The Apartment

I arrived in Santa Cruz do Sul, Brazil, on a hot, humid afternoon two weeks ago, exhausted from 23 hours of traveling, a hellish experience with immigration in Rio de Janeiro, and nothing but airplane food roiling in my stomach. Ricardo, the owner of the school I'm working for, was waiting for me at the airport in Porto Allegre. After we loaded my bags into the van, seemingly twice as heavy as they were when I left the house the previous morning, we made the two-hour drive to Santa Cruz, my home for the next ten months.

After months of grey snow and skeletal trees, it was amazing to see so much lush green whizzing by, trees bursting with pink and orange flowers, overly ripe fruit dripping off the branches. The houses are colorful here: turquoise, key lime green, apricot, candy pink. Dryers aren't used in Brazil because of the high cost of electricity, so every house had a line of clothes waving hello as we made our way around winding roads at a speed of what felt like 90 mph. Ricardo leaned over and quietly confided in me, "Brazilians are known for being rather careless drivers," as we turned a corner on two wheels and dodged a motorbike.

We arrived in Santa Cruz do Sul in one piece (no motorbikes were harmed in this story). The homes are like Beverly Hills mansions with gated entrances, manicured lawns, pools, and watchdogs. This is not the Brazil many of us have heard about.

The apartment complex I'm living in is called São Lucas, a white stucco building on the main street, just minutes from downtown and the beautiful Catedral de São João Batista. I'm on the 9th floor in a two-level apartment. My roommate, Ursula, has the lower level bedroom while I have the upper-level one. We each have our own bathrooms and balconies, with a view overlooking the city and mountains in the horizon. I also have a view of the neighbor's pool (note to self: befriend them).

So here I am, in my new home, stomping out cockroaches with aplomb and hanging my underpants off the balcony like a true Brazilian.