On the lucky day of Friday the 13th, I headed out to visit my sister and
her family in Sao Paulo, Brazil; one huge ass city with 99.9% of the people speaking NOTHING BUT Portuguese, one wacky language. Any attempt at conversation/ordering/question to the locals was an adventure. More on that shortly.
My sister received the Sister of the Year award for putting us up for three nights in a first class hotel in Guaruja, a city on the coast about two hours south of Sao Paulo. She even got an English speaking driver, Salvador, to transport from the airport. Salvador is about 5 feet tall and had
some U.S. experience out in California in his youth. He was a huge help with the hotel check in.
The beer (cerveja) in Brazil is not too bad. The big seller is a brand called Brahma. I enjoyed them very much. My first Brazilian supermarket experience was pretty wild to say the least. No shoes, no shirt, no problem. Salvador got me through the language exchange (they say the words so fast!) and I was on my way with my beer. The beach views were a mix of “ooh la la” and “bogue.” Some people should not wear thongs.
The employees at the hotel spoke just enough English for me to get by but going out to dinner was a chore. We went to a restaurant called Rufino’s the first night and me and the waiter, Rodrigo, went back and forth on my attempt to get spaghetti with spaghetti sauce. He knew absolutely no English and all I could say in Portuguese was hi, thank you, and good morning. Most of the restaurants had English menus available so all you had to do was point at something and give a thumbs up to the waiter. However, for someone who is a picky eater like yours truly, special orders were a tough task. With that, Rodrigo returned with spaghetti noodles and ground beef, no spaghetti sauce. After trying to act out what I wanted, the lady at the next table saw my attempt and translated to Rodrigo what I was looking for. I got my spaghetti sauce and a great meal it was. A gold star for the Brazil restaurants that give you a bucket of three beers on ice with your meal, even when you order just one. The final night at the hotel we again worked our translation game and asked the front desk if there was a steakhouse in the area. The recommendation was Gordao’s. Well, Gordao’s turned out to be similar to an A&W so I had my best duds on for a burger. But a damn fine burger it was (with a beer of course). One thing you need to know about Brazil is don’t expect dinner at 6 pm; or 7 pm for that matter. They pretty much start around eight. Most places don’t even open their doors until seven at the earliest.
Meals and translation issues aside, the hotel/resort was outstanding. The room looked out on the beach and the place was set off from the other hotels in the area. The bartender at the place, Everton, looked just like A-Rod even though he had no idea who that was. “Who is this A-Rod?” He was intrigued by the United States and spoke the language pretty well. In addition, he and his fellow bartender made a pretty mean Tequila Sunrise.
With some “code red” sunburns present on our bodies (ouch), we left the hotel on Tuesday when Salvador took us on a tour of Sao Paulo, the New York of Brazil. We saw some cool churches, got a great view of the city at a lookout area atop one of the taller buildings in the area, took in a some good eats at a market similar to the Eastern Market scene, and witnessed people selling anything and everything on the street. One of the attached pictures is a guy I believe was selling rabbit ear antennas. He had a crowd watching his act so there must be some demand there. Within the city, we got a chance to witness the “motoboys,” a Sao Paulo trademark. Tens of thousands of them whizz across the city at top speed every day delivering parcels, documents, water jugs, whatever. There is no such thing as a traffic jam for them. They dart in and out of the cars with a vengeance. We were told that an average of one motoboy dies in Sao Paulo each day. My bro-in-law Dan was telling me that there is a code within the motoboy community that if a car ever hits one, all the motoboys in the area surround the car so that he/she can’t flee the scene, even though it’s usually the motorboys’ fault. It was a pretty wild visual on the streets watching them.
Salvador dropped us off at my sister’s place later that day so we settled at the Robar compound the remainder of the week. A great place they have there. Two pools, a gym, basketball/tennis courts, a walking trail, and some beautiful landscape throughout.
We took a cab to the Sao Paulo zoo the following day. I hadn’t been to the zoo in quite some time but I can’t recall being able to be so close to the animals. They had just about every animal you can think of and most were being quite active. Being a weekday, the crowds were at a minimum which was nice. In addition, we didn’t have to worry about communicating with anybody! We were able to get “zoo” out of the cabbie to get us there. He even waited for us outside of the zoo for the ride home. The Brazilians seem to take their service quite seriously whether it be driving a cab, waiting a table, or even preparing a garnish addition to a cocktail.
We went out to a REAL Brazilian steakhouse the following evening, a place called Baby Beef. There had to have been a defibrillator in house because I had never seen so much red meat in my life. You start out slowly with the salad bar (and of course my bucket of three beers). From there you have a large poker chip-like object in front of you. One side is red and the other green. If your green is showing, guys come around with every kind of beef known to man, all on a skewer stick. You give them the nod and they slice a piece and you grab it with your tongs. As most know, I am a chicken lover but this red meat was outstanding! I’m ready if Novi ever wants to open one of these.
The final day, we visited the Central Park of Sao Paulo, Ibirapuera Park. A bicycle would probably be best to see all of the terrain but we managed to get a slice of the action on foot. It had a nice mix of ponds, running trails, museums, a planetarium, and sculptures.
Thanks to the Robar family for putting me up for a week.
As the Brazilians say, tchau (goodbye).
Happy 10th anniversary to the Molson Bike Tour! It was about this time in 1999 when we decided to take this mountain biking thing up a notch. We endured the Gordie lectures of "wait until you turn 40," enjoyed the pink bike rack, witnessed everything from the way-too-serious bikers to the blue jean riders, in addition to the Asian tradition of throwing another individual in the air, fell down more than a few times, drank some enjoyable cold beverages, and got a few laughs throughout. In celebration of the anniversary, I'd like to see some of the past riders make it out on the trail at least once this summer. Gordie, you can give us the "wait until you turn 50" lecture. I'd pay money to hear it.
