In Neutral

From the window this rainy morning, everything is neutral and sleepy. Four large dark water birds--the ones that ususally soar above the bay--hunch in a disgruntled clutch just this side of an ebbing tide. Sugar Loaf has snagged a cottony cloud, and above that, the entire bay is cloaked in soft pewter blanket. On the deserted beach--the color of the doce de leite I spooned from its jar last night for a sweet treat--a disciplined jogger's white t-shirt and aquamarine shorts punctuate the pocked sand--quick brightness on this placid palette.

On the puddled sidewalk just below this window, there's a sky-blue tourist's umbrella with legs. Another that looks like a walking sunflower dodges wet spots while walking. An arm reaches out from beneth to hail a taxi, and then falls when the cab speeds past. Traffic heading into Rio is rush-hour thick, but moving smoothly in spite of the glassy asphalt. Grey, charcoal, silver, black, navy--sensibly colored vehicles follow the leader to appointed destinations. The occasional rebellious red car looks like a foreign body in this flowing neutral artery.

Not just the colors are dim. The sounds are on mute this morning as well. Waves and car motors are sleep-inducing white noise. A darting motorcycle, an impatient beep; but something is definitely different. Lots of navy Niteroi taxis flow past, and yield before turning onto the street where they find their next fares. Buses. Where are the buses? That's what's missing from this landscape.

Not one white rectangle has sputtered, squeaked to a halt, chugged while awaiting passengers, or accelerated in a groan and puff. The stream of public transportation is totally blocked upstream somewhere, and it's absence makes for a pleasant, quiet boulevard below. It also makes for an impossible commute for thousands of Brasilians who must beg and share taxis, if they can afford the fare.

Bus drivers are on strike today. Just like bank security personnel a week ago that caused financial institutions to close their doors. And just like the police just before Carnaval. And just like the banks back in the fall when Cecilia and Will were trying to get accounts established after they moved to Niteroi. Since we don't watch tv, listen to radio, or read a newspaper, we're not privy to the grievances that precipitate these strikes. Wait a day or so, or nearly a month in Cecilia and Will's case with the banks, and they're usually back in service.

The ashen sky is lifting now. Unfortunately, the Gringa's bus trip with Dora to Rio for dress shopping has been postponed. Taxis were impossible to get, so we'll try it another day maybe. Now that the streets are drying, I'll get the grocery list and head out . . . on foot.

Tchau!