CHOOSING A BRAZILIAN SOCCER TEAM, Part II- The Group Stage

by 10kJuan on May 7, 2012

in Brazil, Sports

Back when my sports life (and UM) was good.

 

To read Part I of Decisão 2012, click here.

 

NOW that we’ve clarified why I’m jumping into Brazilian Soccer, the question remains: How DOES a serious fan pick a sports team these days?

The closest I ever came to choosing a team was when I chose South Beach and palm trees (UM) for college over chewing tobacco (FSU) and swampland (UF). Yet this decision will shape a big part of my trajectory for the rest of my time in Brazil. Dare I say, it’s one of the most important decisions I’ll make all year.

I imagine it as being similar to choosing a wife (imagine because I’m not married). You run her through the gauntlet, make sure a certain percentage of your friends and family like her, and if your history of relationships is spotty, you have your buddy in Washington run a background check. You can’t just change your mind if it’s a bad match in 6 months, either. This isn’t eHarmony, or “The Bachelorette”. The process needs to be thorough. Tommy-Lee-Jones-in-The-Fugitive thorough.

You see, there are no pre-nuptial agreements in sports. Bill Simmons breaks down the Man Laws associated with this here (scroll down to ‘Loyalties’), but to sum it all up, if you ever change allegiance or start cheering for more than one team, you’re forever known as a bandwagon jumper. That’s because sports bigamy, like real-life bigamy, is forbidden. Even in Utah. Once you pick sides, it’s till death do you part. Just like marriage. No annulments. No divorce attorneys.

That guy who cheers for the Lakers/Yankees/Steelers, but was born in Miami? Never fully respected by his peers, and stripped of full Man Card privileges. No control of the TV remote on Sundays. No inclusion on the short list of people to call when you have an extra ticket to the game. It’s like sports fan leprosy. You may as well load up on antibiotics and flee the country.

Celebrity Bandwagon Jumper

The young Jonah Hill look-alike on the left? More highly respected as a fan than LeBron.

 

Bottom line, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it the right way.

So I surveyed my friends. Interrogated my students. Dug through local papers. Turned down bribes. Devoured the Wikipedia pages. Watched the games. Compiled a Google Docs spreadsheet. And then, re-read Sports Guy’s 2-part article on choosing an EPL team, which still holds up 5 years later. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure there are biotech professionals who’ve done less research than me this past month. But I’m ready now.

The Brasilerão, as it’s known here, starts in less than two weeks. And despite Copa Libertadores already being in the knockout stages and the Campeonatos Estaduais (State Championships) having concluded, my self-imposed deadline for choosing a team is May 15th.

Here then, are the conditions I used to narrow down the list, as well as the first casualties (in bold):

  • The team has to be relevant-  Needless to say, this eliminates any team not playing in Serie A, which is the main league in Brazil. But it also gets rid of several others due to a lack of followers/buzz. The biggest casualty is São Paulo’s very own Portuguesa, who despite being called up this year after winning the 2011 Serie B (the 2nd division), doesn’t have much of a following. And that was after counting Karine El Kurdi twice. The most exciting word used by those surveyed was “colonial” (the city’s Portuguese population founded them in 1920) which, of course, is not that exciting.

This also eliminates:

    • Atlético Guaianiense- Their stadium holds a whopping 8000 people. I’m sure there’s a good reason for this, but I’m not that interested. Pass.
    • Náutico- Their mascot is the opossum, they’re considered elitists and they’ve never finished better than 6th. Other than that, they’re a fine selection. Pass.
    • Ponte Preta- Refusing to be topped by Nautico, Ponte Preta (translation: black bridge) uses the female monkey as their mascot, due to the initial racism against the club for being one of the first Brazilian teams to accept blacks. Heavy stuff. Pass.
    • Sport- Only title was in 1987, with an asterisk due to the 13 most popular teams refusing to play that year in protest of the format. Being a paper champion is almost worse than never having been one. Pass.
    • Internacional- Their stadium makes Atlético Guaianense’s stadium look like the Maracaná. 5000 capacity. My high school held more than that. Pass.
  • There has to be hope- Not of a championship necessarily, but of being competitive. Going into the last month of the season in 2011, there were still a handful of teams fighting for the top spot. The top 4 teams make Copa Libertadores, Mexico and South America’s version of the Champions League, so even if you’re in the top half the season will be entertaining. Hope. That’s all I ask.

This eliminates:

    • Cruzeiro- My roommates are Cruzeiro backers. I witnessed their pain first-hand last season as they fought to avoid relegation. When they talk about Cruzeiro, it reminds me of me talking about my teams back home. Pass.
    • Atlético Mineiro- Having said all that about Cruzeiro, I can’t get behind their most hated rivals either, as that would probably lead to a Big-Brother-esque eviction from Casa 1. Pass.
    • Botafogo- The popular Rio team is named after the neighborhood mostly known for the team, so there’s that whole Green Bay Packers angle. But their first mascot was Donald Duck, which was later abandoned due to royalties issues. No, really. Pass.

Sorry Rio. Still love you.

  • The team has to be in São Paulo State- The whole point of jumping in is to get the full experience. Even if I were to cheer for Flamengo, possibly the most popular team in the country, I wouldn’t have anyone to watch it with here in SP, and the games are always second-billing behind the local teams.

              This also eliminates:

    • Esporte Clube Bahia- In 2007, they had the highest average attendance of any team in Brazil despite playing in the 3rd division. They’ve since moved back up to the 1st division. Pretty impressive. Unfortunately, they’re just too far away to get excited about. Pass.
    • Coritiba- Haven’t won since 1985. But did win 24 straight in 2011 and are considered the best in the state. Supporters are known as “coxas“, which translates to thigh, as in “coxinha“, the mouth-watering Brazilian concoction, most famously served at Bar Veloso. And their mascot is an old guy called Grandpa Thigh. Lots to get excited about! But not in SP. Pass.
    • Vasco De Gama- Named after the Portuguese explorer (bonus point), the 2011 runner-up is part of the same comprehensive sports program that produced NBA center Nenê. Their derbies against Flamengo are the most-watched in the country, so there’s the strong rival factor. But they’re Rio-based, so they’re a no-go. Pass.
    • Grêmio- With over 8 million supporters in Brazil, 2 National Titles, and plenty of talented fans in Porto Alegre, Grêmio is definitely relevant, and worth a road trip just for a game. But I’ll be sticking to SP for now, gaúchos. Pass.
    • Figueirense- Florianapolis-based team whose mascot is “Furação“… a hurricane! While this would make my hurricane warning flags from UM’s glory days reusable, Floripa is way too far to merit inclusion in the next round. Pass.
    • Fluminense- Rio-based 2010 champion and 2011 2nd runner-up, “Flu” is where Brazilian striker Fred currently plays. Seeing ‘Fred’ on the back of a Brazilian jersey always kills me, even to this day, so every game would be enjoyable, win or lose. Hate their unis, though. And they’re not in SP. Pass.

Too many accomplishments for my liking.

  • There can’t be any imminent embarassment- This is a difficult one of course, because avoiding a really bad team is bandwagonism to a smaller degree, but given the state of those I’m already faithful to, I just can’t justify walking into certain sports fan death, on the pitch or off.

This eliminates:

    • São Paulo Futebol Club- Despite being the only team to bear the name of the city I call home, SPFC’s reputation is insurmountable. Known locally as “Bambis”, some of the key words that jumped out at me during my surveys were “pretty boys”, “privileged”, “stuck-up” and… err… effeminate, for lack of a better word. Unfortunately, they don’t mean Cacau (see below). They’re the New Kids On The Block of Brazilian Soccer. Plus they won 3 consecutive titles just a few years back, so they’re way too successful to join. Sorry, São Paulistas. Pass.

Most liked comment for this on Facebook? "The Bambis don't like that stuff!"

Which leaves us with just THREE teams.
  1. Santos, the Neymar-led defending Copa Libertadores Champions
  2. Palmeiras, the 8-Time Brasilerão Champions
  3. Corinthians, the defending Brasilerão Champions, and Brazil’s most popular team outside of Flamengo

These are my options. Now that I’ve narrowed it down to 3, the criteria gets a lot more specific. I’m not letting anything slide. Uniforms, sponsors, stadiums, chants, and much more. I’m rewriting the book on choosing a sports team. Real men don’t dive in to these things. They can’t and they won’t.

As Biggie said in “Ten Crack Comandments”, there’s rules to this ‘ish’. Brazilian Soccer is my case study. I’m writing myself a manual.

Will it be Pelé’s Santos?

The Italian community’s Palmeiras?

Or Ronaldo’s “timão”, Corinthians?

My decision is one week away. Every opinion counts.

 

Are you a Santos, Corinthians or Palmeiras supporter? Who do/don’t YOU think I should choose?

 

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DECISÃO 2012- Choosing a Brazilian Soccer Team, Part I

by 10kJuan on April 26, 2012

in Brazil, Sports

Striking my former go-to pose at Ecuador-Costa Rica in Hamburg, World Cup 2006.

Now that I’ve achieved black belt status as a passport ninja and returned to São Paulo with a 3rd passport, it’s time to begin the next step in my Brazilian immersion. It’s time to do my best Paulista impersonation and go all in on living like a local, which means it’s time for me to dive into Brazilian Soccer and pledge my allegiance to one of the country’s dozens of squads.

But before we embark on the journey of choosing my Brazilian soccer team, it’s important that I explain where I’m coming from as a fan, where my loyalties lie in other sports, and why I’m seeking refuge in the Brazilian league, also known as the Brasilerão.

First, let me introduce you to my teams:

The Knicks. The Jets. The Mets. The Miami Hurricanes.

What do they have in common? Well, for one, they all rhyme with misery. Life-shortening, perpetual, misery. They also taste of defeat, and stink up the court/field. I was born into the first three, being from Queens, NY, and am a graduate of the last, The University of Miami, Class of ’01. I mention this because there’s a higher level of comfort with sports fan misery when you know you never had much of a choice to begin with in the matter, and my case definitely applies.

To quote the great Roger Waters, whose “The Wall” show in São Paulo earlier this month momentarily took my mind off the current state of affairs of my favorite teams, you become comfortably numb, with a diminishing rate of return (or in this case, pain) for each subsequent mishap.

Injuries. Ineptitude. Insubordination. Ineligibility. Insolvency. And finally, Incompetence. All in a day’s work for my teams.

Sports CAN be fun when your team isn't awful. UM vs. FSU in Tallahassee, 2005. Loncar and Mateus in attendance.

The Hurricanes at least have the distinction of having won something in the 21st century (2001-02 National Champions).

The Mets? Haven’t won it all since Bill Buckner did his thing in 1986.

The Knicks? 1973.

The Jets? 1969.

Not to mention that their most hated rivals, almost all in-town or in-state, have been much more successful than them in recent years, if not always.

It’s bad enough when you’re not talented or successful, but watching your big brothers outdo you in everything? It’s like being Danny Devito in “Twins”, or Frank Stallone on any day of the year. Being Bono’s brother, whatever his name is, or doing a shot of Russian Cocaine, without the upside of the tequila. Stubbing your toe on the side of the bed in the morning comes to mind as well.

In fact, there are days where I wonder if my relatively healthy lifestyle is enough to keep the collective train wreck of the Knicks/Jets/Mets/Hurricanes from shaving years off my life.

But aside from the fact that my most loved squads are killjoys, being in Brazil for the last year (and following them all via my feeds, podcasts and dubbed TV) has made me realize that you can’t replace the experience of being in the The States and fully partaking in the pulse surrounding the NFL, NCAA Football, the NBA and MLB.

So what’s a sports fan, starving for a mutually rewarding relationship with any one of his teams, to do? The same thing I did at Caesars Palace when my blackjack show started off bad: Play two hands at once.

No pun intended on the "play two hands at once" line above.

And what better way to do that, at this very moment, than to go all-in on the most popular sport in the world, which happens to be practiced and followed religiously in the country I currently call home? Yup, it’s time to play my luck as a torcedor in Brazilian Soccer, or as they call it here, futebol.

People get silly for soccer. I'm no exception.

Before we begin though, let’s get the disclaimers out-of-the-way:

Even by U.S. standards, I’m not the most knowledgeable soccer fan in the world. Having said that, it should come as no surprise that given my Latin American/Spanish descent, I AM a fan.

I destroyed the World Cup in 2006, correctly predicted 13 of the 16 qualifiers with my patent-pending revolutionary system, attended Ecuador’s historic 3-0 victory over Costa Rica in Hamburg, and witnessed The U.S. lose to Ghana in an elimination game in Nuremburg. I partied in the World Cup village with Brazilians (below), Ecuadorians and Germans, and even threw out my own karaoke rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.

I’m also a Real Madrid, Emelec, Peñarol and Red Bulls follower, and I fully back The USA, Spain and Ecuador national teams in international competition (in that order, if you’re wondering), so Brazilian Soccer will be a natural segue for me as I enter my 2nd year of full immersion in São Paulo.

But how does one go about choosing a team these days? Or at anytime really?

That topic deserves a post of its own and will rightfully get one in Part II of Decisão 2012. Stay tuned.

 

In the mean time, who do YOU think I should choose? Why?

Post a comment below making a case for your team (or against another). 

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10 THINGS TO DO IN SÃO PAULO WHEN YOU’RE DEPORTED

by 10kJuan on March 22, 2012

in Brazil, Travel

Jimmy The Saint escaped Mr. Shh, but The Man With The Plan still got him. Will I come away unscathed?

“Have a list. Come up with a list of what’s important to you. The 10 most important things to you. Write ‘em down. No one can satisfy all 10. It’s impossible. If you can satisfy 5 or 6, you’re nearly there. You’re on your way kid, to your own perfect world.”  

-Jimmy The Saint, ‘Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead’

AS MY Ecuadorian stint in Brazil nears its conclusion, it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore the fact that my re-entry is far from certain.  Despite doing my best Frank Abegnale impersonation thus far, my 3rd major entry, and 1st as an American, will be my riskiest.

Should my visa application be rejected in Miami, I’ll have to try to come in as a Spaniard again, well outside of my last 180-day stay, but using a passport that may have already been flagged by The Visa Nazi. Make no mistake, deportation is the odds-on favorite this time around when I arrive at Guarulhos on April 21st.

So what’s a three-passport-toting, fun-loving expat to do? The same thing I always try to do when faced with a dilemma: Turn it into a positive and make the most of it.

If this really is my last stand in Brazil until 2013, I’ve got sights to do and things to eat. People to see and places to be. Just like Andy Garcia’s ill-fated Jimmy The Saint character, who I quoted above, my days may be numbered. It’s time to settle all business, and hopefully have time for one last milkshake. Or açaí.

With a mere 10 days left, here, in no particular order, are my Top 10 things to do in São Paulo when you know you’re getting deported:

Ibirapuera's Obelisk.

  1. Spend An Afternoon at Parque Ibirapuera- Some have ambitiously labeled it “São Paulo’s Central Park”, which is an insult to both. But any insecurities that Ibirapuera may have are more than made up for by its abundance of art (most of it free or less than 5 reais) and relative tranquility. I prefer the other common analogy, which refers to Ibirapuera as “São Paulo’s Beach”. Indeed, Paulistas storm the park on weekends and holidays in search of bike rentals, shaded running trails, free concerts and the “Flintstones Gym”, known as such due to its outdoor and primitive nature (e.g. you can bench-press a log, curl two paint cans filled with concrete, etc.). But once you’re done getting your fill of exercise and culture, don’t leave without trying a fresh Agua de Coco, (4 reais for 500 ml) or taking in the fountain show, which with luck, will never be referred to as Sao Paulo’s Bellagio fountains.

    Açaí, 10k-style (bananas/granola/condensed milk).

  2. Re-energize at Posto de Açaí- No execution would be complete without a last meal, but where to throw down? Pilico e Bea’s moquecas and bobós are to die for, but Miami’s seafood is top-notch, so frutos de mar are not a priority. Mr. Mills is home  to one of the meanest burgers I’ve ever devoured, but its purpose-built to resemble an American diner, so a trip here would be silly with Five Guys and Le Tub awaiting me in South Florida. Piacello, the tastier-and-not-quite-as-burnt Anthony’s Coal-Fired Pizza of São Paulo, is another alternative, but they’re takeout-only, which takes away from the experience. Which leaves us with Posto De Açaí. The 24-hour, roadside açaí specialist is attached to a gas station, 1/2 a block from Metro Paraiso. Free Wi-Fi, MMA replays, nutritional facts (a rarity in Brazilian eateries) and a plethora of toppings for your generous portion of puréed superfruit make this open-air ‘post’ a Paulistafavorite. It’s as authentic as it gets.

    Next on my list.

  3. Catch Up On My Soccer History At The Museu do Futebol- Closing in on one full year doing my best Paulista impersonation, it’s amazing to think that I’ve yet to visit the Soccer Museum. One of the newest and most high-tech museums in the country, the Museu do Futebol is a must-see for me as I prepare for Decisão 2012, where I will choose a team to support for this season and beyond. Suggestions are now being accepted. Every opinion counts.

    São Paulo lights up the night, as seen from atop Skye Bar.

  4. Enjoy The View At Skye Bar- Adding to the list of no-brainers I’ve managed to sidestep in my first 11 months here, The Skye Bar atop Hotel Unique has one of the best views in São Paulo, and is one of the trendier places in the city to have a drink at.

    SP's answer to Uruguay's Chivito: The Mortadella Sandwich.

  5. Tackle The Mortadella Sandwich At The Mercado Municipal- Perhaps the single-worst omission on my São Paulo list thus far is the Mercado Municipal. I’m a foodie at heart, and every time I see Bourdain tackle the Mortadella Sandwich, it reminds me how big of an idiot I am for not having gone there yet. Sure, I’ve had a mortadella and cheese sandwich many a times since my arrival. But the Mercado variety allegedly has the perfect ratio of fatty mortadella, toasted bread and gooey cheese. So never mind the endless array of fruits, vegetables, meats, nuts and other edibles. The sandwich alone is legendary, and having taken down the storied Chivito in Montevideo, I would never live down passing on the classic Paulistano breakfast sandwich.

    Where can you catch a killer local rock show with a subtitled "Airplane" screening in the background? Rua Augusta, of course.

  6. Take a Stroll Down Rua Augusta- São Paulo’s critics will tell you that the city works too much, and that it’s characterized by fast-paced, consumerist yuppies. I like to think these haters have never been down Rua Augusta. The most eclectic, alternative street in the city will introduce you to all walks of São Paulo life. Gays, strippers, metal heads, foodies, transsexuals, hipsters and much more, all on the same block in some instances. They crowd the narrow sidewalks, buying beer or mixed drinks out of a cooler (sometimes out of a car trunk), and deliberately working their way through boteco after boteco before filing in to the bar or club of their choice around 1am, only to emerge at 5am when the Metro gets cranking again. Nowhere else will you find a restaurant, next to an independent cinema, next to a nudie bar, next to a lounge, next to a nightclub, next to another nudie bar. It’s São Paulo in a nutshell, a microcosm that proves this metropolis is much more than stressed-out executives and overcrowded shopping malls.

    Pretty much all a grown man needs, in one frame.

  7. Coxinhas and Choppes at Bar Veloso-  The coxinha is a Brazilian creation whose description doesn’t do it justice, and while a few other variations around the city have their own following, none of them, in my opinion, top Veloso’s recipe.  With a perfect harmony of catupiry (a soft, cream cheese-like delicacy) and frango (chicken), and bottles of hot sauce waiting on the side, you’ll throw down a half-dozen of these eye drop-shaped croquettes before you can order your next beer. And with the waiters circling nonstop, refilling your Brahma chopps and tallying your choppimetros and coximetros (their in-house way of tracking your consumption), it’s no wonder Veloso is one of the toughest seats in town.

    Drinks at Charme Da Paulista, just across Parque Trianon and MASP on Avenida Paulista.

  8. Work My Way Down Avenida Paulista – Serving as Exhibit A of the “São Paulo-is-kind-of-like-New-York” logic, Avenida Paulista is where São Paulo hits its full urban stride. From the iconic MASP, to classic bars like Charme Da Paulista and Choperia Opção, Paulista’s wide avenue features an even wider variety of arts, culture and nightlife. And if you’re in need of a breather from the hectic pace of the city’s busiest street, Parque Trianon and Livraria Cultura are smack dab in the center, nestled just far enough from the main drag to get some peace and quiet.

    How each team views the other team's fans.

  9. Attend My First Futebol Match- As Decisão 2012 gets closer, and despite many failed attempts, I have yet to attend a soccer match in São Paulo. With the Big 4 of Corinthians, Palmeiras, São Paulo and Santos all vying for my undying devotion, this will be the most difficult thing to fit in before my April 13th departure.

    Lollapalooza and 10k: Taking Over São Paulo

  10. Rock Out At Lollapalooza São Paulo- I’ll never forget the moment I emerged from Chicago’s subways to the sound of Kings of Leon’s “Closer” as I prepared to attend my first Lollapalooza. Having moved to the Midwest a couple of months earlier, going to Lolla that year was an exclamation point on the fact that I was no longer in Miami, having left my home of 15 years for adventure, opportunity and growth. When I attend Lollapalooza this weekend in São Paulo, it will be just as momentous, marking yet another adventure, hopefully still far from being complete.
Of course, these 10 things are a mere scratch on the surface of what São Paulo has to offer. While Rio is a lot easier on the eyes, São Paulo has a pulse unmatched by other Brazilian cities. The people are gritty, the energy’s contagious, and there’s never a shortage of places to be or things to do. Especially when you’re getting deported.

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CATCH ME IF YOU CAN III: THE VISA NAZI

by 10kJuan on March 17, 2012

in Brazil, Expat Life

 

“No soup for you!” – The Soup Nazi, ‘Seinfeld’

To read Part I and II of ‘Catch Me If You Can’, click here.

That's how I roll.

When I first came to the Policia Federal in Lapa to get my Spanish tourist visa extended, I took the wrong combo of trains and buses, arrived at the worst possible time (lunch), didn’t have half the photocopies I needed, and stumbled through my Portuguese, still in its infancy. The Superintendencia, named as such for being the largest Policia Federal office in São Paulo, was a zoo. To the naked eye, it seemed there were dozens of different documents being processed on the same floor. Resident cards. Passports. Tourist visas. Work permits. The waiting room looked like a DMV from hell. Even the TV was distorted and discolored, with the actors looking like extras from ‘Beetlejuice’, which is no way to watch soaps like Mulheres De Areia.

But a lot of things can change in 6 months.

This time around, I left the house after lunch with all relevant photocopies in hand, a firm grasp of the public transportation system, and enough Portuguese to sweet-talk any Consular Officer into a stamp. In fact, I had a detailed plan of attack for my 2nd prorrogação de prazo de estada (prolonging of my period of stay).

First, I would work in a bit of Portunhol (similar to Spanglish, with Portuguese replacing English) to avoid arising suspicion. Second, I would concoct a story to explain why the printout of my April 13th departure also showed a return date one week later, not to mention my destination being Miami instead of my alleged home country of Ecuador. I had decided on the bus I’d say the flight was cheaper as a roundtrip than as a one-way. That would hopefully do the trick.

I was a bit more concerned this time around. My first circumnavigation of Brazil’s 180-day-max-per-365-day-period had been facilitated by an early return flight and a careless customs agent. But surely these agents were no match for a Policia Federal officer. If anyone could see my history of multiple entries under multiple passports, it would be them. In many ways, this tourist visa extension would be the truest test of the system in Brazil.

It was go time.

As I arrived at 3pm, the lunch crowd was nowhere to be seen and I advanced right to the front desk to announce the purpose of my visit. I was directed to the 4th Floor, which I was pretty sure was one floor higher than last time. Perhaps it was one of those cases where the 1st floor is really the 2nd floor. Nevertheless, I returned to the same room I had been in 6 months earlier only to find it had been transformed. The Policia Federal had been busy in my absence.

The Policia Federal is getting their act together.

The room formerly confused for a DMV office now had the look of the FBI office in ‘Catch Me If You Can’. There was a new desk that exclusively assigned numbers based on your needs, and the high cubicle partitions had been knocked down, ‘Office Space’ style. The organization was alarming for someone trying to squeeze through the cracks of Brazil’s tourist laws. There was adequate spacing, an expanded staff and an electronic board to replace the inefficient calling-out of numbers. They had even fixed the warped TV, where I caught wind of George Clooney’s arrest in DC.

I grabbed my number from a friendly receptionist and found there were only a handful of people ahead of me. Everything was going perfectly. My number was called after a few commercial breaks and I was well on my way to securing the remainder of my time here as an Ecuadorian citizen.

That was when I found out I was on the wrong floor.

 

The Visa Nazi

After going back to the lobby and past everything I had already passed, I finally found the only way up to the 4th Floor nestled in an unmarked corner. Moments after exiting the elevator, the real madness began.

The room couldn’t have been larger than 5×10 meters. There were a dozen cushioned chairs and two sofas up against the glass, which looked out over the Lapa skyline. The sofas should’ve tipped me off as to the expected wait time. That and the lack of a clock. There were no numbers on this floor. There was no line. And despite a thin plexiglass divider spanning the length of the room, the employees weren’t paying much attention to the multitude of people waiting to be attended.

It was a familiar cast of characters. An Italian girl asking to speak to someone in charge, unable to understand why the customs agent had given her a 90-day max when her departing flight was 108 days out. A shady lawyer speaking on behalf of a family of 5 Argentines. A 30-something Paulistano demanding to know where the line began as he directed his American lady friend to pay an overstay fine. There was even the token Latin American Mom breast-feeding in the corner.

Yup. This was my room.

It was then that I spotted him for the first time. Amongst all the seated, uniformed female agents stood a genuinely angry man in a short-sleeved,  plaid button-down which he wore untucked over his jeans. I’m talking about Tom-Coughlin-angry, or Old-Man-from-’Up’-angry. With uncombed, salt-and-pepper hair and bags under his middle-aged eyes, he looked like a person who had yet to smile this decade. Calling out the first names of the 3 latest passports he’d stamped with revised expiry dates, he had a parting shot for every one of them on why he shouldn’t have granted them the extension. It’s as if allowing these foreigners to stay one extra day in his country kept him up at night. Remember Costanza’s tormentor from Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi episode? Let me introduce you to The Visa Nazi.

He turned his attention to the petite Italian who did an astounding job of not breaking down in tears as he blistered her with irrefutable responses on why she would shortly have to leave the country. While she exited stage left, he announced he would only be processing prorrogaçãos for the remainder of the afternoon, at which point a dozen Brazilians begrudgingly made their way to the exits. He then stormed away to the back office, where he was apparently investigating the extension requests personally.

This would be my dealer today. He was the Brazilian version of ‘The Dragon Lady‘. And there was no table to switch to. I had already-doubled down. I would have to play the cards I was dealt.

I continued shuffling through my iPod and every 20 minutes or so, the Visa Nazi appeared with a few more passports. He’d call them out one at a time. An unlucky few were denied. Others were given a fraction of the time they had requested. He spoke to all of them in a stern tone. A few argued, but to no avail. A couple fought back tears. Even the ones who were granted their full extension weren’t dismissed without a reprimand. He was surgical in his approach. A cold-blooded assassin who had missed his calling. I put my game face on and awaited our encounter.

After 2 hours had passed, the cast of characters had dwindled down to just 3 of us. 4 of the 5 agents in the front had already changed into provocative civilian clothes and punched out. I thought a few people who had already left had definitely arrived after me, but it wasn’t until the lactating Mami left, that I knew for sure. I approached the counter to see if I had somehow missed my name being called.

But before I could even ask, the last remaining agent looked at me and said, “Estamos fazendo os calculos“, (“we’re doing the calculations”) and returned to the back room. There was now nobody in the front office. Calculations? What calculations? I started going over some scenarios in my head. None of them were good.

20 minutes later, the Visa Nazi emerged, one final time. He had two passports in hand, both bearing the same red color. This had to be me, I thought. Then suddenly, before calling out any names, he stared directly at me. It was more of a glare actually, and it lasted for what seemed like eternity.

“Juan”, he said, holding eye contact from across the room.

One YEAR? The thought is unimaginable.

Show time.

I put my poker face on and began my final approach. “Tudo bem?”, I asked, with what I imagine was a faint smile.

His glare was unfazed. After a solid 5 seconds, he handed me my passport, and began.

“Na verdade, eu não deveria ter dado!“, he said, angrily as ever, and waving his finger. (“In fact, I shouldn’t have given it to you!”)

“Só fiz porque você tem um vôo no dia 13, só!“, he then stated. He had only extended me because I had proof of a departing flight. Thankfully he had missed my return flight for the 20th a few inches below.

“Mas.. (But)”, I began, trying to formulate an intelligent response, but before I could speak another word, he somehow took his glare to a new-found level, held it for a few seconds and finally turned away before calling out the last person’s name.

As the Visa Nazi began explaining the reason for a mere 15-day extension to the only other people in the room with us, I stood there in disbelief. My adrenaline was rushing. He had piqued my interest. Did he see my other stays under the Spanish passport? If so, why had he given me the extension? Perhaps he was only upset about my leaving after 2 months, only to return for another 3 months, and attempting to request an additional few weeks to max out my 180 days. Or, maybe his wife had left him for an Ecuadorian. Whatever it was, I needed to know, not just to quell my curiosity, but to know what level of enemy I was up against going forward.

I waited my turn to speak to him. There would be one final showdown today.

The 3 people left, leaving just the two of us. Then, as the Visa Nazi turned sideways to return to the back office, I called out to him. Just like Costanza, I was about to press my luck and risk my soup to ask about the bread.

“Disculpe, mas eu posso fazer uma pregunta?” (“Sorry, but may I ask a question?”)

“Se você quizer, eu posso tirar!“, he replied loudly (“If you want, I can take it back!”), once again pointing a finger at me, with his eyes widening as I dared to question him. He was in full Visa Nazi mode now.

“Você tem muitas entradas e saídas!”, he continued. “O maximo é 180 dias por ano, não por estadia!” (“You have many entries and exits! The maximum is 180 days per year, not per stay!”)

He knew. But I refused to lose. So I played dumb.

“Não, mas eu so quero entender, eu cheguei o 16 de Octubre, saí o 15 de Decembre…“, I began, but he interrupted me before I could continue (“No, I just want to understand, I arrived October 16th, left December 15th..”).

“Você quer ver? Então, olha aqui“, he told me, as he thumbed through my file (“You want to see? So then, look here”). He produced a printout and began going down the rows as I did my best to stay calm.

He began reading off all my Brazilian entries and exits. On both passports. Dealer had blackjack.

“Você chegou o 17 de Abril, saiu o 13 de Outubro, voltou o 16 de Outubro, saiu…” (“You arrived on April 17th, you left on October 13th, you returned on October 16th…”)

I saw my own chance to interrupt and intervened.

“Mas, isso é outro passaporte“, I argued, pretty convincingly I thought (“But, that’s another passport”). I would now confirm whether the law allowed me 180 days on each passport.

“Esso não importa, não importa“, he stressed (“That doesn’t matter, it does not matter”). I thought he had bought it, so I pressed my luck.

“Ah, então agora entendi, claro, se não importa… nossa, agora entendi.” (Ah, now I understand, sure, if it doesn’t matter… wow, now I understand”).

He didn’t appreciate my rubbing it in his face and resumed his glare.

“Eu vou tirar, passa seu passaporte!“, he exclaimed as he reached for my passport yet again (“I’m going to take it back, give me your passport!”), not quite as fast as the cashier lady in the Seinfeld episode, but quickly nonetheless. I pulled it back and into my back pocket, and began to slowly back away towards the elevator.

“Não, por favor, agora entendi, desculpa por todo. Bom fim de semana para você.” (“No, please, I understand now, sorry for everything. Have a good weekend.”) I cut my losses, content with knowing what he knows, and cashed in my chips.

A million things crossed my mind as I entered the elevator. The first was I would never have another visa extended again. Ever. Not in São Paulo at least. There’s no way the Visa Nazi would give me a free pass twice. The second was that I was running out of lives. The ups and downs of Brazil, as I’d already mentioned, were getting wider apart. Not being able to stay 6 months at a time on each passport would alter the landscape quite a bit.

But no matter for now. I’ll find a way, or as they say here, um jeitinho. The Visa Nazi might be on to me, but he won’t be waiting in customs on April 20th. Whether our encounter changed anything, though, is yet to be seen. If it has, I wouldn’t be allowed back in until April of 2013. But I still have a few aces up my sleeve, and I will have my soup.

Game on, Brazil. Game on.

 

What do you think will happen at Guarulhos Airport on April 20th? Leave a comment below.

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REFLECTING ON 1 YEAR IN SOUTH AMERICA

Ferrari'd out at the Formula 1 Grand Prix of São Paulo in November.

by 10kJuan on March 3, 2012

in Brazil, Expat Life

Exactly 1 year ago today, I left beautiful Miami for South America, with little more than a backpack, my 3 passports and an open mind. After years of wanting to live overseas, I took the leap and booked a one-way award ticket to Brazil, with the mandatory 2-month layover in Ecuador. I’d always thrived on constant change, so I embarked on my biggest one to date. I didn’t have a job lined up, I didn’t have a place to live, I didn’t speak a word of Portuguese, and I knew less than a handful of people living in Brazil. But somehow, I knew it was the right time to do it.

Today, I’m writing this from the office of a Vila Mariana villa which I share with The Britos, my Brazilian brothers and saviors.

I’m teaching English and Spanish. Allegedly.

I’m blogging again after a 5-year layoff.

I’m working on my 1st book.

And I’m speaking enough Portuguese to communicate with my dentist, complain about my food, give directions, and be confused for Brazilian by a Brazilian at Carnaval. Sure, that Brazilian may have had one too many cachaças, but the fact remains: I’m kicking ass in São Paulo. And I’m not slowing down anytime soon.

But looking back, I now know that moving to a different country doesn’t change you by default. It undoubtedly can serve as a catalyst, but it’s on you to make the change. Aside from the language and work, my life isn’t that different here than it was in Miami and Rochelle. I spent all Sunday watching the NFL for 5 straight months. I stayed up late to watch the Oscars. I still kill for a mean burger, a hot slice and a strong cup of coffee. I still prefer a good bar over a loud club. I continue hitting snooze and falling back asleep in the morning. And I still try and travel every chance I get. The only things about me that have changed are the ones I made the effort to change.

So despite my move to Brazil being more the end purpose than the means to an end, I can confirm that moving to a different city, or state, or country won’t change a single thing about you unless you change yourself first. You don’t have to wait until you move to a new place to improve your life. Do it now. Why not?

And on that note, time to celebrate my 1-year anniversary in style. Bom Sabado para vocês.

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HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS, PART I: “THE LAYOVER: PANAMA CITY”

by 10kJuan on February 25, 2012

in Travel

Gloomy days are ahead for Panama City if they ignore their identity.

“Mi barrio ya no existe.” – Carlito Brigante, ‘Carlito’s Way’

You don’t need to be an MIT grad to appreciate the intricacies of the man-made wonder that is the Panama Canal. I’ll spare you the Wiki-able details involved in each ship’s crossing. Suffice to say that what stood out the most, in my beer-aided opinion, was the simplicity and plain smoothness of the process. To do what they do, and make it look that routine, is truly amazing, and is well worth the visit if you find yourself in Panama City, even if just for a voluntary 23-hour layover like my own.

But much to the dismay of my Dad and Granddad, I’m no engineer, so the inner workings of the Canal didn’t interest me that much. In fact, aside from my Formula 1 fandom, I’ve never even cared that much for cars. It’s one of my three man-flaws, along with hating to play golf and loathing fishing. I’m completely comfortable admitting it because it’s part of who I am. To say otherwise just to make more people like me or think I’m normal would be a betrayal to my identity and very non-10k-ish.

Which brings us back to transitioning Panama City.

If you blink, you’ll miss the last of Panama City’s Diablos Rojos.

Having given the Canal a once-over and destroyed the adjacent Miraflores buffet (highly recommended), I turned my attention to a different form of transportation I caught a glimpse of on the taxi ride from the airport: Panama City’s colorful fleet of city buses known as the Diablos Rojos.

Not having a particular interest in cars, it’ll come as no surprise to you that I’ve long been a champion of public transportation. Guilt-free drinking and a pair of idle hands? I’m all-in on that action.

But aside from going hands-free on a boozy weekend night, Panama City’s armada of converted school buses offers much more than your average public commute.

Let us count the ways:

  • Custom graffiti on every square centimeter? You better believe it.
  • One-of-a-kind nicknames like El Diablo Rojo and El Venturoso? Brings me back to my Super Mario Kart days.
  • Salsa pumping from the moment you pay your fare, which is all of 25 cents? Are you kidding me? Why are the Diablos Rojos just now entering my life?

The Diablo Rojo 'El Venturoso', courtesy of "We're Lost And Everything Is Dirty"

I set out to find the story behind these mobile discotecas Panamanians move around in, as they were the only thing I had discovered thus far about Panama City that set it apart from other seaside towns. At a glance, the city even looked like Miami at times. Wasn’t I in Central, freaking, America? To do my best journalist impersonation, I sought out a local cabbie to take me to the Canal in hopes of picking his brain throughout the ride. As an added bonus, I could give him a hard time about how great Panama’s soccer team is for a baseball country.

Now, despite the public perception that Latin American taxis are a sure way to get kidnapped, taxistas are still one of the more reliable sources of local info in many Central and South American towns. If you can find one blaring a news program or futbol game on the radio, even better. Plus, if you do get kidnapped and live to tell the story, it’ll make you at least twice as interesting at happy hours and hostels. And it’ll help you get over that silly fear of being kidnapped for the first time.

I hailed my particular taxista down near the hostel, and after busting his chops about his country’s shameless attempts to claim Panama Hats as their own (fact: they ARE made in my 2nd country, Ecuador), I asked about the infamous buses.

The cabbie, a dead ringer for SNL’s Horatio Sanz in his fatter days, went on to tell me how the Diablos are outdated school buses originally brought over from the United States. Used solely as inner-city transport, and independently owned and operated for decades (which is why each remains unique in design and decor), they’re a distinguishing part of Panama City’s public transportation system, albeit a notorious one. Yet despite their colorful nature and vibrant energy, he went on to tell me the pirate buses are in the process of being phased out and replaced by newer more modern models, with the last one scheduled to be decommissioned by the end of 2012.

Did you like him more before or after he looked like every other Latin comedian? I rest my case.

And there it was. The lone attribute that let me know I was in Panama City, without having to drive outside of town to a freaking canal, was being done away with. Swept under the rug like a mistress’ stray hairs. Inevitably forgotten by a city more concerned with modernizing itself to look just like every other touristy town around the world. Now I understood why Panama City popped up so often on mainstream travel columns. Why International Living had beaten it to death these last few years.

Panama City was selling its soul to the Diablo, by getting rid of its own.

It’s not that big of a surprise at this point. This happens all too often. Even so, it never fails to disappoint. What makes towns and cities travel destinations are the little differences and nuances. It’s these differences and nuances that drive interest and become the topic of endless blogs and articles. But once interest peaks, outside investment arrives with foreign concepts and the cookie cutting begins, destroying some, if not all, of the characteristics that brought people there to begin with.

I’m not talking about pavement and hot water. Infrastructure has very real benefits to any city or town. It’s the Diablos Rojos of the world I’m concerned with. It’s the tuk-tuk yielding the right of way to a cow in rural India, and the live chicken under the farmer’s arm on the bus ride to Quito, and the suicidal motorcycle taxis maneuvering around baby elephants on crosswalks in downtown Bangkok.

Enjoying a tuk-tuk ride with Nitesh and Co. in Ranchi.

I don’t want the cookie cutter cookie.

I want the hand-sculpted, chunky cookie that leaves a fat wad of gooey milk chocolate on your shirt when you bite into it too soon.

I want cookies shaped like countries, volcanos, or snowflakes, with no two ever being alike.

I want the type of cookie you could never package, because you’d have to make a new cookie tray for each unique batch.

Most of all, I want something unique. Something I’ve never seen before. I travel for contrast, not comfort or interchangeable parts. Isn’t that the point? To send an all-out blitz on your senses in new surroundings while immersing yourself in a setting unlike your own?

How could Panama City not realize that?

I’m not undermining the benefits of new buses with air-conditioning, more comfortable seating, or more efficient transport either. Locals do complain about the run-down buses, from the reckless drivers to the loud exhausts. In other words, they’re no different from buses in most Central and South America towns. But, as one commenter pointed out here, a happy medium does exist where new buses could be introduced with the same decor and vibrance of the Diablos Rojos, thus upgrading the city’s transport while preserving some of its identity. Wouldn’t that be the best of both worlds?

Apparently not. The government has no plans of this at the moment, so instead, we’ll have yet another homogeneous city on the water, with high-rise condos and a dozen McDonald’s sprinkled around a Wal-Mart. My buddy and I joke about getting to Machu Pichu before they build a Starbucks, but we say it only half-jokingly, as more and more travel spots are going pop these days. Even my favorite bohemian beach village, Montañita, is fighting off modernization. Where will it end?

Why did Carlito let Benny live? A stripper and Miami. Why, Carlito? WHY??

Always in search of a good movie analogy for any and all situations, I settled on “Carlito’s Way”, with Panama City playing Al Pacino’s role of Carlito Brigante. Carlito’s rise was due to his crime savvy and good judgment along the way. In trying to change his ways in the latter stage of his life, he admits going soft when he decides to let Benny Blanco live after their tussle in the nightclub. Deep down, he knew he was making the wrong logical choice, but he wanted to be something he wasn’t. For a moment, he lost sight of his identity, and in the end, it led to his demise by way of a fatal encounter with Blanco, just as he was making his getaway with the love of his life. And this is where we find Panama City now. Dreaming about being like someone they’re not, and forgetting what made them who they were.

I’m no engineer. And I’m certainly no criminal mastermind. But I don’t need to be either of the two to know that some things should never be completely modernized, and with Panama City’s identity becoming less and less identifiable, the assorted cookie tray that is the fleet of Diablos Rojos certainly falls under that category.

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THE UPS AND DOWNS OF BRAZIL

by 10kJuan on January 12, 2012

in Brazil, Expat Life, Sports

“But I know I’m gonna change that tune, when I’m back on top… back on top in June.”- Frank Sinatra

Board shorts. Swim cap. It's a proven formula. Or so I thought.

“You are learning what it’s like to be Brazilian”, my student Debora joked earlier today. “This is life here, always up and down, no equilibrium!”

Up and down indeed.

2012 didn’t get off to the best start for me. It was a cranky first week back in São Paulo coming off my two-week tango with indulgence through Panama City, Bogota and Miami. My allergies flared up, the jet lag kept me turning all night and napping all day, and it rained. A lot. Every freaking day, in fact. Even New Year’s Eve. I may have come back to my ideal life in Brazil, which is exactly where I want to be at the moment, but the end of a vacation, and a multi-country one at that, is still pretty far from ideal. I love traveling. And despite the success I’ve had as an expat and my indefinite timeframe here, it no longer feels like travel. I’m living like a local now.  Ups, downs and all.

That fact was made emphatically clear this week.

It began on Sunday. I walked over to the SESC in Villa Mariana, one of many SESC community centers in São Paulo open to the public offering a multitude of recreational and artistic courses and performances such as film, dance and exercise. My interest was in their swimming pool. I’m adding surfing to the repertoire in 2012, and I want to shake the rust off before I dive in. It’s a 25m lap pool with 5 lanes, and during the afternoons, when I have a break from school, it’s relatively quiet. It’s also 57 reais for 1 year, which is less than 30USD for 1 year of lap swimming. I used to pay $5 per session when I was training for the South Beach Triathlon a few years back! Finally, something cheaper than the American equivalent.

But then came the caveats. In order to swim, I would need to subject myself to a medical exam, said Nicolly. The cost was 18 reais and it was relatively short and administered on-site. “Isn’t that what the chlorine is for”, I asked, only half-jokingly. We were just passing through, so I accepted it and decided to come back Tuesday for the exam with the intent of swimming shortly after acing the check-up.

I returned, sans Nicolly, on Tuesday ready for action. Stripped down to my Hurley shorts, I watched as the doctor lead me through the 8-pose “exam”, which wasn’t unlike the quick check UFC fighters get prior to entering the Octagon, and 30 seconds later I was medically cleared to do my best Michael Phelps impersonation. I squeezed my recently-purchased, mandatory touca (i.e. swim cap) on, grabbed my goggles (I wear contacts), packed my things in a locker and started strutting out to the pool. That was when I was stopped by the attendant.

“Você tem sunga?”, he asked.

I had read the checklist of items on the SESC fact sheet and had decided that sungas were swim trunks, based on the context. In light of this, I pointed enthusiastically at my board shorts and answered, “sim, estou listo!“

The attendant wasn’t amused.

“Mas, você precisa sunga“, he said, with a deeper intonation on the sunga.

It was then that he cupped both of his hands, forming symmetrical C’s, and did the Aaron Rodgers championship belt motion, except, 6 inches lower. And it was then that it hit me. He was mimicking the shape of a Speedo.

A little history on the infamous Speedo, for you non-Americans who are accustomed to seeing Speedos on every beach you visit in Europe and/or Brazil: I’ve been mocking anyone and anything related to Speedos since I was old enough to talk. The mere mention or possibility of someone wearing a Speedo, however unrealistic, was always enough to get a quick laugh. Speedos are, quite simply, un-American. If you wear a Speedo, the terrorists win. They are the laughing stock of swimwear. A close cousin to your-momma jokes. No American man would be caught dead wearing one, unless he won 8 Gold Medals in the 2008 Summer Olympics, or appeared in ‘Jackass’. That’s the Speedo in a nutshell. No pun intended.

Did Bodhi need a Speedo to brave the 100-year storm? Nope.

Back to the locker room confrontation, though. I was taken aback. Surely he couldn’t be serious.

“Serio?“, I replied. “Mas, por que?“

“Razões de higiene“, he replied, unconvincingly at that. “Regulamento do SESC, na verdade“.

I squinted my eyebrows. He shrugged his shoulders, which offered little consolation.

“E esse cara?”, I asked, looking at a middle-aged man wearing shorts as long as mine.

“Ele tem uma condição especial“, he answered.

“Mas, eu também”, I exclaimed. “Eu sou Americano!”

No reaction. Clearly he didn’t understand.

Wearing a Speedo, even for the good of doing my best Bodhi impersonation, was unacceptable. I might as well rip my American passport in 10 pieces and light it on fire. Even if I didn’t have two other ones to fall back on. This had officially become the low point of my time in Brazil. Granted, it’s been great during my time here, but had I been robbed in Rio 6 months back when I visited, this would STILL be the worst thing Brazil had done to me thus far. I was degraded. This went against everything I stood for. Would I ever be able to look in the mirror again?

I tucked my tail between my legs, and accepted my fate. After changing back into my street clothes, I nodded goodbye to the lowly attendant. He clearly noticed the sadness in my eyes, as he apologized several times as I walked out. I would have to buy and wear a Speedo to use the SESC pool. There was no other way.

TiVo-fast-forward to yesterday. Click-click, click-click.

I was still dragging my feet with the Speedo purchase, doing some light afternoon reading after lunch when Nicolly messaged me.

“Juan, do you still want to see UFC this weekend?”, she wrote.

“Yes, of course!”, I quickly replied. “Why?”

“My friend in Rio has an extra ticket for the fights Saturday… She can sell it to you at cost!”

And now, a little history on UFC. I love the UFC. As a hardcore boxing fan, I’ve found myself gravitating towards the appeal of MMA and it’s superior matchmaking and excitement. I missed out on UFC Rio I back in August and had gotten shut out of  UFC Rio II tickets a couple of months back, despite desperately trying to get through on the ticket site.

But here I was. Days after my man card had been temporarily revoked at SESC by a minimum-wage turnstile jockey, I had second life. A chance for Brazil to redeem itself. Here was an opportunity to finally attend my first UFC event, the last on my wish list of sports events that I’ve crossed off over the last 6 years, ranging from the World Cup, to the World Series, to the Kentucky Derby, to Wimbledon and many others. The highs and lows of Brazil had come full circle, all in a 72-hour span. It was all very reminiscent of Las Vegas, the only other place I’ve been in that had played with my emotions so recklessly. Vegas has a way of crushing your hopes one second, with a turn card, or a 6-card dealer blackjack, but somehow, someway, it always gives you just enough to leave you optimistic about your next visit.

Vegas baby, Vegas.

Of course, Sin City is always a long-weekend affair, so you’re never more than a day or two away from the end of a nightmare if things go sour. But this isn’t a guys’ weekend in the desert. I’m LIVING in Brazil. São Paulo is home. These ups and downs will be the end of me if they’re as extreme and frequent as my student implied. Is home supposed to pull your strings so violently?

“He’s going high… HE’S GOING LOW!”

I’ll have to wait and see what cards Brazil has up its sleeves in 2012, but for now, it’s no matter. I’m UFC-bound today, and will be watching some of the best fighters in the world engage in hand-to-hand combat, all amidst one of the most raucous crowds I’ve ever been a part of. The Speedo can most certainly wait.

And so just like so many of my Vegas adventures, the scales have improbably tipped back in my favor for the moment. I’m gonna enjoy the view from up top while I have it. Scoot over, Dana White. I’m crashing fight night in Rio tomorrow.

Brazil baby, Brazil.

{ 5 comments }

THE CHIVITO: URUGUAY’S UNTOLD LOVE STORY

by 10kJuan on December 12, 2011

in Food, Travel

Post image for THE CHIVITO: URUGUAY’S UNTOLD LOVE STORY

“The apex of the sandwich-making arts? Uruguay. The mighty Chivito. Pretty much my philosophy encapsulated in sandwich form.”

-Anthony Bourdain, “No Reservations”

Some of my favorite meals while traveling have been, maybe not so surprisingly, sandwiches. The Baguette on Rue Mouffetard in Paris’ Quartier Latin. The Po’ Boy in New Orleans’ French Quarter. ‘The Beast’, formerly known as ‘The Heart Attack’, at Cherry Valley Deli in Queens. And my current favorite, Don Carbon’s California Chick’n sandwich in Montañita, Ecuador. Each of these sandwiches deserves its own 5000-word blog post and first-ballot entry into the Sandwich Hall of Fame, if such a thing exists. And now, after my recent weekend in Montevideo, so too does La Pasiva’s infamous Chivito.

The legend goes as follows. A female tourist, from Argentina or Chile, stopped in at a Punta del Este bar and ordered chivito, a meal she had enjoyed while passing through Córdoba. Chivito is the grilled meat of a small goat commonly eaten in Argentina because of its tenderness and relatively low price. The Uruguayan restaurateur, Antonio Carbonario, not wanting to lose out on a client, accepted the order and proceeded to make her a churrasco (steak, not goat meat) sandwich topped with eveything but the kitchen sink. She ends up loving it, and the sandwich earns a permanent place on his menu under the name Chivito, going on to become Uruguay’s national dish.

Of course, this would never happen today. That same tourist would fire up Yelp or Google on one of her handful of wireless gadgets and find the best chivito joint in town in about 5 minutes, regardless of her location. But this happened in the middle of the 20th century, decades before Gordon Gecko had even dreamed of rocking his VCR-sized cell phone in ‘Wall Street’. No, this was one thing technology wouldn’t have a chance to ruin. It was meant to be.

The culinary Gods had spoken. The chivito was born.

Greed is good. But mobile devices rob of us things like the chivito.

I want to believe the story. I really do. But after struggling to house this mammoth monstrosity, I feel like there’s something missing. A sandwich this good wasn’t put together for just any old tourist. Nor was it devised by your run-of-the-mill small business owner. This is a ‘Man-versus-Food’-worthy serving, three quarters of a century before ‘Man-Versus-Food’ was socially acceptable.  A concoction this glorious had to have had a deeper purpose.

What I’m thinking…  is that it went something like this:

(I’m partial to Peter Falk as our narrator, but use your own voiceover if you wish)

Our innovator-to-be has just broken up with his latest girlfriend over the Peñarol game, her being a casual Nacional fan and all. The game was more of an excuse really, the last straw if you will, as things had gone from bad to worse as of late. Punta Del Este had always been a tough town to find a good woman. A seasonal oasis with casinos, beaches and nightlife, most of the talent migrated in and out around the same times each year. My man’s having an especially rough week in the midst of the slow season, still not finding any luck a year removed from his second divorce. The restaurant is all he’s got right now, and business has slowed to a crawl following the summer. Tonight is no different. Two or three regulars sharing a liter bottle after work, and little else.

But then this Argentinian walks in. Hot little thing. The type of woman who hasn’t paid for her own Malbec since she was old enough to drink a glass. The type that, nowadays, gets snatched up before she can make the predictable move to Miami. All due respect to the beautiful imports in South Florida and beyond, but the top shelf never makes it to passport control in the U.S. And if they do, it’s with a wedding ring on one hand and a small child clenching the other. She’s the hottest thing that’s walked into his bar in months, if not years, which was when Wife #2 walked in, during a bachelorette party 3 years back.

Don Carbon’s California Chicken Sandwich. Nice photo, but doesn’t do it justice. Simply orgasmic.

Antonio falls all over himself seating her, brushing the eager waiter aside before he can manage to secure a menu. A courtesy Pilsen follows shortly after and produces her first smile. But he struggles to make eye contact, still lacking confidence so soon after his recent breakup.

On the other hand, our soon-to-be-infamous tourist is just happy to interact with someone after the 15-hour drive from Córdoba, not to mention the travel time from Chile and/or Mendoza. Even if she split the drive up into two days, the hilly journey would’ve surely worn her out by now. But she’s made herself comfortable. And she likes Uruguayans. They’ve got more character than the Buenos Aires preppies she usually dates. And they’re equally confident too, but without the Argentinian arrogance. She admires those same qualities in our restaurateur as they exchange pleasantries. He brings her the menú, and at some point during the conversation, the restaurateur/patron line dissolves.

Antonio pours himself a draft and sets up shop at our tourist’s end of the bar. The sun is setting in Punta, and he’s starting to feel like it’s his lucky night. She’s laughing at his jokes, even the forced ones. And she can’t stop playing with her hair, just like Wife #2 when she ordered that first round of shots from him.

But then she interjects. She’s famish, and the brew has only made things worse. It’s been a long drive, and she’s only had her basic Argentinian breakfast of toast, jelly and mate (tea). Having said that, she hasn’t even opened her menu. She doesn’t need to, she says. She knows exactly what she wants because she’s been thinking about it since the midway point of her trip. She wants chivito. She had a delicious chivito in Mendoza, the likes of which she had never had back home, and she was determined to take advantage of the high-quality meat while she was on vacation. She’s embarrassed to admit it’s what made her stop at his particular establishment.

Had one of these baguettes daily in the Latin Quarter (parisdailyphoto.com)

Antonio was floored. Not only was the mood interrupted, but her sole desire was something he couldn’t serve her. You see, they didn’t eat chivito in Punta. No demand for it. But if she wanted it, he would find a way to make her happy and keep her around. Like every man before him and every man after, he was about to go the distance to keep his potential conquest at bay. He topped her off to buy himself some time, and excused himself.

The kitchen was a mess. Given the lack of business as of late, it should’ve been sparkling, but a lack of activity is contagious, and the staff had fallen into something of a funk. He had let go the Ecuadorian cook he found sleeping by the freezer, and the cleaning ladies hadn’t come in a week since he didn’t have the cash to pay them. But she didn’t have to know that. He rinsed some pans out and checked the meat locker. All churrasco. Just as he had thought. The veggies were fresh though, and he had a ton of prepared food ahead of a business luncheon they were hosting the following day. There had to be a way.

It was then that he had his moment of clarity. If cooked right, smothered in tasty ingredients, and sandwiched between toasted, buttered bread, the churrasco might just do the trick for his hungry brunette. He began heating the chapa (or griddle) and started going through the options.

Beets? Check.

Lettuce? Of course.

Tomato? A Uruguyan sandwich staple.

Egg? The gooey yolk could help disguise the distinct color of meat if he cooked it sunny-side up. Worth a try.

Russian salad from the luncheon? Why not?

Nicolly vs. Chivito

Palm hearts? Would make for a nice garnish.

Ham? Bacon? Its Uruguay! The more meat the merrier!

Cheese? Who didn’t like a fat slab of melted mozzarella on their steak?

Some pimento and an olive follow, just for good measure. And finally, no sandwich worth anything would be complete without South America’s favorite condiment, Mayonnaise. A thick glob of the white goodness tops off the heaping sandwich, and it’s ready to serve.

He’s so concerned with getting it out to her before she has a change of heart that he doesn’t realize the magnitude of what he’s accomplished. He’s just sired the greatest sandwich of his life and the new national pride of Uruguay. Not until Nando and Canessa crossed the treacherous Andes, after the Uruguayan Rugby team’s horrific 1972 plane crash, would another Uruguayan man accomplish so much while searching for his next meal.

The chivito. A masterpiece of culinary art, spawned by a desperate man’s lust. The ultimate demonstration of chivalry, fried in bacon fat.

Whether or not she enjoyed the sandwich is not up for debate. Anyone who’s tried a chivito undoubtedly knows about it’s irresistible allure. That first juicy bite washed away all her sorrows and tricked her taste buds into believing she was eating goat. That much he was able to accomplish. But she enjoyed it a bit too much. Any desire she had of striking up a romance with her host was replaced with satisfying exhaustion and an elevated heart rate. The itis, to be specific. He had gone too far, pleasing her completely before he could even announce last call. She sluggishly paid her bill and went on her way, leaving behind a partially-eaten chivito, and a totally-heartbroken Antonio.

The bar emptied and he was all by his lonesome yet again. He had let another one get away. Gotta stop falling for them, he told himself. To pay homage to the tango that would not be, he finished the half-eaten sandwich. And he loved it. And it was then, after that first heart-numbing bite, that he decided to put the chivito on his menu permanently, in honor of his platonic love. But also, as a reminder that no heartbreak was powerful enough to withstand the pleasure of a mean steak sandwich.

The culinary Gods had spoken. The chivito was born.

And that’s what really happened. Just one carnivore’s opinion.

Which brings us to La Pasiva, the famous Montevideo bar/restaurant chain sprinkled all over the city, serving up an abundance of chivito variations to please any palette.  I had done some advance preparation, as is customary, for the food in Montevideo and was told I would find the best chivito in La Pasiva, so that was our first stop for lunch, in Plaza Matriz. We ordered the Chivito Canadiensa al Plato. It was the most expensive one on the menu (2400 Pesos = 24 BRL = $13USD), so we figured it’d be the best and biggest one. But I brainfarted, not realizing the obvious fact that it would not come in the form of a sandwich, as it was al plato (on the plate). As it turned out though, this ended up being a good mistake to make.

La Pasiva, Plaza Matriz/Ciudad Vieja.

What came out some moments after was nothing short of poetry, a sizzling skyscraper of meats, cheese, salads and fries that left us wondering how exactly to proceed. In lieu of the bread, a bed of french fries served as the ground floor for the magic. Just above that, a generous portion of russian salad with extra mayonnaise. Lettuce, tomatoes, beets and carrots were present, probably to add color and/or avoid customer lawsuits everytime someone goes into cardiac arrest mid-plate. The churrasco was cooked perfectly, as expected, being in a BBQ-centric country and all. Canadian bacon (thus, Canadiensa) was stacked on top of that, followed by a gooey slab of mozzarella cheese. A fried egg, which in my opinion, makes just about any food 10% better, was propped on top with red peppers, and a pierced olive and palm heart were skewered upright on a plastic sword.

The chivito lived up to its lofty expectations, despite not being in sandwich form (a mistake I’ll correct next time around). It’s juicy, crunchy, tasty, greasy, salty, sour, sweet and gooey, all in one sitting. Each bite is an opportunity to combine different ingredients in search of the perfect bite (mine consisted of steak, bacon, egg and russian salad). With so many food groups packed on one plate, it may just be the perfect meal. It’s really no wonder it was made the national dish in Uruguay. Nicolly and I struggled to finish the dish, as the al plato version is the largest serving size they have. But in the end, we were both more than satisfied with the meal. Just like the Argentine tourist 70 years back.

I can’t imagine a chivito being much better than La Pasiva’s that day, so I’ll second the recommendation to beeline over there upon arrival. But if you’re a hopeless romantic, or if you simply want to pay tribute to Antonio and his love child, make sure you get the sandwich.

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10kMan of the Week: FANE LOZMAN

10kMen fight the good fight.

by 10kJuan on November 28, 2011

in 10kMen

Who? I said the same when I came across his name this morning sifting through Zite. But after learning about his current battle with North Bay Village in Miami, I will try my best to ensure his name lives on in infamy, in South Florida and beyond.

Fane Lozman, a 50-year-old software developer and University of Miami graduate, has made a name for himself as a local activist and proverbial `David’ to North Bay Village’s `Goliath’ since he arrived in the tiny, three-island South Florida town nearly a decade ago. Having previously fought the city over handicap ramps and dock space at his marina,  his constant battles with the town of about 10,000 have forced a police chief to resign and four members of the commission, including the Mayor, to be arrested.

All this is great, but again, the 10kMan of the Week isn’t just about getting your way and living life on your own terms. It’s about prioritizing the things in life that really matter. And Lozman’s latest crusade is worthy of such inclusion.

The hot topic in North Bay Village at the moment concerns a developer’s desire to build an entertainment complex which would include, amongst other things, a strip club. Now, I’m sure that the developer, Isle of Dreams (strong name), plans on building the classiest establishment possible with a wide range of early bird specials given the demographics of the surrounding areas. Planning & Zoning sees otherwise, however, having shot it down ahead of the City Commission’s decisive vote.

So how is our 10kMOTW involved in all this? According to the Miami Herald article, Lozman was the complex’s sole supporter at the board meeting.

“I wanted this facility,” he said. “Fifty women who showed up and wanted prohibition like they had 80 years ago is not indicative of the majority in this community. The board allowed their influence to be subjected by a small group of people.”

Couldn’t agree more. Strippers, err, dancers need jobs too. And my sources tell me that when dancers/entertainers do well, the surrounding shopping malls do as well. Sounds like a taxpayer-money-free economic stimulus to me. When’s the ribbon-cutting?

For continuing to fight the good fight and asking “Why Not?” with reckless, albeit well-counseled, abandon (see here), Fane Lozman is your 10kMan of the Week.

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10kMan Of The Week: KELLY SLATER

by 10kJuan on November 7, 2011

in 10kMen, Sports

You'd be smiling too if you had Kelly Slater's accolades.

You can do what you want, and make up your own rules. Why be a servant to the law, when you can be it’s master?

-Bodhi, “Point Break”

Ever since watching “Point Break” for the 1st time 20 years ago (and after each of the 523 viewings since), I’ve dreamed of being a surfer. It’s a pretty easy dream to realize, I admit. But I’ve never really given it priority (something I plan on correcting this summer in Brazil). Maybe it was the early hours I dreaded. Maybe South Florida wasn’t the best place to take it up. Or maybe, just maybe, I knew that no matter how good I got, or what kind of lifestyle it led to, I would never, ever, come close to being Kelly Slater, a first-ballot 10kMan Hall of Famer, and your latest 10kMan of the Week.

My only attempt at surfing in Sydney. Not my best day.

For those who follow surfing religiously, you already know the Florida native clinched his record 11th ASP World Championship earlier this week at the Rip Curl Pro Search in San Francisco. He’s the youngest (at age 20) to hold the surfing crown and, now, the oldest (age 39) surfer to earn the title. By continuing to pursue his passion and be the master of his trade at an age when many choose to settle and give up on their dreams, Slater is your 10kMan of the Week.

Having said that, these feats alone do not earn you a spot in the 10kMan Hall of Fame. While his Wiki page lists two decades worth of accomplishments while dominating his competition offshore, it’s his achievements on land that place him in the pantheon of 10kMen. I’m not talking about the 4-show stint on ‘Baywatch’ or his inclusion as a character in a ‘Tony Hawk’ video game. I’m referring, of course, to his roster of beach bunnies.

While the likes of Justin Timberlake, Ryan Reynolds and Derek Jeter keep him from dominating onshore like he does in the ocean, his set is downright sick. We can only imagine the kind of women he’s had that we’ve never heard of, but his celebrity hit list alone is the type of stuff that legends are made of. Dude flat-out rips.

In no particular order, here are the top 5:

Pamela Anderson

Before Tommy Lee too, showing Slater’s knack for being clutch applies to his personal life as well, for obvious reasons I will not point out at this time.

I imagine Pam isn’t the funnest person to watch a game with. Not that that’s the reason you’d date her.

Giselle Bündchen

Before Tom Brady, too. Dude is two steps ahead of the field at all times.

From? Brazil, of course.

Cameron Diaz

After Justin Timberlake, which to be honest, isn’t all that bad, as JT upped her profile. Gonna have to penalize him a bit since she’s age-appropriate, but Cameron is still worthy of commending.

Taking your date surfing if you’re Kelly Slater? Game, Set, Match.

Bar Rafaeli

After Leonardo Dicaprio. Right after, too. He denies it, but probably because he doesn’t want to be labeled as the King of Sloppy-Seconds. On a side note, you know you’re doing something right when you’re the rebound for Justin Timberlake and Leonardo Dicaprio’s girlfriends. And for the record, I’d take those two guys’ sloppy-seconds any day of the week. Just saying.

In lieu of a photo with Kelly Slater, I’m including a photo of her in surf attire.

Laetitia Casta

They shot this L’Oreal ad together. It’s unconfirmed, but… come on. Has this man given us any reason to doubt his prowess in and out of the water?

Once again, in lieu of a photo with Kelly, some surf attire. Sort of.

Hollywood actresses.

Sports Illustrated Swimsuit models.

Victoria’s Secret supermodels.

Playboy Centerfolds.

And all that surfing stuff, too. A lifetime’s worth of highlight reels. An American icon.

Kelly Slater… 10kMan.

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