NONFICTION – About Brazil &

Snow By Lívia Lakomy

When people ask me about where I’m from – Brazil – they expect me to talk
about tropical beaches, exciting soccer games, and never-
ending Carnaval parties. In other words, they want a glimpse into a magical
place where one can escape the “real world,” whatever that means. That ideal
place doesn’t exist – or at least it never existed to me. I come from what I deem
to be the boring part of Brazil, by which I mean that I come from a normal place.
It sounds a bit harsh, I know, but my upbringing took place in a town with no
grand natural or historical significance to the world, and no great claim to fame.
It’s very much real.

So, when people ask me about where I’m from, instead of going with the clichés
of other people’s expectations, the storyteller in me feels like telling them
about the snow. As far as I’m concerned, the snow is as close to magic as one can
get while still in the “real world,” The fact that I wasn’t alive to witness this
event only makes it better – I depend on other people’s stories to create my own.
This month, the snow will celebrate its 40 th anniversary. I guess if my generation
keeps the story going long enough, it might just become the magic stuff of
myths.

It snowed in my hometown Curitiba on July 17, 1975. The following day a

newspaper would print the headline: “Curitiba, Snow White.” It’s corny, but I
love it. Before then, the last snow had fallen on July 31, 1928, a light late -
afternoon snowfall, remembered only through old newspaper photographs.

Figure 1 A still from the documentary “Curityba sob a neve,” about the 1928
snowfall.

The day of the 1975 snow, my parents went to the movies to see Murder on the
Orient Express. They didn’t know each other then; they just happened to be at the
same movie showing at the same time on the same day, a little over a year before
they met. They know this not because they have prodigious memories, but
because the day it snowed was so remarkable that if two people from Curitiba are
old enough to have witnessed the snow and start a conversation, they will sooner
rather than later reach the topic of: what were you doing the day it snowed?

Curitiba is the coldest state capital in Brazil, but not the coldest city. While many
other places further south can count on yearly (or almost yearly) snowfalls,
Curitiba has to make do with icy, gray winters full of drizzle. This gloomy state
of affairs not only describes the local weather, but the general mood of the
population: the city was founded as a resting spot for cattle drovers rather than a
place to set down roots. It later became a destination for European immigrants
from places such as Poland, Italy and Germany. If the winter wasn’t enough to
keep people at a distance from each other, then cultural and linguis tic
differences, as well as a lack of shared history, did the trick.

_____Question: “What does the Curitibano say when he catches his wife in bed
with another man?”

_____Answer: “Nothing. He does not talk to strangers.”

Curitiba’s predisposition to coldness is the main reason why the snow of 1975
was such a big thing. When the city woke up on that Thursday morning and saw
front yards covered in white, something akin to magic happened. All the
frostiness in the city’s collective consciousness seemed to melt when faced with
actual, real life frost. People ran outside in awe, laughing, some still in their
pajamas, others dressed in as many layers as they could put on. Neighbors who
rarely spoke to each other met on the street with their families, pushed each other
in improvised sleds, helped collect enough snow from the gardens so that,
together, they could build a snowman, offered to take pictures. Many people
skipped work and were not reprimanded, since their bosses had skipped work too.
In a few hours there was nowhere left in the city that still had photographic film
for sale. For the space of one morning, the snowfall made Curitiba warm in a way
never before experienced.

Figure 2 The author’s mother, with friends & a “snowman”- morning of July
17th, 1975

By early afternoon, the snow had melted and things went back to normal – except
“normal” was an even duller, colder existence considering what people had just
experienced. I guess this is why my parents, who had never seen snow before in
their lives, chose to spend the afternoon at the movies; they must have needed
some make-believe to make the afternoon seem less banal. When, during the
film, the Orient Express gets stuck in a blizzard, I bet they both smiled: “Oh,
snow? I know what that’s like!”

Figure 3 Hercule Poirot (Albert Finney) in the adaptation of Agatha Christie’s

story – he does not look happy about all the snow

I spent my childhood hoping it would snow. I was not alone in my desire: there is
not a winter in my memory that was not filled with weather analysis. “Will this
be the year?” asked everyone, including the news. Yet, every July 17 marked
another anniversary of that magical day and another year without snow. Going to
school wearing boots, scarf, gloves, and a balaclava (which for some r eason we
called a “Joan of Arc”), I would pester my parents: “How can it not snow? It’s
below freezing!” while they patiently tried to explain meteorology as best as they
could to a six-year-old.
I became obsessed. As I grew older and started travelling with my parents, I
began to be afraid that it would snow while I was not in Curitiba to witness it –
the simple thought of it was unbearable!

Figure 4 The author’s father, accompanied by neighbors (he can no longer

identify), on the morning it snowed

In early 2013, I received the news that I had been accepted to a graduate program
in New York. Other than my month in Canada, it would be the longest I would
ever be away from home, two years at least. People teased me: “I bet there’ll be
enough snow to satisfy even you!” and I would just smile and nod. They didn’t
get it. I didn’t care about snow in New York, I cared about snow in Curitiba, and
everyone was missing the point.

It was soon time to say my goodbyes to family, friends, city, country. I would be
back, of course, but it would all be different – I would be different. I bought
plane tickets for August, hoping to arrive early in New York and settle down
before the Fall term started. I was glad to be leaving, needing the time, distance,
and perspective that being abroad would provide me, but it was a bittersweet
feeling. It was as if something was being left unresolved, something that was
missing and could never be returned.

Then, three weeks before I left, it snowed in Curitiba.

As I write this, it is my second winter in New York. Last year was one of the
coldest, snowiest winters the city had seen in decades. I had snow to last me a
lifetime, just as everyone predicted. Living in the US, I feel more Brazilian than
ever, which I guess is common for ex-pats. In fact, just the idea of being an ex-
pat is enough to mess up the mind of someone like me, who has constructed an
identity so closely related to the place where I was born and raised.

The 2013 snowfall was so brief that in the time it took me to make it down to the
street from my apartment, it was over. Most curitibanos never got to see it. When
people talk about the snow, they still mean 1975. But even though no collective
magical moment happened, I still have my memories of watching snowflakes fall
from my 14th story window while screaming on the telephone to my friend. I’m
no longer the school kid who would pray for snow every winter, but there is still
some of that kid in me…

I’ve never voiced this before now, but there is part of me that believes tha t the
snow of 2013 was truly a farewell gift to me – that I conjured it up, somehow.
Maybe St. Peter was giving me a break; maybe he thought it might be poetic to
make it snow just as I was getting ready to leave my hometown? Or maybe it
wasn’t really magic. But it was close enough for me.