Até Próxima (Until Next Time)

I won’t be able to celebrate the holidays with my family this year—that will have to wait until 2011. In the meantime, I’m dedicating this next chapter to my parents. Merry early Christmas, folks!

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My parents are finally taking their long-delayed trip to Brazil. They’re leaving in about a week. This time, I think they’ll make it: Last year’s consulate conundrums are over and done, tickets and itinerary are declared and in-hand, and all that’s left is to pack the presents, the prescriptions, and the flip-flops, and get themselves and their stuff on that outbound plane.

Amidst early winter storms and bracing cold winds, in a house huddled under fourteen inches of snow, Mom is trying to imagine what to bring along to the second-warmest city in Brazil on the second-hottest month of the year, swooning at her sister-in-law’s insistence that the past few weeks have been exceptionally sweltering, even by Natal standards.

In a few days, she’ll sit before her suitcase, still not quite ready to fill it; a short time after that, she’ll sit before it again, more than ready to empty it. Ten years in the making, the trip itself is straightforward: Nod off in Atlanta, yawn awake in Rio, then a sleepy slip up north into the open arms of a família. Still, it’s not been easy.

Though the end result will bring gratitude and great joy, like childbirth, there’s pain in the process. Desire is pulling Mom forward and travel-prep tasks push her from behind, but there’s a shadow mixed in with sunny anticipation and last-minute planning. It will not be like it was in the past. My avó, the woman Mom thought of as best friend, counselor, and confidant, passed away several years ago—that was the occasion of my mother’s last trip to Brazil, to say goodbye. When she returns there now, she will to face that absence.

I am blessed to not have to have faced that loss and I can only imagine how it feels. In the meantime, her siblings have seen the city and the family grow and change around that gap, folding and dulling its edges with time. But Mom will bump up against those edges, and no matter what anyone says, at first they will be sharp.

Mom, Dad, Avó (Grandmother), Avô (Grandfather)

But ultimately, those edges will soften—eventually, it will be alright. With my mom’s return, Vóvó’s sons and daughters will have a piece of their mother back again; the rest of her will arrive through their conversations, their remembrances, their laughter and tears: Saudades. Mãe will fly overnight for a few thousand miles and land in Natal exhausted, travel-worn, tearful, and happy. Vóvó will arrive in a gust of cheerful chatter, with shining eyes, rich chocolate-brown hair, wisdom, and grace. Her children will remember her, seeing Mom, and exclaim, “You look just like her!” And it will be as if neither of them had ever left.

There will be plenty to of others to fill that gap, too:  Nieces, nephews, grand-nieces, grand-nephews; cousins, second cousins, third cousins, cousins-removed; babies and more babies; old neighbors, teachers, friends and friends of friends. Mom will have her arms full, again and again, every day that she is there. Everyone will be talking at once, blurting and interrupting and teasing, their convivial clamor lasting long into the night. The neighbors may complain, but then they’ll come over and join in. Dad will nod and smile as Mom weeps for joy repeatedly.

It sounds positively smothering—sodden with emotions—saturated—exquisite. I hope they take lots of pictures. I hope Mom succeeds where I failed and gets photos of entire families all crowded together, faces peeking around elbows and arms around each other’s shoulders. I hope they take every chance to enjoy everything good. I hope they eat too much and sleep in too late. I hope they spend too much time in the sun, kicking the sand and holding hands. I hope they get to enter the army base as Dad’s been dreaming to do, reaching the very spot where he lived and worked.

I hope Mom remembers enough Portuguese to tease my Dad without him knowing it. I hope he’s patient with her for it—or at least gives as good as he gets. I hope they are, from time to time, left without words—revisiting the past and places full of memories, moved to the point of silence.

Mãe e Pai

I hope Mom calls me often while she’s there and goes on and on and on describing far too many details of everything that’s happening. I hope she meets so many smiling relatives and old friends and relatives of relatives and friends of friends that she loses track of all their names. I hope she tries to tell me their names and insists that I met them too and that I should remember who they are and gets slightly miffed when I insist I don’t. I hope they travel safely and come back with suitcases packed with too many souvenirs. I hope I never hear the end of it.

Our family’s own Natal celebration will be um pouco tarde, to give them time to return to the chilly Pacific Northwest. They’ll touch base back in Spokane on New Year’s Day and I’ll be there not long after that. We’ll all pile together in the living room mid-January around a shamelessly belated Christmas tree and share and share and never shut up. Dad will laugh loudly and Mom will cry a river. I’ll pass her the box of Kleenex if there’s any left after I’m through with it.

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Addendum…

I started this blog and my own trip to Natal with a photo in mind, the one shown below. I’ve had this photo since last February—unfortunately, I wasn’t able to post it at the moment that I captured it, as I’d planned. But now seems like the right time.

Tia Dinha and Me

(The art looks nice and Dinha is so pleased; I hesitate to warn her that art placed too near the bright sunlight of her balcony will fade more quickly—it already has, slightly. But this is Natal, and who can escape the sun? They should post the Tan Law at all borders: Be browned or fade away!)

I’m so glad I was able to be there in person, to see Dinha’s big smile and embrace her round shoulders. Mom and Dad are next, and I can’t wait to hear about it. I expect another photo like this will come soon after—it’s about time, too. I hope that soon after that, the photo will feature all four of us—or forty, if my cousins drop in for a visit.

World Cup 2014 is just around the corner, Mom reminds me. Time to start looking for cheap flights.

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Beijos,
Andrea

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© Andrea Bonifacio and Sondo Saudade 2009-2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrea Bonifacio and Sondo Saudade with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Três Tias – A Three-Aunt Portrait

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This week in New York, a recalcitrant spring is being bullied off by boisterous summer winds. The changing seasons bring with them more heat, but Natal has no such excuse–the heat never departs, and summer never really ends.

Today I’m thinking of my family, and three aunts in particular. Fique muito feliz quando visitei três tias: Linda, Leda, e Dinha.

Três Tias Queridas

I was so happy to meet these women, to be welcomed into their homes and conversations. They all said “You look just like Penhoca—you are just like her!” Sometimes I felt the same way about them.

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Leda

.Tia Leda was my hostess for most of the time I was in Natal. She and my uncle, Tio Nivaldo, live in a beautiful home with cream-colored walls and coffee-colored trim, dark wooden shutters and a private pool, multiple hammocks and thick, high walls topped with an electric fence. Leda is kind and petite, with a lolling, gravely voice that’s deeper and louder than one would expect from a woman so small. Calling out to rouse Tio from some far room of the house, her voice roars like uma leoa avó (a granny lioness).

"Leoa, Voz Alta" by Andrea Bonifacio

Leda spoke quickly and said many things to me that I didn’t understand. All our conversations were challenging for me—at times even frustrating—especially in the first week (she was the queen of “Viu?”). She made often plans for things for us to do which I didn’t comprehend until they were actually happening, but they were always good: Pôr do Sol at Rio Potengí, and the Northeastern-style restaurant Mangai. She was very patient with me and very generous.

Leda has a calm, moderated nature, yet great energy—she took me with her to shuttle grandkids to and from their respective schools, to taste Brazilian fruits and buy vegetables for my “American salad” at a produce store, and to stroll the paved paths of the Parque das Dunas. She drove confidently in her black mini-SUV, batting the horn with the side of a loose-gripped fist to warn other motorists of her approach. I never thought of her age except those times when she dozed off in her chair at family gatherings, quietly resting amidst the nonstop chatter.

One night, as we prepared to leave for a churrasco, she asked me to help her with her makeup, handing me a container of purple eyeshadow and blinking patiently as I dabbed it on the thin, wrinkled skin of her eyelids. The next day was Sunday—not the usual laundry day, but I needed to wash some clothes before packing for my flight out. She washed them for me by hand, soaking, scrubbing, and hanging them to dry on the crisscrossed lines in the courtyard behind the kitchen. My last night there, as I winnowed out a few things from my suitcases, I gave her a pair black floral flip-flops I no longer needed; she cooed and slipped them on delightedly, then danced all around the dining room. It was 1 a.m.

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Dinha

Tia is my godmother and the mother of my first memory. She is the mistress of the famous torta de abacaxi, of which I will be eternally in awe, and another famous dish made with bacalhau that, sadly, I did not have time to taste. She has a dry, somewhat crackly voice, and I found it quite easy to understand and talk to her. Mom says this is probably because her vocabulary and manner of speaking are simpler, not having been influenced by years of higher education. She lives plainly and speaks plainly.

"Leoa, Voz Alegre" by Andrea Bonifacio

Dinha is emotional, joyful, and fun-loving. She has a big smile and crinkly caramel skin, the result of years of many, many days in the sun. She dances and laughs easily and cooks and enjoys good food, and when it’s hot she flutters out the hem of her blouse to cool her skin. She has a hammock—who doesn’t?—hanging from her balcony, a peaceful perch just big enough to fit her short, plump frame; she shares this airy space with her pet canary, Obama. He doesn’t sing much yet, she says, but her brother tells her he will sing more once he’s grown in all his new feathers.

I enjoy Tia Dinha. “Aunt” sounds too formal and “friend” too simple;  I imagine that if I had grown up in Brazil, Dinha would have been my pal. She and my mother are great friends; we would call my mom from her apartment to give her the latest news of the family and my trip. They would both talk to me at the same time, Mom telling me things to tell Tia, me mistranslating, Tia telling me things to tell Mom, me mistranslating, me finally handing the phone over to Tia in weariness, she pouring me another vizinho, me sipping in relief, she resuming her endless chatter with Mom … and so on.

She treated me to trips to marketplaces to shop for artesanais (handmade souvenirs), including one in a building that used to be a prison: Each cell holds a different shop. It was hilarious to go shopping with her: Before we went into the market, she would slyly tell me [paraphrased], “Now, if you see something you like, you can bargain, but it’s better if you don’t say anything. If they see you are a tourist, they will charge more. Let me do the talking.” Then she would enter the shop, glance at the wares with an appraising eye, scoff visibly at a few price tags, and abruptly begin “bargaining” with the shopkeeper: “This is so expensive! Can’t you make a better price? I don’t believe it, it’s too much… After all, I’m not a tourist, I live here! I was born here. These prices are for tourists, not for us locals. That’s true, eh? You and I know that, right? Viu? And this, this is my niece—she’s visiting from America, isn’t she pretty? So… how much is this, really?”

Unsurprisingly, the prices rarely changed.

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Linda

Tia Linda is the wife of my mother’s brother, Aluizio. Truth be told, I do not remember Linda from my childhood trips to Brazil so much as my uncle and my cousins, most distinctly Marcelo and Ana Elizabeth (Bete). From those trips, my memories are of Tio Aluizio’s sleepy smile and relaxed drawl after a big meal, Bete with the bright face of an equatorial Sophia Loren, and Marcelo bossing the servants around in a petulant, small-boy voice.

"Leoa, Voz Suave" by Andrea Bonifacio

But Tia Linda quickly became another of my favorites, due in part because she’s technologically savvy with email and social networking sites. She also takes initiative and reaches out to me regularly, never letting much time go by without sending me a quick note. She helped me to plan my trip with names, email addresses, and phone numbers of other family members, and discussed with me ideas about where I could go and whom I could visit. She helped me prepare in other ways, too, loaning me a broad-brimmed hat and a white, long-sleeved shirt to guard against the intense sun of the Carnival beach trip and the bugry ride.

Linda is warm and easygoing, and has a voice that always sounds glad; I loved hearing her speak the first time I called her on Skype. She leads, helps, and encourages her family; Bete has inherited this nature from her. Like my mother, she grew up as sternly Catholic as the rest of the clan, but she believes outside that box and speaks about faith with refreshing confidence. She’s as good a cook as any of them, with her own specialities: One day she made me a lovely lunch of roasted white fish, salad, and a creamy custard pudding with a sweet caramel bottom, like flan.

Linda’s home, open and comfortable, is an ever-turning hub of visitors coming and going, a focal point for family gatherings large and small; it is attached to the family business, a pousada whose inhabitants rotate in and out at different rates. In the cool of the evening, she and Tio—and Dinha as well, and anyone else who’s stopped for a visit—grab a few chairs and sit out on the front sidewalk, chatting and relaxing. It reminds me of the Greek and Hispanic families in Astoria in summertime, with the exception of one thing: Tia’s houseboy/guard, who sits with them, quiet and watchful, to warn off suspicious-looking passers-by.

Their hammock crosses the main hallway, sharing an alcove with two caged songbirds; it catches a refreshing breeze that passes through from the front gate to the living room. One afternoon I took a siesta there, and she stood nearby and gently rocked me back and forth as we talked.

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Estou com saudades para todas. “Eu peço-vos com insistência que continuem a orar por mim, para que possa ir ter convosco o mais breve possível.” (“And especially pray that I will be able to come back to you soon.”  –Heb 13:19).

Beijos,
Andrea

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"Tão Tanto Tias" by Andrea Bonifacio

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© Andrea Bonifacio and Sondo Saudade 2009-2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrea Bonifacio and Sondo Saudade with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.