The five of us joined the droves of Paulistas en route to Estádio do Morumbi. The 20-minute walk down Avenida Jorge João Saad was a festival of sustenance and good cheer. Although we had enjoyed lunch in the food court of the nearby Butantã mall, the excitement and refreshments for sale on the roadside put snacks in the forefront of my mind. A.C. dissuaded me from buying provisions out of a stranger's trunk. The crowd moved south in an orderly fashion, although many pedestrians took to the street. The pavement was slanted, but I deemed walking with motor traffic exponentially dangerous. Thus, I stayed within the boundaries of the curb.
The path to the stadium was lined with educational establishments. The presence and variety of schools were characteristic of sophisticated Morumbi. I was taken by the neighborhood on our initial drive past several beautiful residences. Our journey to the game had afforded me the opportunity to explore the district on foot while dreaming up a hypothetical future in the metropolis.
We would live in Morumbi. Our child-to-be would attend Colégio Miguel de Cervantes, a Spanish international school. From what we could tell, the grounds were massive and green. Baby C. would be given his obligatory dose of Spanish and opportunities to exercise with his peers. Aerobics of the body and mind would put the child to bed by 18:46. We would rise at 6:00; I am a morning person in my dreams. The three of us would gather with A.L. and M.L. on Sundays in the countryside.
The thought of having to part with our friends, especially after waiting years to reunite, weighed on me, and I was in denial about our impending separation. But the memories of our moments together could not be taken away. The next instant, the game was upon us: São Paulo versus Vasco. I dressed in red, the color of the home team. The red sea, in which we swam was united. It cheered, chanted, and swore as one. A.C. and I assimilated, picking up some Portuguese in the process. The passion of our fellow Paulistas was infectious, inviting, and beckoned us to stay.M.J.C.
30 November 2016
28 November 2016
Theatro Municipal comes into view as we cross the Viaduto do Chá on foot. M.L. says the building is haunted, but A.C. and I do not comprehend her claim right away. We do not know the Portuguese word for “haunted” and M.L.’s pronunciation of the word ghost sound more like “go-shhhhhhh.” Since the goal of conversing in another language is to be understood, M.L. continues with her English, and we enter into a game resembling charades. As we approach the viaduct’s center, M.L. raises her arms to her sides and says “woooooooo.” A.C. and I, realizing the essence of her story, survey the upstairs windows of the structure as we approach. The three of us ascend the steps in search of tickets for tonight’s show. I begin to lay out my evening attire in my head, but cease when I find myself unaccompanied in my plan to see Wagner's Lohengrin.
Labels: São Paulo
23 November 2016
The grounds of Museu Paulista, situated in the center of Parque da Independência, are manicured and express a sentiment of grandness. The fence surrounding the museum barred us from ascending the steps; the institution had closed its doors for renovations. In Brazil, it is difficult to determine construction end dates with accuracy. A.L., versed in matters of unfinished undertakings in São Paulo's proximity, educated us on this common practice. Although the signage conveyed a message that the site would reopen in the future, we were filled with doubt. The yellow-tinted structure longed to be restored to working order. In the intervening period, we amused ourselves by inventing a plan to take up residence in the building. We plotted while strolling along the facade's north side, and divided our house into thirds among the four of us. A.L. and M.L., residing permanently in the metropolis, claimed the west wing and the main block. A.C. and I reserved the east wing for our periodic excursions to Brazil.
Labels: São Paulo