Friday, July 23, 2010

My Four "R's"

My goal at the beginning of this little adventure was to live one great story, and I have to say I’m a tad bit disappointed. Most of what I lived was just awkward situations that could be spun for a couple of cheap laughs. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve enjoyed every single minute of my time down here immensely. My dream was to do something important. I wanted to do something that would leave an impact on the people I met down here. I wanted, as corny as it sounds, to make a difference. Although I may not have done anything worth writing down, my experience did change me. I regained an appreciation for things that had once been important to me. These four things had slowly dissipated over the years until they were completely lost. These are my four R’s.

A major passion that was reignited during my time here in Brazil was reading. While endeavoring to live out a great story I couldn’t help but return to some of the classics that have inspired people for generations. One belief of mine that I believe was instilled in me by my father was a love of story. I’ve always loved to read. I think it was originally a way to stay up late. When a parent walks in and finds you reading at two in the morning what can they do? Ground you from reading? Eventually it became more than an excuse to stay up late. The characters, particularly in the classics, engrossed me especially the characters that faced insurmountable obstacles and trudged on. I can’t help but quote one of the greatest monologues in film history by a Mr. Samwise Gamgee after Frodo gives up hope.

Frodo: I can't do this, Sam.

Sam: I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.

Frodo: What are we holding onto, Sam?

Sam: That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo... and it's worth fighting for.

I am completely aware that it doesn’t get much cornier, but it’s characters like these that inspire. Reading constantly reintroduces attributes that are impossible to come by, but everyone desires. These attributes are necessary for someone to live a story worth retelling after they’re gone. So this is why I read. It’s a vision of what a great story could look like.

I used to run for the sole purpose of being in shape to play sports. Eventually it became something else. In all honesty it hast to become something else if you want to continue running after sports are done with. In Brazil I didn’t have much to do. Your options become limited when you don’t know the city and you don’t have a car. So I ran. I’d stopped running for sometime, but, with nothing else to do, I started back up here in Brazil. I’d forgotten how it felt. I started off running around three miles a day. It soon evolved into six to ten miles a day. I had no motive. I honestly don’t care about what I look like with my shirt off (Although it’s an added bonus let’s not kid ourselves). There is a new motivation for running. Deep down it was the reason I enjoyed the longer distances more than the short sprints in high school. Well that and the fact that I’m impossibly slow. Distance running is a different animal than sprints. In every distance race there comes a point when the runner is forced to make a decision. He hits the wall. His legs ache and his lungs are on fire. He smashes into a brick wall and has to choose whether to stop or not. For some reason, I’m betting on my dad, I love that moment in the run. My dad’s always said, “A man loves the grind.” In all honesty I do. I love the moment when I get to decide whether or not I can go on. So far I’ve never hit the point where I couldn’t convince myself to keep going. Running is a poetic metaphor for life I believe. Maybe that’s just too much time stuck inside my own head talking. I suppose there comes a time when things just look hopeless and the decision is yours. When stuff kicks your teeth in do you get up or stay down? I guess, for me, running is a daily reminder that characters worth their salt always get up.

I picked up writing again as well. I’m well aware this word doesn’t begin with the an ‘r’ but it’s got the sound. I’ve always loved to write, mostly short stories and beginnings of novels that will never be finished. No, these will never be able to be viewed by the public. I write as a means of expression not for people to see. I haven’t been just writing a blog here in Brazil either. Writing for me is a way to imagine a character that I want to be. I don’t mean physical attributes obviously. I mean those attributes that make a character who he is. The struggles he’s faced and persevered through. The triumphs he’s had and the failures that made him who he is. For me writing is a way to imagine where I want to be and then strive forward to be that character. Writing is a form of what is known as self-prophecy. Thank you fundamentals of communication. Yes mom and dad that’s what my college fund is going towards. Donald Miller put’s it best in his new book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. His contention is that the characteristics of people in the stories that we love to read are applicable in reality as well as in story.

The last ‘r’ is reuniting. I couldn’t think of a better word that begins with an ‘r’ for daily devotionals and the title wouldn’t work if it was three ‘r’s and a ‘d’. While viewing life with the lenses of attempting to live a great story I applied it to just about everything I saw. That includes while I was reading the Bible. One of my favorite preachers put it best when he said something to the effect of the Bible is not a road map for your life, but rather a great story about the glory of God. Reading the Bible like a story rather than a textbook reignited a passion for studying it that used to be there but burned out shortly after church camp. The Bible isn’t a good road map to life, but as far as revealing the glory of God through His ability to use what is wicked and wretched for the good of those who trust him is a fascinating read. No one likes to read a list of rules. Who doesn’t enjoy and epic tale? Reading the Bible like a story revealed just how outlandishly fantastic some of the things inside are.

So no, I didn’t do anything that dropped jaws. I didn’t jump in front of a bus saving a complete strangers life. I didn’t march into the Amazon and convert a nation of indigenous people. I didn’t stand in the streets of Campo Grande preaching in a different tongue and converting hundreds of people at once. When I leave here people might miss me for my charms, the laughs we had, or just the crazy American kid who taught us poker that one time. Most of them will forget my name by the next year, but I regained some essential parts of my life that I once life so I can’t say the trip wasn’t a success. In fact it might be more of a success than I had originally planned. I didn’t make a real difference in the lives of these people, but I suppose regretting that is the first step in doing something about it. I’m nineteen years old. I’ve got the rest of my life to do something worth mentioning in the future, but one thing this trip has taught me is that stories don’t just fall into your lap. They tease you from the other side of a large gap. Stories don’t come easy. Sometimes you have to jump for it and hope it turns out well. In the immortal words of my friend Chad, which I’m sure came from somewhere that I’m just not familiar with, “You gotta risk it to get the biscuit.” Maybe I didn’t doing anything spectacular, but if I’ve gained anything from this trip it was a bit of courage to go for it the next time an opportunity comes around. This may be my last post from Brazil, but here’s to hoping something will happen in the future that will be worth writing down. The blog will continue because I enjoy writing it and it’s an incentive to live deliberately. I’ll leave Brazil with this quote from Mark Twain, “Let us endeavor to live so that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry.”

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Of Chips and Millstones

Most people thought that my purpose here in Brazil was to help with the church. Some, like myself, thought that I came here to learn Portuguese, experience a different culture, and observe people from a different church background. As it turns out my only purpose here so far has been to corrupt the young people of the church in Campo Grande. I last week I received a call from one of my friends here in Brazil. He wanted to know if I wanted to play a game. I had no plans so I jumped at the chance to get out into the city. I asked, “ What kind of game.”

He replied, “Ogre.”

Now I had no idea what ogre was so, being an avid Sherlock Holmes fan (both the literary and the cinematic versions), I attempted to deduce what ogre could possibly be. I didn’t have many clues. It was around eight in the evening, already dark, and rather cold. Campo Grande, Brazil, gets one week of legitimate winter weather a year. I happen to be here during that week. When I say cold I mean it hit thirty-two degrees that night. The day before it was sunny and eighty. I don’t have any warm clothes. Through an intense session of concentration and reasoning I’d narrowed it down to a game that took place inside. I realize this wasn’t an impressive conclusion, but I’m not Sherlock Holmes. My friend arrived and we drove to his house to meet up with four young people from the church. We cleared the table in preparation for ogre. As my friend put two decks of cards and some poker chips in place of the plates he asked me, “Do you know how to play ogre?”

“You mean poker?”

“Ah, yes, poker!”

“Of course I know how to play poker?”

“Can you teach us?”

I’m still not sure what they would’ve done had I not been there because none of them actually knew anything about poker. Anyways, I began to teach these five, naive, innocent people the art of gambling in Portuguese. I realize speaking in Portuguese doesn’t justify the fact that I corrupted five people simultaneously, but it has to be better than corrupting people in English. I explained the different hands, which were better, and other things pertaining to the game. They asked if we were playing for money to which I promptly replied, “Absolutely not, I’ve done enough damage as it is.”

To make things worse the house we were playing at is used as a church on Sundays. The owner is the preacher. He walked and, upon seeing what was taking place said, “The church has been turned into a den of robbers.” He was laughing when he said it, but I got the feeling he was about to go braid himself a whip. That joke was for all my fellow bible nerds. The Brazilian people are incredibly kind until you get them behind the wheel of a car or playing soccer. It turns out it is the same with poker. They were vicious. I dealt the entire time and didn’t play. It would’ve been hilarious had my soul not been in peril.

After a couple hours of poker they wanted to play porco, which means pig in Portuguese. It’s a lot like spoons except when you lose one letter of the word porco is written on your arm. Once the word is entirely written you have to crawl on all fours and oink. I told them we played it with knives instead of spoons in the states, which was a lie, but they believed it and think we are all insane. Then I told them a story about how my entire family played a game of spoons. There were around thirty of us and I specifically remember my grandmother, Rita, wrestling on of my cousins for the last spoon. You better believe grandma wiped the floor with him. That was a true story, but the Brazilians didn’t believe it. Apparently playing a game with knives that would leave you fingerless is more believable than true stories about my family.

The night ended well past midnight and we all prepared to go home. As I was leaving they all thanked me for teaching them how to play poker. I was reminded of a verse found in Matthew 18:6. It says, “But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.” At least we didn’t play for money right? Well as I was getting into the car that was going to take be back to Zanatta’s house they asked if I knew how to play billiards. That millstone started to get heavy.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

We Laughed We cried, Vai Brasil Vai

Last Monday Brazil had its second round World Cup game against Chile. For those of you ignorant people who know nothing about the World Cup the second round is a win or go home situation or in Brazil’s case win or never reenter the country unless you have a death wish. Well Zanatta gave me two choices. I could go watch the game in a tranquil environment with him and his nephew at his nephew’s house, or I could watch the game at the Cidade do Cupo (City of the Cup). Well obviously I didn’t have much of a choice. I had to go to the Cidade do Cupo. It is a patch of field by a busy highway with street vendors, live bands, and two massive televisions for watching the game. I’ve been lucky enough to attend a few professional sporting events in my lifetime. I’ve seen football games, basketball games, and even a baseball game all at the professional level. Not a single one of them even comes close to the tension and excitement of the people at the Cidade do Cupo, and this was before the game even started. Just to give you an idea, the Brazilian presidential election is going down four months after the World Cup finishes. I’ve been watching the news to practice listening to Portuguese. I only found out because my teacher told me. There hasn’t been a single story on the presidential election, but I’ve seen several stories on what Kaka is doing at the present moment in South Africa and how Brazil measures up against the Netherlands. Legitimately, if you were to ask someone in Brazil who is running for president in a few months they would have no idea, but they could tell you what minute Kaka scored in the game before Chile. Trick question, they tied Portugal nil-nil. The World Cup absolutely engulfs every facet of a Brazilian’s life. It affects the economy, politics, and the morale of the entire country. My teacher said if Brazil doesn’t win the suicide rate goes up. I don’t think he was kidding. Well this is the environment I was thrust into during their last game against Chile. It was very crowded. I stood for two hours watching the game without being able to move. Brazil scored their first goal and some dude hugged me. I have no earthly idea who he was. I told him he needed to by me dinner first. He just stared. After that two other people punched me in the arm. I thought we were about to throw down, but apparently that’s just some form of good luck charm because it happened every time Brazil scored. As Brazil continued to advance, I moved closer to some ladies to see if I could celebrate the next goal with them. That last statement was purely fictional and was meant to only be humorous. That one goes out to you mom. Anyways, I continued to be hugged, punched, and slapped on the back by random strangers with tears in their eyes. One of the two people I came with showed me his arm after the second goal. He had goose bumps. Now I love the game of soccer, but seriously? Goose bumps? After an hour and a half of some impressive soccer the game ended with Brazil winning three to nothing over Chile. The fireworks didn’t stop until around three in the morning. The game ended at four in the afternoon. I went running today and somebody rolled down their window and shouted, “Brasil!!!” The game was three days ago. By the way while I was running I passed a woman power walking with a cigarette in her mouth. I told her, “ My dear that’s the definition of counterintuitive.” She stared just like the guy who still owes me dinner. They just don’t get me here in Brazil. Anyways, the sanity of the people here in Brazil hangs on the shoulders of twenty-three young men in South Africa. You know, if we told our players if they didn’t win we’d kill them we would be good too. For those of you who may never get to experience the insanity that is Brazilian soccer fans go to any professional sporting event and imagine that instead of the thousands of people shouting at touchdown the entire United States of America is shouting at the same time and you might have a fraction of what Brazilian fans are like. To sum up my time in the Cidade do Cupo, we laughed, we cried, and we shouted; Vai Brazil Vai!

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Culto

I learned this past Sunday that the people here in Brazil call church services cultos. If you’re like me when you heard this you may have immediately begun looking around for some form of synthetic drink that you would not be drinking. Jokes aside there is something so amazing and so different about the church here in Brazil. It’s not my first rodeo in a Latin American church. There were fifty or so people singing in fifty or so keys. Eight of which, I have never heard in my entire life, but they sang with heart. There were tears, raised hands, and genuine emotion, not the kind that some people do for show. When you get to walk into a church where everybody knows your name (yes older folks, that was a reference to a classic television show). I sat through a service in a different language. I couldn’t understand the songs nor the preacher yet I still walked away with my heart uplifted and a greater sense of who God is and how his people, when they live in community, can make a difference in the lives of the people who walk through the door. The members of this church truly care about each other. Everything I’ve done here in Brazil has been with members of the church. They get together to play soccer. They go to movies. They serve their community for neither service hours nor bragging rights, but rather to be together and spread the gospel. Everyone hangs out, and I mean everyone. I rode in a van on the way back from church to Zanatta’s house. The entire van was laughing and joking from the youngest child to the old woman (the same one who knows how to cut a rug from the party). Everywhere they go they represent what the church could be. I want to borrow a quote from my favorite preacher Matt Chandler. Essentially what he says is, “In the beginning the church a small movement that affected every facet of human society. Now it is a very large movement that is basically impotent.” I completely agree with Mr. Chandler as far as the American church goes, but I don’t think he’s been down in Campo Grande and seen the church here. Whenever I meet someone here they ask, “You are a brother?” they mean a brother in Christ. They are one large family, and they see anyone who is a Christian around the world as part of that family. Don’t here me say that they don’t treat other people who aren’t part of the church with love and compassion. Zanatta alone can’t walk five steps outside his door without people shouting a greeting to him. I understand that I am a nineteen-year-old kid who may be naïve. I am not an expert on what the church is or what it does these days, but I have been going to church for sometime now. What I do know is that this church has made a difference in my life without me being able to understand them. Yes, they may call their services cultos, which has an obvious negative connotation, but the influence of this church on its community that I’ve seen in these few days here in Brazil leaves no doubt that Christ is moving in this place.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Once More Into the Breach Dear Friends, Once More

Unless you’re unequivocally ignorant you know that in Brazil soccer is kind of a big deal. They eat and breathe futbol on a daily basis. A young man named Eduardo told me that during the World Cup soccer becomes even more important to the Brazilian existence. Well, I was honored by some of the residents of Campo Grande with an invite to participate in their soccer league. I showed up dressed in an old football workout shirt raring to go. Sadly my soccer cleats were too long and the owner of the fields would not let me wear them. So I slipped on some old tennis shoes and attempted to understand what the other players were telling me. Some of you may know I played soccer for around eleven years, but that was when I was a child. Trust me, what minor skills I had have been lost for eternity. Regardless, I promised myself I wouldn’t turn down any opportunity. There were three teams of seven. Winners got to rest between rounds. Losers had to stay on for one more half. My team sat out the first round. I watched the Brazilians and attempted to measure myself against them. The odds were against me. The referee blew the whistle and I jogged out onto the field, taking my place where they told me to, out of the way on the right wing. Each round lasted twenty minutes. It was an absolute battle. We played at full speed the entire round, twenty minutes of absolute fury. By the grace of the Almighty God I held my own. I set up some opportunities for goals, had a couple of assists, and even made a few steals. I will say it’s pretty tough to get the ball from your teammates when you can’t even call for the ball, but we managed. The referee blew the whistle and my entire team collapsed except myself. Apparently I was in better shape then the rest of my team. Don’t get me wrong I was exhausted, but not to the point of gasping for air on the ground. Sadly, my team lost so we had to play another round. It was the same story; except I took a decent shot this round and the crowd went wild. It felt like I was that kid coming in dead last in a race. I mean back of the pack by a good half-mile kind of feeling. It was a pity cheer, but I take what I can get. We lost again because my team was obviously the won that enjoyed their churrasco (Brazilian barbeque) more. We played for two and a half hours. More than a full game of soccer for those of you who don’t know. I was extremely tired and ready to go home and sleep for days. The Eduardo, my ride, told me it was time for the, “Segundo jogo com os irmaos da igresia.” My Portuguese is at the level of a two year old at best but roughly translated, “Second game with the brothers of the church.” “Once more into the breach dear friends, once more”, I thought to myself. No, I’m not joking. We hopped in the car and drove to a different field made of turf. Although less competitive because of the lack of skill it still maintained the level of intensity. I played a total of four hours of soccer that day. Around two games with maybe forty minutes of rest spread throughout the day. It was a new level of exhaustion. Still my futbol buddies complimented me on the way I played. I said, “Don’t patronize me.” They looked confused. They also said I looked much less tired than they did. I knew it was my typical male ego trying to save face, but I thanked them all the same. My vision was blurred and my head was fuzzy, but I understood that they wanted me to play with them every Saturday. My answer, of course, was absolutely.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Folsom Prison Festa

I heard the door bell ringing. It was time to go. My friend Timoteo had come to give me a ride to a birthday party his band was playing at. I'm not going to lie, I was a tad bit nervous. I didn't know what to expect.I mean, don't get me wrong, I am a crazy party animal. For those who know me, they know I can't even type that with a straight face. I am an introvert to the extreme. I opened the door to find Timoteo, his guitar player Lucas, another man I'm going to affectionately refer to as drummer dude, and a 65' bug. Timoteo told me it was a classic. I thought it was a slow moving metal death trap. All five of us crammed into the little bug. Drummer dude spoke some spanish so we got along quite well. It is weird that I never asked his name. We arrived at a large house to set for their show. Outside the gate there was a guard who came and looked in our car. He then pressed a button that lifted a large iron wrought gate so that we could drive in. The walls were ten feet high with two feet of electric fence on top of that. I knew I would be the only one there who could speak english. I contemplated an escape route. My plan, had it been carried out, would've made Jason Bourne look like a rookie. I was going to pole vault over the twelve foot fence. There were only two limitations to the first plan: one, I didn't have a long pole with which to vault, two, I never actually learned how to pole vault. How hard could it be? Have you ever visited a friend in a different city? You know how awkward it is when you go to a party with them to meet all his friends? Well this was kind of like that on steroids. Not only did I not know anyone, but I also couldn't communicate with them due to obvious limitations. All I could do was sit and stare. We arrived at 8:15 so that the band could set up. People didn't arrive until nine. I sat and watch the hostess place bowls of apples floating in water. I thought to myself, "Alright, I can bob for some apples." Then she lit several candles and set them floating in the bowls. Then I thought to myself, "What an intense game of bobbing for apples." Sadly, no one attempted the feat. People arrived and the band started playing. I sat alone until two ladies around my age came and sat next to me. They introduced themselves and we began chatting. Yes, I said chatting. My portuguese has improved to the point where I can hold a decent conversation with some people. We discussed school, future plans, and how difficult Portuguese is. Their names were Larissa and Jessica, and we had a wonderful time. After the band stopped playing they came down and sat with us. We ate. We laughed. What was once a place I was devising suicidal escape plans had now become a place of, dare I say, merriment? We discussed music and what American bands they liked. The lead singer of the band had to have been around 25. He told me his favorites were Metallica and Justin Bieber. You should just stew over that for a moment. Their favorites ranged from Beyonce to Lady Gaga. It wasn't much of a stretch. How sad is it that the only music they know from America is all terrible. The air was wrought with cheap wine (I don't actually know if it was cheap it just sounds good as far as writing goes). The beer, wine, and other assorted drinks flowed like that waters of falls iguazu. Sorry to disappoint my friends, but no I didn't have any. The band got up and played some more. As the evening progressed more and more people began to dance. It was hysterical. One such woman had to be in her sixties, but I'll give it to her. She could move to the rhythm. The party, or festa, lasted until 2:00 am. I arrived home around 2:30 to find Zanatta and Leila still up watching television. I felt bad because I thought they were waiting up for me. They continued to watch for another hour. At least I think so; I was asleep before they stopped. I didn't feel so bad after that. Te night began with me dreading the unavoidable awkward situation I was going to be thrust in, but it ended with several new friends, better portuguese, and some images of elderly woman moving and grooving.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Out of the Silent Slumber

I left the glorious country of the United States of America at 8:30 p.m. on June 14. Originally I was supposed to leave at 7:50, but they stewardess said they forgot to clean the plane, and we were delayed for forty minutes. Yes, they simply forgot to clean, and we were forced to wait as they tidies up. The plan, according to my itinerary, was to arrive in Sao Paulo, hop on a bus for and hour and a half, and then jump on a plane at 1 p.m. to my final destination Campo Grande. However, if there's one thing that I've learned from my limited experience as an international traveler it's that nothing ever goes to plan. I have been blessed by God with a rare talent to sleep wherever, whenever, and in whatever situation i may be presented with. Utilizing this innate ability, I watched a couple movies on the plane and then slept the rest of the night. I woke up to a food cart smashing into my elbow. It was quite painful, but I didn't blame the stewardess she was up late cleaning. I enjoyed a rather stale croissant that came from the cart that struck my poor elbow. When I say enjoy, I mean I forced it down my throat because I knew that I wouldn't be eating for quite a while. About an hour later the pilot came on the PA and announced in the most monotone voice I may have ever heard that there was too much fog on the ground and we would have to circle the runway for 40 minutes and wait for it to clear up. I'm not sure if it was the monotone voice, my innate ability to sleep anywhere and anytime, or a combination of the two, but I decided to sleep for the duration of the rest of the flight. I glanced at my ipod to check the time. It was 9:00 when we began to circle. Even with the fog delay and the hour and a half bus ride I had no doubt that I could make my flight at one. I was thrust abruptly back into consciousness by the screeching of tires against pavement as the plane landed back on the ground. I glanced again at the clock. It was 10:30. I still believed I was doing alright on time, depending on how bad customs was. The same dreary voice came on the loudspeaker. "Ladies and gentlemen it's about 10:30 in the morning. We are taxiing up to the gate as we speak. Thanks for flying American Airlines and welcome to Rio de Janeiro." My heart dropped a couple feet into my bowels at that moment. I was supposed to be in Sao Paulo, not Rio. Apparently, I'd slept through an announcement that enlightened the rest of the plane that the fog was not clearing up and we had to land in Rio de Janeiro. We were delayed there for a couple hours. My hopes of making my flight home were dashed against the rocks. I was lost abroad. We took off again and went back to Sao Paulo. I ran through the airport desperately trying to make it through customs so that I could find another flight into Campo. Luckily they were waiting to give us vouchers for another flight right in front of customs. Unluckily those who were staying in Sao Paulo, which was basically the rest of the plane, went ahead to get in line. With a voucher in my hand and three people behind me in a line of people that had just recently filled a large plane, I waited in the queue with little hope. My flight was in less than an hour. They asked me no questions at the counter and I sprinted away to get my checked bag. I grabbed it from a pile of backs that had been knocked off the conveyor belt and Jetted off to recheck in. The line was, yet again, excessively long. Yet a still small voice rose above the roar of the crowd. "Campo Grande?" A young employee of TAM airlines pushed me to the front of the line. I check my bag and rushed off to security. I easily flew through and found my gate. I arrived as the last people were boarding. I sate down in my seat and realized a flaw in my stroke of luck. The family waiting for me in Campo had no idea that i would be arriving at 4:00 rather than 1:40. When we touched down I met a girl from the states who spoke Portuguese and had a Brazilian boyfriend with a cell phone. We called the family and they translated for me because the family that I'm staying with doesn't speak English. They were on their way to pick me up. I sat in the airports one restaurant shouting at the television with 50 other people as we watched Brazil go on and defeat North Korea in a 2 to 1 victory. Its nearly 5 hours later and the celebration in the streets have yet to stop. I suppose I can take one thing away from this panic ensuing, traveler's experience. I will never again go back to sleep if there is fog on the ground.

Starting Out

Those who know me understand that I am absolutely obsessed with the idea of story. I firmly believe that everything important that I've ever learned in my entire life was in the form of a story. Stories have always been a passion of mine whether it be writing a mediocre tale that no one will ever read for fear of embarrassment, enjoying masterfully written novel that grips me by the throat and doesn't let go until the last page, or simply listening to simple anecdotes from friends and family. This summer I"m spending seven weeks by myself in Brazil. I'll be living with a family that speaks almost no English. I know even less Portuguese. I'm a nineteen year old college student who is in way over his head. I've decided to devote these few weeks to living out one great story. This blog is devoted to documenting my experiences as they come. Several stories may come out of this experience, but I want just one that leaves people with their jaws dropped in disbelief. This story may be funny, scary, spiritual, or any combination thereof. Come what my, this is my pledge: that I will not shy away from any experience because, hey, it'll make a great story.