Thursday, September 29, 2011

Routines

[Please visit www.jasonkorolenko.com for updated content]

Wow. Hard to believe I have been in Brazil a few days short of one month. I continue to embarrass myself daily, mostly when attempting even the most basic and mundane conversation in Portuguese. Lately, though, facing a lapse in my language skills, I find myself defaulting to French. I consider this a step forward; at least French and Portuguese are both Latin-based languages and share similar traits. More similar than English, anyway. But you know, after my first couple of days here, when I ordered Italian penis (instead of Italian bread) at a nearby bakery/cafe, I figure it can't get much worse unless I mistakenly suggest that someone's mother is interested in ordering and eating an Italian penis.

I won't lie. There were days in the beginning, right after the rose-colored glasses came off and this no longer felt like a vacation, when I just wanted to be back in the States, pulling out my autumn clothing and preparing for Halloween. But I spent so many years looking into dark cracks, focusing on all things negative, and I refuse to linger in those spaces anymore. I'd much rather spend my time with a positive outlook, concentrating on the moment and what makes me happy right now. It's not always easy, but it's always worth it.

Let's talk about routine for a minute. Back in 2007/2008, I studied in southern France for a year. Before then, I had moved a lot in my life, but always within the 48 contiguous states. In each instance, I learned that the quicker I established a routine, the sooner I felt comfortable in my new environment. Falling into a rut isn't always a bad thing.

Part of my routine now is waking up early on Tuesdays and Fridays, when the girl works a half day at the hospital, taking the bus to the metro and the metro into the city. While she tends to sick children, I usually find a quiet corner somewhere to read or write, and around noon we begin to carouse São Paulo for cool and interesting things to do.

This past Tuesday, we began our exploration at the Pinacoteca museum, much of which was, sadly, under construction. The water fountain sculpture (pictured below) made the R$6 entry fee worth it:


Notice that these lovely women, conjoined at their respective hips, are all shooting water from their gigantic multi-colored breasts:


And, as a complete horror nut, I was pleased to find a batch of Lovecraftian drawings of beasts and creatures only seen in those places where the fabric between this dimension and The Other thins:



Okay, so they're not distant relatives of Cthulhu, they're drawings of actual worms and insects found right here in our own dirt. These things are creepier than anything Lovecraft could have come up with (even though Lovecraft rarely came up with anything, his most used phrase something along the lines of, "The thing was so horrendous, no words I employ could describe it").

Be careful how you view this next sculpture. It's not sexual in any way, I swear. It's obviously two naked women training jiu-jitsu. Duh.


We wrapped up the museum visit with a walk through a nearby park, and a stop at the train station across the street. This station is modeled after its sister in London, and acts as a gathering spot for some of the nastiest, manliest hookers this guy has ever seen.



Called an end to this day by drinking coffees and beers at Terraco Italia, a restaurant sitting 41 floors above ground in the center of Sao Paulo. Strange seeing the city from this height, helicopters skirting about carting businessmen from one meeting to another, ten-floor apartment buildings looking like tiny slave quarters, and a horizon of metal and concrete trees that blurred into the distance miles away.



Of course I was writing. Aren't I always? It's part of the routine. Part of what makes things feel normal.

This coming Saturday: Santos, and a much needed visit to the beach. Stay tuned.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Liberdade

[Please visit www.jasonkorolenko.com for updated content]

The city I live in is right on the outskirts of Sao Paulo, about a twenty minute bus ride away (depending on how psychotic the driver is feeling that day). As much as it may feel like your life is in mortal danger at any moment, these guys are amazing. Skirting in and out of traffic at heart stopping speed, coming within inches of smashing into other vehicles, nearly side-swiping motorcycles, I'm reminded of the expertise of French bus drivers. I'm flabbergasted, every time, that we make it to our destination without some sort of accident.

From my experience, Sao Paulo's metro system is safe and clean and easy to navigate, if horribly overcrowded. It's easy to look at the surface and think of public transportation as this wonderful boon, but when you consider how many people here are forced to travel every day by bus, train, or metro, the picture changes. If you just can't abide strangers' various body parts rubbing up against your own, public transportation in this city is probably not for you. But, at a few of the stations (such as the Sao Caetano stop, shown below), you may find yourself serenaded by piano. These aren't paid musicians, and they're not subway scroungers who are trying to make some spare change. They're normal people, sometimes weary travelers, sometimes students who can't afford a piano of their own to practice on. This guy here was alternating between Souza and Samba.


Yesterday, we spent the afternoon in Liberdade, Sao Paulo's Japanese neighborhood. Even in the midst of all that steel and concrete and noise, we discovered a place of peace and Zen. Maybe not the nicest Japanese garden out there, but a welcome interruption in such an otherwise chaotic place. And lunch, as usual, was amazing. Gyoza, real ramen (not that crap you get for seventy-five cents a packet in the U.S.). I've yet to be disappointed in a meal here, even when it's traditional Japanese.


It was also there in Liberdade that I met a rep for a fight gear company called Pretorian. He informed me that former Pride and UFC heavyweight champion Rodrigo "Minotauro" Nogueira has a line of gear coming out soon, though nothing is yet available to the general public. However, Mino had given the rep two kimonos and two pairs of shorts to test market. The kimonos were already gone, but I scored a nice pair of Minotauro Sports shorts (yes, I snatched them right off the poor bisected mannequin). Sorry I didn't catch your name, Praetorian Rep Dude, but thanks for the hookup (and the free gi patch)!


I've been training jiu-jitsu here with Cristiano Spadone (faixa preta under Luciano "Casquinha" Nucci) on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for about three weeks now. His game is so smooth, allowing us to play a bit while gently nudging us into a position where he can strangle the hell out of us. Just when I feel like I might be close to gaining superior position, I'm tapping out and wondering what the hell just happened. The next step is adding judo with Marquinho Tortorello (who also has super solid newaza), and MMA on the off days.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

On the First Day of Jiu-Jitsu...

[Please visit www.jasonkorolenko.com for updated content]

...my partners handed me my ass in a frumpy, sweaty gi.

Now, read it again to the tune of "The 12 Days of Christmas."

I started training on my third day in Brazil, not wanting to waste any time getting fat on churrasco and lazy watching soccer. Anyone who trains knows the feeling of taking a few days off. Even though the break, in some cases, may be necessary, it's similar to suffering the withdrawal effects of a particularly strong drug: you're constantly thinking about it, always wondering what the hiatus is doing to your body and your mind. You dream of positions, you shrimp out of bed in the morning. You face your back to the wall in restaurants so you can see everyone inside, then invent fight scenarios and plot out exactly how you would react.


So, the girl came home early on Monday, we headed straight to the local academy to get me signed up, and then hit the local padaria for soup and sandwiches. Since class was only three short hours away, I ate light (which, for me, meant a huge bowl of chicken and pasta soup, three slices of crispy bread, a hot ham and cheese sandwich on a croissant, and a glass of fresh watermelon juice).

The academy is on the third floor of a pretty fancy gym, and after some confusing conversation at the front desk, I was led to the changing rooms where I absently wondered whether it was a good idea to wear my blue belt. Many jiu-jitsu academies are very dedicated to the concept of Team. I'd heard horror stories of instructors stripping a visitor's belt simply because the student received it from a different instructor. As it was, I had only brought gis that didn't have any of my home team patches on them.


Turns out, of course, that I had nothing to worry about. Fear of the unknown, blah blah blah. I met the instructor, followed the cue of other students bowing onto the mat, and started to loosen up.

At this point, the nerves began to wash away. The structure of jiu-jitsu classes is pretty universal. Warm-up exercises followed by drilling a few chosen techniques, then free sparring to close out the evening. I've been training for about five years, so this routine is comfortable now. Natural. I will say, though, that my mouth dried up a little when I saw a team logo on the wall. "Alliance," it read, with that unmistakable black-and-white screaming eagle's head.


For those of you not in the know, Alliance is considered one of the strongest competition teams in the world. Their athletes are incredibly well conditioned, medaling and sometimes closing out divisions at most of the major tournaments. Put very simply, they fucking train hard. But I survived the thirty-or-so minute warm-up with minimal damage, and moved on to drilling, partnered up with a blue belt who was about my size.

The instructor showed three techniques I already knew, but even with the language barrier, I understood enough of the details I needed to work on. For example, when setting up a basic X-choke or cross collar choke, adjust your closed guard so that your knees are high up in your opponent's armpits. Then, while finishing, squeeze your knees together into his ribs. Not only with this cause your opponent pain, but it will restrict his breathing and make it easier to complete the choke.

We drilled a pretty nifty spider guard sweep that is rather similar to an overhead X-guard sweep (only, in this instance, the opponent remains on his knees), and then moved on to randori, also known as free rolling or sparring.

Again, for those unaware, rolling is what sets jiu-jitsu apart from most traditional martial arts. This is the time to put all of your practice into effect against a live, resisting partner, and you do it at the end of every single class. You grapple to gain superior position so that you may submit your partner with a choke or a joint lock, all while defending yourself because he is also trying to impose his game upon you.

I rolled with everyone the instructor partnered me up with, even though I was thoroughly exhausted after being dominated in the first round by my new blue belt friend. I try to never turn down a match, no matter how tired I am, because it's important to learn how to fight when you're tired. It's too easy to quit when you're gasping for breath, too easy to lie down, too easy to ask for a drink of water. Bruce Lee always said that consistent improvement comes from training right up to that point of total exhaustion, that point where it feels like your body can no longer function on its own . . . and then you push it a little further. This persistent behavior strengthens the mind, which in turn strengthens the body.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Colonial Influence and Other Observations

[Please visit www.jasonkorolenko.com for updated content]

My first dinner in Brazil: pizza and beer. Granted, I had feijoada and watermelon juice for lunch, but dinner was decidedly non-Brazilian.

Speaking of colonial influence (that is, the Great Beast America forcing its culture on the rest of the world, and the rest of the world--generally--accepting), English is everywhere here. The gym I work out at is called "Runner." My refrigerator is stocked with TNT Energy Drink (pronounced ener-ghee drinkee). Today, at a mall on Avenida Higienopolis, I discovered a shoe store called "Accentuated Feet," though I'm not sure why I should want my feet accentuated. And, of course, there was that first night's pizza delivery--yes, they say "delivery" even though there is a Portuguese word meaning delivery. Strange.


Today, we took the bus to the metro and the metro to the city to visit Maria's hospital. The main building is an old Gothic structure, one of only two in the entire city of Sao Paulo, wrapped around a courtyard that looks straight out of Europe. Were it not for the local birds constantly screeching "Bem-te-vi! Bem-te-vi!" I would have thought I was back in the south of France.


Humidity is normally around 50%, but today is reported at 15%. Here at the mall now (what they call "Shopping" in another abduction of the English language), I sneezed and almost crippled a small child with the chunks of red rock-like material shooting out of my nose. Yeah, it's a little dry. Arizona dry. So I'm at the Starbucks drinking an iced caramel macchiato and writing in my journal, and if that's not American, then I don't know what is.


Avenida Higienopolis, where I'm enjoying this tasty beverage, is lined by trees on either side. A loud crash, car speeding away with a new cavern in its roof, and now the avenida is one tree less. Exciting. The most danger I've seen since arriving.


Next, an in depth report of my first Jiu-Jitsu class in the land of Jiu-Jitsu (no, not Japan; that other land).

Monday, September 5, 2011

Boston, September 2

[Please visit www.jasonkorolenko.com for updated content]

3 pm:

Passed through security having to only partially disrobe. Once again I've too much shit in my pockets, too many things to remove and replace. It takes longer to get redressed than it does to find an isolated booth at Lucky's and get down to the business at hand.


There's that floating, possessive s in the pub's name, but what exactly does it refer to? Lucky's bar? Lucky's beer? Lucky's awful, dark maroon booths that are little more than vinyl stretched over stapled wooden planks?

Lucky's Soundtrack: Rolling Stones, Billy Joel, old school Aerosmith dripping with that Sweet Emotion. Very easy to lose myself in the moment, wearing the mask of a nomad as if I do this every day. Pull the bill of my cap down low, shade my face like some mysterious stranger, and feel the wandering eyes of fellow travelers follow my fingers across the keyboard. I am a writer, actually. And you?

Lucky's Clientele: Businessmen in suits so crisp you wonder if they iron them in the airplane bathrooms. Teenage girls texting each other from five feet away, either testing their connection or just unused to and uncomfortable with verbal communication. Surfer dudes with shaved heads and board shorts, matching blue moccasins and braggadocio to spare.

Lucky's Visual Entertainment: ESPN, of course, on four different flat screens so that no one has to miss a single pitch or touchdown. But why, then, am I seeing images of Sarah Palin? Does ESPN cover moose hunting now? And if so, can I watch Ted Nugent instead? As outspoken and mouthy as he is, at least he shows that a radical Republican talking head can contain a brain.

Boarding call. Off to Houston, home of NASA's Mission Control, and my dinner. This:


Let's just fast-forward past the four hour hell of being stuck in a plane in front of the three most annoying teenaged girls ever, the photogenic but rather tasteless sub pictured above, and the nine-or-so hours of pure turbulence between Houston and Sao Paulo. Next time we meet, we'll be in Brazil.