I called one of my dear friends early this afternoon and announced, "Every once and a while I have a moment that reminds me how different I am from everyone else." He laughed as I regaled him with the story of my first trip to the local Brazilian supermarket.
It all started when I was in the local American supermarket and discovered they no longer carried my favorite Brazilian coffee. As I wailed and bemoaned this grievous offense over the phone to my dear friend, he tried to convince me that one of the Cuban brands would suffice. There was one problem with this logic.
Once you've tried Brazilian coffee, you cannot go back.
Just the fact that he could not grasp this fact forced me to drive over to the Brazilian store. I've wanted to stop in since I first noticed it along the edge of the road, but time and--more recently--a fear of running into a certain South American have kept me from wandering the aisles in search of imported delicacies.
Today left me with no other option, and I scanned the parking lot for familiar vehicles and happily walked inside. The aisles were everything I imagined they would be--stocked with culinary delights I've tried both in Brazilian homes and in my South American travel. I gathered my treasures and made my way to the cash register where I was greeted by the shop owner and boldly responded with "hey" in Portuguese and a broad smile on my face.
She rattled off what was unintelligible Portuguese to me, and I confessed that I speak just a little of the language (because I've found that's the best way to get them to slow their speech so I can process the words). We ended up having a brief conversation in a garbled version of Spanish and Portuguese...where I learned Spanish, her amazement that I knew Portuguese words that only native speakers tend to know, my beautiful eyes and hair, and random comments about my purchases.
Their phone line was out, and I had no checks. (Really? They were willing to accept a check from me? A stranger?) I had to leave everything to find some cash. When I returned, she apologized repeatedly, and I reassured her (in Portuguese) that everything was fine. The entire exchange ended with some hand holding and hugs and a correction on my Portuguese.
And that, my friends, is what I love about Brazilians. As I finished my story over the phone, my dear friend laughed and reminded me that I am just a different breed. I like that thought, too.
It all started when I was in the local American supermarket and discovered they no longer carried my favorite Brazilian coffee. As I wailed and bemoaned this grievous offense over the phone to my dear friend, he tried to convince me that one of the Cuban brands would suffice. There was one problem with this logic.
Once you've tried Brazilian coffee, you cannot go back.
Just the fact that he could not grasp this fact forced me to drive over to the Brazilian store. I've wanted to stop in since I first noticed it along the edge of the road, but time and--more recently--a fear of running into a certain South American have kept me from wandering the aisles in search of imported delicacies.
Today left me with no other option, and I scanned the parking lot for familiar vehicles and happily walked inside. The aisles were everything I imagined they would be--stocked with culinary delights I've tried both in Brazilian homes and in my South American travel. I gathered my treasures and made my way to the cash register where I was greeted by the shop owner and boldly responded with "hey" in Portuguese and a broad smile on my face.
She rattled off what was unintelligible Portuguese to me, and I confessed that I speak just a little of the language (because I've found that's the best way to get them to slow their speech so I can process the words). We ended up having a brief conversation in a garbled version of Spanish and Portuguese...where I learned Spanish, her amazement that I knew Portuguese words that only native speakers tend to know, my beautiful eyes and hair, and random comments about my purchases.
Their phone line was out, and I had no checks. (Really? They were willing to accept a check from me? A stranger?) I had to leave everything to find some cash. When I returned, she apologized repeatedly, and I reassured her (in Portuguese) that everything was fine. The entire exchange ended with some hand holding and hugs and a correction on my Portuguese.
And that, my friends, is what I love about Brazilians. As I finished my story over the phone, my dear friend laughed and reminded me that I am just a different breed. I like that thought, too.
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