My Ego Speak
Portuguese Someday
by Christopher Allen
I’ve
stayed in just about every form of accommodation,
from pup tent to penthouse; and it’s been my
experience that the bed in a simple pensione can
be as comfortable as the bed in a four-star hotel.
I don’t need luxury—just a peaceful
place to rest my weary head.
Enter Paraty,
a Portuguese colonial town 236 kilometers south
of Rio de Janeiro. It’s known for being,
well, colonial. My travelling companion, Horst,
and I were getting bored in Rio, so
“colonial” crackled with excitement.
We’d been
in Rio for a week, thus my Portuguese was stellar.
I’d haggled with vendors on the Copacabana,
I’d rented bikes, and I’d even ordered
my caipirinhas after I couldn’t feel my
tipsy lips to articulate my perfect Portuguese.
Essentially, I was ready for anything . . . and a
little drunk.
Just outside
the old town of Paraty, we found a perfectly
acceptable hotel, and I asked the nice lady at
the desk if she had a room. She seemed reluctant
but showed us one anyway.
“We’ll
take it,” I said. It met all of my (one)
criteria: bed for weary head.
“Blah
blah blah blah,” she said. Translation: Sir,
there’s going to be a Brazilian country
music party outside your bedroom tonight. Are you
a fan?
I looked at
Horst; Horst looked at me, expecting me—with
my stellar Portuguese—to understand her. My
ego wanted so badly to comprende, so I looked
back at the troubled woman and said,
“We’ll take it.”
“Blah
blah blah blah—” she rattled on.
Translation: Please try to understand, Mr. Ego:
The party will last well until the morning,
and—
“But the
room is fine,” I said. “It looks clean
to me. Horst?” If it’s clean enough for
Horst, it’s clean enough for anyone.
“Blah
blah blah blah!” she pleaded. Translation:
Sir, obviously you’ve never heard this band.
All their songs sound the same, and the woman
who’s going to sing tonight is pitchy to say
the least. Did you say you were a fan?
“What the
hell is she saying?” Horst demanded.
“She’s
saying they haven’t had time to clean the
room, and she’s so embarrassed to offer us
this one,” my ego said.
“We’ll
take the room,” Horst said in his Germanic-authority
voice.
“Blah
blah BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! blah, blah,” she
shouted at Horst, handing him the key to the room.
Translation: OK, you silly white boys, I warned
you. You want to try to sleep with this torture
blasting through your room like a hurricane until
five in the morning? Be. My. Guest. You’ll
be praying for the Angel of Death around three
o’clock.
“She’s
in a mood,” I said. “I hope there’s
music in the village tonight.”
“Yes,”
Horst said. “I want to stay up late . . .
maybe until 12:00.”
At five
o’clock in the morning when the thunder
finally stopped, I rolled over to Horst and
whispered, “I guess the problem wasn’t
cleanliness, after all.”
“No,”
he said, “I suppose not. Do you speak
Portuguese?”
“Noooooo,”
I said. “But my Spanish is muy good-o.”
“Shut up.”
“The
music is kind of catchy when you imagine someone
singing on pitch and a few million decibels
softer.”
“Shhhh.
Shhhh.”
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