Shenanigans (Seriously Though)

So FIAT, the Italian car manufacturer is not very popular in the U.S. Not anymore at least. Not since people wrote speeding tickets with hammers and chisels and people drove by running with their feet in gaping holes in the bottoms of their cars (@Mom and Dad). Generally speaking, FIATs are mostly hatchbacks or very small sedans. Not well suited to Americans. Also, I’m pretty sure FIAT is an acronym for, “Fix It Again, Tony” (@Lousy reliability) Also not well suited to 5 cadets with 5 flight bags and 5 backpacks, as we stood outside the base in Rio wondering how we were going to fit everyone and everything in the tiny car. Losing daylight and patience, we squeezed, pushed, and slammed and reslammed car doors until finally we began to roll away from our week of super high speed (read: emotionally traumatic) air transport training and towards the promise of Rio de Janeiro: Cidade Maravilhosa (Marvelous City)

We screeched out of the parking lot, the FIAT riding low and whipped down the highway like Akon, doing 90……km/h that is (over under like 55mph) But we were in an 80km/h zone. Totally bad ass. We pulled up to CAD Moura’s house where we were set to spend the weekend. As we pulled up, we reviewed a few simple phrases in the car (Nice to meet you, my name is so-and-so, this food is delicious, etc) for his parents. Best foot forward and all. We walked up to the gate and into the house, which, if I can say without embarrassing minha familia novo (my new family) too much, was absolutely beautiful. The complex they lived in was just off the street and apart from immaculately clean and filled with loads of delicious new Brazilian food that all needed to be eaten before we could leave the table, had everything you could ever want. Moura’s brother, a former cadet and now law student had 2 guitars and we traded some music (read: he played a lot, I showed him my embarrassingly small level of knowledge and ability). Further, up on the 3^rd floor, there was couches, comfy chairs, a small terrace with a charcoal fireplace for grilling, and what we deemed to be a “hammock on standby” for its tight bundle on one wall, various adjustable hooks on all the other walls, and proximity to the sliding glass door led us to believe it could be nothing else. My first thought upon seeing all this was how relaxing (tranquilo) and fun (divertido) this weekend was going to be and my second was wondering how much this house cost, only to realize that I still hadn’t gotten the conversions down quite right and it probably would have been more of a headache than anything trying to figure out the feasibility of such nice digs. Perhaps another day…..

Moura’s mother and father were easily some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. She had to temper her excitement of total strangers with small words and slow speaking but her voice was very clear and she made us feel very comfortable in her home. She works for a research firm in Rio and between all the delicious food and love she showed us, we joked that she had 3 extra sons (mais tres filhos) for the weekend, after which we jokingly called her “mai” (mom) and she refused to call us anything but “meus filhos” (my sons). Mr. Moura is retired now but was enlisted in the Navy and retired with the highest enlisted rank possible, Subtenente. He also, had to make an effort to use small words for his new guests but we could see that they were excited to have us which made us feel all the more welcome. We stuck around for a bit but when we were getting ready to head out into the night, we were sure to impress upon her that we would be always be careful (“Cuidado sempre, minha mai.”) and would return at the end of the night whenever we ventured into Rio. Which leads me to my next story…….

Our first night, free of military duty in the city of Rio de Janeiro. How did it go? Here take this, it’s a passport to my world. You’re going to need it. 

Where are you? Your at the mall. How did you get here? You walked. You almost got hit by 2 motorcycles and a car that you can fit in the palm of your hand, but nevertheless, you’re here. Malls are kinda small but sorta tall here so the food court is up on the 4^th floor. You take the escalator, stopping only to window shop. Because everything is crazy expensive. Except food and drink. Which is fine. You don’t need an iPad (2000 Reals, or like $1300. Not cool) or running shoes (899 Reals, about $560) You need pizza. You enter Rio Italia and are handed a slip of paper with various words and boxes on it. This is your bill. Anything to purchase will be annotate on this by the waiter. At the register, the cashier rings up your slip and you pay accordingly. She gives you the bottom piece after stamping it, marking that you paid, and after, you need this tiny slip in order to leave the restaurant. Simple. Efficient. Functional. Lots of bars and places do this. You’re a fan. Moving forward, you sit down to empty plates and a waiter comes and asks for your beverage order. Almost immediately after he leaves, another waiter walks up and asks if you want some Calabrese Pizza. Do not be alarmed. He is not confused nor did he bring you the wrong order. This type of restaurant is Rodizio, specifically, Rodizio Pizza e Massa (Loosely translated, “rotating pizza and pasta”) He gives you a small slice and moves on to the next table, offering his plate. This process is repeated roughly 20 times during the course of the meal, with things ranging from meat pizza, to fettuccine alfredo, all the way to dessert (chocolate pizza, banana pizza, straight up cake, and many more) You can choose as you please and there is no limit on how long you can sit and stuff your face but be warned; eating numerous small plates at a time gives lie to how much you’ve actually eaten. By around the 7^th go around, you suddenly realize that you’re kind of getting full and that when you add up everything you’ve eaten so far, it probably amounts to a full plate or almost 2. And then it’s time for dessert. And it all falls under the same price anyway. Awesome.

You leave Rio Italia, your pace somewhat slowed due to a bulging stomach and loosened belt, and begin walking to the next corner. You blink and you’re in downtown Rio. How did you get here? A van that you found down by the river (@Chris Farley and Ben Miller) No seriously. A system of 2 destination vans (For example, “Ilha” (residential island area of Rio) and “Centro” (central area of downtown), are just 1 example of these vans operational districts) traverse the city along somewhat predetermined paths, stopping at popular places on their route (Por ejemplo, Teatro Municipal, Teatro Odeon, McDonald’s) until their van is full (roughly 15 seats) at which point they speed to the next destination and proceed to empty and refill the vehicle throughout the course of the day. It’s 5 Reals per trip (about 3 bucks, which isn’t too terrible considering it’s quick, fairly comfortable, and generally gets you to within a 5 minute walk of where you’re going, or at least your next means on transportation. Which leads me to my next bit. Centro is a cool area. You blink again.

You’re in Ipanema. How did you get here? The subway. Which is clean. And safe. And Clean. And reliable. And really freakin’ clean. (@NYC) For 3 Reals (2 bucks) we hop on a train from Centro to Ipanema. It’s a little windy and cool by the water (it is technically winter here) so you walk around the beach but don’t stay long. You do window shop a little more and locate the store that holds you next purchase; a tiny swimsuit (Brazilian flag on black) and a number of other stores you plan to investigate during the day when they reopen. You continue walking and spy a large, faded green building, from which there’s a hint of familiar American music. Creedence Clearwater Revival pumps out from balcony and the faint white glow of pale Americans illuminates the sign above, “Shenanigans: Irish Pub” Perfect. You walk up to the bouncer outside, who informs you that it’s a 10 Real cover charge. You reach for your wallet and he hands you a gigantic slip of paper covered in names of beers and liquors. “Paga depois.” (He informs you that you will be paying the cover as well as your tab at the culmination of your stay) You traverse the steps upstairs and are greeted by a large peninsula bar with few American options. Your friends buy the first round of Devassa, which is Portuguese for, “What you’re drinking tonight” (Kidding. It’s actually a little rude, so good luck using Google trying to figure out what it means, ‘cuz my lips are sealed) The live band actually consists of a guy on guitar and a lone singer, who over the course of the night belts out not only some CCR, but Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, The Wonders, and splits his time between the crowd favorites of both Brazil and the U.S. After your third round, you actually wonder whether or not this guy is a Brazilian singer or an enthusiastic American as he’s speaking both in between songs. You ask him, and in crisp Portuguese he informs you he’s a Brazilian native but seems rather flattered that you even had to ask and thanks you for the compliment on his English.

You and your buddies stay from about 10:30 or so until about 3:00 AM, keeping the rounds rolling and chatting up Brazilians and Americans alike, to include someone you’ve dubbed, “Rainbow Girl” because of her colorful top who agreed to meet you with her friends at a samba bar and street party the next night, Nick Papacostas, an American exchange student studying in Rio, and some guy you didn’t actually talk to but secretly decided to hate because he talked about how hard Harvard was and how working for his father is really difficult because he’s constantly sending him to vacation destinations to research the local night life for his extremely successful travel agency for the extremely wealthy. Also, he was really good at pool, which made you hate him more, and was hitting on French chicks in English because he, “didn’t want to be bothered to learn Portuguese and money’s a universal language anyway, right?” He said that. Out loud. Prick.

Around 3:30 you finally make it back to the sidewalk (paying much in the same manner, at the register with the slip, and at the door with your ticket out) and decide it’s time to return home. Seeing that the nearest corner for vans is a good 15 minute walk (rather difficult for a few of your friends who may or may not have overenthusiastically ordered an extra round or 3 more than they needed), you decide to flag down a taxi (a simple whistle or hand wave from the sidewalk and a yellow vehicle appears at your side) and convince the driver that he definitely has room for 5 of you. He agrees and for a few extra Reals, you’re well on your way home. You make it back to the house, crawl upstairs, blink lazily as your watch ticks the minutes past 4 AM. Everything blurs. Sleep.

Overall a good night if I say so myself. Stories from the street samba of Friday, the tourist traps of Saturday, and crazy construction of Sunday next time. Portuguese for the day is, “Bastante” which means, “Enough.”

Bom. Tchau for now.

If you wanna be Airborne........go to Rio

So I spent the last working week (August 1^st through 5^th) in Rio de Janeiro at another base (“OM” down here, I’ll hopefully get back to you with what that actually stands for) We took the 2.5 hour bus down to Rio from Resende on Monday morning with the expectations of “os cadetes Americanos” quite high (We were told that the training was “Transporte de Aero” and after explaining the U.S. Army Air Assault course to our host cadets, they said this was quite similar. Solid) We arrived, moved our stuff into the “Companhia Intendencia Paraquedista” (Parachute Logistics Company) barracks (similar to Buckner bays but the beds are all next to each other and there’s no lockers for your stuff. Good times) and waited for lunch. The one consistent theme was that every cadet said the food here was much better than at school (turns out, they meant exactly the same. This whole rice and beans thing is good but I don’t even have ask the freshmen around here what we’re having for lunch. Cuz I already know. Cuz it’s rice and beans. Identifying patterns, hooah) I did, however, notice that they have Guarana (not to be confused with Guarana, the soda made from the Brazilian fruit, Guarana, the Guarana we had here at camp was Guarana, the juice made from the Brazilian fruit, Guarana. Savvy?) Guarana (fruit) is one of the main ingredients in Red Bull and other energy drinks (I might have already told ya’ll this. Apologies again and/or in advance) and while Guarana (soda) has over 30 grams of sugar and is in fact not too terribly delicious, Guarana (the juice. Or “suco” depending on if your country’s flag is red, white, and blue, or green, yellow, white, and blue) is quite good and is present at many meals.

We reported to our first lesson (“palestra” generally means lecture while “instrucoes” can be physical demonstrations as well. We were in for the former. Lucky us) after lunch and proceeded to sit through roughly 5 hours of rapid Portuguese and death by PowerPoint on the civil, mechanical, and equipmental capabilities of 17 different aircraft as well as proper loading procedures of cargo and personnel for the aircraft. Not that this was a terrible or repeated experience (read: it was both) but all day Tuesday was the same and Wednesday morning as well. Our host cadet friends were preparing for a written exam on Friday that would not only be graded and factored into their semester grade but passing this test could affect their ability to attend their Airborne School (Escolhar Paraquedist) this coming November for the final 6 weeks of the semester (6 weeks is not a typo. We’ve figured out a rough formula for converting the length of US specialty military schools lengths into Brazilian. Take the amount of time it is for the US Army. Add 3 weeks, multiply by 200%, or simply make it 6 months long, whichever of these seems to be mostly reasonably painful. This additional time will be spent determining and removing ineligible personnel from the course via physical training. 0700-1100 (Non stop except for a 10 minute break at an undisclosed point) and 1200-1600. Every. Day. Get. Some.) A word used to describe such interesting lessons is, “sangrando”, the literal translation of which is, “bleeding” and can be used in a variety of settings to mean general suffering. As in, "Esta aula e chato, eu estou sangrando." (This lesson is boring, I am suffering.)

Wednesday afternoon there was a spot of physical demonstration (thank God) of how to tie down and load aircraft, which required some volunteers from the Brazilian cadets to demonstrate and 2 “cadets extranheiros” (read: the Paraguayan and myself) The Brazilian cadets seemed to have a good handle of exactly what to do (Someone was paying attention during class while someone else took pictures. Guess who was who....) and after we made our initial plan, I mostly resigned myself to tightening straps. We received full marks from the instructor, SGT Rui (pronounced “Hui”) who was an extremely fit version of an Elvis look alike and who also kicked our rigged package and complimented us on how tight it was. Solid. 

The only things we really looked forward to during this week were the Brigada de Infantaria Paraquedist Museu (I’m not even gonna put a translation here. If you can’t guess what that is, you need help), late night soccer games (On concrete. Most of the Brazilians played barefoot or with just their left shoe. Also, they’re all amazing. And bicycle kicks on concrete are nuts), and last call from the mess hall at 2100h (9:00 pm. Amazing bread pudding every night. Pictures of all of the above and more on Facebook on Monday!)

Upon waking up Thursday morning we (read: everyone, not just the Americans for once) learned that the test had been moved to Thursday morning and that we would be released almost a full day earlier than expected (Our original plan was to spend the weekend with one of our host friends in Rio de Janeiro where we would create a whole mess of problems.  Needless to say, being released into a new and strange city 24 hours earlier than expected changed 2 and a half large burlap bags of nothing)

It’s almost 5:30 AM Saturday morning as I write this. We just got back from…….well, we’ll save that for next time. Portuguese for the day is “pudim de pao” or “bread pudding”.

Tchau for now!

Podem Dancar se queira (You can dance if you want to)

The Saturday following our foray into the martial arts world (July 30^th, for those of you trying to piece together a timeline here), we were invited again to a deeply rooted Brazilian tradition; Forro dancing (pronounced, “Foh-ho”) To paraphrase a short history of Forro, when foreign (read: white. Very white) colonizers hit the North Eastern coast of Brazil and proceeded to stick around for awhile, they decided it was time to start constructing railroads and other large infrastructure. When the railroad officers started having parties on the weekends, they wanted to ensure that they could include influential locals at times but also maintain a spirit of discrimination when they wanted do (because come on, what’s better than overstaying your welcome and telling your hosts that you’re better than them?) They would designate parties as solely for railroad employees or “for all”. As our cadete friends tell us, the lack of hard “r” sounds in the Brazilian Portuguese led to word of these swinging parties  spreading like wildfire by mouth through the Brazilian population as, “Foh All”. The colonizers eventually reduced their presence in Brazil but the phrase stayed and the style of Forro dancing lived on until this day.

There was a group that met weekly at the GFN (I specifically remember asking what these letters stood for and then immediately forgetting. Solid) It’s the bastard child of a Rec Center and an Officers Club but is available for all to use. There’s a skate park, playground, courts for volleyball (voleibol), basketball (basquete), and a pool (piscina). There’s also a bar (bar, pronounced, “bah”) and a lounge with some TVs (televisaos……or TVs) Something for everyone. 

On Saturday, we woke up late and grabbed quick bite for lunch to include chicken sandwich and acai ice cream (sanduiche do frango e sorvete da acai) Acai, pronounced “Ah-sigh-ee” here, is a fruit from the Amazon rainforest and is typically found in health food drinks in the U.S. Here, it’s one of the ingredients in what I can only tout was the purple drank of ice cream, for reasons more than the fact that the ice cream is dark purple. It's high caloric content make it choice for many Brazilians post work out and the fact that it's delicious enough to make me cry thinking about not having it when I leave in December makes me enjoy it all the more here. As I type this, I feel my expressed love of Acai may be familiar to some of you (read: I’m pretty sure I already told you guys about this) If this is the case, please accept my apology and prepare for it to happen again for if it happened once, it’ll never happen again but if it’s happened twice, it will absolutely happen a third time. Enjoy.

Cadete Rodrigues Lima approached Sonza and myself (Nate was out running with other cadets, having woken up at a reasonable time and eaten breakfast. Brutal) as we returned from our lunch and asked us if we were interested in learning Forro that night. My universe of formal dance education (Walter Schalk, get at me) was somewhat limited and the phrase, “When in Rio…….” popped into my head. Also, Rodrigues Lima (who everyone calls “Feijoa” (“Fey-sho-ow”) which means “Bean”, which is funny because he’s really small and very tan) used the words, “informal” (which is pronounced, “in-for-mahl” and means “informal” in English) and, “mulheres” (pronounced, “mool-yer-es”, meaning, “women”) which are two words I actually know in Portuguese. Class started at 5 pm (@Brazilians and Military type folk, 1700) so at about 5:05 we left for class. As a quick side note, there exist a few words that are entirely untranslatable between our languages. From them, we don’t have the word, “Saudade” which is a great feeling of longing or sadness, somewhat like homesickness but more often related to the deep pangs of love lost. From us, they can’t grasp the idea, “hard time.” Blows my mind.

We stepped off post, changed into civilian clothes at the larangeira, and then walked back into the residential area of post towards the GFN. There was a small building in the back with wooden floors and wall mirrors. I later learned that this was a dance studio for a children’s ballet troupe and in general a multipurpose room. There were about 10 of us total, with ages ranging from about 19 to 29 and we were relying on someone’s laptop and iTunes account for the Forro music. Avioes do Forro, a primarily Forro musical group whose name literally means, “Birds of Forro” supplied the majority of our music. 3 girls in particular, Stephanie, Rayani, and Ana Paula, all about our age were our primary dance partners. They would dance incredibly fast with the other cadets there and then say demeaning things like, “Entende? Facil.” (Understand? Easy) Just the worst. 

Eventually, Orlando and I were able to nail down the basic concept of Forro (I was told that in addition to having two left feet, I have locked knees, old man hips, and no ankle joints. Sweet. I guess I’ll just retire with my 80% disability and start collecting VA checks) and spent the next few hours jumping between practicing Forro (Feedback from my partners ranged from, “Relxada, calma,” (Relax, calm) to, “Bom,” (Good) to eventually, “Ahh, muito bom, voce entende!” (Ahh, very good, you get it!)) and trying to explain the deep intricacies of Cotton Eye Joe, the Electric Slide, and even a little Jersey Shore style fist pumping (One of us is Italian, the other two are New Jersey natives. It was bound to happen) Nothing doing. Before we departed, we were made to promise to return the next weekend in order to teach them more, “American dancing” We promised we would.

Next up was the opportunity for some well earned food. We bid farewell to our new friends who, if I’m not too bold in saying, seemed particularly taken with Orlando who looks the most Brazilian out of the 3 of us, and headed to Dom Pizza, a local pizza parlor. Upon arriving, we grabbed one of the huge menus and spent almost 20 minutes leafing through what could have been a world atlas for the number of pages it had. It had everything ranging from Calabrese to Portuguese to Carne Carne to Big Chicken (Not sure why the one spot of English on an otherwise entirely Portuguese menu). We ended up getting one “Gigante” (Extra Large) with half Calabrese and half Queijo (Cheese) and one Grande (Large) with half Portuguese and half Atum (Tuna) Plates, forks and knives were brought to the table along with two liters of Guarana soda (Guarana is a fruit native to Brazil and one of the main ingredients in Red Bull and other energy drinks) and I knew this was going to be an interesting ride.

I will say this for the Brazilians; they don’t shirk from a challenge. The pizza I had that night was extremely different from anything I’ve ever had before but I have to say, not bad. Quite possibly the biggest difference I noticed in between American pizza and Brazilian pizza was the lack of gravy (Tomato sauce for all you non-Italians out there, red stuff for anyone who was still confused) They had dough and they had toppings but the subtlety of a base layer between topping and crust was lost on these wonderful people. My heart goes out to them.

All told, every slice I had (*cough* one of each, I have no discipline *cough*) was pretty delicious. The cheese pie (I was expecting just mozzarella……..I'm just going to stop having expectations here) had mozzarella, some type of Brazilian cheese I’ve noticed making an appearance at breakfast every once in a while and one other type that legitimately looked like a lighter version of Easy Cheez squirted in semi random patterns all over the pie. Good though. The Calabrese was large covered with meat (ham and honestly, not quite sure what else. Either some type of salami or sausage but the jury’s out) and had a little mozzarella as well. The Portuguese was covered with hard boiled eggs, green olives, tomatoes, peppers, and onions. Interesting, but not terrible. And finally, the tuna was mostly just tuna but also had some onions on there as well and contrasted well with the cheese. When in Rio, I suppose….

One of the other big differences I noticed (which I was warned about by DFL but largely ignored until I saw it with my own eyes) was that people in Brazil eat pizza with a fork and knife. I glanced up before I started eating and noticed that despite my host cadete friend telling me that people do both, not a single person in the entire restaurant (which included a couple very, very interested in each other, 3 older gentlemen with stained jeans and cigarettes, puffing about below a, “Nao Fumar” sign (Don’t Smoke), what seemed to be a birthday party of six 8 year olds with a few parents, and a few teenagers in the back near the soda machine) was eating pizza with their hands. I was blown away. I started using my knife and fork and to my surprise, the crust cut quite easily, as if this pizza was meant to be consumed by utensil. Interesting.

We finished both pies and, stomachs full, meandered back to the larangeira to change back into our uniforms. After a long night of dancing and pizza, it was time to call it a night. Not our last session of forro, nor our final Brazilian pizza for sure. Next time, my adventures at Airborne School and Rio de Janeiro!

Jew Jitsu

Loyal Readers (Victoria and Janelle),

So not gonna lie, I’m actually a lot busier than I expected. Who would’ve thought that at a federally funded foreign military academy that asks a binding 30 year military commitment of its cadets (35 if you include the actual school itself and the mandatory prep school year) that I’d be doing lots of stuff. Go figure. In any event, the next few posts ought to be in quick succession, very different, and somewhat out of sequence due to my current location and internet availability (Deep in the concrete jungle and none, respectively) My deepest apologies in advance.

So this post is not entirely aptly named; I just figured a few of my readers and *cough* former roommates who believe I bear a strong resemblance to a relatively famous actor of Hebrew religious beliefs would get a kick out of it. Cheers, guys. For those of you wondering why I type so much, I love the sound of my voice in my head just as much as when it’s spoken. So you understand why these posts tend to meander somewhat. A second round of apologies.

Moving right along, on a Thursday night with little to do (read: Wifi was down), Cadet Orlando Sonza (who, if I have not formally introduced yet, deserves a personal apology. For those of you who don’t know Orlando, you’re truly missing out on an opportunity to enrich your life and for those of you who don’t personally know Orlando, I highly suggest quietly invading another country with him (read: study abroad). The kid’s a riot. And he speaks Portuguese. Winning) and myself decided that in order to spend our time well in the Southern Hemisphere, we needed to do a little maintenance on the one thing we packed before anything else; our godlike physiques. A late night, end-of-week swole sesh was in order and who else better suited for such chicanery than a man of lore from the Jersey Shore himself and the Italian Stallion. The stars have never aligned this straight.

En route to Orlando’s room, I spy with my little eye him and one of his 7 roommates in the hallway. His roommate has his gi (for you non martial arts practitioners out there, imagine what a robe would look like if it were shorter and came with pants. Also, much thicker and less gentle on the skin) over his shoulder. Orlando sees me coming and waves me in, “Hey, change of plans, we’re going to jiu jitsu tonight.” Images of UFC fighters bleeding from their eye sockets as rapid fire punches bounce repeated off the back of their head and their arms flail uncontrollably as their legs lie locked and useless behind them. I respond jovially, “Far out. Where at?” “Academia do muscolo.” Directly translated to mean, “Academy of Muscle” and the completely serious name for the gym they have here, our thick necked friend resembling a certain Staten Island wrestler I’ve grown to know and love said this as he smiled at us with excitement, much the way a wolf would smile at a baby lamb asking it for directions back to the farm. Lovely.

Fast forward about 20 minutes. Breathing heavily and bleeding somewhat from my nose after the first two fights, I held my hand up in a somewhat defensive motion as the starting whistle blew, “Senhor, nao se muito e nao se nada do jiu jitsu.” As I explained my lack of knowledge in his sport, our instructor, an engineering lieutenant with an easy 20 pounds (8 some odd kilograms for you Brazilians out there) of deeply tanned sinewy muscle on me, held his hand out, expectant of the traditional hand slap and fist bump that started the round and looked at me quizzically; between my American accent and unapologetically terrible grammar, I had my doubts that we were in the same book let alone on the same page. He thought for a moment, and in his own thickly accented English asked calmly, “What do you know?” Thinking back to all the Jiu Jitsu based Army Combatives I had had the distinct pleasure of learning one day each of the last two summers and promptly dumping (to make room for more Plebe knowledge and secret radio frequencies to chat with the other Buckner bays, respectively) I said, “Wrestling, senhor. Luta livre.” He slapped my unsuspecting hand, gave my limp fingers the pound and proceeded to grab my neck. “Then wrestle.” Baptism by fire.

We rolled for about 5 minutes, as with all 5 of the fights that night. It didn’t seem to me that American folkstyle wrestling was the more dominant of the styles exhibited that night (I’m pretty sure I had a record of 0 submissions versus being submitted well into the double digits, possible triple) being that Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is entirely a submission based sport whereas wrestling is often more about scoring points. I rolled out from under him at the next whistle, thoroughly gassed and ready to just about die when I opened my eyes. Ah, the ceiling. I’ve been here before. Obstructing my familiar view from my back, my opponent was doubled over by my side breathing just as heavily. Ah ha, so the Gods can bleed. “Thank you very much. What-huh………What do you think of Jiu Jitsu, Bri-un?” He overly emphasized the last syllable of my name, a product of his accent and heavy exhalation. “Ta bom. Eu gusto muito, senhor,” I sighed myself, satisfied with my efforts. We shook hands and pounded again and he clasped my arm, “Jiu Jitsu is beautiful.” I nodded in assent and thanked him, “Obrigado, senhor.” 

I was well worked over by 4 of my 5 opponents but caused a mess of problems for my final fighter and was close to a submission myself when the final whistle was blown. I stood up and looked around; we were essentially using blown out gymnastics pads on a large stairway landing. There were only about 12 of us, including Orlando and myself. Thug life. Truly a Brazilian version of Fight Club.

We shook hands with all the fighters, laced up our shoes, and limped back to the barracks. It was time to shower up, and to let the hot water discover more mat burns than we knew we had. The swelling would go down in a few days, just in time for our next session.