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    The World Is My Oyster: The World Is My Oyster, #1
    The World Is My Oyster: The World Is My Oyster, #1
    The World Is My Oyster: The World Is My Oyster, #1
    Ebook141 pages1 hour

    The World Is My Oyster: The World Is My Oyster, #1

    By Matthias Drawe

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    About this ebook

    The author survives with odd jobs in Tokyo, celebrates Christmas in Rio and learns that fat women are sexy - in Jamaica.
    He discovers the charms of freezing Helsinki, experiences warlike conditions in Haiti and ekes out $200 for a bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey in Alaska.
    He explores the secrets of lobster fishermen in Maine, assists in a cockfight in Puerto Rico and comes across a Turkish pearl in Brooklyn. 

    "A fun look at the world."
    "Want to go to exotic places? Read this first!"
    "Full of funny encounters with real people from around the globe."
    (Reviews from Readers)

    The travelogues in this book were commissioned by German NPR and broadcast on the radio. The author adapted the manuscripts to a literary format and added photos.

    MORE FROM THE AUTHOR
    The World Is My Oyster (Volumes 2&3)
    The World is My Oyster (Complete collection of all 30 stories)
    Wild Years in West Berlin (novel)
    With a Little Twist, It Might Just Work ... (novel)

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMatthias Drawe
    Release dateMay 26, 2022
    ISBN9798201702373
    The World Is My Oyster: The World Is My Oyster, #1
    Author

    Matthias Drawe

    Für biographische Angaben zum Autor siehe Wikipedia. 

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      Book preview

      The World Is My Oyster - Matthias Drawe

      1. FELIZ NATAL – Christmas in Rio

      ––––––––

      Renzo and I walk along Copacabana beach. It's raining like hell and getting dark. If we hadn't taken the beach umbrella from his apartment, we'd be soaking wet by now.

      Renzo is Italian and my neighbor. Being in his mid-thirties and short, he has buck teeth and a hook nose with a bluish spot right on the tip of the hook. He reminds me of Roberto Benigni. He's not exactly an Adonis but charming. Women like him.

      Renzo knows almost everyone in Copacabana, and everyone knows him. He has been coming to Rio for ten years. Eight months a year he works on a merchant ship, the remaining four, he spends his money in Copacabana.

      I've been working on ships since I was seventeen, Renzo says. I've been almost anywhere in the world. Singapore, Java, Borneo, Yokohama, San Francisco, Los Angeles, all of South America. But when I came to Rio, I knew right away: This is it! This is where I want to stay.

      The beach promenade is deserted. All kiosks are closed. A lone jogger moves through the rain, and some homeless people seek shelter under an open-air stage.

      Copacabana at dusk

      It's not only the rain that's to blame for the somber atmosphere. Even in the rain there's always something going on at the beach promenade. Crowds make their way along the brightly lit Avenida Atlântica, past elegant hotels, expensive apartment buildings and restaurants. Street vendors offer their goods, performance artists try to earn a little change, and spontaneous parties happen on the beach. Virtually nonstop, 364 days a year. Just not today, because today is ...

      Christmas.

      Christmas in Rio. The only day when everything is different. All shops and restaurants are closed.

      You can feel Christmas far in advance here, Renzo says. On the beach, you see girls in bikinis wearing red and white Santa hats, and you see cashiers wearing them in the supermarket. It's the most important holiday in Brazil. All families are at home. You can feel it here more than in Europe, more than in the US, more than anywhere else. Everything is closed.

      We tried to flag down a cab, but they are all taken. Some people in passing cars throw us curious glances: two gringos carrying a beach umbrella in the pouring rain on Avenida Atlântica.

      A young Brazilian woman lowers her car window and sends us a kiss: Feliz Natal!

      Renzo sends her a kiss back. Feliz Natal!

      I'm exhausted since we've been walking for quite a while, now. Renzo points to the final stretch of Copacabana. It's back there, he says. We'll just have to keep walking a bit.

      The only place open today is called Bei Willi, and it's a German pub. That's definitely not how I had imagined Christmas in Rio, but Renzo assures me that Bei Willi is totally cool, and anyways, we would have no other choice.

      The place is a blend of a German pub and a Brazilian beach kiosk: massive wooden tables and huge beer mugs combined with palm fronds and bamboo shelves. The Brazilian flag flies next to the banner of the St. Pauli football club, and German pop songs alternate with Samba. There's a plastic Christmas tree, and colorful balloons float under the ceiling. At the buffet, a pork roast is being served.

      The crowd matches the furnishings and the music. About twenty German men mingle with Brazilian mulatas. Some have taken to the small dancefloor in the far corner of the room.

      Willi is behind the bar and pours beer. Being tall and skinny, he sports a perm. The gaze from his blue eyes is cold. He used to be a car dealer in Hamburg. At some point, he called it quits, took out his savings and stayed in Rio for good.

      At once, Ana Luisa appears. Drunk.

      Brazil is great, she says, simply the most beautiful country in the world. Sure, we have a few tiny problems, but people are happy anyway. Everyone is happy, right?

      Ana Luisa wears a Santa hat and a tight-fitting blouse with red wine stains. She has enormous boobs, and her slightly transparent blouse barely leaves anything to the imagination. In the US she would probably be arrested for indecent exposure in this outfit, but here it's quite normal.

      Ana Luisa is a looker. A classic Brazilian mix: white, indigenous and black. Of her two children, one is from a Dane the other from a German. She lives with her mom, and today of all days they got into an argument. Willi was her last resort.

      Ana Luisa is so drunk that she has trouble keeping her balance. When sloshed, she always talks about how beautiful Brazil is, says Renzo. She lived in Europe for a few years, but ended up feeling depressed.

      Despite economic woes and poverty in plain sight, almost everyone here is a patriot and infectiously happy-go-lucky. A dash of occasional melancholy creeps in, but it comes rather from exhaustion after too much samba and booze. As soon as the body recovers, the party keeps going.

      Renzo points to the young Brazilian women sitting at the tables. They became moms at the tender age of fifteen or sixteen. And none are married, because Brazilian men, uh... they love to play around, but marriage ... not so much.

      Willi plays a Christmas song: Silent Night, Holy Night. In German. He hands out sparklers, and the German-Brazilian crowd waves them around.

      Isabel, one of the girls at the next table, settles down with us. Her dark skin contrasts against a white tank top bearing the slogan: No stress! She wears tight-fitting hot pants and dizzying platform shoes.

      Quatro bambini, whispers Renzo. Four children!

      Isabel has a marked overbite and a receding chin. Her gelled, black hair shines in the light of the sparklers. She wants to know where I come from.

      Mexico, Renzo says.

      He likes to introduce me as a Mexican because I speak Spanish, and this almost counts as Portuguese. Germans and Americans are not very popular in Rio because of communication barriers. Mexicans are cool, though.

      Mexico? Isabel looks at me in disbelief. It seems she's trying to recognize the Mexican in my facial features. Ana Luisa also scans my face. Suddenly she lifts her glass but spills almost half of it as she makes another red wine stain on her blouse. Feliz Natal e viva México!

      The next morning.

      I'm at the beach, sitting in my folding chair, enjoying the sun. I've been in Rio for a week now and made it to a somewhat decent tan. At least I am not as pale as when I arrived.

      I sip some coconut water to get over my Christmas hangover. It's supposed to be one of the best cures. I might have to drink another one since I don't feel being cured at all.

      The beach teems with street vendors, and some guys play volleyball. I notice the beach cops. I've never seen such good-looking cops. Their uniforms consist of skin-tight undershirts, shorts and cool sunglasses. And they are toned to a T of course. No wonder there's always a fan club of beach hotties around them.

      Actually, one might think that this is a dream job, but the pay is not that impressive. They earn about 250 dollars a month.

      Renzo and Ana Luisa show up. She spent the night with him.

      Ana Luisa and Renzo at the beach

      While Renzo heads to one of the beach kiosks to get drinks, Ana Luisa massages her temples, her face slightly puffy.

      She has this melancholic look that Brazilians often have in the morning. Although she usually talks a lot, she's quiet now. Maybe she thinks about her kids. In Brazil, the presents are hidden under the bed and given on the morning of Christmas Day. But going home for Ana Luisa is no option. The family fight last night was too ugly.

      She stares at the ocean. New Year's Eve in Rio. A wild party. Mark my words. All people clad in white. I don't even know exactly why. I think it means peace.

      Renzo comes back with a coconut and a can of beer. Ana Luisa opens the can and downs it in one swig. Breakfast beer, she says with a grin. She gives Renzo a kiss. Obrigado, meu amor.

      They are cuddling up. A popular sport in Rio. I've never seen so many couples kissing in public. It starts at adolescence and there's no age limit. Even people past eighty still kiss in the open. Always and everywhere. Maybe it's something in the water. It's certainly nice to look at: Love is in the air.

      I spot a beach beauty wearing a white, pointed hat with gilded lettering: Feliz Reveillon – Happy New Year. A few other girls also don the white hats. It's crazy, yesterday was Christmas with Santa hats, and now we are basically at New Year's already.

      An older man points to Ana Luisa's empty beer can. Can I have it?

      Sure! She throws it into a plastic bag, home to several hundred other cans. The man carries the outsized bag on his back as he walks on. He'll get a couple of centavos for each can.

      A bit later we are in Tabajaras, a favela that sits right behind Copacabana. Carlos, Ana Luisa's cousin, lives here. He and his wife provide a laundry service which comes a lot cheaper than going

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