Day 6 cont. or Bem-Vindo a Iuna

Notes on Day 6, June 24th continued.

I did not have to wait long at the bus station in Ibatiba for Rodrigo and Rachel to come rescue me, which was good because it was hot as dog balls. One of Rodrigo's 1800 cousins drove us. He is known only by the name of Bocao (pronounced Bokown), which means Big Mouth, because, well...he has a really big mouth, not because he talks alot. I feel for him because I think it would be like someone picking my very worst body feature and then nicknaming me that. I imagine someone calling me, "Hey Saddlebags, what up?" or "Let's go pick up Droopyboobs!" You would always be reminded. I secretly pity the guy.

The ride to Iuna was not long, maybe about 20km, but it revealed a glimpse of the promising terrain I was now in. Orderly rows of coffee bushes draped the hillsides, leading up to patches of Mata Atlantica (Atlantic rain forest) on the mountain peaks and troughs. A high green land where you think everything must grow and I couldn't wait to explore it.

I didn't see much of Iuna since we went straight to Rodrigo's family home. Rachel gave me the 10 cent tour: a street level garage, bedroom and extra bath, a second level with three bedrooms, two baths, a formal living room, bar, TV room, kitchen and outdoor courtyard and beautiful balcony over looking the street, and a third floor...restaurant? Seriously, that's what I said when Rachel lead me up the steps: "Oh my gosh, there's a restaurant up here!" It's not a restaurant, of course, it is a terrace, but just about two thirds of the top floor is a covered open air space with several sets of tables and chairs, a large sound system for music (and real musicians), and a terrace kitchen complete with cabinets, sink, oven, grill, and large wood burning stove. You could cook for 50 up here, and entertain them as well, and apparently Rodrigo's dad does.

The remaining third of the third floor is comprised of two more bedrooms and a bath. And this is where I was to be ensconced. After a shower, a critical change of undies, and a generous schmear of deodorant, I came down to meet Rodrigo's parents. Mariza, his mother, is the size of a string bean with olive skin, jet black hair, designer glasses. At 50 she has an effortless chicness about her I didn't have at 20. Jose Carlos is Rodrigo's dad. They call him Ze (pronounced Zeh) for short. Let's just say I am not going to describe Ze now because I have a feeling he needs a blog entry all his own.

I presented them with gifts, whisky for Ze and a pricey body butter and soaps for Mariza. I wanted to get in good with Ze and I heard scotch would do it so I carefully researched good scotch before I left. I dared not go empty handed. Any good girl brought up to hear her mother's voice in her head saying "you are going to bring them something aren't you?" (even though she knows she brought you up to do that but she still feels she has to remind you at 34 of your manners) would not go empty handed. I know other moms do this, not just mine, but I still can't help whining through a clenched jaw "Mooooooom, I'm thirty four, yeesh. I know how to be a guest in someone's house." I can't decide who this reflects on more: me that she doesn't trust my manners? or her that she forgets she taught them? My guess is she knows I am not a complete Philistine, but for some reason there is a gene on the mom chromosome that instructs mom's to say stuff like that, and you can't turn it off without some kind of genetic mutation. So at 54 I still hear, "Don't forget to thank them for taking such good care of you and feeding you and putting up with you when they certainly didn't have to because they did it out of the kindness and generosity of their hearts and they paid for all of your food and your beverages and everything and you didn't have to stay in a hotel and you saved a ton of money that way so actually they saved you a ton of money that way and don't forget to say thank you."

After introductions, I was introduced to dinner, Iuna style. Dinner is not the big meal. Lunch is the big meal. Dinner is usually a simple affair of French bread (out of the oven two hours ago though), some butter (yellow as a school bus and creamy smooth), coffee (dark and hot and sweeter than royal frosting), and cheese. And oh my god the cheese. This is the fabled Minas cheese, so called because Minas Gerais makes some of the best cheese in all of Brazil. There is always, always a wheel of fresh, locally made Minas cheese on the table. It is almost all protein, little fat, salty, firm, and you would be happy as a clam to pay $12 for a small sliver of this on a plate in a froofroo restaurant back home if it was paired with a nice dolop of Ze's homemade star fruit preserves. I am serious people. This cheese, smeared with tart n tangy star fruit jam, can rival and best many of the restaurant cheese plates I have had in any Celebrity Cheese Death Match. So I ate a small municipality's worth of it, not realizing it would appear again at breakfast.

Oh yeah, and the juice. I have to tell you about the juice. So Rodgrigo asks me what I want to drink for dinner: coffee or juice, and I say juice because coffee in the evening makes me jittery like a phsych patient hooked up to electrodes. And get this, his mom starts making the araca-una juice from scratch! As in smashes the berries, strains them in a seive, and mixes the juice with water and sugar. I was mortified! I immediately heard my mom in my head: "Don't make them go to any extra trouble over you," and I started apologizing to Rodrigo asking him to apologize to his mom saying that I didn't mean for her to go to all that trouble. And Rodrigo explained to his mom that I thought the juice would come from a carton and she just started laughing at me like, "What a silly notion, a carton? Who ever heard of such a thing when you can have fresh squeezed juice any time?" But damn the juice was good. I can't really even define the taste of the araca-una berry (too many fruits down here defy description by my palate of limited fruit experience). And in the end I was all, "hey, if you wanna make me juice from scratch because that's how you roll down here, who am I to complain?"

After dinner, and after a little after dinner liquor at the bar, we headed up to the restaurant, oops I mean terrace, to do what Iuna-ites do in the evenings: hang out. But it didn't take long for the cerveja to come out (beer), and the cachaca, salomi, green olives all spread on the table. And then people started arriving from nowhere. Rodrigo's friends and a few of the 1800 cousins. Bocao was there, and a new guy who they called Playmobile because his hair was frozen in place like a Lego or Playmobile person, a cousin whose name I had no shot at pronouncing, and a friend nicknamed Marreco (Duck) becuase of his faint resemblence to a, well...duck. (Again with the nicknames based on unflattering features).

Everybody has nicknames down here, and not just one either. Rachel is right, we need everybody to wear nametags with their given names and all nicknames listed in order of preference or something because I've just ended up calling everyone "Whatshisname." Whatshisname who's a cousin with the thinning hair. Whatshisname who's the duck. Ohhhh...Whathisname who is really hot over there with the 5 o'clock shadow and the... "Kristin, he's married with a daughter." Damn. Are you sure? "I'm sure." Damn.

And the music starts, the Brazilian beats, and the cerveja flows, the crisp light beer, and then comes slices of seared filet mignon and grilled onions and I realize I haven't stopped eating since I arrived 5 hours ago. The party continued on till three a.m., long after I had given up trying to stay awake and went to bed.

If the first night is any indication, I am in for some interesting leisure time here in Iuna. Let the good times roll my friends.