The Kelefors

I speak decent Spanish, which takes you a fair distance when trying to communicate with someone in Brazilian Portuguese… but not the whole distance. I think, in the end, that my “Portanyol” (speaking Spanish, tossing in some Portuguese words, and adopting the sing-song tones of the language here) leaves me comprehending about 70% of what I hear. Not bad, but it does leave some significant room for error. I say all of that as an explanation for what I’m about to say: Taxi drivers say some interesting things.

You see, in Rio, where the traffic is terrible, you can spend a lot of time in taxis. And taxi drivers who spend a lot of time in traffic often have a lot to say. So, here’s what I’ve learned so far from cabbies in Rio.

1. Brazil is “quente” (pronounced “KEHN-chuh”). Quente means hot. And sure, I knew that it would be hot here. But there’s something about the word quente when spoken by a Carioca that seems to better communicate the quality of the heat. It sticks to you much the same way the humidity does.

2. There are 11 women for every man in Rio. Or was it the other way around. Like I said, I’m only comprehending about 70%. But one taxi driver had a rather lengthy explanation about this supposed imbalance, so it must be true (though, oddly enough, I can’t seem to verify the claim from any of my trusted internet sources).

3. Brazilians are Catholic until 6 pm. This is my personal favorite and speaks to the unbounded joy with which so many Brazilians seem to approach life.

4. The Selecao will undoubtedly win the World Cup. Even if I can only understand 70%, they are 100% sure.

Brazilians take the World Cup seriously. All the people we’ve met, even those who profess not to be fans, know more about the tournament than most Americans. Taxi drivers rattle off the locations where the national teams have their base camps. TV news shows cover every angle on what seems like a continuous loop. Newspapers have whole sections devoted to news of the Selecao (the Brazilian national team). Stores of all sorts have futebol (pronounced “FOO-che-bawl”) paraphernalia displayed prominently. The games don’t start for another three days, but for all intents and purposes, the Copa has begun.

This is supposed to be the Cup of Cups. The first time in Brazil since 1950. The spiritual home of the global game. A sense of destiny for the Selecao. But there’s a cloud hanging over the Cup. More and more Brazilians are unhappy with the billions spent to put on the tournament while hunger, poverty, corruption, and unemployment plague the country. They are ramping up protests and the police and are responding with an intense presence and what seems a harsh crackdown. We saw no fewer than 50 police officers in a one-hour stroll along Ipanema Beach and the news showed protesters being tear-gassed in other parts of the city on a day when a million citizens took to the streets in multiple cities across the country — Rio, Sao Paulo, Brasilia, Belem, and others. As one painted sign said near the Botafogo metro, “Copa para quem?” Who is the Cup for?

A lot to take in on day 1 of our adventure.

 

At Mom-Mom’s gravesite yesterday, I didn’t have the words. And with the snowstorm scattering us too quickly, I missed too many stories. So, here are my thoughts. I’d love it if you would add your own.

Dottie’s story is a true American story. She came by boat at the age of six, speaking no English and knowing little of what to expect. She was given a new name, one more pronounceable on an immigration officer’s lips than her given one. She graduated high school, which not every girl her age did. She worked in the business that allowed an Eastern European family that came here with nothing to climb into the middle class. She married and gave her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren opportunities she could not have imagined on that first boat ride.

And if that were the end of the story, it would have been enough. But Dottie’s story offers us all so much more. Through her grace and kindness, she became the very heart and soul of her extended family. The matzoh ball soup and brisket. The cards sent unfailingly on important occasions. The warmth of her hugs. The wit. These things endeared her to everyone around her, so much so that in her later years, she became a mother to more than her two sons and one daughter, a grandmother to more than her five grandchildren, and a great-grandmother to more than her eight grandchildren.

And if that were the end of the story, it would have been enough. But for me, she was also a steadfast link to our Jewish heritage and tradition. One of the things I am most grateful for is that I got to go to synagogue with her last October, the last time I saw her alive. She was happy to be able to say the Shehechiyanu, since it was the first time I had come to temple with her. When I light shabbat candles or ring in the new year or share a Passover meal with friends, it always brings to mind my grandmother, for this is something we shared.

We were all wishing that Dottie would make it to 100, so that we could gather once more an celebrate her amazing life. But she came to the anniversary of her own daughter’s passing, she looked up at an iconic photo of her husband, and I think she decided that it was enough. She lived the life she wanted to live, and now she is at peace with Joe, Barbara, Max, Minnie, Toby, Terry, Dave, and all the others who came before her.

May Dottie’s memory be a blessing to all of us.

Here is a slideshow put together by Holly: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spkM5vNBSyc&feature=youtu.be.