Travel Sketch: Brasil

Marriage, simplicity, and three and a half years in the countryside of Minas Gerais

Originally posted on March 2024.

When the plane finally left the ground, defied gravity, pierced the sky, I was reinvented again. I was leaving America, for good, and was happy about it. At the age of 33, I was starting over, for the one thousandth time. Funny enough, I had never put too much thought into Brasil. I knew very little about the country I was immigrating to. What I did know was that my future in the United States was over. I was, in a way, sick of myself there. Los Angeles left me a hollowed-out man. I would never return to Los Angeles. I have not been back to America since that flight.

I should say, after living like a dog in Los Angeles, I was rather sick of the big cities, which I was usually quite fond of. The big city—it holds a place in my heart. Always will.

The Big City. Where else would a man need to be? What else could a man want? If there was something a man needed, surely, he could find it in the big city—the gridded avenues, the green of public parks, the gutters and the hills, the devils and demons as well as the angels and the saints. Atlanta, New York, San Francisco, later Los Angeles, and then, briefly, Portland. All big cities, or at least, metropoli, so to speak. Whatever they are called, they produce the same feeling for me—one of exuberance, jubilation, electricity. There is something that pulls my heart there, a deep affection, a romance, an affair—no matter the name or location. If it has bustle there, my heart and spirit are there, too.

Now, though, I was exhausted, emaciated, beaten-down. The “rhythm” of my life had gotten so off beat, so obscured, I needed out. Out of America, for sure. I should also say, I am not much of a patriot. These emotions to one’s own country, pride, as they say, concern me very little. I always figured it was a wide world—that my adventures in America would eventually come to a halt and would lead me to far-flung, impulsive excursions beyond the borders of my own birth country.

In California, I had gone years without so much as touching a woman or selling a painting, without money—rarely anything good happened. But the past was just that. I was no longer able to concern myself with riots, elections, social justice, national debt, junk wars, plagues and the like. I was much more interested in meeting Yasmin, who would later become my wife. We had started a correspondence some nine months back—we spoke every day. Of course, I had never met her. Only seen her face through photographs, screens. I wondered how time and space would have changed her—changed me. So off to Brasil like a rocket I was—Oh Cupid!

Judson Vereen on Paulista Avenue. Photo by Yasmin Vereen.

Paulista Avenue from above. Photo by Judson Vereen.

I touched Brasil for the first time when the plane landed. I touched my wife for the first time soon after, made love in a rented room. It was as surreal as you could imagine. A time warp of sorts. Yasmin—there she finally was, in front of me. She was now, in a sense, humanized. She could be touched, held, kissed. After some moments, we were out for a beer and lunch, and of all things, I ordered French fries. Strolling along Paulista Avenue, holding hands, being together for the first time, I did not know exactly where to plant my eyes. But nothing was stilted. We got along like old lovers. We had counted the days down from months ago. Day zero. Tomorrow, we start at day one.

I pity the man who travels half the globe, to a part of the world unknown to him, to meet a lady he had sworn he loved—and, so too, did she swear she loved him—only to be jilted, edgy, unconvinced, disappointed. He had travelled all the way around the globe and to feel like a fool for it! Must have happened more times than anyone would want to tally. Not I! I was right where I was supposed to be. Hell, she was no fool and neither am I. Or—are we both fools—who cares? If it was us being foolish then, then we are still being foolish now. Whatever works, I say. We got along for nine months without ever being in the same room. No small feat, really. Now, face to face, we were pursuing all things pure, and there was nothing pure about the big city. Not anymore. It had become synonymous with madness. The big cities were exhausted, violent, hit with a literal plague. The world was on fire, the sky had fallen, the roaches had taken over—we want out!

Yasmin was from São Paulo. It was not a strange, complex place to her, she had mastered it. She knew it from birth. She had lassoed the beast, reeled it in to something manageable. But now something different was calling—she wanted to live in the countryside of Brasil. She said it was beautiful there. It was a place of a majestic, tranquil kind of quality. Everybody knows the state of Minas Gerais in Brasil. Sprawling mountains, fresh air, farms, acreage of land untouched by industry, the metropolis. Cachaça, cheese, good coffee. It is a heavenly concept, of a kind. Minas Gerais—it had been a dream of hers. It was as though Minas Gerais had called her, perhaps since childhood, and therefore, in some way, it was calling me, too.

I was ready to part ways with every concept, every idea, every motive of my life thus far. At the age of thirty-three, a clean slate. American cities were on fire. São Paulo was expensive, distracting—and I had a wife to tend to, to care for, to protect. I had books to finish, a woman to love. A new life to live all of our own making. So, we hired a car and headed east to the state of Minas Gerais. Her father, a São Paulo man himself, said we would be back in a month. Minas Gerais was slow. It could drive city folks into derangement, depression.

Yasmin and Judson Vereen on a Minas Gerais road. Photo by Yasmin Vereen.

On our trek through the state of Minas Gerais, we stopped in the city of Poços de Caldas. A week in and we were gone. It felt like we had lived there a month. A lovely town. It was small compared to any big city, but the problem was, it was still too big for me. Not much else to say about it. It was back in the car, searching maps, making reservations for hotels or rented apartments by the week. Outside the car windows, we would make note of little towns along the way. Pouso Alegre, Lambari, Olimpio Noronha. There must have been a hundred little towns along our route. Each one offering a different dream. As we drifted along the countryside, each town that we passed through seemed to get a little smaller. Every town we passed, we would say “here could be nice—but let’s keep going”. What would happen at the end of the line? We didn’t know what we were searching for. We had no real criteria, no discernible requirements or preferences. Simplicity was our only true intended result. The possibilities were understood to be vague and infinite. We yearned for the quiet. You understand.

We could see it easily—the simple life. The slow life. There wouldn’t be much to do—one oughta get some writing done. Put together some poetry, finish a novel, gather firewood for dinner, make love often. We would live cheap, wake up before sunrise, go to bed quite early. In the car, we kissed and held hands. Yasmin wore black lace. I wore my wide brimmed fedora, a red paisley scarf underneath, a bolo tie. We felt like outlaws forging our shared destiny into a new frontier—nobody could be doing what we were doing. Because there was nobody else. We were the only two people in the world.

…

I had brought two suitcases to Brasil—mostly filled with books and odds and ends that feel silly now, three and a half years later, to have lugged all the way from America. I pondered not bringing anything at all. I rather liked the idea of showing up to a new country, a new continent, hands in pockets, whistling Dixie! That’s the spirit, I say! I never intended on living in America ever again. That dream was over—I had been through all that. But I had to bring something for the TSA to inspect. Showing up empty handed would draw attention. Instead, I brought along only meaningful trinkets, most of which I could wear. Floating through the unknown can cause a man to arm himself with accessories of his own personal culture:

Four antique candleholders;
Several rings;
A suit;
About four pairs of boots;
My father’s old ties;
About sixteen jackets;
A Season in Hell by Arthur Rimbaud.

What took up most space in my luggage, however, was a jewelry box that I had constructed. I had worked on it for weeks. I wanted to give Yasmin something when I arrived. I had stained the wood, installed the mirror, laid down felt carpet at its bottom, cut small wooden inlays that I painted orange for a detailed interior finish—added small vessels for flowers and water on the sides. Inside it, her reflection.

Yasmin and jewelry box. Photos by Judson Vereen.

Anyway, that was it. I had never really planned on owning anything more than that for as far as I could think on the future. I had planned to even give up painting for a while. I had no way to store or maintain supplies, which can be expensive, and with all the travelling, it seemed foolish to complicate things with wet oil paintings, brushes, tubes of paint, etc. I thought I might be living like a permanent weary traveler, a wanderer, a soul with no clear home. Just like I had felt for much of my life, come to think of it. Though, now, with a wife by my side, my new companion in life, we could travel anywhere; live under bridges, learn to pick-pocket, steal our groceries. Yasmin seemed up for anything. I was almost sure I could have talked her into it. But truth be told, I had not even talked myself into it. I was open, let’s say. Brasil was a big wide world, and I had no business coming in with any plans.

“We fell in love. We finally met.
I said I would come to Brasil.
I am here now.
Let’s get married.
You do.
I do.
What now?”

Anyways, in Poços de Caldas, I began to paint, regardless. Less than a week inside of Brasil and I had paper, paints, brushes, plenty of supplies. The world you make your resolutions in becomes different than the world in which you attempt to keep them. I am a wanderer, sure, but I am also a painter. I just can’t help myself.

…

It was no more than a few weeks into our voyage into that vast expanse that is the state of Minas Gerais that we arrived in the city of São Lourenço. Nestled inside the hills and mountains of South Minas Gerais, the city was simply along the route. Could have passed it up. Could have not passed it at all. Not that we ever decided for sure—maybe we never did. We were charmed in the ways that all small cities are charming—being able to absorb the whole of your environment instantaneously can do that, I have learned. If you were to walk from one end of the city to the other it would take you fifteen minutes. I think I was worn out from the road, from America. “This place seems nice, why not just stay?”

São Lourenço, Minas Gerais. Photo by Yasmin Vereen.

We rented a home for a week and then moved into an apartment where we lived for some months until we could find a house to buy. So, out we were. Out of the metropolis and into the hamlet. The city of São Lourenço was indeed small, but had bustle to it. You might even have to use your city legs from time to time, moving in and out of the way of people shuffling to and from work and the markets. It had a bus line, it had poverty, a downtown square of bars and cafés that all sold the same things—French fries and frango à passarinho. Before you knew it, you had noticed about a dozen or so places with the same menu—everything about them was the same except the font of the emblem and the color of the tables. And they were jammed so close to one another that all the waiters and waitresses would convene outside for their cigarette breaks and their chats and you could hardly tell who to order anything from. One long stretch of outside patios, everyone drinking beer. The calçadão—it was lovely, honest.

São Lourenço. Photo by Yasmin Vereen.

The city itself, funny enough, is a tourist attraction for the rest of the state—travelers from a few hours away would bus in for weekend getaways. Vendors sold little kitschy items like stuffed animals and potholders shaped like chickens, novelty plates and anything that was handmade, like a woven towel or a wicker basket with a bunny theme for Páscoa. Little food markets, too, all sold the exact same variety of cheeses from Minas Gerais; goiabada squares, hot sauces, cachaças in flavors like banana, cravo e canela, café, and doce de leite.¹

The potholders and wicker baskets, etc.—this was directed to the geriatric crowd who would herd in like cattle from all over the state. The old ladies loved São Lourenço. It was a slower town, full of hotels and clothing stores for women no younger than seventy. One could come in on a huge tourist bus, file out at the pace of peanut butter, have lunch by 11am, shop for knick-knacks by noon, be plum tuckered by four, have dinner by five, be dead by six and buried in the ground by seven o’clock.

The whole town operated like this—for and by the elderly. Every now and then you would pass a couple in their eighties, the wife wide eyed and looking for a deal or a present to take home for a grandchild—the old husband bored stiff. Economically speaking, that is what drove the town—the tourists and their money and their eagerness to spend it. In this way, the locals were mostly forgotten. Even the food was priced for tourists—actual residents could hardly afford to order French fries or drink beer on the calçadão.

But every so often, you’d get a hint that it would turn around somehow. That a new joint selling burgers or a flashy new café that had just opened up were signs of change—that the city was transforming, modernizing, getting right with the times to turn itself over to a younger, more excitable population.

“Why this may be a top-notch city one day, babe! Just you wait! The city is growing! One day, they may even have a theatre. One day, they may even have an art gallery or a bookstore. Or a place with music! One day, this city could be ours; we’ll start making changes when we own the place!”

Judson and Yasmin Vereen. Photo by Yasmin Vereen.

Across the cityscape of São Lourenço, the huge mountains of Minas Gerais splay out like rolling green humps, resembling countless breasts growing from the earth. At once, its beauty is never-ending, limitless. If you had convinced yourself out of the big city, you were home. Limitless too, is the nothingness—an infinite expanse of rolling green boredom. You can’t fathom it. The same way you cannot fathom the cityscapes of São Paulo or New York or Tokyo, one cannot fathom the utter emptiness of the unending landscape of Minas Gerais. As if it were a black hole of sorts, the city of São Lourenço is the event horizon. Where all energy and even light are consumed, swallowed, delivered to another realm—or is it crushed? Pulled apart, frayed and torn at every fiber. And with all the nothingness there, there was still beer. Still ice cream shops. Banks. Padarias, Armazéns. Still children, lovers, life, neon signs, frozen pizzas, big screen tv’s.

“Aqui é muito bom”, we said. We first arrived; the city seemed full of life, but also relaxed, tranquil. We had found a quiet slice of paradise. No town is safer than a slow, small town. Everything becomes familiar in a matter of hours. It was practically impossible to get lost.

After six months in an apartment, which we can hardly recall if not for the pictures, we bought our first home. About an eight-minute drive outside the city proper of São Lourenço, just along a narrow country highway there is the type of road where if one were to have taken a nap on a long trip, gaze out the window to see where you were, you would take one look, and instantly close back your eyes, knowing it was the type of stretch one could sleep through. Along this road is a small village of sorts—Nhá Chica. Sitting on a small hill, clustered together are about one hundred or so houses, all in various stages of completion. The cluster is so dense from the road, a tourist could mistake it for a favela.

Nhá Chica. Photos by Judson Vereen.

The architecture, from the clumsy cobblestone streets with loose rocks and open patches, to the houses themselves, all felt to have been soaked underwater for a century. To walk the streets was laborious, making sure to watch every step lest you twist your ankle or stumble into a loose footing. The constant hammering of intense sunshine and torrential rains both punished the structures from above with extreme heat and from below—the water rose upward, tinting every concrete façade with a dark, moldy growth. When it rained, it would not stop. Everything became flooded, everything dripped and would cover with mud.

The way this mold grew, rusted, and dampened everything was not ugly—in fact, was quite beautiful. The mold rested and darkened and then lightened at certain points, faded in and out like the rectangles of a Mark Rothko. Every house had a touch of it. Each home imbued with a delicate horizon line which could never be done deliberately. Each structure stamped by the decay of unstoppable things—only the sun, the rain, the heat and time could reach a distinction so grand. But one has to throw out everything they know about architecture, or mold, or decrepitude.

Nhá Chica was not built on aesthetics—there was little concern for intentional beauty. Whatever beauty one could find seemed to be there strictly by accident. You had to search for it, find it, even invent it at times. Beauty in that way, is open-ended, undefinable. Beauty has no function. It exists only to please, whatever the real-world consequence, whatever it may ruin.

Judson Vereen in Nhá Chica and Rothko-esque columns. Photos by Yasmin Vereen.

In Nhá Chica, some of the houses were without basic elements of a home—the neighbor in front of us had rooms on the second floor—no windows, no window frames. Just open rooms where windows may be installed one day—rain flooded in like the devil. On the outside of some houses there were strange staircases that went nowhere. Some of the roofs had caved in or been stripped to their bare wood foundations—some structures existed like skeletons of their former selves, like a long forgotten barn in the middle of an overgrown forest. Some homes had been half built—as if they were constructed only when money was available, as if they were being built one brick a week, one week at a time.

Nhá Chica. Photo by Judson Vereen.

Just outside Nhá Chica. Photo by Yasmin Vereen.

The streets more or less zig zagged with no clear layout—hills jutted upward at what must have been forty-five-degree angles. Chicken wire and old wooden posts designated land for small patches of corn, or chicken coops whose occupants would leave their pens and run wild through the streets at all hours. Dandelions, and wildflowers and even berries would grow all over—the flowers popped with an extravagant display of color and form against the backdrop of rust, waterlogged wood, muddy sided homes. Everything that grew from the earth seemed to thrive, everything man-made was doomed to a crippling. The small hamlet of Nhá Chica felt practically self-sustainable. It was as though nobody ever left. It sounds silly to say it now, but there were days where I thought “why would they want to leave?”

By the middle of the week, trash was everywhere. Outside the bins, all the garbage rummaged—scatterings of milk cartons, beer bottles, diapers lay strewn all around them. Loose street dogs ran amuck in small packs, looking through the scatterings, ripping open discarded bags to sniff used napkins and lick the insides of food packaging. Old furniture was discarded, left to rot. Broken mirrors, children’s toys, rubbish from the garden—old wood eaten out in the worm like caverns of termite paths. Everything moved, revolved, but nothing changed. In that way, hillbillies are the same everywhere—the debris in the yard and home often rotate, everyone works hard on their plot, as if by sport, but there is no discernible improvement to be found. And although it seems ugly at first, pitiful even, I could appreciate Nhá Chica through American eyes.

Everything about Brasil is color—the sky is bluer than one might remember; houses are painted bright yellow, bright ocean blues, pastel greens, and earthy pinks. Of course, some structures weren’t painted at all. They remained the natural color of grey concrete. When one travels, the color palette is distorted in the eyes—colors you swore were ugly are renewed, re-contextualized. The things you swore were ungodly now have a heavenly tone—the romantics cannot help but be swooned by the local constellation of strange colors. Even the neighborhood itself had the quality of a long-lost artifact. Like finding an archaic sword in the woods—rusty, faded, the blade worn and dulled out, but the jewels in the handle, inexplicably, remain lustrous.

At the top of Nhá Chica, looking over the roofs of the houses, the neighborhood resembles a blanket made up of swatches of all colors. I could sympathize with these people. I had seen this before, although in a much different place and time. I had lived in similar rural areas in Georgia (which reminds me, I have not been there since my father died). Still, my perspective was that of a gringo. I was from a distant land, a different planet. I was far, far away from home, although I was home.

Who could travel off to far away galaxies to complain? I went on afternoon strolls regularly, I enjoyed the place. I took it all in, soaking up every detail I could. Everything was up for inspection, nothing was taken for granted. The ants were Brazilian, the trash, Brazilian, the mud, Brazilian. On some days strolling through the streets, children kicking the soccer ball, hammers pounding in the distance, my heart was full and it sang. The glorious mountains, bright green rolling in the distance inspired one to slow down, take a moment—just look. Just simply be. I could even say I was proud. Proud to be alive, proud to be in the middle of nowhere. Proud to live an unpredictable life. Proud that I had given up on everything I knew and had landed on my feet. I know how it sounds, but the novelty of it all revealed itself thoroughly, concluded itself in the form of that familiar existential bliss—the feeling I always searched for in everything. However, for my wife—there was no novelty. No bliss. Brazilian mud was just mud.

Nhá Chica. Photo by Yasmin Vereen.

On every corner of Nhá Chica, there was construction. Loads of concrete were mixed right in the road with a shovel and barrel of water. Older, sun dried men with skin of leather worked with no shirts and no shoes, puffing on cheap unfiltered bamboo cigarettes of black tobacco. Palheiros. I smoked them as well, and almost ruined my front teeth.

Our neighbor was one of these older types—a man who I don’t think I ever saw wearing a shirt. By 11 am, most days, he was halfway into a bottle of cachaça. His wife looked one hundred years old. His daughter was retarded. They all loved to sing. He would play guitar and howl at noon as if it were a bright, full, lunar midnight. A deep, loud, growly voice. I think he knew about six songs. To their credit, they never gave a lazy performance. Each song was as grand as the last. I began to know the melodies, eventually. Unable to escape the music, I started to hum along. I even started to have a favorite—couldn’t say what the lyrics were, but I know it was in A minor. Other days, Yasmin and I would curse that loud bastard. But you also felt sorry for him—he will die in Nhá Chica, no doubt about it. His old wife, his retarded daughter. Goddamnit, you feel sorry for all of them. But there was no use in feeling sorry for them or anyone in Nhá Chica. His smile was wide and sincere. He wouldn’t want any pity. Feeling sorry wouldn’t do anyone a damn bit of good.

Throughout the day, horses would clack through the winding cobblestone roads with the echo of a pounding drum—as they trot along, they leave huge mounds of crap that nobody ever removed and that caked the entire area with a deep, earthy smell of shit. A home, just a little ways down from ours had two horse stables built—every day we passed by the horses to pet and chat with them. One of them liked me, he let me touch his nose and he would nibble at my hand sweetly.

The front of the house. Photo by Judson Vereen.

Our home, tucked inside a far hillside of Nhá Chica was a yellow brick house and was built the same year I was born. 1986. Thirty-seven years old currently. It was a simple home; brick, concrete, electricity.

A large brown door stood at the driveway with two large needle bushes to either side. To the right of the home was a small yard, an overhang where one might park a car (we had no car), and there was a large landing out back with a small soaking pool, a tree of Limão-Cravo, and a large wooden table. In the front, there were two large palm trees that towered up and swayed gracefully over the yard. There was an outdoor grill of brick and stone, running water, a set up for an outdoor kitchen. Everything had a castle-like quality to it; brick and raw wood, stone and water-faded concrete, stained by rain and time, made everything feel medieval.

The inside of the home had been neglected by its former owners—every room was stained with water damage, faded paint, rural grime, small infestations of spiders, ants, insects of all kinds. But that did not matter then. What mattered was our domain. A universe where two satellites would converge into one solar being. Combined, we fixed our satellites together to travel onwards in concert. Marriage, I am saying.

We would clean, paint, decorate; we would work as hard as we had to, do whatever it took for our home—to set and care for the stage on which our love would build. Inside the home, we painted every room either a bright yellow or burnt orange. In the early daylight, the house had dignity—it was sturdy, humble, country, and was the type of house one could convincingly write poetry in. No use in penning poetry from marble counter tops and immaculate surfaces. Might as well write folk songs from a Lear jet.

Living room and outside area. Photos by Yasmin Vereen.

Yasmin and I loved our home. In fact, we were both proud. And there was no way we could afford such a thing—but Yasmin’s father was a generous man. He offered the possibility, we leapt at the chance of having a home of our own. In fact, what made it even a remote possibility was its location—way out from everywhere. We figured we could make long walks to the city to buy groceries in bulk, leave rarely. I could make some money soon enough. Yasmin would finish up her studies in psychology. That is how we dreamt of it. We could take short day trips to São Lourenço by cab to handle whatever business in the city was needed. It was both of our dreams in a sense—we both wanted, to some degree, for the world to go away.

Outside area. Photo by Yasmin Vereen.

Golden hour in Nhá Chica. Photo by Judson Vereen.

Like my father, I just couldn’t help myself with repairs and remodeling. I painted every room with detailed pin stripes and squared off the living room with taped rectangles like an old Victorian—Yasmin and I would make a home just yet! And a home it was. Considering the yard, the outdoor landing, the tool shed, the outdoor kitchen, we had quite the plot—every corner of the property offered something—there was a small garden where we planted basil, rosemary and green leafy cabbage. There seemed infinite space to do just about anything—one could read in the yard, draw and paint in the landing, type poetry in the sun, eat dinner on the long wooden table that seemed perfect for a gang of Vikings.

Viking table. Photo by Judson Vereen.

Everything made sense. For a man who came to Brasil with two suitcases, I had arrived to a much different place than I ever expected. I would even say I was fulfilled. Married life had begun to charm me into a more tolerable, patient man. Yasmin moved through the house with the grace of a ballerina—filling each room, the whole of the house with a presence that only a woman can provide—a woman who loves. We had eased into a slower life—money was no problem. I still had unemployment checks from COVID19 relief. I had American money. In the beginning, it was hard not to feel rich.

A Maritaca.

In the late afternoons, like clockwork, gangs of Maritacas, bright green parrots, would not chirp, but screech, as if they were having an argument over the shapes of clouds or going to war over who got to perch on what branch. As an American, I had never seen birds so bright, so green, practically neon. I think in the beginning I liked them even—they confirmed how far I had come. If you ever want to know how far away you are, consult the birds. Every day at 5 pm, they would settle on powerlines, in the tree branches and chew the fat like old ladies in a knitting circle.

In the evenings, a kind of strange anxiety would creep in. We both felt it. Like camping, when seven o’ clock struck, and the sky turned over to the dark, the whole of Nhá Chica turned pitch black, as though it were midnight. Except for the hounds of dogs and passersby on motos, there was little sound. From within our home, there was little visible ambient light—few, if any, signs of life. Outside our home, the views of the mountains faded into absolute blackness. The stars though, were brilliant. So was the moon. In the beginning, this was welcome. Silence and simplicity was what we had invited all along.

In the city, you don’t notice the traffic sounds, the sirens. They all combine in a grey celestial hum—a concerto made from infinite conversations, interactions, events. If they were to vanish, the city would plunge into an eerie, silent void. That was Nhá Chica. You could wonder if everyone died in the evening—rose back to life sometime around 6am the next day. We swore we would get a television—a great ambient distraction and a wonderful ally in the fight against isolation. We swore we would, but we never did.

To prove to ourselves we were not alone, we would take evening strolls and hold hands. TV and radio sounds would softly leak from the houses—electric blues and reds glared out from the windows. Dogs would bark like hounds of hell from beneath gates and inside garage doors. We were not alone—but what kept us company in the night was as strange as the darkness itself.

Isolation, of the kind that is produced by a place like Nhá Chica, does not make its residents savvy in the social sense—families and older couples seemed bug-eyed, delirious, untouched by modernity or even social grace—many resembled the families depicted in the paintings of Portinari—weary, some skinny, their souls dampened in spirit, as though they had not spoken a word in days. As though they lived on rice and beans, cachaça and tar.

Retirantes by Cândido Portinari, 1944.

But all this passed us by as minor nuisances that came along with the slow, new life that we were adapting to. We would get used to the blackness, the smell of horseshit, the loose dogs. We would find our footing. Eventually, we said, we would make friends. Eventually, we would go to dinner parties, birthday parties—eventually we would meet a young couple who were interested in art, music, poetry. Eventually, we would—but we never did.

Even so, those were good years for us. We were still learning the ways of ourselves and each other inside the rural life we were building together. We divided up house chores, we began little routines. In this way, we did what all newlyweds do. She made breakfast, I made dinner. I relished my time in tending the garden. Basil, rosemary, mint—at one point, even carrots and peppers. We planted an avocado tree in the yard—one day, she would sprout up and gift us with beautiful avocados. Eventually, the home was set right. It was beautiful. We fixed up the bathroom, I knocked down an entire outdoor brick wall with a hammer, expanding our outdoor kitchen. Furniture would revolve around the house to our liking—we even saved up to buy couches, old chairs with wicker backings, and after a year of sleeping on the floor, we found a cheap bed frame—in a rich stained wood. At some point, we had the makings of a full home—we even had two fish, Caesar and Medusa. Gold and black Carps.

Later on, we got a dog. Sweet Eva. I found her roaming the streets. She was a small black girl, a lab mix of some kind. She followed me home on one of my walks around Nhá Chica. This had happened before. Sometimes you’ll kneel down to pet a street dog and just like the old story goes, suddenly they’re in your kitchen, drinking water from one of your soup bowls. Eva was a gentle gal. She had been out wandering for days. We took off the ticks, bathed her, decided to keep her. She was lovely. I had always wanted a dog. Yasmin and Eva were sweet together. We got her the shots she required, bathed and nurtured her regularly. Bought her a leash, a brush, toothpaste even. Around this time, I began writing poetry during the day—house chores kept us busy, grounded. Many months, the weather good, the mountain air refreshing. During my afternoon strolls, I would pick flowers and bring them back for my wife. Our life at home, in Nhá Chica, was peaceful, nurturing and I was painting regularly, strumming my guitar, writing essays and poetry. In many ways, I was full. As full as I could ever remember being.

Living room. Photo by Judson Vereen.

In the hotter months, a good day was an afternoon soak in the small pool. We drank lots of beers, I would get sunburned. Dinner was the highlight of every day. When the air would cool, we grilled meats and ate lavishly. We played music, danced—everything then had a jovial quality. At night, I would type poetry outside. I thought I could make a collection out of my efforts, and I did. Last year, I published Like A Bird Knows To Sing, my second collection of poetry. A picture of Yasmin is on the cover.

We wanted to keep the house forever. We swore that even if we did move, we would find a way to keep this house. We had fallen in love over the telephone and the internet from several thousand miles away, but it was the yellow house in Nhá Chica where the framework of marriage was built. In a strange way, it became a structure on which our life together was solidified—isolation became the architecture from which our love was made into form. Yes, we swore we would never leave. Nobody could blame us for thinking that. Even knowing what I know now, I still don’t blame us.

Somewhere, about two years inside that home, we lost our way. The isolation, that was once absorbed as a pleasant feeling, had turned into a darker, more ominous type of cabin fever. We had long given up on finding meaningful friends, searching for social connections outside of ourselves. At some point, can’t really say when, the money dried up for me. I had spent almost everything from my American savings and what I did have left, I had to preserve—I was still renting a storage unit in America completely full of my paintings. The rent had doubled, without warning. I was paying around 1000 Brazilian reais in rent a month—still am. Even the city of São Lourenço had dulled itself into a repetitious cycle of the same restaurants, same paths to walk along, same faces, same slow pace. We would often go to the city to escape the monotony of our eerily quiet home—where once the small city was a welcome respite from our isolation, we began to return home unfulfilled, feeling like we had wasted precious funds on expensive, but mediocre filling. Everything was the same. We must have eaten the exact same meals dozens and dozens of times. Every month felt like the month before. We were engulfed by an atmosphere bereft of surprise.

The natural, decayed and rambunctious environment of Nhá Chica, too, became unavoidable. It had once felt outside of us—over two years, it creeped into our home slowly. We were surrounded by what we had come to despise. The hell hounds of Nhá Chica became louder, more ferocious, overpopulated. Roosters were becoming louder, too. The bright green Maritacas were multiplying—their fits of rage were not cute anymore—they were invaders, destroyers of the peaceful sky.

One day, Medusa leapt out of the tank, I found her underneath the couch. Often we would find dead birds in our yard. When we found one that was sick, thrown from its nest, we named him King Henry. We tried to feed him, we tried to keep him alive. We buried him in the yard next to our avocado tree, which we had named Maria. Maria was getting so big, we feared for the foundation of the home—we were forced to uproot her. Shortly after, she died, too.

And then there was Eva—traumatized by rain, unable to stand isolation, needy as a newborn, clumsy as an old man. She would cry and whimper constantly, no matter how much attention we gave her. We both began to despise her presence—mostly though, her feebleness, her incessant reminders of her own pitiful vulnerability. After nine months, we gave her away. I know it sounds just awful—but honest, politically incorrect as it is, we just didn’t like her. The novelty and sweetness of our sweet Eva had worn off, too. Another thing—we could not afford her.

Due to our financial strain, any renovations or improvements to the house came to an immediate halt. The bedframe had broke in several places—I tried to fix it, but it was no use, we were back sleeping on the floor. We never bought new clothes, new appliances, or bought gifts for each other. Among the silence, the barren lifestyle, we could no longer afford to distract ourselves with purchased goods or unnecessary dinners—we needed to live like minimalists among the minimalism. The pride of the home was tarnished, diminished to nothing—worse even, we hated the place. The novelty of the horses, chickens, architecture had faded. We used to love to go pet the horses just down from our home—now, we walked by without even noticing them. Where I was once humbled and charmed by the loose chickens, I now chased after them, having heard them croak all night long. I swore if I ever caught one I would stomp it to death.

Where we had once loved dogs, we began to despise the entire species—everywhere you went there was a dog, at every moment there was a dog not just barking, but savagely, ferociously growling. The streets were full of dog shit everywhere. I began to throw rocks at the Maritacas.

I think it was two years in that home and the fish were deemed an unnecessary expense. We gave them to a local pet store. Eva had been given to a family with kids that could better match her needs. We had complained to the neighbors about their incessant dog that would bark for hours and they took it personally and no longer spoke to us. The pool became clogged every now and then with a mouse, sometimes dead, sometimes alive—we spent more time cleaning it then we did inside it. In the winter, the garden died and gave up. At around that time, I think we gave up, too.

Throughout our time in Nhá Chica, living in Minas Gerais, we would occasionally bus back to the city of São Paulo. The innumerable automobiles, the city miasma, the metro lines, the smell of gasoline and sewage—oh, we could finally breathe again! Grime is all over this planet, but I prefer city grime. So does Yasmin, she had come to realize.

Judson Vereen on São Paulo’s subway. Photo by Yasmin Vereen.

When the day starts in São Paulo, the city beckons you. It calls you by your name. Bars and cafés are long lost friends whose company inspires you to linger for as long as possible. A good day in São Paulo is a subway ride—first thing in the morning. Shot through the tube at the speed of sound, the city above you astir with criminals, cops, judges, fiends, lawyers, nobodies, everybody all at once. Next—exit the metro, rise up into the thronging streets for a long stroll down Paulista Avenue. The buildings are but a colossal corridor of mirrored glass among moving bodies, sidewalk hustlers, jewelers, used book salesman. In São Paulo, Yasmin and I have no plans. No need for them. And in the city, conversation is light, jovial, free-sprung, silly, extemporaneous.

One could talk about politics, sandwiches, art, literature, etc. with the same gusto, the same flair as anything else in the big city. I am not sure why—the city just pulls it out of you. In the afternoon, we would even plop down at a boteco to drink beer in the sun and soak up the city sounds, bright lights—civilization! The mountains have nothing over the skyscrapers. You can’t change my mind—don’t even try.

Photo of Judson Vereen in front of “Independência ou Morte!”, painting by Pedro Américo, at Museu do Ipiranga. Photo by Yasmin Vereen.

When the trip was over, we would often load into the bus slowly—“just one more day, perhaps?” But it was no use, we knew we had to go back home. When the bus would make its way outside the city and state of São Paulo and into the hills of Minas Gerais, the weight of all nothingness bared down on both of us like a cloud of iron.

The third year we could hardly stand the length of the day. Sometimes we began drinking beer at noon. Inside the concrete home, we would drip with sweat, paralyzed by the heat. The foundation of the house had gone rotten, and needed repair. In fact, the home was falling apart by the hour. No matter what I fixed, something else would go. Bouts with flooding water and power outages were common. After some repairs to the home, the inside of the house was repainted white in every room. Every painting I had hung was taken down, packed up. The home had lost its identity, the structure anonymous, the days seemed tinged with with an ever-deepening desperation. I began to be hungover most of the time. Writing felt impossible. Yasmin was sick of the horseshit, the hillbillies. She learned something, too. She was no country gal. We are city folks, through and through. We finally looked each other over and said “Let’s get out of here”.

Living room. Photos by Judson Vereen.

Bedroom. Photos by Yasmin Vereen.

When the truck was finally all packed, and the home empty—I felt like I always do when leaving—pierced with a tinge of regret. Had we done everything we could have? Could we have done things differently? Could we have been happier here? Was there something we had missed, failed to understand?

We had the rhythm and then we lost it. When the new owner of the home arrived, he looked rather motivated. A man of about fifty years old, who had a wife and two young boys. He went over each part of the empty house, looking over power outlets, inspecting the integrity of the walls to see which ones he could knock down, what things he could redo. He must have been excited. I almost felt sorry for him. But I was too busy feeling relieved for Yasmin and myself. It is hard to imagine a new family starting over in that house. How someone could feel so optimistic. When our taxi arrived, we handed him the keys. It felt like the passing of a curse. As we rode away, neither of us looked back. It was on to the open road—yet again.

It was hard to say exactly when things began to change in that home. Time and space were stretched to their limits. The novelty of things can certainly wear off—one day, you wake up and look around you and realize the simple life is not necessarily so simple. And that is the problem with simplicity—it takes up all your time. The problem with boredom is that it is heavy, dangerous—inescapable. With little to do, one will resort to madness, disgust, become highly irritable.

It is not at all uncommon to hear someone remark about going to some faraway place in search of simplicity. In search of something pure. Men often say they want to retire in some small Mexican town and fish all day. Or move to Italy and work on a lemon farm. Or take up living in a mountainside cabin to read and write. Or move to the countryside and live slowly. It is often a daydream type of thing, something that hardly anyone gets around to doing. Some spend their whole life dreaming of such a life. And in some ways it is a dream, a wonderful thing to desire. But I don’t desire it anymore. It is no longer a dream for Yasmin and myself. Yasmin and I—we’ve have been through all that.

Travel Sketches is an ongoing series within Dispatches from Bohemian Splendor. My wife and I currently live in the state of São Paulo—and you can read the second sketch by clicking here:

1. Minas Gerais is known for its farmland—anything that was made on the farm was bottled up, packaged and put up for sale and countrywide distribution. Each product was sure to mention it was produced in Minas Gerais, of course. To not do so would be sabotage—like a cheese forgetting to mention it was from Wisconsin.