The BS 6 - The Parade

Damn, somehow I went from blogging bimonthly to just monthly. And it's already October, what the hell? Time, my nemesis, what malice you decree unto my bosom, what ominous shadows of foreboding you bestow upon my eyes! Will you not spare me your wroth? Lo! I beseech you, grant me reprieve of your lies.

Well that's my attempt at esoteric poetry.

Alright. This post is the continuation and culmination of The BS. Open your books to the final chapter of The BS: Chapter 6 - The Parade. Oh my dear sweet Lord, the parade.

I really need a scanner.

I've got to explain something about myself first: I am not a big drinker, at all, so when I drink, it's a riotously embarrassing time. For me, that is. Okay, so enter week 4 of my trip to Brazil. There I am one Saturday afternoon, brooding in my apartment because there is nothing to do in Middleofnowheresville, Brazil, when suddenly I decide "I need my BAC to be at least 0.20, right now". So I went to the store and got a 12 pack of cheap beer and a pizza, which is the most American thing I've ever done, and proceeded to spend my night watching movies and getting hammered. Alone. But don't worry, I made friends soon after.

That's supposed to be Brazil's flag, not a cheeseburger.

Some extra background: I'm from the American Midwest. It's very flat there. Middleofnowheresville, Brazil, on the other hand, is in the mountains. Mountains like Denver-style, not like Nepal or anything. So, not so high up, but for someone who has lived his life in a place that would make Dark Age Christians convinced that the world was irrefutably flat, this is a dramatic difference in altitude.

And what do we know about getting drunk, kids?

...

Yes! The higher in altitude you are, the quicker you get drunk. And what do we know about yours truly?

...

Did I hear, "You don't drink often"? Yes! I mean no! No I don't! Before I knew it, it was four in the morning and I was pants-pissingly wasted, stumbling wildly into my bed, which I left two seconds after collapsing into to puke what I thought was all the America beer and pizza my poor stomach could handle.

And that was the last smile I wore for a while.

"Okay," I thought, "I puked so tomorrow I'll be fine", and I passed out. And then I started having a dream about drums and thunder and riots and a parade... until I realized that I wasn't at all dreaming and that, verily, a parade was taking place right outside of my apartment. At 8:00am. My head was splitting and pounding and giving birth to Athena and I could scarcely believe that an actual factual parade was seriously happening at that moment. But it was, oh, how it was. And it was uproarious. Sleep mocked me as it fluttered away from my life. And then I threw up.

And then I threw up again.

And then I threw up a few more times.

And then I drank some water, which I threw up.

Then I brushed my teeth, and then I threw up again, mintily. 

I really got to know the toilet well that day.

I vomited about three times an hour until like five o'clock. I think I puked upwards of 20 times that day, like past the bile-puking point and into the dry-heaving point. Naturally, I was concerned, but I was too exhausted and hungover to care. All I wanted to do was sleep for eternity which was impossible because of the FUCKING PARADE WHICH NEVER SEEMED TO END.

Sometime between waiting for the cessation of Satan's symphony, embracing the toilet, and hating my life in my bed, I thought "I'm gonna see exactly how many beers I drank last night".

I went to the fridge and noticed "Oh that wasn't a 12-pack, it was an 18-pack. Huh. I didn't even know they made those. Oh shit, I should really eat that cheese soon. And let's see... there are... TWO BEERS LEFT?!" And at that moment, I could've sworn that the band crescendoed.

Now, I am not a big guy. For me to drink 16 beers and not die is nothing short of miraculous, regardless of how much greasy pizza I ingested. Clearly, I far surpassed my goal of a BAC of 0.20, that was for sure.

To try and calm my stomach, I thought that I should drink some 7-Up or Sprite or something lemon-limey like that. I went to a little corner store to ask if they had Sprite, which was an ordeal in and of itself. See, in Portuguese, you don't say it "Sprite", you say it "Shpraichee" (it makes more sense than you think), so the cashier had no fucking clue what I wanted or was talking about, with drums and trumpets clamoring in the background all the while, completely severing the means of communication. But finally, between my broken Portuguese and the cashier's patience, I got a Sprite.

She was very nice about it though. I mean, I was obviously the most hungover person she had seen all year.

I threw that up too, by the way. It tasted just as good coming up as it did going down, though, so that was a sort of vile solace.

Anyway, the parade finally ended around 5 or so, and I had stomached a banana smoothie, which served as the treaty that the warring factions in my stomach needed all along. I napped blissfully, then woke up to eat real food, now that my body was open to the idea. My day in hell was over, it seemed, and around 10pm, I laid my weary head down so I could wake up bright and early the next day to try and reach those kids I was teaching. And wouldn't you know it, the moment, literally, the exact moment that my head hit the pillow, there were fireworks. For real. Across the way from my apartment, some people were lighting fireworks. For like an hour.

Now at that point, I was just like "well if you can't beat 'em...", so I got up and snapped some photos of said fireworks. Here's one:

Perhaps in The BS - Reprise, I'll talk about that church you see there.

And then, finally, I slept. And I couldn't so much as think about alcohol again for months.

The BS 5 - "My Daughter Needs to Marry an American"

Goddamn I've been sitting on this post since June 30th. That sure did take a while.

Due to the nature of the job I had in Brazil, I encountered and interacted with a lot of the teachers in the school system. Most of them were cool, but goddamn did they love drama. Part of my job was to meet with the teachers weekly to conduct an oral language class to keep their English fresh (being that they were all English teachers also). And one of these teachers... well... she said things.

---WAIT. STOP. HOLD THE PHONE.

We interrupt this post for a very important announcement. 

The internet just failed me. I just tried so hard and for so long to find a clip of the How I Met Your Mother episode "First Time in New York" where Robin's sister comes to visit with her boyfriend and Robin says to her sister's boyfriend, after he says something really douchey, "You say things" AND I COULDN'T FIND IT ANYWHERE. Someone help! Please!---

Ignoring that, let's move on.

So this teacher, who I'll call... Mrs. M, she was very, very, very annoying. And opinionated. And had a bad case of foot-in-your-mouth. I'm surprised she managed to walk around. She looked mostly like a pear with legs, a bad wig, and a cigarette.

Mrs. M.

She was quite something.

On our first encounter, she really left a lasting impression. I mean, first of all her English was impeccable, and I was very impressed by that, but secondly, and again, she said things. Really stupid things. Observe the following dialogue:

"Oh, my daughter lives in the US!" said Mrs. M.
"Oh, that's cool, where?" replied I.
"In California. I worry about her because she's dating an Arab, and you know, all Arabs are terrorists. I'm very worried he's going to recruit her into a terrorist organization," she exclaimed.
"... By the way, I'm Arab," I said, and left.

Of course, she apologized profusely and was very embarrassed, but I was already offended to tantamount levels. Naturally, I wasn't quite looking forward to seeing her ever again because I really didn't want to punch a woman. But I would have to see her again. Many, many times. And I would always greet her with the same "I could give less of a fuck about your existence" face.

As in, "Oh. You.", not "Oh, youuu!"

Once upon one of these times, she asked me something ridiculous. I present to you another dialogue:

"Oh hey, Noor! Long time no see!" - Mrs. M.
"... It's been one week exactly." - Me.
"Say, I have a question. What state do you live in back in the US?"
"I'm from Chicago."
"So, Michigan, or...?"
"Illinois."
"So how close is that to California?"
"Pretty fucking far away."
"Do you have Facebook?"
"Why is this an interview? Yes, I do." (I do not anymore, mainly because of Brazil.)
"You should look up my daughter. Her boyfriend broke up with her. She's very attractive. They say she looks like me."

My mental image:

I did look her up, and I can almost swear to you that's exactly what she looked like.

But wait, it gets better.

"I'm not really sure when or how I will be in California to see your daughter..." I said.
"Well when do you go back to the US?"
"Like December."
"Perfect! That's when her visa expires! She really needs to marry an American so she can stay in the US and not get deported."
"..."
"So... I'll tell her I talked to you, kbyeeeeee!"
"... Wtf just happened."

I shit you not. I felt so... violated. And slightly flattered. She asked me to marry her apple-looking daughter with a bad wig and legs so that she could stay in the US. The best part was, I would have to move to California because I guess her daughter had a really good job with guess what website? E-Harmony. Yeah. So I thought, why can't she just get one of those people? Why me? Why do I have to marry an apple?

I never did have to marry her daughter, but I did have to make up countless excuses about why I hadn't accepted her Facebook friend request yet, because I don't know how to be straightforward.

"Noor, my daughter says she requested you two weeks ago and you still haven't accepted?"
"Oh, I've been so busy. Also it's so dark."

Which ended up becoming:

"Noor, my daughter says she requested you two months ago and you still haven't accepted?"
"Oh... my house is on fire. I have to go."

Which ended up becoming:

"Noor, you're leaving for America tomorrow, and my daughter says you still haven't accepted her friend request?"
"Oh... I... I really don't wanna marry your daughter, sorry."
"What? I couldn't hear that last part."
"I said... I... I DON'T WANNA MARRY YOUR DAUGHTER OKAY?!" And then I sprinted away.

She ran fast for a pear.

The moral of this story? If you don't wanna marry someone's daughter just so that she can stay in the US, just fucking tell the person you don't want to marry her daughter.

The BS 4 - "My Water Got Shut Off"

Wow I almost ran out of time. But here it is, as promised, before it was no longer today.

I am here today to tell you a really ridiculous story. Hopefully, you guessed it was unrealistically ridiculous when you saw it was a BS story. But if you read this one and think it's the worst luck a person could have, wait until I tell you the one about the parade.

So, for those of you who have been paying attention, the apartment I lived in when I was in Brazil was owned and paid for by my boss. That included the utilities, which was a pretty sweet deal.

But, two things:

A) Rain happens.

And.

B) When it shits, it pours. ... Wait. I got that wrong. Whatever.

Anyway, one Thursday night as I was mulling about, minding my own business, I heard the distinct gurgling sound of water leaving all the sinks. I've had my water shut off before back in the U.S. so I knew that sound well. But sitting there in the apartment, I thought "There's no way. Why would that happen? I don't even take care of the bill, and I know they paid it... right?"

So I did what any normal person would do and turned on one of the faucets.

Drop drop drop drop drip... drip... spurt... cough... hack... paaahhhhhh. 

"Whatever, it'll be back in the morning" I thought.

It wasn't.

"Whatever, it'll be back after work" I decided.

It wasn't.

I tried the faucets again and similar onomatopoeias as the last three times I tried happened.

"No more water" I realized. I felt like... well... this:

Only with much less water.

 The first logical conclusion I came to was that my boss hated me and was out to ruin my life because I was just some stupid American.

That wasn't the case, but whatever.

Do you know the things you can't do when your water is shut off? Here are the top three:

1) Use the toilet. Well, you can, but... you know. With no water, all of your exquisite excrement just sits there and ferments. And by exquisite I mean gag-inducing.

2) Wash dishes. Or anything. So if you cook, your pots and pans are out of commission. Which sucks a lot when you only have one pot and one pan.

3) Shower. Yeah. Did I mention I was in Brazil where it's 80 degrees on a cold day?

Gross. Or, to be PC, natural.

Here are the solutions I came up with to these problems:

1) Try really hard to limit bathroom usage. Be near public restrooms as often as possible.

2) Petition the neighbors for help and hope that they're cool and kindhearted people. (In my case, my across the hall neighbor was a doctor's office that was only open from like 10:00am to 3:00pm two days a week.)

3) Go to work super early and wash your hair and face in the sink. Forget the rest of your body. It's clean, sort of. Apply copious amounts of deodorant. Also known as sink showering.

This is sink showering. Sink showering is basically dumping your head into the sink and getting the place soaked.

Sadly, back in Buttfucknowhere, Brazil, everything was closed from Friday at 5:00pm until Monday morning. And by everything I mean everything, for real. Except the church, which is a story all on its own. And since I didn't realize completely that my water was for sure turned off until Friday after 5:00pm (because I'm optimistic, dammit), I was fucked for at least the weekend. Thankfully, though, the apartments on the other floors of the building were not doctor's offices and the people were... alright.

So Monday, I go to my boss and explain the situation. She's like "Whaaaaaaaaat I pay your bill every month there's no reason your water should be off" and I was all like "Well obviously you're missing some neurons because my water IS OFF." Except I didn't say that.

We went to the water... place. Facility? I don't know. The place you go to pay the water bill if you don't mail it. The bitch there (and I only call her a bitch because she was a bitch) told us that back in February someone forgot to pay the bill.

Did I mention it was October at this time?

Yeah.

So I guess protocol in Buttfucknowhere, Brazil is to shut off the utilities eight months after the bill is late. Meaning that people with luck like mine have to suffer for someone else's mistake. Wonderful. JUST FUCKING WONDERFUL.

We paid the late bill and I asked the woman when my water would get turned back on.

She said, "Well, probably tomorrow."

I said, "Y NOT 2DAY."

She said, "Well... the guy who turns it back on only works until 5."

I said, "...It's 4."

She said, "Yeah he's probably not gonna get to it today, sorry."

I said "FFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU."

Monday's Sun set and I was still waterless.

Tuesday then passed as I stared hopelessly at the kitchen sink.

It would not comply.

They didn't turn it on until Thursday afternoon, and I just thinking like "DUDE TOOK HIS MOTHERFUCKING TIME HUH."

And that, my friends, is plain bad luck.

The BS 3 - "Noor vs. The Washer"

You should know that when it comes to technology, I'm a tad bit inept. When I was a kid, I loved technology, and I was always current on the latest trinkets and gadgets and all that, but when I turned 20 it was like all of the die-hard interest got replaced by a smog of confusion, rendering me helpless (old-man style) in the face of electronic devices. Ever since, I've had many harrowing experiences with all sorts of machines, and my time in Brazil did not get spared these such experiences.

The worst one ever was my ongoing brawl with the washer in my apartment. Commence, as my friend Merry put it, the harrowing tale of Noor versus...

THE WASHER.

The Trollmatic.

Now, being that I'm a lazy boy (if you couldn't guess), laundry is something that I dread so much that it gives me night terrors. HOWEVER when I do laundry, I go all out. I wash everything. That's the Virgo in me, I suppose.

Unfortunately, I wash everything... together. Which I know isn't good for your clothes, but whatever. No one's complained to me yet and I've been washing my clothes that way for years. Sadly, that goddamn washer back in Brazil was not having any of my shit.

So, the first time I did laundry was about... oh... a month and a half after I got there. That was the point at which all my clothes had been worn, most of them multiple times, and I was out of money to buy more clean underwear. At that point I figured, "alright... I'll do my laundry, GOD."

I walked up to that mechanical beast and promptly shoved all of my clothes in there and then proceeded to pour an obscene amount of detergent over them, because that's how it works, right? Anyway, Mr. Washer was doing his thing, and I went about my day.

I like Atlas symbolism.

Let me tell you something about Brazil: There are maybe two clothes dryers in that whole country. It's not that they aren't available, it's just that Brazilians (from what I heard) prefer to hang dry their clothes. Which I'm cool with, I've had to do that before, no big. That's not the problem. The problem is what the washer decided to do. Or rather... not do.

There I am, biding my time, minding my own business when the washer beeped, telling me my clothes were so fresh and so clean, clean. I hopped up, went over to it, peeked inside and saw that it was still full of water. I thought nothing of it, closed the lid and waited for a few minutes. When I opened it up again, it was still full of water.

"No matter", I thought, and turned the knob a little to see if maybe it just forgot to drain.

It did not.

It never drained.

...

... ...

... ... ...

Ever.

Mad doesn't cut it, bro.

 So what did your uncle Noor have to do? Take all of his clothes out of the Trollmatic, one by one, and wring them out. ONE BY ONE.  ALL OF HIS CLOTHES. And that's not all. Obviously the washer was still full of water, and I couldn't just let it sit there, so I had to empty it out... WITH A BUCKET.

Idk, my bff Pail.

 Needless to say, uncle Noor was pisssssssed. 

Pictured: The Sea of Bullshit. Yeah, it's real.

The story ain't over folks. Remember, I was in Brazil for 6 months. Of course, the next day I told my supervisor and boss about the problem, since they're the ones who paid for the apartment's rent and took care of the maintenance problems. You know what my boss told me? "Tell your supervisor." You know what my supervisor told me? "Tell your boss."

You know what else my supervisor told me, when I told her I was afraid my clothes might get all moldy because of how soaking wet they were? "Oh, you should probably hang them up to dry near a window."

...

REALLY BITCH?!

Ahem.

Anyway, even after I reminded my boss and supervisor about this dilemma about, oh, 17,845 times, they never sent anyone to fix it. So every single fucking time I had to laundry, I had to repeat that stupid fucking process of wringing out my clothes individually, then hanging them up to dry for days because they would be so wet still. AND empty the washer with a bucket.

"Well why didn't you just go to a laundromat?" You may ask. Ha. I wish. Those don't exist in Buttfucknowhere, Brazil, sweet cheeks. 

And the best part? Well, I still communicate with these people every once in a while, and recently my former supervisor told me "You were right about the washer! It was totally broken. We just thought you didn't know how to use it. It's fixed now."

My reaction?

No caption needed.

End of story.

The BS 2 - "Americans Break Doors"

-A little background: I'm very awkward when I know I've done something bad/wrong/extremely stupid and I confront a person that will be really pissed when they find out I was the one who did the bad/wrong/extremely stupid thing. This is one of those situations.
-A little more background: In the town I was in, I taught English. Other Americans had been there before me to do the same thing. The last guy who was there was a"real American" blond, blue-eyed, and 6'4" and ate a lot of cheeseburgers. (according to the Brazilians, but I doubt this). 
-A final bit of background: I lived in an apartment building that had an entrance door you needed a key to open. Everyone who lived in the building used that door to get in. All of the previous Americans lived in the same apartment that I did.

I just so happened to be in Brazil on September 7th - its independence day. Just like us, they get wasted and cook out, and one of the teachers I worked with had invited me to a party to do just that. And I was like "hell yeah!".

The party mainly consisted of drinking, eating, drinking, and eating. Also lots of drunken discussions of politics and the turning point in my ability to speak Portuguese. (I'm really really good at Portuguese when I'm drunk.) And people trying to set me up with their daughters. But the party isn't the story. Being drunk, now that's the story. Well, the beginning of it.

After I got dropped off at my apartment building, I stumbled up to the door and shoved my key into it. Literally, into it. And I was like, "Oh, oops, I should probably put this in the keyhole." Only I was drunk, so my inner monologue went more like "KEY IN HOLE NOT IN DOOR DUH LOL." And so in went the key into the hole, way more forcefully than needed. Now, the thing about this door was that it was the kind of door where turning the key opens the door. And then... well, then this happened:

I'm trying to ween myself off notebook paper.

The good news was, the door opened. The bad news was, my key broke in the keyhole. And then the door closed. I was inside the building though, and my belligerent self could not have given two shits about the calamitous seed I had just planted. I waddled up to my apartment and collected my laptop so I could go use the internet for free somewhere. (There was no internet in the apartment.) And then I waddled right back down to the door I had recently defiled, pushed it open, and was about to step out when I realized "Ohhhhh... wait. I broke the key IN the keyhole, so if the door closes... it won't open. For anyone." Again, though, I was still drunk so my inner monologue went more like "LOL I BROKE THAT. I SHOULD PROB HIDE IN MY APT SO NO INTERNETS TONIGHT LOLOLOLOLOL."

And then I threw up and passed out until work the next morning.

Then...

I woke up with a start. Whereas the previous night my opinion of what I had done was "fuck the door", that morning my first thought was "FUCK, THE DOOR." I got ready for work, face aflush* already, thinking only "shit fuck shit balls dammit fuck shit damn" and scrambled downstairs. Here's how that went:

I was so shocked my nose disappeared.

The door was GONE. Someone had taken the door. It was no longer there. Poof. Magic. Abracadabra nomodoorzam. And it was all my fault. Fffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.

"Okay, be cool" I thought. "No one needs to know it was you." I saw a neighbor person and they were like "Yeah, some asshole broke his key in the door last night" and I was like "Aw man! What a dick" knowing full well that I was that asshole.

"Alright" I thought, "ask someone at work if they know about a spare key... Tell them you lost it."

No one did. They were like "Oh, you could go to the locksmith but you need a copy of the key." Well no shit. Finally my supervisor got there, and I told her my situation. Except I lied and I said that I lost my key. She told me to find the landlord who was probably working at the grocery store attached to the apartment building and to ask her if I could take her key to go copy it. And I was like "Heh... oookay. Yeah. I'll do that."

But the problem was, the landlord knew that some asshole broke their key in the keyhole. If I went and asked her, she'd know that I was that asshole. Which wouldn't be a problem if her face didn't look like this all the time:

Her name is Patricia.

So you can see where my trepidation stemmed from. But I had no other choice. As soon as they put the fixed door back, I had no way of getting in the building. "Maybe I can just go hide in my apartment for the rest of forever." But I couldn't. By the time I got off work, the new door had already been put in place. Out of desperation, I tried using the little stub of the key I had left to open it and obviously that didn't work.

So it was either talk to Patricia or live on the street with the stray dogs and this one drunk guy. And although that sounded more appealing to me, I had to go talk to her. All my shit was in that apartment. Stupidly, I thought "I'll just lie to her. I'll say I lost my key. That'll work. Worked on everyone else today." Except for my aforementioned awkwardness.

I went to the grocery store and found her, and she looked really pissed. She saw me and glared, like always, and glared even harder when she saw that I was walking up to her, very timidly. I swore I heard her think "If this mofo talks to me, I'mma gonna roast his bones and EAT HIM." So it was time for the confrontation:

I had to roll a will save.

Me: "Uhhhh h-hi P-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-patricia... H-how are----"
Patricia: "WHAT DO YOU WANT."
Me: "Well, you see, I, uh, I lost my... I, umm... Well, I..."
Patricia: "YOU'RE THE ASSHOLE WHO BROKE HIS KEY IN THE KEYHOLE AREN'T YOU."
Me: "M-me? Umm... No? Yes. I would be that asshole, yup. I'm... I'm really s-s-sorry. I, uhh... Oh God please don't eat me."
Patricia: "HERE. TAKE THIS KEY. I DON'T EVEN CARE ANYMORE. YOU AMERICANS EAT TOO MANY CHEESEBURGERS AND YOU ALWAYS BREAK YOUR KEYS IN THE KEYHOLE. THE LAST STUPID AMERICAN DID THE SAME THING. DON'T DO IT AGAIN."
Me: "Wait he did?"
Patricia: "YOU COME HERE TO BRAZIL AND YOU THINK THAT THINGS ARE MADE TO WORK LIKE THEY DO IN THE U.S. BUT THEY DON'T. BE MORE GENTLE WITH THE KEY FROM NOW ON. OR ELSE."
Me: "Oh... okay. Yes sir MA'AM YES MA'AM BYE."

And I ran. I ran so far away. And from that point on, I was oh so gentle with the key. And I stopped eating cheeseburgers. And I learned that things in Brazil don't have the durability that I was used to them having in the U.S. Especially the washers. But the story of the washer is for another day.

The end.

--- --- ---

*I want to point out that spellcheck doesn't think that aflush is a word, but it totally is.

The Brazil Saga 1 - "You're Argentinian"

From here on out, I'm calling "The Brazil Saga" stories "The BS". Just so you know.

So, I lived in Brazil for 6 months once upon a time, and never a more eventful six months did I have. I have, like, sooo many stories. This one I'm gonna tell you is one of my favorites.

The rinky-dink town I lived didn't have much to do. Like, at all. I don't understand how people live there. Here's a picture:

Pictured: The year 1537

Don't be deceived by the scenery, that place sucks. But I'll get into that another day.

On one of the last days I was there, I checked out this cake shop I'd never been to. The cake was good, but that's not the story.

I walk in, and I see this woman:

 

Not to scale.

Now, I don't look not Brazilian at first, but as soon as I open my mouth and start speaking Portuguese it's very obvious that I'm something that is not Brazilian.

Anyway, then I hear the following dialogue:

Pictured woman (PW): "What's this cake like?"
Lady behind the counter 1 (LBC1): (sighing) "It's a vanilla cake."
PW: "Like how much vanilla?"
LBC2: "The normal amount."
PW: "Hmm... well what about this cake?"
LBC1: (shoots an annoyed glance at LBC2) "It's a chocolate cake."
PW: "But how much chocolate?"

This went on for about seventeen more cakes until finally LBC2 looked at me and said, with a smile, "And what would you like sir?"

Me: "I just want a slice of that cake there"
LBC2: "The little blacky black cake?" (actual name of the cake)
Me: "Yes please :3"

Then I entered purgatory.

PW: (to me) "Where are you from young man?"
Me: "America, as in the United States of." (South Americans are American too.)
PW: "No you're not."
Me: "Er... yes. I am."
PW: "But you don't look American. Or sound American." (Keep in mind, (most) Brazilians think that (all) Americans are Aryan.)
Me: "Well, I'm of Arab descent, but I was definitely born and raised in the US."
PW: "No you weren't. You're Argentinian."
Me, LBC1, LBC2:

PW: "Mmhmm, yup, you're definitely Argentinian."
Me: (with a mouthful of little blacky black cake) "Nro, Ir'm nort Argerntiniarn."
PW: "Yes you are."

This goes on for a while. And then, just to move shit along, I say, "Well, I do speak Spanish."

PW: "Aha! I knew it! You're Argentinian!"
Me: "Well by that logic---"
PW: "You even have an Argentinian's accent!"
LBC1: (trying to save me) "What are you doing in this shit hole town if you're here all the way from America?"
PW: "Argentina."
LBC1: "... Right."
Me: "Oh, I'm just here---"
PW: "Look, I'm a teacher. I'm gonna help you speak Portuguese like a Brazilian. We don't like Argentinians."
LBC2: "I don't mind Argent---"
PW: "WE DON'T LIKE ARGENTINIANS."
Me: "Ma'am, weren't you ordering a cake?"
PW: (in really bad Spanish now) "No, no, say like this: 'Maaaa'aaam'. Well? Go on. 'Maaaa'aaaam'. That how Brazilian make word."
Me: "*sigh* Where do I throw away this plate?"
PW: "'Maaaaa'aaaaam'"
LBC1: "There's a trash can right over here."
PW: (snapping her fingers) "YOU'RE NOT PAYING ATTENTION. HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO LEARN?"
Me: "... Ma'aaam."
PW: "No, no, like this: 'Maaaaaaaaa'aaaaaaam.'"

This also goes on for quite some time. Then:

Me: "How much did that slice of cake cost?"
LBC2: "It's [price]." (I don't remember the price. My main concern was GTFO.)

So with a stomach full of little blacky black cake and a mindful of ignoring PW, I start G'ingTFO. Luckily, I saw this guy I knew so I struck up a conversation with him. Well, tried. PW followed me because, goddammit, she knew this guy too.

PW: "HEY! HEY GUY! Look at this Argentinian I met!"
Guy: "He's American."
PW: (to me) "You're American? Why didn't you say something?"
Me, LBC1, LBC2, Guy: 

PW: (In really, really bad English) "Nice you meet!"
Me: (In Portuguese) "I have to go."

And go I did. As fast as fucking possible.