A Kosher Dating Odyssey: One Former Texas Baptist's Quest for a Naughty & Nice Jewish Girl (15 page)

While nothing romantic happened with Peaches, I still have warm memories of our times together, both in New York and Atlanta. I can’t say the same about other visitors to New York. One showed my tendency toward wishful thinking in encounters and inability to cut my losses in a bad situation.

This was my very first visitor, a woman from a magical place I’ll call Farfarawayland. Let’s call her Hecuba. Online, she had an alluring air. I looked at her exotic pictures and let my imagination run away with me, the possibilities of a relationship with a beauty raised near the dark, mutinous waves lapping at Farfarawayland. She had been to the U.S. before and had relatives here. Then, as often happens in relationships with terminals thousands of miles apart, the allure or newness ended and we stopped communicating. I felt she led me on, then let me down, something about another boyfriend. So be it.

Then one day in May I had a phone call from Hecuba. She was in Newark, N.J., planning to see relatives. Wishful thinking kicked in and I practically begged her to come into the city for dinner. She agreed, and we met at a sushi restaurant on Third Avenue. From the beginning, something didn’t feel right. Was it the foreignness, my own stumbling early efforts at dating, a mismatch of personalities? Perhaps all these factors. She talked about a boyfriend. I wanted her to focus on me, not somebody else. She was okay staying at a hotel near the airport, but I was eager to have her stay with me in Connecticut, so she could be near her relatives. She finally agreed and I drove to Newark one sunny Sunday in my ratty and rattling 1986 Saab.

I found Hecuba in the lobby of the hotel with an enormous, weighty suitcase. I knew she had something big, but this approached steamer trunk size. Somehow I wedged it into the trunk and we began the drive back.

After a trip to a mall for shopping, we hit the road. I missed the turnoff to the Garden State Parkway—my preferred route from New Jersey to Connecticut—and instead found myself irrevocably committed to going over the George Washington Bridge and through the bumper to bumper miasma of the Cross-Bronx Expressway.

Even in New Jersey, the relationship began to crater as Hecuba launched into a stunning recitation of all my personality problems. She railed against my lack of fun, my rigidity, my financial concerns. Her tirade, meant to “help” me, left me dumbfounded and enraged at her arrogant presumptuousness. This was Sunday; she was staying through Wednesday morning. Could we last without me throttling her? Forget about cuddling with a stranger; could I stand the sight of her?

The monologue reminded me of the worst of past relationships. I should have simply found a cheap hotel on Route 1 in Connecticut and said, “You’ll be happier here,” but I lacked the nerve. Instead, I got all passive-aggressive and silent, seething at her rudeness.

She made it plain at the apartment that romance wasn’t in the picture. She was happy to get my expertise for her big concern, the one that played into my male “problem solving” ego so adroitly. Social upheaval sharpened her desire to leave Farfarawayland for the United States. I had reviewed her résumé and cover letter, made some edits, and gave her ideas for people to contact in her quest for employment in the U.S. I even discussed her situation with a teacher at a local Jewish day school. Nothing came of it, but I tried.

Hecuba transformed before my eyes from the mysterious sexy visitor to an annoying Jewish female version of a character from the latest Adam Sandler movie. Nothing improved as the visit stumbled along. She probably found me equally aggravating and wimpy compared to the rugged and upscale fighter-pilot types I imagined her with. By the time Wednesday morning rolled around, I couldn’t wait to transport her and her mighty suitcase and all the other junk she bought to the Stamford stop and wish her bon voyage. I’ve rarely been so relieved to be out of another person’s presence.

I will give Hecuba credit for introducing me to the music of Senegalese singer Youssou N’Dour, especially his evocative duet with Neneh Cherry, “7 Seconds.”

When I dipped my toes into the pool of online dating, I never expected how far the search would take me—literally. In contrast to my pre-marriage dating patterns, where Industrial-age technology made me strictly a locavore, the online channel opened up the whole world. Some people take a hard line on only dating locally (being in Connecticut, I was far too distant for women clinging tenaciously to the rock of Manhattan), but my restless, dissatisfied post-divorce self stayed alert to adventures that pushed way outside my comfort zone.

Before I visited there in 2004, I knew almost nothing about Brazil. The natives liked soccer. The beaches were sandy. The Amazon was a big river. I had some Stan Getz Brazilian-themed jazz albums. That was the sum of my cultural awareness. The interest level began to change when a woman I’ll call the Girl from Ipanema contacted me through an online dating site. We’re both Jewish, enjoyed writing, and had increasingly friendly online chats. I called her several times and she talked about me visiting her. Because of the distance and post-divorce emotional wariness, I didn’t take the offer too seriously and never considered a visit’s pleasures. The Girl from Ipanema and I drifted apart and by early 2004 she turned locavore, which made perfect sense. My loss.

A few months later I contacted a woman in São Paulo. Let’s call her Astral. Again, we formed a connection, as best one can online. She also invited me to visit. This time I felt more confident and eager for adventure. Instinct said “Do it,” so I surprised her, myself, and most of my family by agreeing. After considerable checking of calendars and airlines, we settled on the last week in November as the best time. I wrote about my experience there for a São Paulo website, gringoes.com.

The complexities of a cross-cultural romance emerged after I ordered my tickets through my employer’s travel office. Soon, the corporate security service sent a lengthy email wishing me “success and a safe voyage on your upcoming trip to Brazil.” After that cheery opening, the email got down to the nitty-gritty. I was warned, for example, about: severe crime in São Paulo and elsewhere, even Guarulhos International Airport; unhealthy tap water and ice; and even “chloroquine-resistant P. falciparum malaria.” Great, I thought. I’m looking for love and finding malaria.

Given that I’m a paranoid gringo when it comes to international travel, the well-intentioned warnings left me doubting the wisdom of romantic instinct. Kidnappings, airport theft, rabies; what was I getting myself into? I forwarded the alert to Astral, writing, “What do you think? I’d better not send this to my brother—he’ll freak out!” (My younger brother strongly opposed this 5,000 mile jaunt to visit a woman I’d never met in another country).

Astral replied with a light-hearted note, saying, “The only serious advice I have is that you get the best health insurance you can just in case you collapse after meeting me. And also, just in case I kidnap you to the best places in town just have plenty of valid credit cards! Now, if you wish to go to the jungle in the Amazon rainforest, then get all those vaccinations, darling.”

Still, my concerns deeply offended her. My frame of reference for Latin America stopped thousands of miles away from Brazil. I grew up on the Texas-Mexico border, and past visits to Mexico and El Salvador merely led me to interpret Brazil in terms of those countries. “Brazil is not El Salvador,” she told me, exasperated at my ignorance. Even a week before I left I was asking my doctor about shots I might need. My plan to carry my passport, travelers checks and other papers in a Velcro-sealed travel pack around my neck didn’t impress her, either.

Oh, to hell with it
, I finally thought. I didn’t take the shots, I didn’t buy extra insurance, I simply left Astral’s phone numbers and my flight plans with my ex-wife and my brother. Then I boarded the Saturday night American Airlines flight and stumbled out the next morning into that hotbed of criminality, Guarulhos Airport.

My Brazil experience had a slow but uneventful start. I snaked through passport control and customs, joining the special Yankee line to be fingerprinted and photographed. After a long haul I finally emerged into the terminal and had my first sight of a fresh and happy Astral in a delightful white business suit. She soon found a Portuguese nickname for me, practically a requirement in Brazilian culture: Peludo, or “furry.”

The next week very much reflected Astral’s Brazil, neither a typical tourist experience nor a long-term expat’s view. I’ll draw a modest curtain over most of our personal interactions, more suitable for a novel than this book. Some highlights:

We visited Baby Beef, a crowded, delectable food experience, everything the travel books suggest. What I remember in even more detail is lunch on Saturday, on our way in from the airport, at a Japanese sushi restaurant downtown. Dazed from the long flight, the slog through customs, and the sheer novelty of a new city and a new friend, I think of that place as my real introduction to Brazil. A Japanese man entertained the crowd by singing American pop songs by Neil Diamond, Billy Joel and others, accompanying himself on guitar. Astral said he didn’t actually speak English. American music by a Japanese man in São Paulo: in a word, surreal.

The congestion in São Paulo was horrendous—no surprise. What surprised me was the round-the-clock bicycle traffic in Guaruja, a beach town. The flocks of bikes added a graceful, quiet note to the place and helped keep traffic congestion down. I even saw dozens of bikers after midnight, on the short ferry ride from the city of Santos to Guaruja. The sturdy, practical bikes were a welcome contrast to the fashion-statement mountain bikes so popular in the U.S.

Friends of mine who had lived in Brazil and visited Santos collapsed in shock when I sang the praises of sophisticated Santos, based on a seven-hour day trip for beach, shopping, and dinner. “Santos? When I was there, it was a dump!” exclaimed one. All I can say is that they saw one Santos, I saw another. The wide swooping beach with rocks rising from the sea proved a perfect backdrop for photos. The endless apartment buildings along the shore drive were majestic in their variety and testified to Brazilians’ skill at constructing massive numbers of housing units (I’m talking about the outward quantity and appeal to a U.S. apartment dweller; I have no idea about the interior quality). A few blocks inland, in the buzzing business district, we made our major touristy buys: Astral selected two CDs of
música popular brasileira
, or MPB, for me (
Agora é que São Elas
and
Gilberto Gil Unplugged
), while I got two pair of shoes.

The weekend street-level marketing teams for upscale dwellings delighted me. Young women in coordinated uniforms touted developments by passing fliers through car windows and unfurling banners in front of stopped traffic at red lights. I’ve never seen this kind of selling in the U.S. I even saved two fliers as marketing mementos of São Paulo: Loft Ibirapuera and Townhouse Village Morumbi.

The Jewish Community Center in São Paulo amazed me with its size, level of services, and friendly spirit. It stood like an oasis plopped behind (very) secure walls in the center of urban tumult. From the swimming pools to the library to the movie theater to the art gallery to the simple pleasure of strolling and greeting friends, Hebraica offered everything a close-knit community needs in a central location. It may not merit mention in general tour books, but for Jewish travelers, Hebraica is a must-see. If I lived in São Paulo for any length of time, I’d join. I also attended a Shabbat service at a Chabad synagogue, where the rabbis knew the rabbis of Chabad branches I had visited in Connecticut. Years later I attended a seder with Chabad of Burlington, Vermont, where one of the rabbis was from … São Paulo. It’s a small rabbinical world, after all.

The smoky bingo parlor in Guaruja suggested a great way to study numbers in Portuguese. Listening to the bingo callers, I connected what I heard to the numbers posted on the big display board. I got a double reinforcement: hear it and see it.

Before I left for Brazil I was already addicted to Latin telenovelas, mostly Mexican soap operas. The theme music always rocks, the star actresses are
muy caliente
, and, anyway, I could justify watching anything as a way to improve my Spanish. I had always heard Brazil does novelas better than anybody, so Astral introduced me to one of the favorites,
Senhora do Destino
. My best memories of the trip involve nights in Guaruja, sprawled on a beanbag chair after a day on the beach, watching
Senhora do Destino
while Astral translated. The theme music especially struck me, with its haunting, soaring vocal. The music stayed with me long after I returned. I couldn’t remember the performer, and Astral and I were no longer in contact. Then one evening I was listening to an Internet radio service and the unmistakable riff came on. I immediately checked the information and found it was Maria Rita’s magical performance of “Encontros e Despedidas.” Within a week I had ordered her CD from Amazon, along with a Bebel Gilberto CD. Their music always transports me to summer nights in Guaruja.