And then we came to the end, wrote Joshua Ferris, though he was talking about the collapse of the global economic system rather than the end of four years in
. And now that it is the end it is, like the end of anything important, hard to believe that it is over. Recife
Nervously calculating, as the train pulled in, if it would be safe to walk from central station to the R$45 a night Hotel São Domingos in Praça Maciel Pinheiro. It shouldn’t have been, really, and yet it always has been, and still is today – the Gods of Recifense street crime have treated YLIAI benevolently.
After that the memories become blurred, because there are so many of them. Drinking, of course, and for the semi-professional drinker there can hardly be a more generous bosom anywhere in the world than
. In Praça Maciel Pinheiro, to begin with, in the bar with The Worst Toilet In The World, watching the golden arcs of water leap from the fountain in the middle of the square while a statue of Clarice Lispector, complete with reading lamp and book in hand, looked sternly on. Recife
In that noisy little square behind the big central post office on Avenida Guararapes, where on one of those first nights YLIAI was tempted, by a smile of gleaming white teeth the size of the Capibaribe, to sit nervously at a table of surly youths in Jovem Sport tops (this was a long time ago, it should be remembered, when YLIAI was a novice in the world of Recife football). The surly youths asked the usual questions a gringo gets asked (where/from, what/do, like/Brazil, mulheres/lindas) and forced food and drink down YLIAI’s throat, then refused to accept a penny for the bill. What fun YLIAI might later have had or not had with the owner of the gleaming white teeth shall remain confidential.
Later, funnily enough, there came exchanging testosterone filled chitchat with half of the Inferno Coral in the Beco Da Fome, or boozing out by the reeking canal at Arruda, or simply sitting and reading or thinking or being rejected by Recife’s womenfolk at Cadu’s. When The Ex-Girlfriend showed up, there was drinking a plenty in truly terrible pagode joints (YLIAI should really have known better) all over Boa Vista and beyond. And last but not least there was Jordão, watching the trucks rumble up the hill to deliver water to otherwise parched parts of the netherworld that is
’s periferia. Recife
There were other places too – the unforgettable horrors and delights of Cais De Santa Rita, or the all-night awfulness of Garagem in Torre, or in Recife Antigo or out in Olinda or even, from time to time in As Republicas Independentes De Boa Viagem, though all of these now seem frivolous and unimportant (except for Cais De Santa Rita, which could never be described as frivolous) compared with the real business at hand, which was drinking, and is not to be confused with things like fun or having a good time. And drinking in
has always, and will always, mean Boa Vista. Recife
Then there are the people, many of whom have populated these pages at one time or another. Pride of place goes to The Big Black, and of course The-Ex Girlfriend, who brought the ghosts of murdered traficantes and police death squads into YLIAI’s otherwise tranquil existence, and made him a richer man today, emotionally speaking, than he was before. There were a string of other Ex-Girlfriends too, though they weren’t ex-girlfriends at the time – The Ex-Girlfriend With Two Kids, The Ex-Girlfriend From A Small Town In The Interior, The Argument. There was Guinness The Dog and Antonio Conselheiro and The Louth Media Mafia and The Accidental Tourist and The Pampas Goat. There was Celine, Mother Sururu aka A Gata Do Bairro, and Parsons, and João 1 and João 2, and
’s Next Top Model, and Mr X and many more. All are gone in one way and in other ways will never be gone at all. Brazil
There have been stories too numerous to mention, but which can generally be found somewhere in these pages, particularly from 30th March 2008 onwards. It is easier to talk of places – streets and squares downtown such as Praça Maciel Pinheiro, where YLIAI has walked a thousand times and which, if you forced him to name a place which represents the heart and soul of Recife, would win the big stuffed toy, and Rua Do Progresso and Rua Manoel Borba and Patio Santa Cruz. There was the small house out in Amaro Branco, Olinda, and once again, the darkness on the edge of town that is Jardim Jordão. There is also, of course, Arruda, where all the good and bad things that ever happened in Recife are re-enacted on a regular basis on a small patch of grass and where it sometimes feels as if the entire population of the city has shown up to watch this particular reflection of their own sorry fates. YLIAI makes no apology for using the present tense for this last one as the idea that watching games at Arruda is something that has passed into memory is too difficult to even think about.
But like all great romances (or at least all great romances in YLIAI’s life, which is perhaps a larger part of the problem than he would care to admit) love winters on the vine, the heart turns cold or at least really quite pissed off, and the idea is born that perhaps, perhaps, it’s time to move on. There is never any good reason for it – and God knows YLIAI, with over 40 addresses and counting, has done it often enough – merely the sense that the moment has arrived.
The remarkable things about
then start to feel less uplifting, and the bad things – of which there are many, including excruciating traffic and potholes and the godawful service in shops and bars and the suffocating bulk of nordeste culture and so on and so on – begin to feel unbearable. The grass of other places becomes much greener – in this case the land of cows and musica sertaneja, and more importantly of Saci Pererê of the Centro Oeste, that is Recife . Excuses are made to others and to oneself, justifying it all and explaining why it just has to be now. And then the decision is made, and everything is arranged, and before you know it, you are gone. Goiania
And so now we really have come to the end. Not of Your Life Is An Impossibility, of course, though Brasão only knows what I´ll write about in
, where the plan is to have a life of such sweet middle class intellectual laziness that there will be no possibility of adventures of any kind. Before that will be two months in Norn Iron which, ironically enough, has become in the heart a destination so distant and exotic that a spell there will surely inspire some kind of Theroux-esque travelogue in these pages. Goiania
But none of that is important, finally. What is important, and what I must say before I go, before the sun sets over Boa Vista for me for the last time, is that if there is one reason for the exercise in vanity and foolishness and idleness that is Your Life Is An Impossibility, in fact if there is one reason why any of this exists at all, then it is to be a love letter to Recife.
A love letter telling everyone who reads it that, in a way that is impossible to explain or understand or justify, for at least one lonely soul trapped thousands of miles from home, Recife will, and always be, The Greatest, Most Exciting City On Earth. That it may not feel like it now is hardly the point - it felt like it once, and that is more than most places will ever be able to say.