Learning new rhythms

I want to express in words the quiet, the close air, the warm nights, the rhythm of laughter and music coming from the neighbors. I want to, with the melodic sounds of Portuguese, have you fall in love with this place through me. I want to paint the picture of blue skies, with white and then dark billowing clouds, which let go a soft rain that smells familiar and exotic at the same time. I want to cast everything in a warm yellow-green light of a heat that makes you move slow and think slow and smile slow, but smile deep.  That’s the romantic side of it. 

Life here, my life here, so far in the first week is very quiet.  Sometimes we play music, a lot of times we don’t, which is odd for me. Back home, it’s difficult to be at home without a TV on or the radio or the Internet. But here, the TV doesn’t work. The Internet is somewhat unreliable. And often there’s nothing I HAVE to do or nowhere I HAVE to be for hours and hours.  So the need to play music for all that time also dissipates. Sometimes when either my roommate or I are waiting for a ride, we sit in the same room in a comfortable silence, perforated by thoughts spoken out loud. “I wonder if Pastor is thinking he’ll take you to the Church Musical tonight after you get your phone,” one will say. “I thought about that,” says the other without alarm, “I guess I’ll see you later or not.” Silence again.  Like I said, it’s not awkward or uncomfortable, it’s merely the rhythm of life.

We do that quite a bit, my roommate and I, waiting. We are both used to quite the independent and full life in the states. It’s difficult and uncomfortable for us both to have to depend so heavily on others, mostly others we barely know. Unlike Blanche DuBois, neither of us is used to relying on the kindness of strangers and it’s exhausting and humbling at best.  It seems we need a Brazilian to do anything from get a cell phone or bed, to even ride the bus. I still haven’t attempted the bus. There seems to be no schedule or published routes so figuring it out on my own is not possible.  The line between being pushy and being  up-front about what you need is a fine one. It’s a constant dance of “I really, really need this, but whenever is convenient, but it is really important that I get this, even though it completely disrupts your life.”

So I’m working at becoming comfortable with being uncomfortable.  Whether I’m drenched from sweat or rain, or lost, or smiling at a beautiful brown face smiling back knowing we have things to say and neither of us has the correct words in the other’s language, or waiting, or hungry, or lonely.  Like a wave, I let it roll in and quite often knock me down. I try not to panic and wait till I can put my feet down on the shore and lift my head above water to catch another breath.  “It’s only Week One,” I remind myself. “Twenty-four to go.”