Sunburn on the Equator

I spent a week at the beach and got a decent sunburn. No crisis, it was to be expected. I was after all in northern Brazil, close enough to the equator that there were precisely twelve hours of light and twelve of darkness. As Brazil is a God-fearing country, I judged this heavenly parity as the balance between good and evil, His way of keeping it an even fight.

My hotel was modest by US standards, closer to a bed-and-breakfast, located on one of the few paved roads in a dusty beach town. The balcony hammock overlooked a lovely courtyard garden and an hourglass-shaped pool; I could see the South Atlantic.

My sunburn wasn't painful, only uncomfortable when I breathed. I was praying it would turn a golden brown the instant I stepped off the plane and my friends would notice it. “You look tan. Where'd you go?” I'd reply nonchalantly, “I was at the equator.”

For some reason, the equator isn't a big deal, at least in my imagination. I've never been there, but crossing it would be a disappointment unless there were a fat black line on the ground stretching off into infinity.

There's so much in the world to be thankful for it's only fair I be allowed to complain on occasion. You know, just to balance things out, like the harmony of light and dark at the equator. Is it too much to ask for a painted equator line? If the pursuit of happiness is guaranteed in the Declaration of Independence, then shouldn't I be able to declare my independence by pursuing the happiness of complaining? Most people enjoy complaining except maybe Lutherans in the Midwest who do it silently and won't admit to it. “If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.” That's in the New Testament somewhere, if I'm not mistaken.

If I ever arrive at the equator, the first exclamation will be to complain to the tour guide: “Where's the line? How do I know I'm at the equator if there's no line?” I heard there's a place north of Quito, Ecuador, marking the location of the equator. They have a plaque where tourists gather for selfies commemorating the imaginary line for all those doubting Thomases.

Why shouldn't there be a line to show our appreciation for all those guys going back to Thor, the Norse god of sailors, who figured out the equator thing? Perhaps it was Heraclitus we should credit, the one who said, “You can't step on the same equator line twice.” Or Zeno's Paradox, “No matter how hard you try, you'll never reach zero latitude if you keep cutting the travel distance in half.”

Two thousand years of math and space stations have proven the Earth is round and therefore has a midsection, which is why Quito (or is it Cuzco?) is the navel, the center of mother Earth. In line with the general lack of common sense in the world these days, there are some people who think the world is flat. They belong to the Flat Earth Society and say stuff like, “Sure it's round, round and flat like a plate.” They heard that line on Saturday Night Live and never forgot it.

I would prefer a real line marking the equator like there is on all the globes. That way I'd feel more confident in scientific certainty, definitely a lot more confident than those folks near Quito when it was discovered the spot where they have their zero latitude plaque is off by about 300 yards. You would think in a country named after the equator, they would have that detail right. Somebody driving around Ecuador using GPS must have alerted them to the mistake. In other words, somebody complained.

When my beach week was over, I headed home with a red face but pleased with the proof I'd gotten the sun's money's worth. What's the point of staying at the beach with nothing to show for it? I returned to my usual exciting routines – dry cleaners, barber, tarot reading – and people asked if I'd had a chemical peel. Nobody noticed I'd been to the beach; it was humiliating. It should be noted that home these days isn't the Lutheran Midwest, but rather the south of Brazil. The city where I live has an 80 percent white population, yet nobody gets sunburn. I have no explanation for this, so don't ask, but I was the only person walking around with a sunburn.

I should have guessed something was amiss when people asked about my chemical facial, as if I'd stepped through the looking glass of culture clash. There are cosmetic surgery clinics on nearly every corner. The woman who provides my relaxation massage every week also does chemical peels, laser hair removal, and fluid drainage.

Vanity is an art in Brazil. Facial redness isn't acceptable except, of course, from a chemical peel. Nobody but me apparently is stupid enough to get sunburn and ruin a perfectly good face. My wife, who is Brazilian and lighter than I am, insisted I do something about it, like hide it behind a mask, or tell people I'd had moles removed. The locals' profound confusion as to my sunburn was palpable, in line with their reaction to other skin horrors like teen acne that is nearly as rare as sunburn. There are hundreds of clinics in this city that handle crises like acne and orthodontia in one-stop shopping for the shamelessly vain.

The preoccupation of Brazilians with appearance isn't all that surprising considering how much time people spend at the beach. As the weather is warm year-round in most of the country, every weekend is a beach weekend. The vast majority of the population lives within 100 miles of the beach, and many own little bungalows for weekend jaunts. What is surprising is how obese women can fit into thong bikinis.

Curitiba, the city where I live, is about 50 miles from the ocean, but I never visit the local beaches because a sunburn that costs plane fare is more exotic. Besides, I'm not eager to spend four hours in traffic making the one-hour drive to the beach, only to be greeted under the umbrellas by the same people I was fleeing. I prefer to spend my weekends in Curitiba, when the city exits for the beach and my wife and I can enjoy a quiet dinner out. I'm lying here, just in case you're paying attention. Most restaurants in Brazil are only open for lunch, so it's more likely we're eating out for lunch. (Despite my having lived in Brazil for a decade, my wife insists on following local culinary customs rather than eating the biggest meal at 6 or 7 pm like people should.)

On long holiday weekends the city is even more deserted, and long weekends occur frequently thanks to bridge days when there's a holiday on a Tuesday or Thursday. If there's a Wednesday holiday, then it's a suspension bridge day. Brazil has double the number of federal holidays we have in the US. There's all the usual stuff like Independence Day, May Day, and Tiradentes, plus the Catholic holidays. Brazil has a secular constitution, but who's going to argue with more days off. There are several holidays that seem to cover both bases like Day of the Dead and Children's Day.

Multiple holidays are essential for more beach time, and rather than stand out any more than I already do as a sunburned American, I won't question the need for extra time off. Knocking the Brazilian laid-back lifestyle is tantamount to arguing with a priest in front of a congregation, an endeavor I suspect never undertaken in the 2000 years of Catholicism. I imagine that one slip-up – sending the son of God to an agonizing death – has been enough to keep Catholics sufficiently guilty to refrain from arguing with priests, a practice reserved for us Jews, killers of Jesus. (Should I sink one day into utter depravity – alcoholism, cryptocurrency speculation, baby killing – and need to atone for my sins, I'll need to join Jews for Jesus who killed Jesus.

If you are surrounded by Catholics, as I am, you'll notice that in addition to the dearth of priestly disagreements, the guilt of original sin also compels Catholics to reveal their secrets in Confession. How amazing to become the invisible man at rectory dinners listening to the priests discuss their flock:

“How's Mrs. Wilson? Is she still trying to set the masturbation record.”

“It's worse. She thinks if she does it in bed while her husband is sleeping, the danger of getting caught makes her orgasms better.”

“What happens if her husband wakes up?”

“Either I'll be visiting him in prison or their sex life will improve dramatically.

Meanwhile, I'm having quiet weekends in Curitiba and laughing at the people stuck in traffic headed for the beach. If I'm lucky I'll manage to stay awake during my fake meditation routines. I've never been able to practice real meditation because my legs don't fold that way. Instead, I try to follow the guidelines from Pico Iyer in his book, The Art of Stillness. Iyer periodically retreats to the hills of northern California for peace and quiet away from the overstimulation of southern California and emulate his heroes, Leonard Cohen and Thomas Merton, who lived in monastic retreats. Iyer believes stillness is the solution to all problems. He's learned to turn off rather than turn on like Timothy Leary.

Iyer observes that we are exposed to more information in a day than Shakespeare was in his lifetime, which means those infinite number of chimps trying to recreate Hamlet should be finished much sooner. We are in need of a path through the excess to the magic hidden amid the noise.

Living below the equator requires a different perspective on stillness. South America and Africa are cacophonous continents. It's not surprising that 88 percent of the world lives in the northern hemisphere when you consider the turmoil in the southern hemisphere. You cannot imagine how bewildering it is when Christmas and the first day of summer pop up in the same week.

The problem with meditation and stillness is it's time consuming. With time management an everyday concern, do I really need to enter more items into my agenda? Wouldn't it be simpler to ignore the search for stillness, to relax and watch a good movie at home? That's when I discovered Blockbuster Video still existed in Brazil. Upon my first visit there, I searched for movies with Sonia Braga, Brazil's most famous movie star. The store clerk revealed she had been able to crossover to acting in Hollywood even though she had begun her career as a porn star in Brazil. From porn, she'd graduated to Brazilian soap operas.

Even more astounding, when talented Sonia made the transition from soaps to Brazilian films and then Hollywood, appearing in some of Brazil's biggest hits like Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, based on the popular novel by Jorge Amado, her supporters fanned out across the country and removed all her old porn movies from the video stores. (Full disclosure: Ms. Braga isn't the only soap star in Brazil who graduated from porn.)

It was then I realized I had stepped though the looking glass and was no longer in Kansas. How did they manage to visit every store? Were there thousands of volunteers like the minions who work for political campaigns in the US? I'm not a supporter of censorship, but I like that her porn movies went out of circulation, just as I'd like to see neo-Nazis thrown in prison for what they spew.

When I arrived in Brazil, I was uninformed. How often is Brazil on the evening news in New York? I was expecting a quiet retreat, not the cacophonous success stories of former porn stars. Brazilians are juxtaposed to stillness; their lives are filled with noise. They continually engage in group conversations where several people are talking at the same time. Every restaurant, nail salon, and pizza parlor has a TV on. Somehow they have adapted noise and confusion into their relaxed and contented lives. They have less than we North Americans when it comes to creature comforts, yet they're more lively and jubilant. They expect little so they're less often disappointed.

When Brazilians make plans, they're at the last minute, and if the plans change, so be it. It's a maybe country. Maybe we'll go, maybe we won't. Maybe the outdoor showers will work at the beach, maybe they won't. Maybe Brazilians are permanently cheerful because they're more forgiving about people's past indiscretions.

Everybody sleeps well here. Unlike Iyer, they don't need stillness to be grateful. Perhaps I need more noise in my life. It would at least keep me awake during my fake meditation sessions and distract me from the embarrassment of my sunburn.