From Iran to Brazil

A New World of Taste, Experience, Love and Coconut Cough Syrup.

A breathtaking glimpse of Nature in Belo Horizonte, state of Minas Gerais. Credit: the author

I am in Brazil. I hug people that I meet for the first time. I never go out alone and I hear so many conversations with Uber drivers. I’ve got a bit tanned and my hair became curly here because of the humidity.

I drink twice as much water as usual to stay hydrated. I get worried about mosquito bites and diseases I don’t know. I don’t go out without wearing sunscreen because the UV level is very high.

I learned to say:

“Nossa!
Que isso!
Sério?
Meu Deus!”

Everyone uses these expressions here to show excitement or surprise, often while raising their eyebrows. I tried “biscoito de polvilho” and fell in love with it. It tasted like something I’d known for a long time — very familiar but still hard to describe. I finished half the package in half an hour. I got some allergies here, went to the doctor, and got cough syrup that tasted like coconut.

Even the medicine here tastes like tropical fruits.

I had Mandioca Frita, which I think is like an improved version of fried potatoes. It tasted quite different but was very very delicious. If I could, I would replace fries with Mandioca Frita.

Mandioca for sale at Belo Horizonte’s Central Market. Credit: the author

I went to the central market in Belo Horizonte and took a photo of a Black salesperson. He was very funny and kind. There I realized I don’t really know how to photograph black people properly; the exposure and brightness settings for their skin can be different than what I’m used to.

I drink coffee here every day. It tastes different. In Europe, I’m used to my Italian moka pot, but here filtered coffee is a whole new world. Fran’s mom bought some fancy little cups for us right before we arrived. I pour a dash of milk in my coffee and enjoy the sweet bitterness as it spreads through my body.

I attended a Forró class at the biggest Forró school in the world. The music was very beautiful. I couldn’t understand the lyrics but loved it anyway. I have never felt so aware of my body as I did in that Forró class.

I danced with people I didn’t know. They pulled my close to themselves. It was intimate. I could feel the sweat on their skin, and surprisingly I felt very comfortable. Everyone was open, talking to me, starting conversations, and just being friendly. I miss that openness in Germany — people showing a lot of curiosity about each other and being welcoming.

I listened to the song “Resenha do Arrocha” multiple times on repeat in a car ride with Fran’s friend because they said it was revolutionary in Brazilian music history. It’s a six-minute song with a guy saying a lot of things, and at some point, he keeps repeating: “Rala a xerequinha no coroa, porra, no coroa,” which translates to “Rub your little pus*y on the old man, f*ck the old man.” At that exact moment, the video shows an old man nodding for confirmation.

Fran couldn’t explain why this music video got 30 million views and got very popular in Brazil. His friend clarified it better. He said that the song represents a train of intrusive thoughts, something everyone can relate to.

I had the sweetest pineapple of my life. I had it in the local market. The market was full of people, lots of colors and smells — coffee, spices, meat, incense sticks, birds, cats, and dogs for sale.

Brazil’s unique pineapple shops, Belo Horizonte’s Central Market. Credit: the author

I also had papaya and coconut, which are exotic fruits for me. Fran’s mom cuts fruit for me every day. She knows I love watermelon, and it tastes incredible here. To me, this is the taste of Brazil: fresh, sweet, familiar, but different.

I can blend in or look like a foreigner here; there’s nothing to distinguish me from Brazilians as long as I don’t speak English. Maybe in a perfect world, all countries could be like Brazil, where anyone can fit in. There’s no specific “local” look that marks you as an outsider.

I smell smoke almost every day in Fran’s neighborhood. He told me it’s from favelas where people burn their garbage because they have no other option. There’s no organized waste management system. I’m fascinated by favelas, but so far, all I’ve experienced is the smell of smoke and a view of little houses with orange roofs from the other side of the street.

I walked through Júlia’s neighborhood. She and Fran were in a relationship for five years. Fran’s mother once told me that Júlia wanted something from him that he couldn’t provide, but she couldn’t say exactly what it was. She only felt it.

A unique perspective of Belo Horizonte, Belo Horizonte’s Central Market. Credit: the author

Now Júlia is a firefighter. She has been burned; she’s lost friends on the job, and life is still difficult for her. Fran’s mother told her about us, so she knows we’re here.

I’m not quite sure how I feel about her, but I know I never want to be the reason Fran stops loving someone he cares about. I hope our hearts expand to include more love, rather than closing up. At the same time, I want us to take care of each other. It’s a delicate balance.

I am now sitting in Fran’s room and writing this. This is the room where he thought about applying for an internship in Germany, where he packed his stuff for Europe, where he kissed Júlia and made love to her many times. It’s also the room he might have escaped to when he was scared of what was happening between his parents. It’s the same room where he grew up and lived a life I never got to be part of — yet it helped shape him into the person I fell for.

I come from Iran and he comes from Brazil. I can now see how differently we lived before meeting each other. Sometimes, that realization makes me feel far from him, and sometimes it brings me closer to him because I remember how special it is that we found each other: two people from different cultures and backgrounds who share a similar inner world.