More than embracing São Paulo’s idiosyncrasies, being “paulistana” means carrying them like a badge of honor. What happens when a paulistana has been living far from the megalopolis’s intensity for a long time? Does she get lost in the chaos?
The roaring of busy engines and blaring of mad horns open up the memory gates. Not familiarity but an overwhelming sense of disquiet floods in. I try to visit my family in Brazil once a year. It used to feel like riding the proverbial bicycle. Recently, it’s been more like wearing a cloak of inadequacy. I’m not fast enough, witty enough, fit enough, angry enough.
I let other drivers cut in. I uselessly wait for my turn at the crossroads. It takes me time to remember this isn’t how things are done in São Paulo’s traffic. I must block others, push through, and inch my way across.
Riding the subway feels equally challenging. Paulistanos rush everywhere. I search for a map, trying to figure out which line to ride, and I’m ruthlessly scolded for the sudden stop. I’m clearly not getting it. Move, lady.
I wear flip-flops to the mall. Two women pass me by, talking about my faux pas loudly so I can get the hint that I’m not at a beach. I perk up and stop wearing sweats outside the house. I have some makeup on at all times. I blow dry my hair every time I wash it. My posture tightens. My steps quicken.
Outside, the rain clears the pollution, cooling the air, and blurs the views, softening the concrete jungle’s harsh lines. Inside, a whiff of wet dog permeates all environs. A blessed smell of coffee reaches me. I find the counter and smile involuntarily. Other customers with knowing looks squeeze so I can join them for a much needed break.
The server is fast, precise, and courteous. I grab a quick bite of “pão de queijo” and “cafezinho,” the local espresso. The quintessential Brazilian snack grounds me. A kinder disposition allows me to notice the overworked demeanor of my fellow coffee drinkers getting a much needed kick to help them plow through the afternoon.
At the bakery line, I watch a batch of fresh “pãezinhos,” like petit baguettes but lighter and crispier, tumble from a giant basket into a glass bin, looking so perfectly baked my mouth waters, and everyone in line exchanges appreciation smiles. We all know nothing compares to fresh, Brazilian-style “French bread” with a generous smear of butter.
It’s mango season! No dessert can compete with the distinct sweetness of a ripe Brazilian mango. Their bright yellow flesh fills my mouth with sumptuous velvetiness, and I’m settled.
Under the spell of delicious food, I see the mix of American Southern charm and New York edginess that paulistanos manifest while juggling long work hours, intense traffic, and the constant pressure for results in the financial and industrial heart of a developing nation always trying to do better. I get it.
More at ease, I go to all my favorite restaurants and cafés. I take a walk at Parque do Ibirapuera. I stroll through Bixiga neighborhood, stop at a bar for a caipirinha, and let the music soothe me. Couples are dancing a mellow samba. Around me, lively chatter covers recent soccer games, a local election, family debacles, romantic innuendo. The city vibrates through its people. I am, again, part of it.
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