It

I bet you’re all wondering, "This is it? Are you really going to write a blog about a two-letter word? Are you that desperate for topics?" Well, yes and no. Yes, I am writing about it, and no, I’m not desperate for topics. Here in Brazil it is actually a topic unto itself (no pun, etc.), especially for language lovers. Portuguese speakers are hard-wired not to say the direct or indirect object it (because for them it’s understood), and they can’t imagine why we English speakers seem to need it so. We of course are hard-wired to say it, and can’t imagine how the Brazilians can drop it. How do you know what you’re talking about? Well, I’m told, you just do, so get with the program. (Or, as we would say, "Get with it!")

The first time this issue surfaced I was opening a present from a friend. "Gostou?" (Did you like?) she asked, as I succeeded in ripping off the wrapping paper. I knew the correct answer was "Gostei!" (I liked!) Now, this is good Portuguese, but it all sounded — and profoundly felt — wrong to me. First, there’s the fact that the exchange is conducted in the past tense, which seems strange because I’d only just unwrapped the present. I mean, we’re talking seconds here. But also, it seems wrong because without that direct object you’re just treading water. I need the it. Did you like it? Yes, I liked it. Otherwise, for us it’s baby talk, you know?

I’ve made a real effort to ignore it when speaking Portuguese. In point of fact, it’s become almost natural — normal even. I kind of get it. But I have found it hard to convince Brazilians who are learning to speak English of the importance of it. They don’t need it, so they don’t even hear it. For younger students I try to appeal to their everlasting love and admiration for Michael Jackson. I mean, listen carefully to this song. He’s not singing "Beat, beat," is he?

An awful lot of English-language communication would fall apart without the all-important it. Remember what our parents told us about our brains? They sure didn’t say "use or lose." 
And did your mother tell you that "You can’t have your cake and eat too"? I don’t think so. Can you imagine those old American Express card commercials, with that sonorous voice intoning, "Don’t leave home without!" Without what? Did Cole Porter write "Birds do, bees do, even educated fleas do?" No, because that would make English speakers scream, "Do what?!" (The actual title in Portuguese: Façamos — Let’s Do!) And what if you called the classic Jack Lemmon-Tony Curtis-Marilyn Monroe movie, "Some Like Hot!" I mean really, people, let’s get serious here. In that particular title it’s the it that’s it — isn’t it?

Comin' 'n Goin'

The very first time Mark and I heard of the direito de ir e vir (the right to come and go) we were driving home with a friend. We had turned off the main road into our street only to be immediately blocked by a large political rally being held by one of the candidates for mayor. There was a huge platform set up in the middle of the street for speechifying, there were dozens of food and drink stands, and there were hundreds of people milling about, laughing and eating and dancing. Our friend, a Rio native, was scandalized. "How about our right to ir e vir?" she yelled at a cop. Well, you could tell the cop was a bit intimidated by a citizen who loudly demanded her constitutional rights, so he began to clear a path for our car. I don’t remember exactly how we managed to get through the rally and reach our house, but it took a lot of careful maneuvering and a certain amount of creative sidewalk driving.

Since that night I have heard this ir-e-vir thing referred to a lot. The right of Brazilians to move about freely in Brazilian territory appears in Article 5 of the 1988 Brazilian Constitution, though the actual words "ir" and "vir" are not in the article. (Calling it the right to ir e vir has simply become a convention.) We Americans, too, have the right to freedom of movement, found in the Privileges and Immunities Clause of Section 2, Article IV of our Constitution. Originally defined narrowly — if fancifully — by the courts as the "right of free ingress into other States, and egress from them," it has been redefined and extended repeatedly over the years. Nowadays we can pretty much come and go as we please, taking freedom of movement as much for granted as we take freedom of association and freedom of expression.

In Brazil the right to ir e vir is invoked so often, and with such conviction, that one might think it’s the most sacred of constitutional rights. It’s certainly the right I most hear about, from friends, in on-the-street interviews on television news shows, and I read about it in newspaper and magazine articles. I’ve even used it myself! And it seems to trump all other rights and laws, like the Brazilian Transit Code, for example. You’re stopped at a Stop sign, like the good driver you are? Watch out, because the guy behind you has the right to ir e vir, and you can be sure he’s going to claim it, even if it means going through you. The idea of alternate merge? You’re joking. There’s no alternating when everyone claims the right to ir e vir all at the same time. You’ve stopped at a pedestrian crossing to let the little old lady cross the street? Better hope she crosses fast, because the guy behind you . . . you get the idea.

The right to ir e vir also seems to trump good behavior. Check out the poster pictured here. It’s part of a publicity campaign to get people to put their right to ir e vir into proper perspective on public transportation. "You have the right to come and go," the poster concedes. But then it continues: "And you have the duty to respect your fellow passengers." Then it goes on to explain in detail just how to respect your fellow passengers. Oh, well, it’s time to go, so I’m outta here. After all, it’s my right.

"My, people come and go so quickly here!"

That Coveted Garage Parking Space

Mark and I used to belong to an organization in New York called Audience Extras. For a small annual fee we had access to a wide choice of theatrical events for just $3 apiece on a last-minute basis. Seats that would otherwise have been vacant got filled and we got to go to the theater at low cost. It was a real win-win. We saw innumerable shows through Audience Extras, very few of which either of us remembers. What we do remember, though, are the venues, because outside of a few theaters actually on Broadway, most of the plays on the Audience Extras list were in interesting off-Broadway and off-off-Broadway spaces. They were mounted in drafty old factories, in churches, in no-longer-used schools, and in rooms hidden away on the upper floors of Lower East Side commercial buildings. Sometimes our seats were right on stage, sometimes we had to stand around the edges of the set. But the play that Mark and I just saw this past weekend in Rio de Janeiro wins the prize for the most unforgettable venue.

Garagem (Garage) tells the story of a guy who loses his job and his marriage, and finds himself with no place to live. While going through his papers he finds the deed to a second garage space in his name in the condominium where his ex-wife still lives, and decides to move down to his space and live there. What really makes the play is that it’s set in a real garage, specifically on Garage Level 3 of Rio Sul shopping center. As it happens, this particular section of Garage Level 3 is slated to become part of the shopping center’s movie complex, but the shopping center agreed to turn it over to the play’s producers for two months. The producers mounted a large "set" with enough room to park 15 cars, along with an elevator and 80 seats for the audience. This was seriously cool.

There was a time when stories were set in hotel lobbies, because that was where people "milled about" and crossed paths with others (Grand Hotel comes to mind). Dining rooms were also good meeting places (Separate Tables) as were train stations (Brief Encounter). But this fresh idea of using a condominium garage as the place where people come and go and interact is as original as it seems obvious. Once I dismissed the thought that crossed my mind a few times about the slight danger of our sitting right in the midst of fast-moving cars ("Mark, what if the brakes fail tonight?!") I was able to get into the story. Billed as a comedy — and indeed there were plenty of garage and parking jokes — the play turned fairly tragic at the end. (However, as a former New York co-op board president I had to appreciate how the building’s resident manager finally outmaneuvered the poor guy in the garage space.)

Just get the car and go . . . but  imagine living here!

This has to have been the easiest cultural event we’ve ever attended in Rio. In a city where parking spaces are getting harder and harder to come by, there sure was plenty of parking! After the last bows were taken, Mark and I blithely strolled up to Garage Level 4 and drove home. Too bad the plan is to turn this great theater space over to enlarge an already too large movie complex. But I’m glad to have seen Garagem before it moves to São Paulo, into some parking garage there.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TROPICAL DAYDREAMS! Wednesday marks my two-year blog anniversary. When I started blogging, I thought I would do it for just one year, yet here I am at the two-year mark. One year more?

Brazilians Separated at Birth

People have always said that I look like Amy Irving, or she like me. Okay, mostly it's in the hair, but there was indeed a resemblance years ago, especially during her Crossing Delancey days. (In fact, I admit to having signed a few autographs on her behalf when that movie was playing in New York, if only to get some very persistent old women off my back!) Interestingly enough, Amy and I share an even stronger connection than a passing resemblance. While she was married to Bruno Barreto, the Brazilian director, they had a beach house not far down the beach from where Mark and I live now. Pretty eery, huh?

Well, people are forever mistaking one person for another, or noting some uncanny resemblance between so-and-so and that actor, what’s-his-name. Just to have a bit of fun, here are a few separated-at-birth Brazilians:



Nalbert, former Brazilian volleyball star

Yul Brynner, eternal Russian-born King of Siam

Tarcísio Meira, Brazilian actor

Howard Keel, American actor and singer



Pedrinho Mattar, Brazilian pianist

John Wallowitch, American pianist

Tony Bellotto, Brazilian musician, author

Paul Reiser, American actor, musician, author

Renata Vasconcellos, Brazilian TV news anchorwoman

Julia Roberts, American actress

Glória Pires, Brazilian actress

Carmen Maura, Spanish actress



Reynaldo Gianecchini, Brazilian actor

Matthew Fox, American actor



Gisele Bundchen, Brazilian model

Gwyneth Paltrow, American actress

Luiz Guilherme, Brazilian actor

Patrick Stewart, British actor

Glorious Technicolor

For as long as Mark and I were card-carrying New Yorkers, black was the only color we wore. Black jeans, black tops, black skirts, black boots, black coats, black gloves, black scarves. If it had been in fashion back then I’d have used black nail polish. It was all very chic, very Big City. Our apartment was equally monochrome, furnished mostly in blacks and whites; it was the quintessential New York loft. But one day under the influence of a certain Gregory, owner/designer of a store called Shabby Chic in Soho, we threw caution to the wind and bought two plush, red velvet chairs to brighten our living room. Gregory was on to something. The added color was terrific, and a seed was planted.







Then we moved to Brazil and it was clear that our black-and-white design sensibilities were wrong here in the tropics. We remembered those red chairs, and the success we had had with them. It was time to go crazy, time to put color everywhere. And whenever I thought we’d thrown too much color into a room I turned out to be wrong. Color absorbs color. There’s always room for more.




We turned eight white chairs into a color wheel around the dining table.














We wanted lots of big pillows to make our living room banquettes more comfortable. Let’s see, what color should we choose?












We had lots of empty wall space to fill up, so I decided to try my hand at painting, something I’d always wanted to do. It wasn’t Robert Motherwell who inspired me —








— but the world I saw right out my window. We turned one of our bedrooms into a studio, bought me an easel, and I began to splash colors onto canvas, lots of colors onto lots of canvases, all the colors that were available in the art supply stores.

And as for our clothes, well, almost everything black ended up in storage (except what might be needed for trips to New York and Paris). It wasn’t long before our closets were bursting with lilacs, greens, yellows, oranges, and purples . . .

                            


. . . and blues . . .


                     

                            . . . and golds . . .



    . . . and roses . . .      

Like Dorothy crash-landing in Oz, Mark and I had stepped into a world of glorious technicolor. And we are surely not in Kansas anymore!

The Vacant Lot's Not Vacant Anymore

Ours is the last house on a narrow, hilly street. To one side of us stands the house that recently became famous (or infamous) in the neighborhood and in this blog (see my April 22, 2013 blogpost, and its update on May 13^th). Things have quieted down considerably on that side. They now leave us in peace, so I will do the same with them and say no more here. On the other side of our house was a vacant lot or, more specifically, a forest, teeming with life. Over the years large families of kingfishers and doves flew to and from their nests every day. Occasionally horses could be seen grazing, and possums would slink by, intent on their prey. There were also plenty of large termite nests and snakes (nothing’s perfect). Every day we would look over at the forest — "our forest" as we had come to think of it — and see something new and interesting. Eleven glorious years of peace, privacy and greenery.

We knew it might end one day, and so it has. The vacant lot had an owner, Octávio Raja Gabaglia, an architect, a former city councilman, and the man singlehandedly responsible for the distinct, low-rise profile Búzios enjoys to this day. While serving in the city council back in the ’70s, Octávio, or Otavinho as he’s called, introduced a law that prohibited construction above two stories, with the second story occupying only 50% of the area of the first story. The result? There are absolutely no highrises in Búzios, period. City governments have come and city governments have gone, but this law remains untouched and unchallenged (except by scofflaws, but that’s another story). Without this law Búzios would look — well, just like any other beach resort around the world.

It would look like Miami,


like Punta del Este,

like Cancún,

like Marbella,

like Rio de Janeiro,

or even like Cabo Frio, a mere half hour by car from Búzios.

Got the idea? Instead, Búzios looks like this —

But back to our lot, where Otavinho is eager finally to build the house he projected many years ago. In a spirit of good neighborliness he has made several visits to our house, blueprints in hand, both to enlist our cooperation and calm our worst fears. We’re not going to enjoy the year of construction that’s ahead of us, the noise and the dirt and all, but we will find it fascinating to watch a house — particularly an Otavinho-designed house — go up before our very eyes.


It used to look like this from the beach —                      

                 
                               









But now it looks like this —

Where horses once grazed and roamed free —

We now have machines —

And where I used to gaze at the ever-changing scene —

This is what we see now —

. . . to be continued.