Rainy Days and Mondays

I’m generally not one to complain, but I am not feeling my best today.  Three consecutive days of cold, rainy weather that kept us confined to the apartment has made me physically ill.  As lovely as London might be, I could not live in that city with its fog, dampness, and gloomy skies.  And I would not survive well in soggy Seattle.  Some of my friends love the rain, that’s when they clean the fridge, clean out a closet, or or catch up on reading.  Not me, unless there is a demanding project I can immerse myself into, I am lost, a bit depressed, and hardly know what to do with myself.  I need sunshine! 

Like the letdown often felt after a great visit with family or an important holiday, these recent rainy days followed an exciting evening with new friends, Ana and Rex. We met this couple on our first day at our new church.  Rex is a retired communications sales director from Indiana; Ana is a beautiful Paraguayan and has had a long, successful career as an architect.  They met while each was on holiday in the Dominican Republic.  They were not young people having a vacation rendezvous on the beach; they were adults with nearly grown children.  Ana told me, that when they met 15 years ago, neither was interested in remarrying so “What heck,” they thought, “It’ll be fun to have someone to hang out with for a few days in the tropics . . . and the rest of the story simply fell in place.”   Ana’s friends just opened a new restaurant; she invited us to join them there for dinner and the celebration.  Called the Paulista Grill, it is another one of the many churrasqueria restaurants in Paraguay — these people do love their all-you-can-eat grilled carnes restaurants. Some people even boast that it was in Paraguay where this style of cooking and eating was invented . . . Brazil stole the steakhouse concept, they say.  As we entered the place and paid our one-price entry, I could not believe the size of the dining room.  Like a banquet hall in a convention center, the chamber was filled with long tables draped in white linens. Servers wore dark suits and ties. Along one wall was the buffet line typically seen in Brazilian steak houses with tempting dishes strategically designed to satisfy the appetite before the unlimited fire-grilled beef, pork, and chicken on a sword are offered.  I never get my money’s worth at places like this.  I like the salads.

Looking at the cavernous place, I thought that it would never fill up with diners, but it did! 

It was a special night.  Paraguayan musical artists, Aram Y Azael were in concert.  This popular act put on a Paraguayan rock show.  The harp is the national instrument of this country.  Rooted in their centuries-old colonial past, the harp is a cultural emblem and a touchstone of Paraguayan pride.  Both traditional and new-age music played here has roots in Czech polka and native Guaranian music and primarily uses the Spanish guitar and the European harp.  In this performance, the music was lively and loud. The harpist often played the instrument on its side like an electric guitar.  The moment the two stars started playing, the audience jumped into the spirit and began the traditional rhythmic clapping that always takes place when this country’s happy music is played. The crowd loved it!

And now, here’s one for the books.  We returned to our newly found tiny-house church on Sunday. Normally we take UBER to make sure we arrive at church on time and then walk home.  The morning’s walk fulfill our exercise goals and we often reward ourselves with lunch en route.  Since it was raining that day, we took UBER both ways.  The noon-time traffic was very light; it looked like we might have a fast trip home.  Suddenly we looked to our left and . . . oh my Lord!  A motorcycle cop was waving our driver over.  As the driver pulled to the curb, I immediately hid all the cash from my wallet. We didn’t know what to expect but we’re done with paying bribes to punk motorcycle cops.  Our driver handed over his ID. Stan and I held our breaths. Through the car window, the two men had a lengthy conversation in which the cop seemed to admonish our driver.  Thankfully, no ticket was written, we UBER passengers were not questioned, and no cash was paid.   As we continued our ride home, our driver who before this stop spoke to us only in Spanish, began telling us in English that many of the young cops here target tourists for cash.  They respect UBER drivers however and do not bother their riders.  Some young cops, he said, are good at spotting tourists and make a career of not only doing their job but also shaking down unwary visitors. When threatened with a car impound, or having tags jerked off the car, most tourists just pay and go on, shaken and unnerved, but happy to not be thrown in jail.   After about ten years of the practice, the motorcycle cops who do this have enough accumulated cash they no longer have to work.  While we were relieved to get out of that situation, the despicable experience certainly mars the impression visitors like us have of their otherwise safe and friendly country. 

I’m feeling myself again. The sun has returned.