on an island and is home to almost 500,000. The identity of the city is shaped by the influence of Portuguese immigrants and traditions of fishing, and many view themselves as a small, under-served area of the country. They were quite flabbergasted upon learning that my entire home state is comprised of the same population!

The city is beautiful with fragrant bakeries lining cobblestone streets and a wonderful beachfront to stroll. I made it out several mornings before the workday to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the cool breeze. In the historic center we bumped into an impromptu concert and some beautiful old buildings. The city is progressive and has transformed itself into a tourism and technology hub.

In short, I was impressed and hope to make it back for a more leisurely exploration of the city!

Street Art on a Saturday Afternoon in São Paulo

Pigging Out at Casa do Porco

While visiting friends, we found ourselves in central São Paulo at one of the trendiest foody places in town, Casa do Porco. Yes, it is literally the house of pig. We had read about the restaurant in a NYTimes piece about the city, and our friends swore that the sometimes 2-4 hour wait was well worth it for this sinfully delicious experience. So, we went. We have no regrets. And now I am writing home about it.

There are already fireworks

It's 7pm in Vítoria and the fireworks started about half an hour ago. Horns are blaring in the streets. All day, you could clearly identify voting preferences around town by fashion choices with Bolsonaro supporters wearing yellow and green and Haddad supporters in red. With 88% of the votes accounted for, Globo is calling the presidential election for the controversial, so-called Brazilian Trump candidate Bolsonaro. This is big news here.
Read a bit yourself: A Momentous Election in Brazil: What's at Stake?  

Drinking cane

I tried this drink today that is made from pure cane sugar. The cane is run through a machine four times and this sweet juice comes out. Yum!