When it rains...

It rained for six days and six nights.

I could sit and listen to the rain all night. There is something grounding about being in the middle of all that water, as though Atlantean and isolated, the sound of rain pinging the plastic covers over the clothesline in the laundry room, pouring from the drain pipe on the sound of the house and spattering on the pavement outside. It rains all night. It rains as we go to sleep and it is still raining when we wake up. The pool overflows and water runs into our backyard like someone very strong dug their fingers under the earth and tilted the pool as though emptying it. Our roof leaks. Water streams from light sockets. We put a bucket beneath it to catch the rain and empty it before we go to bed. Our house is porous. Everything is damp. Towels never dry. There is no real separation between the indoors and out. The walls could be there or not be there or be walls or not be walls. The house is less a shelter and more part of the jungle, a place we are within the rain. The rain runs in rivulets down the streets because there are no drains and there are no gutters. I don’t know where all that water goes.

For the New Year, we spent a relaxing weekend, mostly at home, thanks to the rain. Plans for the zoo or the TV Tower were scrapped. Thanks, sky. After attending a New Year’s party at new friends’ house, we drove home around 10:00. We pulled onto our street to see that there were no cars on it. This was a welcome sight as it meant that our neighbor’s would not be having a party. The week prior—though Peter slept from 8 to 7, our neighbor’s had a party until two. The walls of our bedroom vibrated to Lady Gaga. Elise moved to the couch, behind the heavy wooden doors of the den which I imagine did very little, thick as they are, to block out the noise. I finally drifted to sleep to Counting Crows.

But with the street empty, we were cautiously optimistic the rest of our night would be peaceful. This was not the case.

Happy New Year, Brasilia! At exactly midnight, a cacophony erupted outside. Sam, already in our bed for the random firecracker popping in the night, buried his head in my chest. It sounded like the roof was being ripped off our house. We could see the flash of M-80s and Black Cats through the louvers on the plantation shutters. I clutched him as he quaked in my arms. I had never heard anything like it before in my life. Fortunately, it was short lived, though it can never be said that the Brazilians don’t know how to throw a party. I would hear later from a co-worker who had a panoramic view of the city’s skyline that fireworks could be seen as far to the left as you could see in the nightsky to as far to the right as you could see in the nightsky. The entire city was blanketed in sparks.

New Year’s Day the new president of Brazil was to be inaugurated. We had heard that there were going to be kids concerts on the main promenade, so we piled into the car to see what we could find. Due to the rain, we just drove, but saw the crowds gathering in front of Planalto (the Brazilian version of the White House) in anticipation of the inauguration. Platoons on horseback trotted through the streets and guards in colonial-style helmets with long bright-red plumes poking out of the top marched back and forth, polearms high.

Sunday was the most tranquil day in Brasilia yet, despite the rain. We made a run to McDonalds for French fries and a small dose of Americana just to get out of the house. As we pulled out of our street we passed two carts pulled by horses. On the back of one was a washing machine. Squashed mangos filled the road, having been tossed up into the trees in the median in hopes of dislodging more mangos and breadfruit. We drove, exploring, despite our crummy windshield wipers (I lament that despite my extensive language training, we were never taught how to sign up for internet service in Portuguese, how to buy a car in Portuguese or how to say “windshield wiper” in Portuguese....”limpiador”. I had to look it up.), in search of sidewalks wide enough for the double-jogger that we have been told should be here next Monday after 6 weeks….along with the diapers we are desperately running low on. 6 weeks is a long time to live solely on that which Elise and I could haul through the airport.

The end of each day, brings one of my most peaceful moments, taking out the garbage. I walk out in my bare feet and place the bag in the basket suspended from the street, a design, I have been told, meant to discourage small rodents and bugs. The street is bathed in a bright orange glow from the streetlamps above, brighter and more orange than the states and is usually/almost always damp and shiny with rain. From the end of our street, you can see the skyline of the city beyond, twinkling. The TV Tower has been transformed into a giant Christmas tree. It looks like a chandelier in the distance. And various buildings that pass for skyscrapers in this city that is not quite a big city shudder, spitting out fits of light that are almost festive.

I go back inside to the boys sleeping peacefully. Then it starts to rain.