Finally, I'm able to wake up again. I don't know if it was the 3 hour jet lag, the birds twittering on the green hill by my window, or too much beer, but for the first week here, leaving sleep every "morning" felt like coming out of a coma! I like to experience the pace of morning and gain momentum throughout the day with the rest of the world. 11:00 is too late.
I've had my coffee and fruit, and I'm waiting to call my mother to wish her a Happy Birthday. (Quick adorable English learner memory: my students in Colombia thought that the word for cumpleaños was "happy birthday," as in "When is your happy birthday, teacher?"). What better time to tell you where I am?
Rio de Janeiro. When I was a child, I used to buy these color-in posters at Sandy & Sons. The pictures were jungle scenes, with hundreds of tiny little leaves and flowers. I loved coloring each leaf with two shades of green, each petal on the flower a different pink. I enjoy meticulous details. This city is full of detail. From the carefully tiled streets, to the squiggly style of graffiti, to the beautifully arranged women, to the houses tumbling down the hills and the leaves in the forests on the morros. There is so much sound, so many people, so much culture and diversity and beauty and horridness. The wealth and the poverty, the mountains and the ocean. So much to feel.
I've actually been in a funk these first few weeks. Can you believe it? I don't think that this is entirely a bad thing. It's moved me to reflection, and I'm glad to reflect at this point, a starting point, where moving forward is the only direction.
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