Avenida Sete de Setembro

The uneven cobble stones have become familiar to my feet. Their rough edges and protruding faces no longer catch my toes or cause me to trip. I know when to hold my breath as I pass the tree of deification. This tree would take at least four people to hug its trunk sits smack in the middle of the sidewalk so you must dodge into the street to get buy. It guards the front of the haunted house whose cracked walls are stained with moss. The windows are ajar and the door shut and the house remains empty except occasionally when a few burly men spend all day carting out broken wood furniture from inside onto a flat bed truck. This tree, that once awed me, now disgusts me, for it reeks of acrid urine and occasionally is graced with human feces. It would take twenty of me to circumvent its trunk for I refuse to get too close. But as I hold my breath, and plug my nose and put my head down to try to walk I bit faster, I understand. It is prime property for the homeless, because ghosts can't protest pissing on million dollar property.

I always wave to the Porteiro at Edificio Lisboa. He always has an a black fez hat and a twinkle in his eye, and despite the fact or only interaction is waving 4 times a day, it never ceases to brighten his day. Just past his building is a huge construction site. This is the unpredictable part of the path. Its capricious state keeps you on your toes. Sometimes the sidewalk there is all together impassable and you have to brave your way into the street, suck in your stomach and hope not to get hit. But usually you can leap your way across the broken side walk on the metal electrical manholes like a frog across lily pads. The construction workers are also unpredictable. Sometimes they make no notice of passersby. But other times they call out in a cacophony of pick up lines. And this, mind you, is not correlated to how you look. One day, in a baggy tie-dye t-shirt, one man must have said “linda” a hundred times in the time it took me to pass. Whilst his friend told the other that he would fight him for me, and yet another called out for me to stop and come talk to him. But everyday I keep my head down, leap over the sand, and try to keep from laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of their attempts.

Next comes the high school which is like grand central station with kids coming and going in every direction in their blue t shirts and jeans. Right in front of the bars that make up the schools facade a man sells all sorts of fried snacks. To be honest, I am not even sure what he sells for the crowd of kids around him is always two or three heads deep. Whatever it is, it must be the tastiest thing on the block. Here, I always must slow my pace and squeeze my way past the congestion with “Com licensa” on my lips. Right next to this food stand there is another with an extensive menu of cheeseburgers and sandwiches. This too always has a few people crowded round, but no one is eating. They all are watching the 9inch screen tv that sits on a plastic stool and that perpetually plays Woody Woodpecker cartoons.

Past that, its the home stretch to school. I pass a couple more journeleiros, skip over the puddle that always gathers in front of Edificio Jose Costa, and “Ladies & Co” Boutique. I finally reach the blue and yellow gate of ACBEU. The guard at the front always says 'bom dia' or 'boa tarde' and stares at you with these piercing eyes. I return the salutation, but do not hold the gaze, duck in through the gate and join the gringos gathered in the courtyard.