Back to classes, teaching Hemingway in a smalltown, up in the mountains, north of state. This place reminds me of nicaragua or costa rica and i don't know why because i've never been in such places. Maybe it's because of the green bright tropical landscape up here, totally different from the scenery down in arid, hot sobral surroundings. 
Hills like white elephants, the story we read yesterday night, has this coincidental setting. Just that, as i have pointed out, the hills around here are green. And when we are coming up, in a shabby wagon adapted with wood seats in the back to transport as much people as it is possible, there is a fantastic smell of bush, or wood, i don't know exactly what it is, nor people who i have asked know which smell it is. I think it is cedar, it feels like cedar perfume my brother used to wear.
Teaching English Literature to people who barely know the language is a pain, but money talks. As always i get moved with students. Their trying to overcome obstacles, canyons, to be there and get something with their courses. They are simple, sincere and nice. I'll post some photos of the school later. It's an old building. By the road there's a house dating from 1927, it is marked on its front.
It's funny the difference of behavior if one compares average people here and from my own city. Fortaleza is large and so but most of people there are from places like this, in the countryside, like my parents. Here, the nice, affectionate approach is part of the social code. Whereas in Fortaleza, it is not like this anymore.
There is an eating arena, made of three tiny restaurants. Solange, the owner of the one I always go, welcomes me warmfully and calls me professor. She served me meat covered with mashed potatoes, that was delicious. Low job people that go there always nod to outsiders like myself. Civil servants or any other chump with a good position fakes noticing others around, just like in my town.
I read some stories from Gilberto Noll's A Maquina de Ser, after lunch. Yeah, I'm liking it. I like the oddness this author seems to like. Stories are really short, like a fragment or a sophisticated summary for real short-stories... them feel a little awkward, and good.
While still there I noticed a pretty gay kid wearing lilac pants and golden yellow shirt. He seemed too young even for the thought of flirting. He's already fag voiced, and likes to be the spot. It's the second gay emo kid I find here... wait, he could be my Cadmo... No, i'll never satisfy with just contemplating as the man in Mann's novel. The lilac pants boy closed down the shop he was and went away with some girls. He was carrying some Clarice Lispector book. 
Today I will use this video for discussion: