The past four weeks have been busy. My Mom arrived to spend
a precious month with us, babysitting and cooking for us while taking in the
Marvelous City. We used the occasion of her arrival and ditched the boys to go to
the incredible Iguacu Falls – one of the three most spectacular falls in the
world. The falls span across the Brazilian and Argentinean borders (separated
by the Iguazu river) and one gets a different view of the falls depending on the
side one is. Usually, one spends a day exploring the views from the Brazilian
side, and another hiking to see to falls from the Argentinean banks.
The trip started very well. It turned out that several of my
colleagues from the Consulate would be going to Iguacu (it was a long weekend)
and we planned and planned out awesome weekend together. I dreamed of bonding
and fitting in. It was going to be glorious. Mom and I arrived on Friday night
in Iguacu city in Brazil. Given the incredible popularity of this tourist
attraction, I knew that the town would be cute and filled with many lovely
little restaurants and could not wait to spend a night eating Brazilian BBQ and
drinking caipirinhas with Mom. Folks, I have rarely seen a less lively place in
my life. After walking for an hour in the desolate landscape of the sleepy
little town of Iguacu we returned to have dinner in the overly priced cavernous
and practically empty restaurant right next to our hotel. It was not cute. Or
quaint. Or good food.
The next day we had a hearty breakfast at the hotel and
headed over the falls on the Brazilian side. It was cold, so I put on pretty
much all of the clothes I had brought with myself. Since the bulk of our luggage
has yet to be delivered to us (welcome to Foreign Service life), I own a total
of 2 light sweaters and a pair of jeans to for cold weather. So, I put them all
on. We decided to do this trip on the cheap and so rather than renting an
expensive car with a driver, or signing up for an organized tour or some other
such capitalist contraption, we took the public bus 104 which took us directly
to the park in no time (well, SOME time, like 30 mins) from downtown. Then I
got a text from my colleagues that they had just set out to explore and so Mom
and I hurried to catch up with them. At that point, my colleagues texted to say
that the views from Argentina were gorgeous, which was all very nice except
that we were on the exactly opposite side of the river. We resolved to wave to
each other and continued on our merry ways. Soon we had our first sighting of
the Iguacu Falls, which was unforgettable. Frankly, I cannot even begin to
describe them, so let’s not go there. Let’s just call them stunning and their
power breathtaking and leave it at that. As you draw closer to the biggest two falls
in the middle of the others, you need to buy yourself a nice, plastic raincoat
(or, in the case of Mom, prudently save and bring the one you bought in Niagara
Falls) and don it as it practically rains as you stand close to the falling
tons of water. The Brazilians have built a nice long terrace in the middle of
the river, right under the falling waters, which allows the eager revelers to
stand in rapture and be whipped by cascades of frothing waters while trying to
take pictures with their overly expensive cameras. And if you happen to be
wearing glasses (like me, for example) you pretty much see nothing as the
glasses are completely covered with rain drops. Still, awesome!
We woke up the next
day to a nice, steady rain. Determined to make this trip work, Mom and I ate
another hearty breakfast at the hotel, put on our plastic raincoats and braved
the naughty weather. We wanted to take another public bus, which would take us
over the border to Argentina, and from there we would take yet another public
Argentinean bus to the park itself. Given that it was Sunday (read, buses frequency
goes to one per hour), and the crappy weather, it was a miracle we caught one
in less than half an hour. It was filled with suspicious looking local
characters and several bearded Euro backpackers. It got a bit dicey at the
border as I presented proudly my courtesy Argentinean visa to the border
officer. All Americans need a visa to visit Argentina, and I had just gotten
mine a week before with the help of our consulate in Rio. I was very excited.
The border patrol officer was not. He stared blankly at it for some time and
then asked me something in a language that I can only guess was Spanish. I said
in my best Portuguese that yes, this was a visa, yes, issued to me by the
Argentinean consulate in Rio de Janeiro. He then said a lot more in
incomprehensible Spanish (you’d think that I would understand at least SOMETHING
using my Portuguese; I did not). What was more worrisome was that a) he seemed
unhappy, and b) all the backpackers on the bus and Mom breezed through the
border check with their EU passport and the bus did not appear to be where I
had left it in front of the border patrol office. Mom gesticulated at me wildly
that they are waiting for me but that I should hurry. By then, all seven border
passport officers were gazing at my (clearly suspicious) visa. In all honesty, what
the visa was in fact a poorly made blue stamp, on the lines of which someone
had scribbled that it was valid for a year. Son could have made that visa with
his toy stamp kit. I began to sweat. I now understand what my applicants go
through. And then all of them began speaking to me, waving my passport around.
I understood nothing. Finally, they gave up, stamped it and gave it back to me
with an air of disgust. People, I have rarely been so relieved. I ran and
caught the bus, which was waiting for me while all the crust backpackers kept
giving me dirty looks.
While on the Argentinean side, we got steadily rained on,
which for a long time did not dampen our spirits (yes, pun intended!). We
walked about and stared for some time at the falls from that side and then
ended up at the infamous Devil’s throat, the most impressive fall of the group.
It was unimaginable. Thanks for a balcony built in by the Argentineans right
next to the Throat, one could get as close as a few meters from the cascading
tons of frothing, gurgling water falling the long distance to the bottom. Heavy
mist bordering on torrential rain rises in waves in the air, making it foggy
and very warm. The noise is deafening and the sheer power of nature forces you
to forget everything else that could have possibly entered your mind thus
subjugating your senses and your mind to the reigning wonder of nature. I was
rendered speechless for a while, standing there, under the pouring combination
of heavy mist and medium rain, tucked in my flimsy white raincoat. It was
humbling.
Up to that point, all was going according to plan until we
decided to explore the lower trail of the falls, which would take us to the
bottom part of the falls where they break into the water. The rain, light and
tolerable until then, all of a sudden woke up and decided that we should never
see the lower trail and began pouring down on us full force. I gave up when my
sneakers got so full of water that every time I made a step, some of it poured
out happily from there. I was done with the damned falls. I was fall-ed out. It
was nice while it lasted. And good thing too – turned out that by the time we
got to the bus station to take the bus back to Brazil, there was only one last
bus going there. If has stayed long enough to see the lower trail, we would
have had to find a place to stay in Argentina. We jumped in that old creaky public
bus, filled with yet more Euro backpackers with ginormous backpacks on their
backs and smaller ones hanging on their fronts like some particularly ungainly
kangaroos. Because of the rain, the inside of the bus smelled like wet socks
and dirty dogs. I sat next to another thoroughly wet tourist who did not bat an
eyelash when I took off each of my sneakers to line them with wads of paper
towels which Mom had just stolen from the bathroom at the bus station. I felt
better and warmer. Back in Brazil, on our way back to the hotel, I spotted a lively
Lebanese joint which had two churning shawarma grills, glinting happily in the
rainy night. It was exactly what we needed. A mere 20 minutes later, we were
contentedly sitting in our hotel, eating smelly chicken kabobs and drying our
clothes and shoes with a hairdryer. All in all, the trip was a success and one
to remember.
At the same time, do you feel bad for the Diplomat for being
sad and lonely back in Rio. While we were out admiring the nature, he went to a
fancy party to which were had been invited the previous week. He was apparently
having such a nice little time there, that he decided to text me around 12 am,
saying, “This party is awesome, wish you were here with me!” Sweet, no? Except
that he somehow managed to send the text message not to me, but to our 24 year
old babysitter who was watching over Son in the meantime. Awkward…
Another highlight of the last month was out visit to the
ballet. For those who do not know, I am big opera and ballet lover, and have
spent the past ten years of my marriage torturing the Diplomat by dragging him
to various such festive musical events. He once even endured a 5-hour grim
production of the Queen of Spades, in Russian, with minimal décor and
confusing plot, only because I wanted to hear Placido Domingo in the
Metropolitan Opera in New York. That is why it took me by surprise that he
decided to come with Mom and Son to see the ballet Bayadere at Theatro
Muncipial in Rio as participation in this family event was purely voluntary
(well, for him; not so much for Son whom I decided needed to learn about the
ballet). It was a lovely production, with some beautiful work by talented
Brazilian ballet dancers. The décor was opulent, which is not small praise for
this production which depicts lavish Indian scenes. And most importantly, Son
loved it. Which means more ballet for the Diplomat (you can just imagine his
excitement)!
The Diplomat and I decided to utilize our free babysitting
and started going out more these days. This past weekend, we went out on Friday
night with some lovely colleagues from the Consulate to what turned out to be a
great restaurant concept. It was a large restaurant complex, with seating on a
large terrace where you can order food from several different restaurants. This
concept happily avoids those typical spousal moments where one of you is decidedly
in the mood for some good, solid steak, while the other would rather eat sushi,
and in the end you end up going for sushi while the other spouse quietly
resents you and forces you to go have steak the very next time you agree to go
out with that pesky person again. At the Lagoon at Lagoa, all of you jokers can
sit together, looking out to the beautiful lake vista, and order whatever your
soul desires. No, it does not have Thai food. Or Chinese. Or Indian. You know
what – you are damn picky! Go cook yourself at home!
When we were done, we decided that we had not drunk enough
and transferred the party to the local drinking joint. I have to admit, there
are several such joints dangerously close to our apartment, and we do tend to
find excuses to frequent them. We made it home at 1.30 am. The next day, we
went to a BBQ hosted by the Consul General, where we feasted on burgers and
about 34 types of pasta salad courtesy of our colleagues (we were all asked to
bring a side dish and what better one than a pasta salad). That night, we were invited by some awesome
Brazilian friends to a birthday party in the trendy part of town called Barra
de Tijuca. This is a somewhat newer part of Rio, which has plenty of shopping
U.S-style. To our utter astonishment, as we were driving past the large Barra
Shopping mall on the way to the party, we spotted a giant and distressingly realistic
Statue of Liberty adorning its doors. It was a good birthday party, with a live
band and decent caipirinhas and an oversized cake, covered with red and blue
stars (the birthday boy had lived in the U.S. for some time, a period of his
life he remembers fondly). In other words, we felt quite at home.
We are about to careen into the organized chaos also known as World Cup
2014. We are already feeling the effects as the Dutch team has invaded our sports
club to practice, which has in turn brought quite a few pesky journalists
loitering outside and masses of police on each and every corner. The Dutch are
staying in a hotel not far from our apartment and one can observe the daily
circus of the footballers trying to leave the hotel and stopping to pose for
pictures with beautiful Brazilian ladies, hug some babies and to generally look
very important and celebrity-ish. The Cup opens on Thursday. The worst is yet
to come.
