Part One: Arriving in Rio Grande Do Sul: Part One of my trip to Southern Brazil

When we landed at Sao Paulo's international airport, I knew we were definitely out of town. We deplaned from our aircraft and walked down steps into the night air. It was cool. All of us were quickly hoarded onto a couple of packed buses that snaked in and out of airport hangers and utility buildings. Once inside, I went one way and Raphael went another as we approached customs. The rooms were dimly lit. The airport was cheerless but the customs woman was friendly and whisked me through with ease. Raphael was pulled aside and inspected a bit longer. I think it was his cologne. He smelled better than the wench who deemed him just a little suspicious. It didn't last long and we were both united quickly.

The terminal was dusky and institutional. It looked like it had been built in the late 60s or early 70s. A dictator's daughter probably got the contract while finishing architectural school. It wasn't as cavernous as I would have suspected but buzzed with activity. After a bite to eat we nestled in at our gate which was packed with domestic fliers. I found myself looking for blonds or redheads. Their absence was apparent. This was a very brunette country. It was here that we first noticed that most all of the younger and middle aged women wore boots. For the rest of the trip, we would see more booted females than Brazilian soccer stories on TV. Whomever was supplying leather for this footwear was doing very well indeed.

Another bus ride to a smaller plane and another hour and a half to our destination. At this point we had been traveling approximately 10 hours. Luckily, the Tam aircraft we had taken from Miami was spacious and new. My back had weathered the flight. A week before we left, I'd thrown it out. I was doing well and felt little fatigue. Flying out of Sao Paulo I could see the lights of the city and its environs. Its vastness was extraordinary. 26 million people in all and the world's 4th largest city.

At approximately midnight our flight touched down in Porto Alegre. Its airport was modern and clean and bright. It put Sao Paulo's to shame. It pumped up my spirit and my energy increased.

Raphael's sister, Claudia, greeted and drove us to her place in the city. The streets were dark and there was little traffic. We wound our way through the red light district that looked deteriorated and ramshackle. They pointed out some cross dressing whores to me while we idled at a stoplight. Ahh...the local fauna.

When we arrived in Claudia's neighborhood, we found ourselves careening up a steep driveway into a parking garage. It set above a large supermarket. After parking her Fiat, we pulled our luggage down the same steep incline to the street. A half a block away was her building. She unlocked a gate and proceeded to unlock another door and then took us down a long outdoor corridor that skirted the building. Another door to unlock and then a fourth floor walk up. Raphael had to cart the bags as to preserve my healing back. We arrived at a large flat that reminded me of the place I had stayed in Buenos Aires 6 years earlier. It was the first time I would see and feel a lot of similarity between Buenos Aires and Porto Alegre.

Claudia's girlfriend, Naiara, greeted us exuberantly and we settled in. She is a bank manager by day and an accomplished actress by night. She had just done a theatre production at a famous venue a few nights prior. Then the food came....the first of a week's meals that were truly memorable. Claudia started bringing us plates of goodies and the first one was warm pine nuts from trees that grow in the southern Brazilian mountains. They were in season and delicious. They were big and you sucked them out of their shell. They had a meaty consistency and taste. The shells actually looked like dead Palmetto bug shells. No matter. I ate them until I thought I would pop. I don't recall what else we inhaled. It was all delicious. Champagne was served and we didn't get to bed until almost 3 AM! Our expanded stomachs said enough and we retired and fell away fast.

The next morning we got up and drove to Raphael and Claudia's hometown. It is a town of about 60,000 that is approximately a half hour's drive. As we passed through suburbs and industrial areas, I got my first glimpse of a slum. On the outskirts of Porto Alegre, there was extreme poverty. As an American, scenes like this always shock me. Even our worst urban areas don't compare. American Indian reservations come closest but they usually have government housing. I had seen it around South Africa and parts of Argentina. But, I am still not seasoned enough as a traveler to not be affected. Brazil is an emerging nation with a growing middle class. Hopefully one day these types of living conditions can be eradicated.

It took a while to get into the countryside. Zoning was weird. There didn't seem to be a lot. Industrial seemed seamless with a lot of housing and agricultural. As we drove, the elevation increased. Eventually urban clutter gave way to farms and cattle. A few roundish, low mountain peaks started to come into view. One of them was our destination area.

Montenegro sets in a valley with much of the city on a slope. There is a tree covered hump of a mountain that separates both sides of town. A long boulevard angles down into the community and around the peak. There on the south slope, an inclining street brought us to Raphael's parents place.

The house was a cute white, brick, bungalow with blue shutters. A gorgeous poinsettia bush graced the front gate. The house is elderly and dates back to at least the first part of the 20th century. His parents greeted us and shuffled us into the kitchen through small rooms and a hallway. We were seated in a very sunny and breezy kitchen. The windows were all open and we could see into the back patio area. There were maid's quarters where an actual maid had lived when Raphael was growing up. This is not uncommon in this part of the world.

Raphael's mother, Isabel, was very friendly and greeted me warmly. With a flurry of hands and Portuguese I was ushered to my seat as Raphael explained what she was saying. His father, Claudio, stood stoically and looked for direction from his wife. He smiled at me as if to say "I know...I know...it's a lot. You'll be fine." Suddenly a beef stroganoff was placed in front of me and its deliciousness was evident. Warm bread was passed around. Yucca was served. Isabel, Claudio and Claudia all had Brazilian beer. The warmness of the day was gliding in through the open windows. It felt very Mediterranean. The casual comfort was apparent and I felt right at home. After a very hearty meal, Raphael and I took a walk.

The town had a bustling downtown with all kinds of merchants. Lots of pharmacies were apparent along with clothing, appliance, furniture and hardware stores. Open air sandwich shops were abundant. Here and there 'botecos' sat on corners (Brazilian roadhouses.) People were friendly and the commerce of the place seemed healthy. Lots of subcompacts buzzed by us. A mushtachioed man in full gaucho gear strolled into the street. Families ate ice cream at little tables. People ran by us chattering on cell phones. There was a hubbub to the place and it was gleeful. The shops and businesses were clean and very engaged. It was nice not to see any chain stores or franchise places. Everything seemed to be independently owned like in the old days of America.

We strolled past historic homes from the late 19th century. Some had been restored and some not. One was the home where Raphael's mother had grown up. Her father had owned the most successful department store in town when she was a girl. It was a beautiful, Victorian era looking home with two stories. Some had lovely lawns and gates while others were right on the street. Women leaned out their open windows to rest and cool themselves. You could look right in some houses with their openness.

As we continued out of downtown, we entered an older neighborhood with colorful, antique structures that dated back to at least the mid 1800s. Many had the original shutters, molding and woodwork details. I am not that familiar with Brazilian architecture but I assume it was a Portuguese inspired design. It looks kind of like Spanish colonial but a little different. They were lovely structures. Some were totally abandoned and in disrepair while others where inhabited and lively. Interspersed were modern homes with beautiful landscaping. Contemporary high rises dotted a few streets. Often, both old and new were painted in bright colors. Eventually we made it to the river. It was muddy and not too appealing. It got broader, more rapid and wooded out of town. We would keep crossing it the next day as we drove into the mountains. Raphael said the river neighborhood often floods and you could see the water line on some of the buildings. An old abandoned factory stood near its banks. We looked down into the water and saw some brawny men working on a boat that was tethered to a landing. They glistened. We noticed we were sweating and he said we were experiencing unseasonably warm temperatures. It felt more like summer. We made our way back to his parent's house through more colorful houses and businesses.

The sky clouded up as we walked and the wind picked up. The weather was about to change. By the time we had dinner that night, the air was cooling rapidly. Winter conditions were on the way. When we awoke the next morning, it was gray, cool and wet. The temperature was in the low 50s. It had been around 80 the day before. We ate breakfast and gathered our things for our trip to the mountains. A very damp and foggy couple of days were awaiting us.

As I sat sipping coffee and gazing out at leaden skies, I caught my first glimpse of a Brazilian soccer star who would dominate the news cycle. On the TV were pictures of a hunky guy who had been arrested on conspiracy of murder charges. It was only the beginning. As the days unfolded, so did the sordid life of Bruno... Raphael announced the car was packed and ready. We were off to Gramado.

Next: The mountains, Wilkommen and fondue.

Cousins, Cottonwoods and fear of the next Applebee's

I guess I lost my momentum......

There hasn't been anything new in this blog for weeks. I've no excuses. Plenty of subject matter has come my way. Better late than never.

Let's see ... reasons I could have been writing: Made a trip home to South Dakota; twisted my back; ate tripe and liked it without knowing what it was; was exposed to the Novella culture of Brazil; learned how to construct a very delicious salad; became frightened of falling mangoes; met a cousin I had not seen since 1958; came up with a business idea and found a camera I had lost 12 years ago.

Let's begin with South Dakota.

In June, I flew home to see my immediate family and a couple of cousins from my mother's side of the family. Family reunions are somewhat of a rarity in my experience so I thought I would make a point to see these women. They are sisters. One lives in California (Darrellyn) and the other (Sharon) in Idaho. ...my Aunt Norma's daughters. Aunt Norma was my mother's sister. Sharon is 71 and Darrellyn, 67. They both look ten years younger. Such an age spread is typical for my extended family. Everyone is quite a bit older. I have always been the youngest. My delivery came in the mid 50s whereas most of my aunt's and uncle's kids were hatched in the late 30s and into the 40s. The last time I had seen Darrellyn was in 1958. I was two and she was 14. Gives you an idea.

The first evening after everyone arrived had that slightly awkward air of "OK...we're all here. Now, what do we do?" This kind of thing can be especially hard on the spouses. Their presence is out of duty. They don't share blood and are forced to listen to stories about family history that means little to them. I admire such patience.

My mother had purchased a huge box of fried chicken from the local Safeway. We ate it diligently and sized each other up all the while ripping apart breasts, drum sticks and potato salad. Luckily, there was a pleasantness to our sudden pow wow status. We would be together a lot for the next few days so hopefully it would hold. Early on I could see that it looked positive and we had a very good time. It helped that we were in agreement when it came to politics. I could speak freely and not worry. This is a challenge nowadays with the polarization of this country. You never know if someone may be in the wrong camp. It's like the 1850s, leading up to the Civil War.

My cousin Sharon is Mormon but an anomaly. She heads the Democratic party in her county in Idaho. She said people actually whisper to her in church that they are Democrats. It sounds kind of like being part of the French resistance in 1942. Darrellyn is more a-political and has other concerns. She is liberal but doesn't follow the day to day battles of Washington and all the trimmings. Her husband Tony is an extremely quiet guy and mostly read or only commented when he really had something specific to add. He was always pleasant and listened for long stretches. On the day they left, he admitted that he belonged to the NRA. He had held his tongue on that and some other topics for four days. It was best I didn't know because I liked him. Had I known, the prejudgment might have surfaced and squelched interaction. There were times when Sharon's husband, Jay, (also an extremely 'liberal Mormon') and I completely shredded the tea partiers, Palin, Fox and anything else related. Tony just sat and looked polker faced while perusing a coffee table book. I would have never guessed he probably didn't cotton to all we had discussed. Like I said, you never know and luckily there were no hard feelings.

Throughout the course of the visit I missed a few conversations. Some family secrets were spilled. It seems I am never around when the red meat is slit open. The important thing is that we laughed a lot and we ate well. A few aspects of our personalities were peeled back for the taking. It may never happen in this way again so it was fortunate we had the time together. My mother is about to turn 92. Time is precious for gatherings such as this one. Luckily the melancholy of her advanced age did not permeate the air. There were many aspects of this relatives visit that I wish I could include but will bring about another time. My two remaining cousins on my mother's side were worth the trip. I hope they felt the same about me.

In the midst of it, my hay fever symptoms increased daily. It had been an incredibly wet spring and the pine pollen coated everything in yellow dust. On top of that, the Cottonwood trees were exporting their puff balls in a blizzard of floating, silky white. The curbs and yards around town looked like light snowfall had occurred. Plus, it was unusually humid with noisy, delinquent thunderstorms that bombed the skies at least once a day. It hailed one morning for a full half hour until my mother's backyard looked like it was covered in pearl onions.

My cousin from California had never seen or experienced such rumbling of thunder, lightening and powerful rain. The Monterrey area gets rain but rarely the smashing thunder and Thor lightning known in western South Dakota. She was amazed at the power behind it all...the constant warnings on local TV that tornadoes were a possibility and that going to the basement in a moment's notice was ready for the taking. It put her on edge at times and it was not fun for the poor woman. She knows rumblings underneath but not above. Darrellyn had been through several earthquakes over the decades. Fortunately the really awful events never became catastrophic but the Weather Channel was frequently checked.

I spent treasured hours with old friends and laughed heartily at times. One night I had dinner with my old pal Debra as we ate at a new Italian restaurant that occupied a hill on my family's former ranch land. As we dined, I looked down on where I grew up and across the open expanse of field beyond. It was a bit surreal. A reality was now in place that may have been a 'what if' thought when I was a boy. I often imagined such things like fancy lodges or pricey restaurants somewhere on our land. Now it had happened. Be careful what you wish for...even when you are 10.

My hometown has morphed and expanded so much that bewilderment, sadness and a lot of anger often surfaces when I visit. I grew up in exceptionally beautiful country and too often, the direction of progress has developed into some very bad turns. Super Walmart next to Subway next to an industrial park next to a Hampton Inn and so on. The new streets, homes and businesses are hodge podge and disjointed. Gorgeous fields and hillsides are gouged with expensive homes and condos. No one looked at the big picture. There are exceptions with a few builders but most of it is detritus and I take it personally. I love my hometown and it deserved better. But it is everywhere. America is brash and only cares about convenience and getting it done fast. Planning is for sissies. Our countryside has gotten punched in the stomach countless times and only the recession has eased it a bit. Except in South Dakota where the economy is chugging pretty well. I can barely speak of it, it is so upsetting. The extreme of this topic is open pit mining which I happened upon one day when out on a ride with my mother. She and I were driving on mountain roads in country that has changed little in 40 years. We took a wrong turn and pulled right into it: Hundreds of acres of holes where surface extraction for gold takes place. It was a hellish sight. Just over a ridge were verdant meadows and fishing streams. You can't imagine how frightening it is to see them so close together.

My sister Susan and I took a drive one day and went far away from this visual heartbreak. We drove through ranch lands and open space that is typical of the high plains. It felt good to see things left alone. Places that could breathe with a view. I took her to a fair grounds building that was built in the 1930s as a WPA project. It is round, wooden and totally authentic. On the National Register. Three stories with windows in a circle on the top. Once a year two counties hold their gathering where livestock, pies and knitting are judged. It looked like a movie set. There was still bunting on some of the tables from the year before. Down the road we came to a town called Vale. It has maybe 40 residents. There is one cafe in town and we ate indian tacos and had iced tea. Our table sat on one side of the room opposite the groceries. The cook made our meal behind a partition. It was so simple. So pure and so non Applebees. My dad and I would stop at places like this when I was a boy when he would be out buying cattle. It was good to have that memory tapped. Good to know such places still existed. We left and drove by Bear Butte on our way home. It gives off energy when you drive by. The Sioux and Cheyenne find it sacred. So of course it would make sense that a mile down the road is an outdoor biker bar the size of a football field. Within weeks it would be filled with cyclists from around the world and someone like Molly Hatchet would be screaming rock from its stage. Native Americans and concerned citizens had tried to stop it from being built a few years before. It bordered ancestral, sacred land. The county commission could have cared less and gave it, it's full seal of approval. This is the mentality that makes me crazy when I go home. This is why my heart must stay away.

Further down the road we pulled into the town of Whitewood which is nestled in the foothills of the Black Hills. The setting is gorgeous but is often ruined in places by mobile homes, interstate business garbage and diesel pickups the size of Connecticut. We drove into the old part of town where it is Victorian and parklike. We found a beautiful Queen Anne home and sighed at its perfection. We savored it and moved on. The next morning I met my friend Michael in the same town at 6 AM. I had left my computer charger at his home and it was the only time we could connect. On the way back to Spearfish I took a detour and drove through a development of new, expensive homes that overlook a valley. The view was extraordinarily beautiful. It was a curious satisfaction. Here I was on a high street on a ridge on one time ranch land that overflowed with history. The mountains were to my south as the sun came up and the green undulating foothills below could not have been more exquisite. Here it all was. The way that I wanted to it to be. The way that it should always stay. And, I was taking it all in from a road in the kind of development that I usually loathe. It felt weird but I had to embrace it. There was some optimism that Republican land use and natural beauty may be able to coexist. I returned to my mother's and made breakfast. There was some hope. Such are my visits when I go home to western South Dakota.

next time: Brazil