As the alarm rang at 7am this morning – one hour earlier than the usual – all I could think of was snoozing. Getting up, taking my bike, facing the cold – it all seemed like actions straight out of a nightmare. “It’s for a great reason”, I told myself while trying to get YY to wake up. As we both slowly crawled out of bed, there was at least one constant thought in our minds: “It’s worth it”.

I started getting nervous as we approached the imposing Brazilian flag on Franklin D. Roosevelt. After almost five years in Paris and many trips to the consulate, I still get anxious about going there and asking how to make my way through French-Brazilian bureaucracy. This time in particular, we were there as an international couple with a dream of Brazilian climate and job opportunities; or the new El Dorado as they call it these days. A hilarious thought for a Rio native, but somewhat flattering nonetheless.

Will they be nice? Will they know the answer? Will I like their answer? These questions kept on parading through my brain as YY and I waited in the cold for the consulate to open. At the moment when I couldn’t feel my toes anymore, I said to myself: “This is it. One more year and this cold will be past. It is worth it”.

Is it? I know as much as any Brazilian that there isn’t such a place as a mythical lusophone El Dorado south of the Equator. But as unemployment hit a dramatic 12% in the Eurozone, with young people like us being mainly affected, booking a ticket to Brazil asap sounds about ideal. We’d have where to live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, we can go to the beach to fix our Parisian vitamin D deficit and, most importantly, there’s a booming economy waiting for us to plunge right in.

There’s also American tourists being raped in vans, illegal buses falling from the skies, and a homophobic, racist jerk in charge of Human Rights. I.e. some of the things that made me want to move abroad in the first place.

The other day, a carioca friend of mine affirmed: “Rio is both a very, very good and very, very terrible place to live in”. So is Paris. I was luckily raised in a dream destination, and eventually moved to another. But what visitors don’t realize is that there’s no such thing as a perfect place to live. Maybe by now I’ve become a visitor in my own hometown, dreaming of it’s long stretches of beaches and of my mom’s traditional food – a desire accentuated by my patient frozen feet, as they wait in line to get one step closer to fulfilling it.

As YY and I get prepared to maybe pack our bags, I faintly wonder: what would you do?

The door rang at the office.

I didn’t even have the time to wonder “is that a client, did someone forget something?“. By the time I took my eyes off the screen, someone had already opened the door, and a very loud, old homeless guy, reeking of booze, had wandered in.

He looked around as he asked: What do you do here? What is this office about? 

I became lightly inebriated as the smell of alcohol filled up the room. I sat back and watched the scene unroll, with very little inspiration for reflection.

“I have no job, can I have your card?“, he asked. “Can I have some chocolate?“, as he dug his hand into a pack of peanut M&Ms that my unfortunate colleague had left on her table before heading out for lunch.

“Ne touchez pas aux cacahuètes, Monsieur!”, uttered another colleague.

The boss stepped in, and with somewhat of a debate managed to show the guy his way out. I was dumbfounded.

As unemployment rates in France keep on reaching historically high levels, will an encounter such as this become routine? We’re used to confronting personifications of drunken unemployment at the metro, on sidewalks, and even occasionally in restaurants. We walk past them, or they walk past us. For a split second we, on the employed side, pretend either one of us is invisible, and then go on with our lives. But what if it takes place at an office on the forth floor of a business building, in a prestigious Parisian neighborhood? Then it gets hard to pretend – one is forced to rebuild the steps that took this inebriated homeless man to our own door.

He’s probably been spiraling down the alcoholic pit for years before he reached for the office’s doorbell, maybe even years before the economic crises hit. Maybe he comes from an abusive family and has always had a tendency for slipping right into the vice. Or maybe not, maybe he just woke up yet another morning with no perspective of success. Maybe he figured that the right thing to do was to summon the courage that only alcohol can provide, and then go on knocking from door to door looking for a job.

Whatever it was, something made him reach for our doorbell, then for the pack of M&Ms. All of this as I sat back and watched in awe from my desk, unconsciously reprehending him with my warm clothes, a filled stomach and a shocked sense of politeness reinforced by my own social context.

Had anyone asked me a year ago whether I planned on ever running at any event, let alone a semi-marathon, I would probably have bluntly answered: NO (and marathons will always be out of question). I’m more of the body pump/body combat type of person; throw in some yoga and I’m the happiest Club Med Gym member.  Aerobics, however, tend to turn me off.

But lo and behold, at the beginning of this month I ran my first semi-marathon. Or should I say I winged it, with a very inappropriate amount of training? It wasn’t easy, but it sure was worth the lower back and left knee pains, as well as the near impossibility of walking for the following couple of days - and don’t even think of climbing down stairs or using public toilets (i.e. the ones us ladies won’t sit on).

What kept me going for the 2h27 it took me to accomplish this milestone were my mental motivations:

1. Pretending it was a looong concert, one where I couldn’t pee and was supposed to keep moving. I’ve done that hundreds of times, should be fine.

2. My favorite motivational line: “Do or do not. There is no try”, by master Yoda.

The worst part was by far waiting for my category’s turn to start the run. Surrounded by 10 000 people (in the “up to 2 hours” category, HA!), wearing nothing but some flimsy lycra outfit in a 1-degree celsius weather, all I could think of was “I really need to pee” and “I bet half of these people need to pee too”. My assumption was proven right, as at the moment we started the semi-marathon dozens of men and brave women ran… straight to the bushes at the Bois de Vincennes. I, however, kept looking for the perfect bush for the following 21.1km.

The best moment is the one when the pain and fatigue finally let you focus once again on anything else, and you realize how much one can achieve in a day with motivation and, well, trust on yourself. I would pat my legs on the back if I could, thanking them for having carried me so far that day. After all, they did go as far as a bar on rue Charonne, so that I could at last reward myself with a well-deserved pint and a burger.

Because I’m cracking.

Yesterday I read an interesting quote. It said that we are all suckers for buying energy drinks and supplements, when really, as a society, we are all tired, stressed out, and pretty much overwhelmed. It’s kind of like putting a bandaid on a bleeding artery.

When anyone asks me what I want to do with my life, I tend to respond: I want to be “successful”. A very subjective term, I know, which I personally define as being-my-own-boss-while-also-fabulous-and-able-to-travel-all-over-the-world. It’s simple.

In the meantime, I’ve just finished the first year of my Master’s program in French. I have a full-time internship that allows me to support myself for the next 4 months. Three weeks ago I finished my first semi-marathon. I plan on premiering my very first documentary by summer this year. I also occasionally cook, and go to the gym.

So yes, things are moving forward – and I should be proud of myself. Right?

But what about my joke of a Twitter account (follow me @akathebananas)? And the kilos I’ve put on during winter? And the titre de séjour? I’ve been postponing changing my address on it for months now.

The truth is, the recognition vs. success balance gets me too tired to pat myself on the back by the end of the day, and I have a feeling I’m not the only one.

I’ve been told (more times than I’d like to admit) that I’m never happy. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s gotten to a point where “being happy” is another item in my endless to-do list. I’m very grateful for all I have, but as long as I’m not satisfied with what and how I manage to do the things that I feel like I absolutely have to do, I won’t be happy. I’ll be grumpy, snappy, and most likely prone to hurting the ones who are closest to me in my quest for “success”, as defined above.

Which finally gets me to ask: how do the grownups do it?

And, most importantly, how do I hop off this ride?

Todo ano é a mesma história. Em uma Paris fria e cinzenta, começam a surgir algumas poucas notícias sobre o Carnaval. Nos sites de notícia, fala-se sobre a organização dos blocos; na TV francesa fala-se sobre a preparação para os dias de folia. Então me lembro: “Já é Carnaval”.

À medida que chega a hora da Mangueira entrar, as notícias tornam-se mais frequentes, quase onipresentes. As redes sociais transbordam de fotos e vídeos, como todo e qualquer site brasileiro, francês, americano. A comoção é geral – o Carnaval chegou.

É durante essa semana que meu sangue carioca ferve de saudade. Saudade das músicas, da cultura, das fantasias, do batuque, do calor, da empolgação contagiante. Ignoro a violência, a ignorância, o preconceito, a sujeira; isso encontra-se em qualquer lugar, a qualquer momento. Mas um bom Carnaval de rua, regado à cerveja estupidamente gelada, ao som das marchinhas que outrora foram cantadas pelos meus antepassados… Isso só no Rio.

Enquanto escrevo esse pequeno texto cheio de nostalgia, ao qual me dou direito ao menos uma vez por ano, a neve cai lá fora. A cerveja estupidamente gelada é substituída pelo vinho (que não é de todo mal), a fantasia pelo pijama. Só não abro mão das marchinhas.

Pra quem tá no Rio, só peço que aproveitem e se joguem. Quem tá longe da folia – bem longe, longe demais – agradece…

Two weeks after the controversial (to not say “blatantly ignorant”) manifestation against gay marriage in France, it finally came the day for the people who understand the importance of this law to take the streets. Naturally I was there, fière d’être du bon côté de l’histoire.

Today I woke up with the rain. One of my first thoughts? “Well, that’s not fair”. During the “Manif Pour Tous”, the weather allowed all of the brainwashed children together with their numerous catholic and extreme right-wing parents to take the streets. With a 100% chance of precipitation (according to my phone), one could only expect those who weren’t directly affected by the law to change their minds about participating. Yes, the thought did cross my mind. Now, I’m very happy it quickly faded away.

One lives for the day in which all aspects are as perfectly coordinated as they were today. We got to Saint Michel at the same time as the crowd, and so did my parents and my good friend Meg. Accordingly, the weather cleared, and we joined the foule as they chanted:

- Qu’est-ce qu’on veut?

- L’égalité!

- Quand on en veut?

- Maintenant!

At first, taking part in this manifestation wasn’t so much about supporting those for it, but opposing those against it. The way I see it, the union under the law between two people who love each other, independently of their (biological) gender, is a given. To me, in a society which claims to be built upon values such as “freedom”, “equality” and “fraternity”, we shouldn’t even be going back to questioning such a basic right as marriage. And yet there they were, the 300 000 people who believe that marrying someone from your own gender is the same as marrying a goat*. So today there we were, 400 000 individuals taking the streets, using instead valuable arguments to show them just how wrong they are.

*We did see some stupid fucks, for lack of a more elaborate term to determine the degree of their sickness, carrying a sign which read “So tomorrow we’ll marry our goats?”. Those kind of people make me sick to my stomach. If only I could barf on them.

If you live in France (or if you happen to be here), you must’ve surely heard about the manifestation that took place this afternoon against gay marriage.

It doesn’t concern me in many levels:

1. I’m not gay, and in theory I can get married to and adopt/have kids with any person with opposing genitalia, so why should I care? 2. I’m not French. I’ve been living here for a little while, and plan to continue doing so for the foreseeable future – but this isn’t my country, my civil rights. So why should I care?

The thing is, I do. I have a hard time staying indifferent to the infamous arguments posed by those against it. “Assisted procreation and the lost generations of children to come”; “the lost values of marriage”; “this is not god’s will” – and many more from an infinite bucket of bullshit. Truth is, few things anger me as much as stubborn ignorance.

Beyond vaginas and penises, ovaries and ball sacks, eggs and sperms, there is something very crucial to raising a human life – and that is, my friends, love. Why a show like “Teen Mom” should be legal, but gay marriage not, is beyond me. What +340000 members of the French society are telling us today, is that it’s acceptable for a kid to be raised in a broken home, to be the product of two people who may not give a damn about each other, to even be the product of assisted procreation, as long as mommy has girl parts and daddy has a wee-wee. If god wants the context that way, so be it. But what we can be absolutely sure that god does not want (as he apparently whispered in the ears of the chosen thousands who attended the manif) is for a kid to be raised in a home where daddy and mommy have the same genitalia, even if that home is filled with the love, with the means, and with the will to make this the best home for any living being.  Because love and means don’t make a home – your genitals do. In the end, childrens’ intelligence is what’s undermined the most in all of this. How would that kid be left out of the society if gay marriage were to be legal and his classmates were to live in similar homes? Most of all, if he lived in a loving home – why would he care?

Ultimately, it’s important to note that just because gay couples would have the right to get married and have kids, doesn’t mean every single one would want to. I’m proud to live in a pro-choice country where women have the right to terminate unwanted pregnancies. That does not mean I’ve ever gotten an abortion. I hope I can soon enough also be proud to live in a country where, given it’s intellectual history, has come to the point of welcoming societal changes, opening the doors of its tribunals for M. & M. (or Mme & Mme) to fully take advantage of their right to be together as two individuals who love each other, officially and legally.

What makes us who we are?

I know this sounds like a rather boring existential question, that inspires all sorts of “been there, done that” responses. No, but really. What does make you look at the mirror and recognize yourself as X individual?

I had an interesting experience today. First of all, I had an amazing lunch with my good friend Sam. Sam, you see, is the badass manager of the newest hip spot in town, a bar I’ll call Awesomeness. She’s also one of the people with the biggest hearts I’ve ever had the luck to meet. So after lunch, Sam and I started walking. She had to go to work (i.e. prep up the bar; this was 15h, Awesomeness opens at 19h) and asked me if I wanted to walk there with her for a coffee. “Sure, why not!”.

As we got there, the cleaning lady was already inside, going about her business. Sam promptly asked if she would grab coffee with us, and luckily she said yes.

As we went about talking, I found out that Monica* is Argentinian (“100% Argentinian”, she pointed out with a smirk after finding out that I’m Brazilian). I was just happy to practice my very rusty Spanish. It turns out Monica lives 90km away and works at two bars, every single day. As in 7/7 days there are in a week. You see, that’s not uncommon. Neither was she complaining. To Monica, that’s just how it is. To me, this could never simply be.

I like to think of myself as an overachiever, particularly lately. The reason I haven’t been able to post here as often as I’d like to, is that this task simply too often falls way down the priority rank of my to-do list. Before posting, I’ll prioritize exactly as follows: Masters degree, internship and Ceci n’est pas de l’eau, Brasilité, training for the half-marathon, sleeping. And etc. But you see, that’s not even considering the social level: the boyfriend, the few friends left in Paris, the new friends from the Masters, skyping with the family. Disclaimer: Not necessarily in this order of priority.

And yet I don’t live 90km away.

All of that said, do our activities make us who we are? When both Monica and I look at ourselves in the mirror, do both of us think “overachiever”? I don’t think so. Where I see an extraneous effort on my part to make it work – patting myself on the shoulder after a “successful” day -  I bet Monica just sees it as life in a foreign country. She’s here to make it. I’m here to make it. And yet our foreign perspectives in France are completely different, and it fascinates me.

According to my “New Marketing Trends” course, there seems to be only 3 essential questions in life:

Where do I come from?

Who am I?

Where am I going?

I believe that, with all differences between Monica and I, there is one thing both of us – or all of us – have in common. Even if the questions seem straightforward, we live with the uncertainty of ever finding the answer to any of them.

*Not her real name.

Like anyone else, I’ve had a fair share of friends in my life. Kindergarten friends, high school friends, college friends. But in the meantime there was a shift, and some of these friends became family, while others (granted they were a very tiny minority) became foes. I love my high school friends to death, as they know very well, and when I see them it feels like I never left. Nonetheless, I believe something necessarily changes when you move abroad. When your parents and relatives are an ocean away, your friends are pretty much all there is.

Essentially, you become dependent on your friends. Slowly but surely you come to realize that if anything should happen to you, they’re all you have right here and now – which can be a very scary thought. They’re not your childhood friends, you don’t necessarily know their family, and often times they don’t even share your culture. But essentially, they know you very well. They know how it feels to be away from everything that is precious to an individual, and to having to start building the feeling of “home” once again, from zero. What do you base that feeling on, when anything and everything surrounding you is so damn foreign? On people, bien sûr.

Building a home takes time, perhaps years. You build relationships with people, you trust them, they trust you, you grow together and then they leave. Or you leave. And it hurts. Over the course of the years I’ve been living in Paris, I was fortunate enough to know some key people who made my living here extraordinary. Most of those with whom I’ve shared lifelong memorable experiences have left by now, but they’re back for a week and I’m in such an absolute bliss that it feels like they never left. At the same time, it hurts and I try to not stay too close, not spend too much time together, so as not to forget that I live another life here now, a perhaps lonelier but just as fulfilling life.

All of this is to say that I’m not ashamed to admit that I did, and will continue to, depend on people. They’re the ones who make it ok, whose presence fills one’s heart with security, inspiration, motivation. To them, I say “I love you” without a hint of doubt, accompanied by a big fat “Thank You” for making me who I am today. As they say, no man is island, and this woman certainly isn’t one non plus.

Like many people, until very recently I was completely unaware of what crowdfunding means (other than being able to speculate based on its pretty self-explanatory name). And becoming aware of what it is did not necessarily make me an active “crowdfunder” – that is, until I got my own dream-in-the-form-of-a-project up on a crowfunding platform.

It was about a month ago that Yann-Yves (a very talented aspiring filmmaker) suggested that we did a documentary about one of his favorite spirits, cachaça. Coming from Brazil, I have always been fully aware of the bad connotation that the alcohol holds in its own country, and hence, I suppose, I subconsciously wasn’t its greatest admirer. But that in itself was a reason to go on with the project: why is it exactly that cachaça is so silently, or sometimes openly, despised by the Brazilian middle-to-upper classes? The more we talked about the subject, the more we realized we had stumbled upon a fascinating gem, full of potential, and definitely feature-documentary material.

Then came the big question: how to fund it? One of YY’s friends suggested crowdfunding platforms such as Kickstarter (the best-known crowdfunding platform), and I was at first skeptical. Why would people just give us money for us to pursue our independent filmmaking dream? But I was quickly convinced that, since we don’t have the money ourselves, hosting our project through a platform is much more legit than expecting people to simply hand us their hard-earned money. I wouldn’t blindly hand people my money.

Since Kickstarter only hosts projects of US residents, we figured our best alternative was to put the project up on Zarpante, a lusophone (i.e. Portuguese speaking) crowdfunding platform, whose founder I’d gotten to know through Brasilité. AWESOME. “Ceci n’est pas de l’eau” was becoming tangible: in two weeks the idea had been developed, a budget had been established, interviews had been shot, the promo video was up. We figured by this point contributions should be starting to pour in, as we only have until the end of June to get the funding.

What we failed to notice, though, is that not only is crowdfunding still an alien idea to many, but we live in the era of the “likes”. When there’s people sharing and “liking” stuff on Facebook all the time, truly believing that liking one’s status will get that doctor to treat the cancer patient in Who-Knows-Where, how could we possibly believe we’d escape the “like” trap?

Our videos have been up for less than a week, and we got many fabulous friends sharing and liking them. Same is for our Facebook page (like it here) and a bit less for our Twitter account (but you should, pretty please, follow us here). By all means, I am extremely grateful to the people who actually took their time to like our posts, share them, blog about it themselves, and who well, all in all, took interest in our baby project. But contributions aren’t pouring half as much as we’d need them too be. Actually, we’re going through what I guess could be called a “drought”.

What I’m trying to say is that we don’t have the time, or the right really, to reeducate people’s conceptions about crowdfunding. All we can do is explain our project as best as we can, open-heartedly, then cross our fingers and hope to get emails from Zarpante saying “your project has just gotten a contribution”. It is, no joke, the best moment of my day.

Because this is, after all, a dream. I want to be an independent filmmaker, from an administrative standpoint. I want to produce beautiful documentaries and, at the end of the day, know that I’ve helped to introduce people to topics on which they knew little to nothing before. So please don’t take it lightly when I tell you that you could, literally, make my dream come true.

Thank you, once again, to all who have been helping us in spreading the word about the project. But the truth is that “liking” it won’t get us anywhere. Liking, and contributing, will. I am here to listen to your questions and criticisms, so don’t hesitate to do so. You can learn more about the project, and contribute, here. If Portuguese poses a problem to you, contact me. I’m all ears. Thank you.