Maid in Brasil

As our taxi passed by a swanky shop in Jardim Europa this morning, P noticed the sign outside shouting "Kitchens made in Germany !" Her response was to the effect that Brazil will only hold it's head high when it can boast "Kitchens made in Brazil !"

Of course, in a globalized world we should avoid protectionism and seek access to the best and best value, no matter where it originates. Brits often complain about the decline and fall of their once glorious manufacturing base. They hark back to the days when "Made in Britain" was a byword for quality and national pride. But things move on. As long as the destroyed old is replaced by the creative new, change doesn't have to be a bad thing. Nostalgia has a way of alchemising the bad old days into the "good old days".

The problem with Brazil is not so much that it has declined but that it never was. It has been selling the family jewels on the cheap for as long as it was colonized and industrialized. Equally, it has often been buying back those same rough diamonds after they have been cut and polished abroad. A country obsessed by status looks ever-outward, far beyond its borders, for confirmation of social standing. So secure as a nation-state, Brazil seems to be populated by some of the most insecure people on earth.

Give a man an expensive German kitchen and his maid will cook for a day; teach him how to build an expensive German kitchen and his economy will be simmering nicely for life.

Talking of maids, I have been commenting to P on the absurd contrast in our domestic lives now that we have moved from "poor" to "posh" neighborhood. I wrote a post a while back half-bemoaning and half-celebrating my epic amounts of washing up. Well, these days we have a maid to do "that kind of work". It's part and parcel of our rather strange living arrangements at the moment.

I actually find it a hassle having to make way for a "domestic" every day, especially since we have a baby getting under all our feet. The woman in question, Bettania, is a pretty wonderful cleaner and a lovely person. But there's something ridiculous about seeing anyone, however nice, on a daily basis to perform such duties.

I've begun to wonder, though, as I look at some of the hardcore luxury apartment blocks in our neighbourhood, how long it would take before this became my new normal ? How long before I began to feel that a maid was one of life's essentials ? I mean, I'm already (almost) used to the idea that I must not flush all of my toilet paper, so no doubt these cultural quirks go both ways ?

It's not really about luxury living. "Luxury" to me means having access to things like technology and baby equipment, and at the right price. Luxury means not feeling that you are being poisoned on the streets and in your own home, as you sneeze endlessly and your eyes itch. Luxury means sidewalks that exist in more than just name.

And of course not forgetting our old friends: properly flushing toilets, decent insulation and heating, and hot water in the kitchen.

Our taxi took us to P's recent employer, a large investment bank in the "Canary Wharf of Sao Paulo" - Itaim. After a quick stop there we walked along the endless Faria Lima in the sun and smog, often pulling Sam's buggy backwards in order to prevent the low-slung solar rays from hitting him.

In marked contrast to Canary Wharf, this so-called avenue has benefited from almost no urban planning. Why should the wealthy care about the environment beyond their cars, offices and restaurants ? It goes without saying that the Government is too busy lining its own pockets to give a damn. There are no trees to offer shade, no half-decent paving for the sidewalk, and a fat, filthy urban motorway at your shoulder. I can only pray that our pedestrian excursions in this city have not done any lasting harm to Sam's lungs or general health.

Luxury ? Sao Paulo doesn't know the meaning of the word.