The coffee. I can’t ever leave the coffee.

The coffee. I can’t ever leave the coffee.

A patio space, complete with glass ceiling.
Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil - Belo Horizonte - MG

A patio space, complete with glass ceiling.

Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil - Belo Horizonte - MG

The Brazilian version of a “Long Island”.
DUB bar - Predgio Maletta - Belo Horizonte - MG

The Brazilian version of a “Long Island”.

DUB bar - Predgio Maletta - Belo Horizonte - MG

The people, the music: Brasil, my love.

Carnaval nights.
Savassi - Belo Horizonte - MG

Carnaval nights.

Savassi - Belo Horizonte - MG

"Então Brilha" Bloco - Carnaval
Belo Horizonte - MG

"Então Brilha" Bloco - Carnaval

Belo Horizonte - MG

Who says you can’t go home again? My official first home in Belo Horizonte.
Moradia Universitaria I - Belo Horizonte - MG

Who says you can’t go home again? My official first home in Belo Horizonte.

Moradia Universitaria I - Belo Horizonte - MG

I’m here, I swear I’m here.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve set aside this blog in exchange for a non-stop schedule, early bedtimes and an overall crazy life. I kept telling myself that one of these Sundays (my only day off, mind you) I would update you with glorious stories and beautiful pictures. But Sundays would pass in the blink of an eye and laziness would take hold of me. I never meant to neglect this little slice of my story, but that’s essentially what I’ve done to it. Neglect it. So, here we are again.
Fresh start. Updates.
Now, where were we?

Ah yes, my documents, being legal, my job, etc. Since the last update I have 100% officially become a Brazilian citizen! I have the same ID card that my mother had when she was my age and that little detail makes it feel so much more important. I’m for real, I’m legal. I can now walk around without any “international” identification (ie. passport, NC driver’s license, etc) and just blend in.

After fighting with the system for over 2 months, a small laminated piece of paper was all I had to show for it. But I’ll be damned if I didn’t feel on top of the world when I held it for the first time. For all the time it took for me to get to the right office at the right time, it took seconds for them to make it. I was busy cleaning off ink from my recent fingerprinting session with what was probably my 10th baby wipe when I received it. I turned around and the quintessential government worker named Margarette handed me my ID. She was all smiles now because that meant I would soon be out of her hair and leaving. I couldn’t blame her though, after I raised hell around 5 minutes earlier about my appointment potentially being pushed back, she was probably ecstatic that the “crazy American girl” was almost out of the door. Dear Margarette handed me my simple, green identification card and while my mood did a complete 180, my heart threatened to burst out of my chest from sheer joy.
There it was. Solid, undeniable proof of what I had claimed my entire life.

I am Brazilian.

The view on my walk home.

The view on my walk home.

Late night rambles.

I’ve grown up a lot in the past year and I think Brazil has played a starring role in it. I’ve always been behind the curve as far as growing up goes. I feel as though I’ve always experienced things later than most and I was always running to catch up to important milestones.

The past year has molded me and taught me many things. One of those things is how easily I trust others. I had always thought I was a shrewd judge of character and didn’t let just anyone into my life. However, I’ve learned that I’m not the best judge of character. At all. I’m actually quite easily swayed. I have been easily deceived by one too many people in this short period of time (most being romantic interludes). I’ve found that this is my kryptonite. On one hand I find myself amazing and crazy awesome and hold myself to the highest esteem. No one can pull me down from this Beyonce type hype that I have for myself. Then on the other hand I constantly seek validation from the opposite sex, as if I’m nothing without someone telling me I’m something. What the hell?

This shakes me to my very core. I hate those people. I hate those girls. I would walk around judging every living thing who is “living” for someone else. But here I am, one of them. Simply wanting someone to acknowledge my presence. For what? For me to feel good. For me to feel worth it.

I put my trust in someone, just because I think I can see who they really are, and then they hurt me. It seems as though I quickly forget that someone can just as easily deceive me. I forget that people can lie, can charm and can say exactly what I want to hear, without meaning it.

I think the main point I’m trying to get across is this: I feel as though I’m constantly being made a fool of in the “love” department. I feel as though I’m fumbling through this like a toddler, consistently mucking things up because of my inexperience or lack of common sense. In these matters of the heart, I’m hopeless.

However, silver lining: After all these thoughts of criticism on my romantic life, I see a better answer. I keep trying. I keep finding beautiful things in other people. Be it a mirage or not, I keep hoping for the best.
If this means I’m to be a fool for the rest of my life, then so be it. I am slowly coming to grips with the fact that being available and being open aren’t bad things. Wanting to show that I’m thinking of a person or wanting to see them isn’t a sin. I shouldn’t feel compelled to play these insignificant games that usually end with someone irreparably hurt. I shouldn’t have to apologize for wanting to know someone or be near them.

If being genuine and sincere and always hoping for the best makes me a fool, then I’ll be a fool all my days. Shame on the boys who makes me think otherwise. You’re not worth it.