And then a few days later, you remember it and know that you will remember it for the rest of your life?
Sunday was just such a day, as if Wes Anderson had written it for me.
Up again very early (5 am?), catching up on FIFA blogging.
By 9 am I had returned to the FIFA Ticketing Center at Shopping to replace a torn ticket.
Did you know that World Cup tickets have RFID chips in them?
Newly empowered after acquisition of a Brazilian SIM card a day earlier, we ventured to meet our soon-to-be-best-friend Sergio in Recife's city center.
We stand in the middle of Marco Zero square, which seems to be the univserally understood meeting place, the equivalent of the clock in the center of Grand Central Station. I await further instructions from Jason Bourne in my earpiece, but soon enough Sergio strides towards us, wearing a green cap with a red star, smiling broadly and playing a tambourine, his young son in tow.
Our tourist-aura rubs off on Sergio, and a random 12-year-old comes up and asks him for the tambourine. Unlike America where people ask only for money, (or perhaps food or a cigarette), it is perfectly normal in Brazil for people to ask for your possessions.
Sergio is like a cross between Mr. Rogers and Bill Clinton. We meet his sister and niece but there is no place to park their bikes, so they excuse themselves as we continue on foot. This seems perfectly normal to Brazilians, who have a totally different attitude than Americans about schedules and rendezvous (its own plural, apparently).
He brings us to a wonderful restaurant overlooking the water. It takes thirty minutes to get to the buffet line because he knows everyone in the restaurant, which he works like a rope line, and every minute is worth it. His son shows off extensively for us, and we find it adorable even if the wait-staff is less than enthused. Did they charge us full price for Francisco, who didn't eat a thing? I will go to my grave wondering.
After a wonderful meal, Sergio takes us to a nearby museum, which appears to be dedicated to Luiz Gonzaga, his music, and his native region. Best I can tell, Luiz Gonzaga is like Elvis, Liberace, Roy Rogers and Jackie Robinson all rolled into one. People speak of him with great reverence. We have fun learning about his music and the Sertao region. We even try our hand at playing drums and an accordion (hint, you have to press the keys to extend the bellows). Sergio tells us that to judge an accordion player, be sure to watch his left hand.
After this cultural dive, we walk to a local plaza where vendors sell things in carts (Sundays only, apparently). Sergio spots another man in a green cap with a red star and greets him enthusiastically in Portuguese, "Good day comrade!". I understand only some of the reply--"I am not a socialist..."--and Sergio translates the rest for me--"...it is only a souvenir." Sergio says his goodbyes, we take some photos of our new friend, and my family goes to shop among the streetcarts.
I visit the Kahal Zur Israel Synagogue, the oldest in the New World, now primarily a museum. I read the names of the congregants, which would be as recognizable today as they were 500 years ago. Moises. Jaacob, Eliau. I'm especially moved when I go upstairs to the reconstructed sanctuary. The walls are filled with prayers written on paper slips, as you'd see at the Western Wall. The docent, Diogo, points out that most are really wishes and not prayers. I write one myself and find a place for it. Each prayer crammed into the crevices secures the existing ones more tightly. "Even when the glass is full, there is always room for prayer," I think to myself. I'm moved in a way I don't expect. I mouth the words to Lekhah Dodi. Boi khalah boi khalah!
I step back out into the street, now nearly faded into dusk, to meet my family, resolved not to yell at the kids for at least an hour. We buy 5 bottles of water for R$10 and guzzle them down in the humidity.
We make our way to the FanFest venue on foot to watch the US-Portugal game. I eat a hot dog that is over-boiled and a bit spicy from a street vendor. The self-serve garnishes include potato sticks, peas and corn, beets, peppers, and eyelashes from Andrew Zimmern. No one else in my party is brave, stupid, or reckless enough to try it. My loving wife gently adds, "or hungry enough," which hopefully will not be the last words I ever hear.
FanFest wasn't really what we expected. Narrow and crowded, there really was little to see beyond the big screen and little to hear over the blaring speakers. But we resolved to find a good spot and wait an hour for the game to start. We danced and mingled, but mostly jostled and waited.
My kids really didn't like it. The coup d'grace was an old drunk trying to grab my son's hand clapper. I clamped him on the shoulder, shrieked, "That's my son," (In English), which had zero effect, and then starting yelling "'brigado, nao" which was the most forceful Portuguese I could muster in the heat of the moment. It means "No, thank you!" Since then, my kids have been laughing at me frequently, thinking about me yelling "No, thank you!" repeatedly to some drunk Brazilian as a way to tell him to leave my son alone.
But it was mostly like a night on Bourbon Street with soccer instead of Jazz.
"If I were 10 years older and drunk, it would be fun," says my daughter. My wife and I enjoyed it even though we are 20 years older than most people there. My kids want to leave at half-time. Splitting up doesn't seem like a good idea. It is crowded and smoky at times, but the crowd is jubilant when Jones equalizes and Dempsey scores the apparent game winner.
US snatches a gut-wrenching tie from the jaws of victory. We take a questionable taxi home (by which I mean he had to push it to back it up...in retrospect, he is probably lacking a reverse gear).
We collapse after an amazing day.
Boa noite!
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