Centro

Cecilia and Will took me to Centro on Tuesday. I'd been hearing them both talk about Centro with a sense of . . . well, dread is too strong a word. What comes to mind is something akin to the feeling Dorothy and her companions had when they set off to see the Wizard.

We were looking for fabric to upholster an ottoman that C will be using with her rocker when she nurses Baby Daniel. Armed with comfy shoes, umbrellas, a hand-drawn map of Centro, and bus fare, we set out on our adventure. An old shopping district close to the bus and ferry terminals in Niteroi, Centro covers an area about 6 by 8 city blocks. Every store is a 'specialty' store in which one item or group of items is sold. Baskets, metal bolts, hubcaps, herbs, wood furniture, manicures, jeans, tile, motorcycle repair, groceries, cafes, plastic containers; everything you could possibly put on a shopping list is available, but you just have to shop at a separate store for each item. Get the picture?

Our bus dropped us off under a large open-sided metal-roofed terminal where we embarked on foot through an even larger covered mall. Will headed for Mega Mate, a local chain that makes his favorite mate (MA chey)--a strong, cold, sweetened tea/citrus drink. With a bottle of cold water and a few Pao de Quiezo (PAOW dge KAY dgoo)--cheese rolls--under our belts, we exited the mall.

Right away, I heard women hawking their particular product or shop in loud mechanical tones. It seemed that Cecilia, Will, and I were the only people walking toward Centro; that everyone else was heading back to the buses. While we swam upstream, I immediately wished I had Will's camera. But when I expressed my regret to Will, he said, "It's better not to look more like a Gringa tourist than you already do. Besides," he added, "it would just get stolen." Then he cautioned me to keep my hand on my bag, and my bag in front of my body. Orientation complete!

Smells and sights and sounds surrounded us.
* weathered wood cart was filled with neat rows of citron-skinned guava
* fruits sliced with geometric precision revealed beautiful bright guava flesh
* cracked sidewalks invited pedestrians with shade
* surprisingly fresh breezes caressed
* steep, narrow, basket-lined stairs doubled back
* fresh-dried woven grasses were shaped into every imaginable object
* wide wood-planked floors creaked protests underfoot
* intersections coursed with small cars gray from dusty exhaust
* bright blue and red Pepsi awnings dominated one corner
* acrid smells of unknown origin made temporary assaults
* black spray paint tagged mottled salmon stucco
* random broken bottle mosaic in blues and greens invited my touch
* accelerating cement truck sputtered and spewed
* occasional low clouds of exhaust prompted temporary breath control
* miked barker, in his best deep DJ voice, announced a special on okra
* hardware store window harkened back to its 1950's origin
* bunched herbs delightfully filled the air with fresh basil, mints, and thyme
* jaywalking pedestrians dared approaching taxis and motorbikes
* marine-blue cafe patio promised a refreshing, quiet respite
* fresh bacalhao (codfish fritters) did not disappoint
* pouty-faced girl scowled and stomped away from dining parents
* shop keeper wiped her disappointed face and looked for prospects
* freakish masculine mannequin sported bikini top and Spanx
* fresh-faced salesgirl smiled in upscale paper shop
* citrus silk sequined sari fabrics beckoned
* pungent cigarette smoke drifted from sidewalk bar
* clear sea-green eyes flashed from striking cocoa-skinned face

I really enjoyed my trip to Centro. Will and Cecilia found a great fabric for the ottoman, and I had a fantastic adventure with them.

PS: While we were scouring the fabric warehouse for the best possible find, Will asked, "Mom, if we got separated, would you know which bus to take to get back to the apartment?" I assured him that I could find the terminal and get on a Route 47 bus to Icarai. But it wasn't until several hours later, when we three finally did board the bus, that I realized one important fact. I could have found the bus. I could have stepped on board. But I didn't have a single Brazilian coin to pay the R2,75 fare. 'Credito o debito' won't fly on a city bus.

Citibank Brasil, here we come!