Lost in Translation

first of all, some photos are up on my facebook profile. i~m going to do it that way since it takes so long to upload photos on blogger.

oh my my my,
things just are not communicated when two people don~t understand each others´languages.

we thought we were going to gather mussels, buy fresh fish and mix them with octopus and squid so our friend, vladimir, could make us a delicious moqueca seafood stew. he offered.

well, we arrive at his house and he is nowhere to be found. he appears around 2, an hour late. tomorrow regina, tomorrow. i keep reminding myself. then i have to help him pull his buggie out into the muddy road and get inside and pop it while he pushes. the adventure begins.

we head out to buy fish and he takes us to a stand where they sell frozen fish. now i am confused because we passed a fisherman fresh from the beach on the way to the store. we buy frozen fish and head to a far away beach, which i assume, is where we are going to gather mussles. i was wrong. he just wanted to drive 45 minutes out of the way to show us the beach... a valuable experience and a sweet jesture, but by this time, we are dying of hunger ^morrendo de fome^.

we head home and didn~t realize he wasn~t cooking at his house. it had rained so our bbq was out of commission, but he seemed surprised that we couldn~t bbq and said he would prepare it in the oven but it wouldn~t be the same. then we told him we didn~t have an oven and he looked blankly at us.

so he had no alternative but to use the stove, which of course, was not the right way. so he grabs a pan and starts melting butter. i notice it~s a pan i hid away on a high shelf because it is corroded and had rat poo in it. i couldn~t throw it away because it belongs to the landlord. so i tell him the situation and he says, oh that~s ok. he pours the butter outside, brings the pan in, runs some boiling water over it and continues to use it. this is how our standards are different. at this point, i refuse to watch him cook, or say anything at all.

3 hours later, he~s just getting started on the rice and christine and i are DYING. we sneak little slices of salami from the fridge when he is not looking because we don~t want to insult him. 6 hours from the time we arrived at his house, the dinner is finally ready. i am excited to taste the fish, and then i do. it was so fishy and there were so many little bones, i had to spit my food onto a napkin to find them. i choked the food down so as not to offend, but let me tell you, it was not easy. i know, i guess i~m spoiled. next time, i~ll buy a fresh fish and have the fisherman fillet it for me.

after all that, he keeps drinking out of my glass, and although it~s a custom at parties with friends here, to have a communal drink, i don~t want to share a glass with someone all night. he won~t leave and the more drunk he gets, the louder he gets, the more impatient he is, constantly interrupting. christine and i eventually tuned him out, and i went to bed when i wasn~t even tired, just to get rid of him.

i have to say it was really nice of him to take us out and make the meal for us but everything was so confusing and irritating... i would rather have done it myself. it~s also common for people to come over to your house and drink you liquor and eat your food, as guests, and not offer anything in return. things are just different, and i am learning something new every day. tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. if you arrive at my house like a stray dog, BYOB, BYO meat and leave when you see me yawn.