Tiago: The Place to Buy. The Place To Be.

The most awesome mall ever is apparently in Romania: http://www.tiago.ro/ploiesti/

Colombian Culture 299: Physical Education

So I decided to go to the gym the other day, you know, tone the abs and work on my pectoral cleavage, that type of thing. I was told by my numerous housemates that there was a gym right around the corner on the next street over, so I decided to check it out.

I walked about 3 minutes, literally right around the corner, and found the place they were referring to. It was smack dab in the middle of our residential neighborhood and actually seemed quite out of place, a tall three-story building with large windows casting its harsh fluorescent lighting on the sleepy houses that surrounded it.

I talked to the owner, Christian, a meaty chunk of muscle whose biceps were bigger around than my torso, and figured out the price and hours of operation. I liked what I saw and decided to pay a month in advance as a sly method of motivating myself, despite numerous past experiences indicating that this is totally ineffective.

The gym was nearly empty, with just a few guys working the free weights on the ground floor and not a soul on the second floor, where the cardio exercises were. This is just the way I like it: no distractions, no waiting for machines, and no jealous glances from guys wishing they had the massive girth of my Spartan-like shoulders.

I climb the stairs to the second floor and, with a sinking feeling, I realize that this gym doesn't have treadmills, the single most important exercise for me and practically the sole reason I actually go to the gym, seeing as how I am able to maintain my Hulk-esque figure through sheer force of will. The only comparable thing they have is an elliptical, a machine I have avoided like the plague due to its undeniably gay low-impact nature. And now I've paid a month in advance and have no way to back out. Great.

I get up on the machine and start my workout, but within seconds I realize that the elliptical machines are lined up in front of a huge bay window that opens out onto the street below, a street where large groups of people are currently sitting outside their houses, in full gossip target acquisition mode, just brainstorming new and juicy tidbits to discuss to death in their post-work ritual.

Next thing I know I'm chugging away on my machine to the rhythm of the techno remix of "Listen to Your Heart," the fluorescent lights illuminating me from behind like floodlights as a small crowd gathers beneath my window in utter amazement at this spiky-haired, pasty white Chinese dude in blue boardshorts sweating profusely on his elliptical. By sheer coincidence there seems to also be a meeting of the Prettiest Girls in the Neighborhood Club at that very moment and at that very spot, as they all suddenly appear beneath my makeshift stage to gawk with the others. Groups of conspicuously masculine men, the kind that would never think of using an elliptical, sit in groups up and down the street drinking beers and communicating in grunts and farts, as such men do. All in all, I pretty much succeeded in entertaining the whole neighborhood for a good half-hour, not to mention providing a topic of lively speculation for a few days after that.

When I got home an hour later I discovered that, in an amazing coincidence I suspected was not really a coincidence, the large bay windows where I had just gained infamy were in a direct line of sight from the back windows of my house, which at two stories provides a nice view over the tops of the adjoining houses. I was informed by my housemates, through the gasping laughter and tearful chuckles of course, that they had also witnessed my "performance."

You know, I've realized there is a point, beyond embarrassment and also beyond shame, where you really just don't care. I am becoming very familiar with this place.

First EVER video profile on optinnow.org

Here is an exclusive sneak peek at the first EVER video profile on www.optinnow.org.

Brazilian Music on iTunes Store

They just added a "Brazilian" genre to the iTunes Store, instead of lumping it together with "Latin." Pretty cool. Of course, it's utterly ridiculous to package sertanejo and forró with electrodance and bossa nova, but hey it's a start. Here's the iTunes Store link:

Brazilian Music on iTunes Store

Colombian Culture 226: Dance Workshop

Last Saturday I went to a club with my housemates Carlos and Dallana. It is called Escandalo, and is basically a giant warehouse-like room with high ceilings, a bar all along one side, and lots of tables spread before a stage at one end.

Now first of all, you have to realize that the whole concept of what you do at a club is radically different here in coastal Colombia than in the U.S. In the U.S. going clubbing basically consists of consuming the maximum amount of alcohol possible, crowding onto as small a dance floor as possible with the maximum amount of smoke and minimum amount of light, and spending the next few hours grinding your genitals against as many people of the opposite sex who fit your minimum standards of attractiveness as possible.

Now most of these requirements are due to the one simple fact that no one north of the equator has any idea how to dance; thus we are forced to drown our inhibitions in alcohol and seek conditions that prevent any significant degree of movement in order to disguise the fact that we are basically just stumbling around in a drunken stupor for hours on end making erratic movements in pathetic imitation of Usher music videos that we would never admit watching. And all this while giving each other mysterious glances in subtle acknowledgement of our mutual coolness.

The main difference between our two cultures is another simple fact: people here know how to dance. They know how to dance and they don't care if you watch; in fact they're probably hoping you'll come over and join them. An occurrence that in the U.S. only happens in the movies is seen here as a friendly and common gesture. Far from cramming onto a tiny dance floor, costeños like space: you'll often see a single couple dancing alone in the middle of a walkway at the far end of the club, not a hint of self-consciousness spoiling their enjoyment.

Back to Escandalo. The place is quite large and open, unusually so for a club. Soon after we arrive they start some performances: a skinny black guy belts out a Frank Sinatra cover three octaves higher than the original while a single backup dancer (also a skinny black guy) does some, in my opinion, overly theatrical dance moves that look more like ballet flourishes than sophisticated jazz steps. After that a dance troupe does some classic hip and chest shaking in tune to some hip-hop reggaeton, with the males of the group coming dangerously close to showing up their female counterparts, despite the fact that they had neither hips nor breasts.

One thing that continues to amaze me is how unapologetically young Colombians mix the old and the new, the traditional and cutting edge. Music is no exception. After about a half hour of seeing dancers gyrate to hip-hop and electronic music that could be heard in any club in the world, the mood abruptly shifted as a live band filed into the room from the back of the club, already playing their instruments with microphones broadcasting the performance through the speakers overhead.

Now how do I explain what this music was like? I would call them a mariachi band except they weren't that high-tech. Imagine this: a big drum carried vertically on a strap, a high-pitched snare, a trumpet playing in short bursts, and...... that's it. It literally sounded like half the band was missing, like they got caught in traffic but they needed to pay their rent so, here we go! To my ears it sounded like the soundtrack to a movie consisting entirely of traffic jams - it communicated a futile urgency that grated on my nerves and gave me a headache.

But the remarkable thing was that these people loved it. Modern, attractive, sophisticated men and women who only moments before had been bumping and grinding with the best of them suddenly were transported to a past century of quaint chivalry and choreographed dance steps. And they really felt it too. You could hear the crowd singing along and see the passion in their movements, as if they were old people reliving the glory of their youth. My attempts to point this out and question my companions about it were met with quizzical incomprehension - they, of course, see no contradiction in their wonderfully nonlinear musical tastes.

I had been trying for some time to learn how to dance Colombian-style, but had had little success. In a way it wasn't fair: just when I was finally learning the secret to dancing American-style - unmerited self-confidence mixed with a willingness to look stupid - off I go to a faraway country where they require actual skill? How long was this going to take?

Normally I would have been embarrassed to practice my nascent salsa skills in a place full of people who would so quickly recognize my gringo origin, but I soon noticed a man a few tables away who also seemed to be a gringo. He was about six-foot eight, had a big nose, and limbs so long and gangly he looked like a robotic scarecrow, flailing his arms around in such clear nonsyncronization with the music it was like the visual equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. You couldn't not look at him, in a horrific car accident kind of way.

In addition to this, he was at the club with a tiny brown Colombian woman. She was about 5'2" and couldn't have weighed more than 100 pounds, which only accentuated the immensity of Mr. America - even when she stood on the chair she barely reached his shoulder. Which reminds me, apparently since there were a number of women dancing on the bar, our friend decided it would be cute if he got up on the chair and danced for a bit. You know, as if to say "look, I'm one of you!" Instead, the horrified looks of the people around me reminded me a lot of that scene when King Kong climbs the Chrysler building.

But in the end I couldn't complain. Not only did this guy provide me with entertainment, his truly awesome gringo presence was so powerful it actually caused a gringdar (gringo radar) blackout in the area, meaning I was all but invisible. I could have set myself on fire and no one would have noticed me next to the megawatts of gringo energy being discharged from every pore of this man's body. Under this cover I proceeded to dance with Dallana, who didn't seem to mind me stepping on her feet every few seconds or my knees knocking against hers or my hips going the wrong direction and throwing her off balance. Although at one point while dancing to a hip-hop song she "accidentally" hand palmed me in the face. I guess fair is fair.

Lesson learned: actual dances with actual predetermined steps are NOT only for old people.

The Middle Class Rocks!

This is a really fascinating article on the truly mind-blowing fact that, as of the last few years, a majority of the world's population is middle-class.

Whoa. Think about that for a second.

For the first time in history, a history filled almost exclusively with societies dominated by an elite that squeezed every ounce of profit from their serfs or slaves, a numerical majority of the Earth's population belongs to that beacon of political stability and democratized prosperity known as the middle class.

The article contains some interesting ideas, such as the fact that there are really 2 middle classes: a globalized, international middle class that consumes the same products and have as much in common with each other as with the poor of their own countries; and the middle class by the standards of each individual country, which varies wildly depending on where you live.

Plus they use an example of the first Casas Bahia (a national Brazilian domestic appliance store) to open in a favela as their headliner.

A Special Report on the New Middle Class at The Economist

The One Country That Might Avoid Recession Is...

Really great article on why Brazil might be the only major economy in the world to not go into recession this year. Although this may not sound particularly dazzling, it's a really big deal: until now Brazilians have practically taken it for granted that they always get the shortest end of the economic stick.

And it's not only mega-corporations pouring gold into the pockets of their shareholders. The article goes on to show that Brazil is actually getting less unequal. The middle class is growing (now 53%!) and opportunities for social mobility abound.

What I really want to see, assuming this seemingly miraculous state of affairs continues, is what effect it will have on the Brazilian psyche.

Will they shed their traditional low self-esteem and take a more active leadership role in world affairs? Will this new middle class adopt the bourgeoisie values of the American middle class or take a more leftward bent under the guidance of the moderate leftist Lula? And the biggest question for me: will this transformation engender a concept of nationalism and civic duty that leads to Brazilians taking responsibility for their poor and outcast, instead of focusing solely on the national soccer team and Carnaval as expressions of their national identity? Only time will tell.

"The One Country That Might Avoid Recession Is..." from TIME

Top Like 50 Thousand Ways You Know You're a Brazilian

Here's a little blast from the past: I saw this group on a friend's Facebook page (thanks Marilia!) and thought it was quite accurate, so here you go:

Top Like 50 Thousand Ways You Know You're a Brazilian:

You think American bathing suits are enormous;

You like Guarana better than any soda;

You know Xuxa and Pele;

You still argue Pelé is better than Maradona;

You would rather die than see Argentina beat Brazil in soccer;

BBQ means steak, sausage, chicken, pork, rice, farofa, molho and beer;

You are the loudest person in the room;

You have a Brazilian flag on almost everything you can put one on;

You travel to Brazil and instead of taking a suitcase with all your stuff, you take presents for the entire family, the dog, the neighbor...;

You're so proud that you're Brazilian you make sure everybody knows;

You leave your house spotless when you have people coming over;

You have a sweet ass (or wish you had it or like women that have them) & you know how to shake it;

You can drop it like it's hot;

Most of your jokes are about Portuguese people;

You take soccer way too seriously;

You cried when Brazil lost the World Cup;

You clap when singing Happy Birthday;

You know what Capoeira is;

You know a lot about Samba and MPB;

You eat rice and beans almost 7 days a week;

Your breakfast consists of milk & coffee and bread with butter;

You know : Os Trapalhoes, Turma da Monica, Zico, Caetano Veloso, Tom Jobim, Elis Regina, Ronaldinho, Jo Soares, Cazuza, Gilberto Gil, Silvio Santos, Roberto Carlos, Ayrton Senna, Carmem Miranda & Chico Xavier;

You are so used to corruption that nothing surprises you anymore;

You know how to play dominoes and cards;

You have a sense of fashion;

You wear flip flops, a lot!

You know how to play volleyball and handball;

You take pictures everywhere you go;

You know what it's like to buy liquor/cigarettes without an ID;

You know how to party, and if the party isn't over until after 5am...its not a party!

Any holiday, official or not, is a legitimate excuse for a week vacation;

You know what Feijoada and Pavé are;

Your favorite drink is Caipirinha;

You dress up to go to the grocery store;

You spend an entire day at the beach;

You are too friendly;

Cachaça rocks;

You grew up dancing & singing to Xuxa;

Easter without Bacalhau doesn't really feel like Easter;

You own Havaianas in almost every color;

You went to Disney World for your 15th birthday;

No meal is complete without rice & beans;

You like mayo on your hot dogs and Americans think you're crazy for it;

You love chicken heart;

You know Bossa Nova and Forró.

Colombian Culture 201

Tomorrow, March 8 is International Women's Day, which seems to be celebrated everywhere but in the U.S. It is a day to celebrate all women, not just the mothers, who get all the attention on Mother's Day.

In our office, which is the Colombian headquarters for Opportunity International, the men are vastly outnumbered by the women, with a maybe 5 to 1 ratio. This fact, combined with the fact that some 90% of our loan clients are also women, inspired the men of the office to put together a little presentation honoring the women that, literally, make our organization run.

Every morning at 7:45 we have a meeting in the conference room with all the staff in the office. Opportunity being a "Christian-inspired" organization, this meeting usually consists of praying, reading passages from the Bible, and singing worship songs a cappella-style.

On Friday, after the usual activities, the Director of IT Harold took the stage, explaining that we men wanted to honor the women this morning. It was at this point that he whipped out a slick powerpoint presentation with a summary of the morning's activities. It was also at that point that I started wondering whether I was dreaming.

First item on the agenda was a powerpoint presentation - you know, those ones you usually get in chain emails with computer-animated sunsets and MIDI Greensleeves on repeat. It displayed a series of quotes comparing a "strong woman" to a "woman of strength." For example: "a strong woman works out every day......a woman of strength knows that her heart is her most important muscle." You get the idea.

The next event, as Harold explained to the excited crowd, would be an "international guest" who would recite a poem for us. Yup, you guessed it. That's me.

Here's a copy of the poem I read that morning, translated into English. Try to imagine me reading this out loud, melodramatic theatrics and everything, to a room full of Colombian women sighing and swooning with every line:

What would the world be like without women?

Humanity would not exist,

Love would not have any reason to exist,

Without her life would have no meaning.

What use would we have for mountains, the ocean, or lagoons?

The sky and stars would be worthless,

as would be the moon.

My god what would we do without her?

My days and nights would be without color,

With whom would I watch the sunset?

From where would I receive my warmth and comfort?

My life and my heart would be sad.

What would the world do without her presence?

Everything would be dead and silent,

the house, the garden would feel her absence.

There would be no life; only a desert.

Around you, woman, my universe revolves!

You are the most perfect of all God's creations.

That's why I write poems and verses,

Inexhaustible source of my admiration.

If I couldn't count on your presence,

the word 'love' would have no meaning.

I thank God for your existence,

It is for you my heart beats.

Inspirational muse of all my verses,

Blessed jewel, God's creation.

If you didn't exist in the universe,

There would only be sadness and desolation.

Happy Woman's Day to all!

Needless to say, I discovered a whole new level of embarrassment that I didn't even know existed: a hidden netherworld of shame known only to the most intrepid (and hapless) travelers. My face also discovered a whole new level of redness, which did nothing to discourage the ooing and awing.

But the morning wasn't over yet. Oh no, it was just getting started.

Harold announced that we had one more special guest, and just seconds after someone joked that it must be a mariachi band, a piercing trumpet and operatic yodel announced the arrival of an actual, living and breathing, Mexican-style mariachi band, to the shrieks and screams of the women in the room.

They had it down to a t. Gold-embroidered clothing in intricate patterns on their shoulders and down the sides of their pants. A guitar that looked homemade with a mobile amplification system they wheeled in on a cart. The lead singer had his hair slicked back and proceeded to belt out some of the most popular mariachi songs in Colombia (it's considered a legitimate musical genre here, not just a comedy gag).

The next half hour was more like a bachelorette party than a prayer meeting.

The women sang out loud and joked with each other, shrieking with laughter and teasing each other with pointing fingers. The singer at various times held the microphone up to one of their mouths, the impromptu performances earning enthusiastic cheers from their colleagues. A couple times the singer even invited one of the women to come to the front, placing one of the huge sombreros on her head as she danced her heart out with dramatic flamenco-like arm gestures and exaggerated steps, a sarcastic smirk on her face. For their last couple songs, the band played some slower songs, which had half the room in tears.

I tried to imagine something like this happening in the U.S., and for the life of me, no matter what the circumstances, I couldn't. As everyone went to their offices to begin the workday, I realized that even though they tried to copy the American office environment to the greatest extent possible, they had something different, something special. As I sat down at my desk and began my work, I found myself hoping that that something would never, ever go away.