I was the last one through baggage claim, taking my time, easing my transition back as much as possible. I turned the corner and one of the guards looked at me with a smirk, “you must be Chris….” My eyes turned forward to see my family, my niece, and dear friend Alia (this was a surprise) greeting me with big signs and big smiles. Over the drive home and the following week I talked more than usual, answering all the curious questions and trying to find an overall feeling or lesson learned from my trip before I had even had a moment to let it sink in. I ate Thanksgiving dinner. Sat by the fire. Took my dogs for walks in the woods. Met my nephew and godson. Drew pictures with my niece. Drank egg nog. Hugged my Grandmother. Saw people I hadn’t seen since high school. Enjoyed waking to the sounds of nature instead of honking horns. Layered clothes. Read books. Relaxed. Before long I was saying goodbye to another group of people, and those I had missed so much were once again teary eyed as my brother and I pulled out of the driveway to come back to Columbus.

My week home was great. It was what I needed, what I had longed for all those fleeting moments of saudade while I was away from home. What I had missed was people, and now on the flip side it’s been the same feeling. I’ve been back in Columbus for a week, moved in, settled in, had all of my meals at Northstar and tea at Stauf’s that I was craving so much during my absence. I feel as just now am I getting a sense of what it is that I experienced on this trip, what I’ve been able to take away, and what, unfortunately, I’ve had to leave behind. I feel that through writing over the past months I’ve developed to a point where I can at least hint at what I’ve been up to, and hopefully give some insight into what it was that I experienced in this other life. Hinting, though, is certainly the best I’ll be able to do in summing up my feelings about this life that I’ve left behind, and what it truly meant to me.

I could go on endlessly about specifics. About certain things that taught me a lesson here and a lesson there, but in the end I can loosely sum up my experiences in a few umbrellas. The obvious first is culture. My time wandering the streets of Brasil and Peru were some of my most valued. I would spend two hours talking with locals, making the progress of about a five minute conversation, but all the while they stayed interested, friendly, jovial. I learned what it is to be welcoming, to put stereotypes aside and get to know someone just for the sake of getting to know them. In Peru I met street vendors and mountain women perfectly content in their life. Certainly an example of the simplicity of happiness and contentment. They lived their history, were proud of where they came from, and eager to share it. Their joy, put on display by the vibrant colors of their attire, was as infectious as anything I’ve ever experienced.

My most spiritual moments have always come in the simple company of beauty. On my own I’ve never actively searched for a place to worship, to appreciate and reflect upon how much we’re given in this world, but there were too many moments to count where I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by such an amazing God. I remember the still waters of Paraty at five am and how my soul felt equally as calm, the moments on Machu Picchu where I sat along on a ledge, inches from danger, but never felt more at peace, or watching the sun set over Rio from a mountain in Niterôi and sharing a moment of perfection with my friends that were equally in awe. I know that having my church in the woods, or on a mountain or the still waters of an ocean isn’t enough in itself, but in these moments in paradise it was hard to wish for anything else.

Being in a city that feels like a ghost town compared to the liveliness of Rio is what has made my settling in here the hardest. I lived with four, partied with ten, met a hundred. To be back in a place where the friends I made have moved on, and I’ve become stagnant once again, will prove to be difficult. I can’t describe the thankfulness I have for meeting those I did in Brasil. The hospitality of the Brasilian students at my school made my time there smooth, and the genuine relationships forged with the other exchange students and those just passing through our apartment made my time more memorable than any other element. I was sad to leave not because I’m afraid I’ll never see them again (this will surely not be the case), but rather because never again will our times be like what we had. We were together, without cares or obligations, sucking the marrow out of every second in a country where we were all were explorers. We were planting our respective flags in the locations we had never laid our eyes upon, and possibly never will again. Every week there was someone new to meet, to get to know, to say our good-byes and watch them go on their way. I will see them in Europe. They will come here. But, there will always be a longing in my mind for this too short time we had together. I will miss them all with a strong nostalgia I’ve reserved for very few things that have come to pass in my life. Até mais.

Flickr General: http://www.flickr.com/photos/27958003@N06/

Flickr Specific Set: http://www.flickr.com/photos/27958003@N06/sets/72157611035800434/

Seeing all of my family for Christmas (dogs included), Cincinnati/Columbus/Cleveland/Chicago/NY friends all in one week, air conditioning, Benevolence Cafe and Northstar meals, good coffee & tea at Stauf’s, beers with flavor, not eating salgados everyday, non-life-threatening bus/taxi rides, my bike, living in Victorian Village, my Grandma’s Christmas log dessert, North Market popcorn/salsa/ice cream/Saturday morning markets, gallery hop, the Columbus Library, ShiSha lounge, peanut butter, freshly baked bread, Discovery/Travel/Food Network channels, my book collection, my bed, my design school, winter coats, Columbus community, not paying for printing my work, hot showers, my studio in Hopkins, Grandview movie theatre, being capable of casually talking with people on the street, the Wex shows (Department of Eagles in January!), good Indian food, not paying a fortune for laundry, cooking in a capable kitchen, my lime green comfy couch, Goodale park with fifty other dogs, frisbee football (may have to wait till spring for this one), getting started on my thesis, Mirror Lake frozen over, good speakers for my music, House of Music on High, reading magazines at Northstar on High.

Surely I’ve missed some, but this is what’s on my mind now. There are so many things I’ll miss about this place, but, that will wait till another day. Above things in mind make me anxious to get home, but no doubt the next six days will be filled with very strong, very mixed feelings about leaving this paradise.

Like a couple other of the islands in the state of Rio, Ilha Grande forbids cars and for the most part any motorized vehicle besides boats. The first morning we got up early, or at least as early as I could drag the others out of bed, and packed out things for a hike to the major beach of the island, Lopes Mendes. After about three hours through the woods and smaller beaches we arrived at the cloud covered seascape of Lopes Mendes. Anxious to get my sweat drenched clothes off, I finished setting my things down and ran to the ocean. I can safely say, even after a month of showers absent of hot water, that this was the coldest water I’ve ever submerged myself in. With large wave after large wave crashing on top of me I assumed that my body would get used to the temperature, but thirty minutes later I could feel my feet begin to get numb, and I decided it was time to battle the undertow and make my way back to the shore. We laid around for awhile before packing our things to head to the other side of the island where the water is calm and warmer due to its facing Brazil instead of the Atlantic. Two more hours of diving, snorkeling, eating, and watching the local stray dog chase monkeys up trees we hopped on a boat and made our way back.

One thing about the many beautiful places in Brazil is that people in Brazil are quite aware of how beautiful they are. They have no qualms about setting up shop in paradise and charging three times as much for everything as they would back in the city, so when we spent one-hundred and thirty reais on a meal for four of us the first night, it was no surprise that we were paying for the view and not the food. Although all the shops on the beach are named “King of…” something or another (shrimp, fish, moqueca, etc.), they were hardly such. The risotto was just rice, the calamari was rubber, and the tables and chair were plastic bar accessories courtesy of Brazil’s favorite beers. Bad dinner aside, we snuck in a few brigadeiros for dessert and headed back to rest up for the next day.

Parrot Peak is Ilha Grande’s second tallest peak, leveling off at a solid one kilometer straight up and six kilometers hiking from our hostel. Our books suggested a seven hour trip up and down, but since we were leaving at ten and needed to catch a boat back at four-thirty we put it into high gear from the get-go. Against our better judgement we went ahead with the hike even though we couldn’t see the peak through the clouds from the bottom. After two hours of hiking and not seeing much through the trees, we hoped the clouds had cleared, leaving us with a fantastic view of the island. But, with thirty minutes left we walked into a forest thick with clouds passing through. As we got to the base of the peak the clouds were thick, creating an amazingly shallow viewing distance. Great for photos here, but not so much once we continued to the top. At a point where, on a clear day, I could lean over the edge and see on thousand meters straight down to the ocean, I was able to see about thirty feet to some other stones below. After a long lunch and a few more photos we packed our bags and began to trek down. Making it in half the time it took us to go up, we were back at the hostel with an hour and a half to spare. Getting back on the boat, I once again passed out rather quickly. In no time we were back in Rio, and another mini-vacation was over. I’ve certainly been spoiled by having these amazing places at my fingertips…I’m sure I’ll be making many trips to Hocking Hills when I return home to soften the nostalgia.

Not knowing what to expect other than seeing what looked like a small mountain on an illustrated map, we arrived at the base of the mountain after about 45 minutes of driving. The view could’ve been pulled right out of my albums from Peru as the peaks shot straight up out of the ocean, only covered by trees and clouds at the very top. The cliffs were smooth and gradual as they made their way from sea level up hundreds of meters, appearing to not have a single plant on the entire slope. Our hike started as a path through the woods consisting of huge lopsided stones used for stairs. After maybe fifteen minutes we got to a clearing where the jungle ended and began the single, enormous rock that we were to scale began. Almost running up the steep slope, full of anticipation, the panorama got continually more impressive and beautiful as we climbed. On our left was a second mountain, slightly higher, that fell into the ocean in the same fashion as the one we were on. Behind us was a family of mountains that rose with the jungle into the clouds and leaving only their rocky peaks to ascend above them. To our right was one of the far villages of Niterói, then in the distance, if you looked close, you could see the faint outline of the most noticeable peak in Rio, Paõ de Açúcar.

Once we got to the top we stood in awe for a hour or so, continually switching back and forth between the endless horizon in front of us and the curious monkeys behind us. It took us about fifteen minutes of trying before we got one of the monkeys to climb onto our hands, and only for a brief second. They preferred just to nibble on my finger.

It was around four in the afternoon when Jente and Liana decided to go back down, but I convinced Patrick and Joca to stay up with me for another three hours so we could watch the sunset. In the meantime Joca and I managed to climb down the other, steeper side of the mountain, where we reached sea level again, and sat watching the waves crash upon the smooth face of the mountain. Climbing back up this face proved more difficult than getting down, and a few times we both lost our footing and slid down two or three meters to a point where we could get a good hold again. The pictures of this slope will certainly not do it justice.

Around seven the three of us settled down to watch as the clouds began to turn yellow, then pink, red, and purple as the sun retreated behind the shelter of the horizon. As the sun got smaller and smaller, there was a mutual feeling that this sunset was just for us…we had waited, hoping the clouds would clear, and it was worth it. By the time we got up, we were the only ones on the mountain, ready to brave the pitch black jungle trail back down to the bottom. The gallery had opened and closed just for us, and the artist featured had put on a display of unfathomable beauty and talent. We clapped together, gave thanks, and said goodbye to the sun till another day. This is what I came to Brazil for.

My day started yesterday with me composing an e-mail to my professor explaining my absence and the need for me to spend the majority of the day cooking if I was to pull off this one man Thanksgiving feast. After spending an hour or so browsing foodtv.com to confirm all of my recipes for dinner we were off to the supermarket around three. Living in a different city you really begin to notice the small things that are non-issues back home, i.e. finding food in a foreign supermarket. I’ve been here over three months now, but with my few trips to our local market, Pão De Açúcar, and the severe handicap of not knowing how to locate specific items due to their sometimes drastically different names in Portuguese, it’s very hard to get a good shopping groove going. I think I made seven laps around the market until I felt confident we had everything we needed for thanksgiving dinner (sans turkey), and we headed back so I could start the prep work and give myself almost a handful of hours to cook before our seven other guests arrived (totalling eleven).

Whether it’s been me, Joca, Cris or Maira, we’ve managed to collectively pull off some pretty amazing dinners in the confines of our very under stocked kitchen. Although all past meals went off without a hitch, this one proved to be quite a challenge for a kitchen that has the following handicaps: half-size oven, two of four burners not functioning, no microwave, one oven rack, no counter space, half-size fridge, insufficient numbers of pots, pans, knives, etc. etc. etc. After five hours of trying to organize dishes, coordinate cooking times, and multiplying the time that each dish needs to be in the oven by at least three (due to a three level cooking pyramid), we managed to sit down to eat around ten-thirty. Our plates were filled with homemade apple sausage stuffing, garlic green bean casserole, plum and pear relish, rosemary and garlic cream chicken breast, cinnamon crusted sweet potatoes with marshmallow sauce, blue cheese and pear salad, and garlic bread. Without turkey, cranberries, real sweet potatoes or pumpkin pie it still felt pretty distant from the real thing, but with great company and good food the spirit of Thanksgiving was in abundance.

I’m happy I was able to share one of our most loved holidays with those foreign to it, but most importantly for this year’s Thanksgiving I’m so thankful that I’ve realized the extent of what I have to be thankful for. Not only am I incredibly thankful for family, whom I love fiercely and miss enormously, but I’m thankful for my experiences here that have directed me in a way in which I’ve crossed paths with people from all over the globe, that have made me realize what I take for granted, that have given me a new spirit that will never tire of seeing new places, that have brought about new passions and in the end have altered my life and the way I live it in a way that is overwhelmingly for the better. I’m thankful for my school back home and the education and expectations that come with it. I’m thankful for the amazing friendships I’ve made here, as well as the ones I have waiting back home. I am thankful for Fall, a season I love and never knew how much I would long for. And I suppose lastly I’m thankful that you’re reading this. I’ve been humbled and amazed by the amount of interest in my writing and photography during my stay here. Many thanks to everyone.

As I’ve written about before, my most obvious new passion is just that, writing. Although the desire to document everything has lessened as time continues to pass, this is simply because my new experiences are slowly shifting into routine, making daily updates feel a bit redundant. Nevertheless, my most recent trip to Peru had my glued to my journal writing an up-to-the-minute account of all my new travels as I was experiencing them. I’ve found not only does this outlet provide a very good documentation of my time here to look back on at later times, but also a better understanding about how this trip has effected me. To write is to reflect on moments past in a way that goes beyond observation, and borders something more of an analysis. It’s helped me have a better appreciation for the time I spend here in Brazil, and more than anything it has made me really understand aspects of home that I have missed, and why exactly I miss them. I have no doubt that I’ll look back on my notes and remember the moments I’ve written about with a different appreciation when outside of Brazil. I’ll long for the time I spent in this beautiful country, and find that the nostalgia is all the stronger because of what I have written.

Always directly after I post a new journal I’ve been able to post pictures relating to the experiences discussed. Having pictures of my travels to appreciate now and in the future is something that I’ve become very addicted to. Already I look back on my pictures from Paraty and Peru and remember the moments vividly. Through seeing again what I saw in the past I am able to gain access to my other emotions at that time, and the feelings over time are only amplified. I see the beautiful beaches of Paraty and I remember the muted sounds of the early morning and the incredible stillness of the water, only briefly interrupted by a fisherman working knee-deep one hundred feet off the shore. I look at my pictures from Peru and I can hear the sounds of the festivals, the saturated colors of their garments, and I can literally feel the culture impacting me all over again. I remember walking through the Andes, seeing the sun peak over the tops of the impossibly tall mountains, the softened roar of the river when seen from 700 meters up, and the ancient history that occupied my every thought as I wandered the ruins of a people that existed in a world very different from the one that brought me to that place. These are the souvenirs that I’ll cherish most.

One thing that is impossible to do in Brazil is to not be at least intrigued by their national past-time: futebol. Soccer was never of much interest to me growing up, but on my first night in Rio I attended a Flamengo soccer game at their enormous stadium, Maracaná, and I was hooked. Over the past three months I’ve watched in awe as the games are played and cheered for with such passion. For many people in Brazil soccer isn’t a part of life, it is their life. My roommates and I can sit around the living room and not even have to watch the game to know who won. Every time there is a bad call, a good play, and especially when Flamengo scores a goal we hear a deafening roar outside as the entire neighborhood simultaneously cheers for their club. This hasn’t effected me enough to become a hooligan myself, but I have taken up juggling the ball as a cure for any moment of boredom. Often for hours on end by myself or with a couple roommates, we’ll kick the ball from the right foot to the left and then across to the next person. I’m beginning to wish I would’ve developed an interest in this sport much sooner.

Like never before, in Brazil I’ve become a compulsive news checker. It started as I was following the presidential race, but it has developed into something where every second I have free I briefly check CNN, BBC, or Time for up-to-the-minute news. In the States I feel pretty certain that if there is major news happening at home or abroad that it will find its way to me within a couple hours whether I check the news or not. Here, it’s different. I don’t watch the TV, and even if I did I would have a very hard time figuring out exactly what was going on thanks to the language barrier. So, if I want to find out, for example, that gunman in Mumbai, India have targeted some very high tourist areas and killed at least ten people (breaking news as of Wednesday at 4:42 my time), then I have to find out for myself. This in turn has caused me to be very much more informed about all news, something that’s not a bad thing to be. I’m sure that some of these new habits will fade here and there, dropping off or reappearing frequently when I get back home. Life is different, and as an obvious result so is the way I live it, but I’ve developed habits as well as ways of thinking and certain priorities that I hope stick with me for a long time. Luckily I’ll have things like this to remind me.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/27889608/

This is a bit south of where I live, but that just means that the drainage system is a bit better in Rio, making record rainfall a bit more tolerable. All day yesterday and today the TV has flashed shots of enormous mud slides blocking highways and floods ruining cities. Although the bulk of it is south, last week my entire street was a two-foot deep river carrying un-occupied cars down the street. I just want some sun so I can go to the beach!

Along with the above I’ve managed to spend a significant amount of time in the past month devouring new old books. Most of the books that I’ve devoted my time to over the past few years have, with the exception of a few, been very newly written books. Having somewhat been turned off from the classics by evil English Literature teachers in high school who for seem to not have a clue why a fifteen year old student wouldn’t want to spend every waking minute reading Shakespeare and Dickens (and consequently causing me to rebel against the entire idea of reading for pleasure during those years), I haven’t dove into many classics since. In the past weeks though I managed to get curious, and since have read 1984, Slaughterhouse-Five, A Catcher in the Rye, The Grapes of Wrath, and most recently Into Thin Air (not so old, or a classic, but very good). Although the first four have done a wonderful job of reinstating my trust in the more classic books, as well as realizing that not everything assigned in high school is bland, it is this last book that I am just now finishing that has resonated the most.

Into Thin Air tells the first-hand account of Jon Krakauer’s climb to the summit of Everest in the season of 1996, one of the deadliest seasons in the mountain’s history. He claims that he wrote the book so soon after the experience that claimed eight of his fellow climber’s lives in order to expunge the experience from his mind, hoping to gain solace from some of the decisions he made that, in retrospect, contributed to the death of his friends. Due to this passionate and personal perspective, his account is both historically informative and immensely gripping. Following Krakauer from his decision to climb from his home and steady job back in the states, through base camp and their grueling acclimatization weeks, up through camp three, and finally leaving on the night of May 9th, 1996 at 11pm to embark on their final five thousand foot push for the summit. His accounts are not solely in the reckless spirit of the adventurer, and he often blatantly questions the ridiculousness of taking on such a task as climbing the 29,000 ft. mountain (the average cruising altitude of a commercial jet). In the end, though, he manages to tell the story in a way that anyone with a bit of the same spirit is summoned to adventures of the same like. Although I don’t have $70,000 dollars to spare (average cost of an expert guide to the top), or the skill required, I continue to be inspired to take on adventures that will take me beyond the borders of this country and my own in search of new experiences and landscapes to cast my eager eyes upon.

Billy Pilgrim went into the living room, swinging the bottle like a dinner bell, turned on the television. He came slightly unstuck in time, saw the late movie backwards, then forwards again. It was a movie about American bombers in the Second World War and the gallant men who flew them. Seen backwards by Billy, the story went like this:

American planes, full of holes and wounded men and corpses took off backwards from an airfield in England. Over France, a few German fighter planes flew at them backwards, sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen. They did the same for wrecked American bombers on the ground, and those planes flew up backwards to join the formation.

The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The containers were stored neatly in racks. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck more fragments from the crewmen and planes. But there were still a few wounded Americans, though, and some of the bombers were in bad repair. Over France, through, German fighters came up again, made everything and everybody as good as new.

When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody again.

The American fliers turned in their uniforms, became high school kids. And Hitler turned into a baby, Billy Pilgrim supposed. That wasn’t in the movie. Billy was extrapolating. Everybody turned into a baby, and all humanity, without exception, conspired biologically to produce two perfect people named Adam and Eve, he supposed.

I don’t know why I’m so fond of this…but I suppose it’s because there’s an awful truth hidden in its fiction…makes you rethink our culture’s definition of progress.