Brazil! How one country landed the World Cup, the Olympics and so much more

September has a strange grip on me.  After more than 40 years on this earth, I equate it with “Back to School”.   I still hoard new pens, and sometimes splurge on late model backpack.

It also harkens a change in the weather here in Seattle.  We swap out quick dry shorts and Chackos for dungarees and our lightest weight fleece.  Half a world away in South America, it’s another story.  Spring starts to hit, ties get loosened, and caipirinhas are poured under sunny verandas by the beach.  This month, I had the pleasure of spending a week in Brazil.  Massive, energetic, frenetic, cheerful, soulful, industrious Brazil.  Amazing economic growth and just enough infrastructure to keep everything running at about 105%.

Tourism in Brazil, like everything else is taking off like a rocket ship. According to the World Tourism Organization, inbound arrivals are increasing at a rate of 18.8%.  And average daily rates (ADR) are skyrocketing in LATAM thanks principally to Rio and Sao Paulo.

Boutique hotels are sprouting up to handle the near term demand brought on by the 2014 World Cup (note, most locals I spoke with did NOT believe that the hosts would win!) and the 2016 Olympics.  There will be a far longer and more significant boom as more and more middle class globizens make their way to Brazil.

As I toured around, from the Teutonic/Italian inspired state of Rio Grande de Sul(practically the “Texas of Brazil” on account of its ornery itch for independence) in the South up to the wondrous chaos that is Sao Paulo, I was struck by the similarities with India. In fact, I kept saying to myself “Brazindia, Brazindia!”

Both countries have a thing for coffee (at least South India does!).  In Brazil, espresso machines are everywhere.  I asked my friend Fernando when he takes an espresso.  “Once after breakfast, once after getting to the office, once after lunch.  Sometimes after dinner,” he explained.  Then, wait for it . . . “or really whenever we want to get together with friends.”  Like India, there is a deep passion for human connection in Brazil, and that manifests itself in the Hospitality industry there.

Another point of similarity, getting around both countries is easy.  Discount domestic carries like Gol run flights from Sao Paulo and Rio to the gorgeous beaches of North Brazil.  The New York Times Frugal Traveller on Brazil is a wonderful resource peppered with the in’s and out’s of eating and staying your way through the “B” in BRIC countries.

Note from India

My wife is allergic to mangoes. One morning when we were living in Mexico, she went to town on a Atualfo varietal, and we paid the price later that same day with a visit to the ER in Interlomas.  Megumu was fine, and she has carefully steered clear of the fruit henceforth.

Fitting then that the view from my hotel room in Chennai is dominated by mango trees dancing in the sultry July breeze that sweeps inland off of the Bay of Bengal every summer.  Behind the mango trees are palm trees laden with coconuts.  Behind those are 65 million Tamil speaking souls (more people speak Tamil than the populations of Chile, Colombia and Bolivia combined).

My first trip to the sub-continent was in 2009.  My extended family and I toured the Taj, went high brow at the Lake Palace and commuted to dinner in Deogarh by camel.  My wife and I then made our way south to the energy and vibrance of Hyderabad and Bangalore.  I left India after nearly four weeks, and there has been a rich half-life of its hold on me.

The hold usually takes shape every time we take in a Bollywood blockbuster (it has become a Shabbat tradition, with the last one being "Three Idiots", which was amazing). Sometimes it comes from a game of brinkmanship with the level of spice at Cedar Restaurant in Seattle. Other times I notice it when I find myself bobbling my head when listening to a friend.



But most of the time, it's about people.  Ever since 1978 with Deepan Vita  moved from Delhi into my 3rd grade classroom I have always been fascinated with people from India.  Deepan chose to read "It's Rather Dark in Here" as her selection from Where the Sidewalk Ends.  (I don't remember mine).  At Microsoft, I was befriended by Coorgies, Delhi sophistos, Tamil Tigers and Madrahi hipsters.  In June I attended my first AAHOA (Asian Hotel Owners Association of America) meeting in Vegas.  There were 2,000 attendees, and I was one of only 181 who did NOT have the last name "Patel".

On this trip, the people began to filter in somewhere in Heathrow Terminal 5.  I don't understand why most travelers kvetch so much about "connecting" when making long haul trips.  14 hours into the 32 hour journey from Seattle to Chennai, the smart spread collars and Ibiza summer linen at the T5-A Gates give way to the pageantry of saris, curly Punjabi mustaches, Mumbai-youth 7-for-mankind selvedge and regal turbans in the B Concourse.  The meal selections in steerage class on British Airways move from "chicken, beef or pasta" to "veg or non-veg".  And the Bollywood films make their way on to the in flight entertainment system.  (Note:  British has a nice UX and decent content selection compared to Delta/KLM).  Upon reaching Delhi, I've been "on the road" for about 32 hours, yet I feel refreshed (OK, I grabbed a shower/shave/mini-yoga session for 1,000 rhupees).  The frenetic pace, the chatty-cathyness, the South India Coffee sweet and hot and milk hits home.

Jet Konnect gets me to Chennai (formerly/still known as Madras).  It's new to me, more raw than Bangalore. My friend Udday gifted me a little history lesson on infrastructure of some masala dohsa; Hyderabad and Bangalore elected to fund and plan their airports privately.  As a result, you enjoy cleanliness, efficiency rivaling East Asia and adverts for high end whiskeys.  Chennai's airport is an "ongoing project" led by the Provincial government.

During my 65 hours in Chennai I spend about 60 of them in my hotel, the Aloft.  That's fine with me.  I love hotels.  I love kibbitzing with the front desk staff (Priti, KK, KP and Kumar).  I love hitting the gym and have Dinesh, the fitness guy watch over my every stride on the treadmill.  And I especially love hanging out in the restaurant; every morning the staff plies me with idlii, chutney, fruits (I did not get Delhi Belly this trip).  Ten different people ask me if I'd like coffee. "No thank you.  I'll wait until after breakfast".  When the question comes up for the 11th time I cave, and the demitasse yields more sweet caffeiney bliss.

This trip is really about business, and I enjoy every moment of the meetings.  When you travel long haul and have a short window of time in country, it's incredible how much you can achieve.  My hosts are insightful, inquisitive (the questions fly in like the wind.  Soooo different from Tokyo) and creative.  More than anything, they are confident.  The sun is rising for the Tiger, and one can sense its warmth when in India.  My friends are good negotiators.  Over the years, I've become a fan of pugilism and of futbol.  On some level, both are akin to business negotiation.  Setting up an intrinsic "culture" and pace of a negotiation is really like two boxers developing a merged style or two great sides playing their hearts and lungs out over 90 minutes on the pitch.

The evenings are all about food; there seems to be an endless wave of curry dishes here in the South, and they look the same in the dim light of Chennai's more tony restaurants.  But they are not the same.  Some have tang.  Some of soulful heft, like a fat aunt that you want to sit next to to feel her soft triceps.  Some have pure heat, like a reliever who only has two pitches in his portfolio (fastball and really fastball).  The pickles and raita conclude the meal, and my jetlag starts to add value.  When you're jetlagged, emotions tend to flow more easily.  It's all the disinhibition of alcohol minus the alcohol.  I listen to my friends from Delhi and Chennai around the table, and I marvel and how we all want the same things for our shared Community (aka Planet Earth).

My taxi driver on the way to Chennai airport is named Babu.  Like many guys who drive for Merus or the hotels, he asks me a standard question; "What is your good name?"  I love that question, as it weaves a weird  word that really makes sense.  For most of us, our parents actually spent some time considering the right moniker for us in Life.  "Adam" is not just my name, it's my GOOD name!  Babu deposits me in the maelstrom of humanity in front of the Chennai airport, and I thank him and tell him, "Have a good Life, Babu."

. . . and then, suddenly, I am in the departure lounge of Charles de Gaulle connecting home to Seattle.  Gone are the idlii's and the dohsas; they've been swapped out in favor of croissants.  The beautiful brown faces with their white tilakas and red bindis fade away, and the Roman noses and summer capri pants take over.

And like all of these global trips, I am at once somber about leaving something so vibrant and alive and so happy to be returning home to my girls.

Kvelling over Tokyo, the most hamische city on the planet

There is a not so old parable about a Jewish Bubbeleh and her O-bá-san counterpart.  The two grandmothers are getting to know each other before their grandchildren exchange vows.

“Tell me about your culture, about your traditions,” posits Bubbe.

“We are Buddhists,” offers Oba-san.  “We believe that all Life is suffering.”

“Suffering?” quips Nanny.  “You don’t know from suffering! I’ll show your suffering!”

--

Tokyo is the most hamische hamlet on the planet. 

Where else does everyone say “Good morning!” and actually really mean it?  When I first arrived in Meguro Ward in 2001 I frequented the local kisaten (fancy, schmancy coffee canteen hawkishly managed by a Arabica roasting fanatic).  I would zip past the touch-free glide panel door to secure a seat, a tincy-wincy and oh-so-flaky croissant and the world’s most perfectly crafted hand-blown Sumatra.  The purveyor would always gift me with a soulful and swift bow coupled with a sweet “Ohaiyo gozaimasu!” (Good morning).  And he said it with gumption for real!

In 2004 I left Japan.  One day, I waltzed in and declared that I was heading back to the White West.  The coffee guy didn’t see it coming.  Same bow, maybe a little deeper, more deliberate, the way Chasidim daven on the Days of Awe.  No tears, but almost. 

The dude was pure gold . . .

. . . just like his city.

Haiku from the mind of David Bader: Proust in a Nutshell

Tea-soaked madeleine

a childhood recalled. I had

brownies like that once.

Yammer vs. Chatter

Scobleizer going ga-ga for buuteeq

He loves the name. : - )  Seriously, nice demo by Forest!

JUBU by David Bader

From David Bader's latest work, Zen Judaism:

To the Buddha is the highest attainment. Second highest is to go to the same doctor as the Buddha.

Be here now. Be someplace else later. Is that so complicated?

There is no escaping Karma. In a previous life, you never called, you never wrote, you never visited. And whose fault was that?

If there is no self, whose arthritis is this?

Be patient and achieve all things. Be impatient and achieve all things faster.