The International Writers Magazine: Flat Hunting

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Brazilian Apartment Hunting • Auyon Mukharji Last week, my friend Vinicius and I strolled around Santa Teresa, an artsy, bohemian neighborhood in Rio de Janeiro, in search of some suitable accommodation for me for the next four months. We saw a few lavish apartments, all of which came with price tags to match.

The Real (the Brazilian currency) is not as forgiving as my guidebook suggests it used to be, and my decision to take both intensive Portuguese classes as well as mandolin lessons in Rio has rendered me unable to afford much more than a modest rent. At the tail end of our tour, after seeing a mouth-watering place with huge windows and hardwood floors, the owner said that he had something else that might be more suitable. We descended down a number of staircases, deep into the bowels of the apartment complex. When we got to what seemed like the bottom floor, he led us down another small, narrow concrete staircase hidden in the corner, leading to an unpainted wooden door.

He opened the door, revealing a concrete floor littered with the belongings of the current occupant, a bed, a mini-table and a small kitchenette with an oven and a sink. Although I wasn't overly impressed, the price he quoted was exactly what I was looking for, so after some deliberation, I took it.

I returned later that day, sans Vinicius, in order to procure the contract from a lady named Andrea to make it all official. I walked to the desk at the entrance of the building, and met Julio, a behemoth of a man with deep black skin and intensely white teeth, for the second time. I had the pleasure of meeting him earlier, when Vinicius and I first entered the building. Vinicius had shaken hands with him first, recoiling in pain afterwards and warning me to "Watch out." I then nervously looked up from my own extended hand to Julio, who exposed his teeth in an intimidating grin, and then gripped my hand and shook it like a dead rodent. Our second encounter began with a simple "Olá", as I made sure to keep my hand in my pocket lest he try to mangle it again. We were all alone, and since Julio speaks no English, I took a stab at Portuguese. For the benefit of all you gringo readers, I will be recounting our conversations in translation.
"Hello Julio. I… Andrea. Where. Andrea." It wasn't really a question, but he understood. "She's not here yet."
"Yes," I agreed. A slight pause ensued, followed by Julio's attempt to make conversation.
"It's pretty hot outside," he said slowly.
I then decided to try one of the phrases I remembered from my Rosetta Stone course. "I… I am. I am hot." I continued. "You. You are hot. We are. We are hot." These were some of the first full sentences I had constructed in Portuguese, and I was hugely proud of myself. Only later did I realize what a blathering idiot I must have sounded like.
Julio cut me off.
"The beach would be great today. Have you been to the beach?"
"I love beach."
It was at this point that Andrea, a pretty lady in her mid-30's, walked into the room. Julio told her that I needed the contract, and she then turned her back to us to walk to the desk. I then looked back at Julio. His arms were outstretched, and he was framing Andrea's posterior in a little window he made with his fingers, wincing as though he were experiencing intense pain or pleasure. He then grinned at me and flashed a thumbs-up sign. I nodded vigorously. Over the course of our short interaction, language barriers aside, we had established that we share an interest in both beaches and the jean-clad female form. I can't think of a more solid foundation for friendship. I hope to see much more of Julio.

I moved into the apartment last week, and found a few surprises. Most were minor, like a broken board in the bed, but I also found that the oven didn't work. When I informed one of the men who work the desk, he called the gas company to bring a new tank. He then fixed it up for me, and watched as I tried to light it. I had recently gotten comfortable lighting gas ovens, since I had cooked a bit with Vinicius at his place. I approached the oven, turned up the gas, and flicked the lighter. Foot-tall flames erupted out of the burner, singing most of the hair off of the knuckles of my right hand and scaring the shit out of me. Antonio, the gentleman who had helped me hook the tank up, frowned and muttered something in Portuguese. I cradled my hand and inspected the damage. The results weren't all bad. My knuckles had been getting a bit hairy, and could have done with a little trim. Engulfing my hand in a gas-borne fireball, however, would not have been my preferred method. Antonio then instructed me to use the oven on very low heat, presumably to prevent lighting the building on fire. I agreed.

Outside of my flaming oven, the apartment has been great. I have two decently sized windows that look out onto the hill of Santa Teresa, so I get a nice breeze and a view. Now that I have my living situation mostly figured out, I am looking very much forward to settling down and studying choro, the instrumental samba I hope to play, in earnest. The language barrier makes for a much trickier adjustment than anything I have experienced before, but my Portuguese is getting better by the day. Hopefully I'll be able to speak well enough to get my oven fixed soon.

© Auyon Mukharji <auyon.mukharji@gmail.com

Auyon Mukharji, a 2007 graduate of Williams College and a current Thomas J. Watson Fellow.
www.mandolinsandmoustaches.blogspot.com

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