Myself in Times Square on 20 November 1971... they say the neon lights are bright on Broadway...
Billboard's Top 5 on 23rd October 1971
1. Maggie May - Rod Stewart
2. Superstar - Carpenters
3. Gypsys, tramps and thieves - Cher
4. The night they drove Old Dixie down - Joan Baez
5. Do you know what I mean? - Lee Michaels
1. Maggie May - Rod Stewart
2. Superstar - Carpenters
3. Gypsys, tramps and thieves - Cher
4. The night they drove Old Dixie down - Joan Baez
5. Do you know what I mean? - Lee Michaels
That's me wearing a yellow pom-pom hat and holding a cigarette on my lips. The brown velvet jacket was brought along from Brazil, so I had to wear a red cardigan under it to brace it for the New York autumn. I used to smoke mentholated Salem! I became a fan of Black people's fashion and colour-coordination and tried to adopt their attittude somehow.
The Allied Chemical Tower in the background was built on the site where the New York Times erected their tower in 1904 to serve as its new headquarters. The paper's owner, Adolph Ochs, successfully persuaded the City to rename the surrounding area (then known as Longacre Square) after the newspaper, becoming Times Square.
In 1913, only 8 years after, the Times moved its corporate headquarters to West 43rd Street which served as its home until 2007. On 6 November 1928, an electronic news ticker known as 'zipper' was introduced near the base of the building. The zipper originally consisted of 14,800 light bulbs.
Look at me, Mum, on 42nd Street. As one can see 42nd Street was already degenerating into a shabby section where people with little money could go and watch double-featured sessions and spend the whole day there doing nothing. I used to love watching those Hammer-horror movies... 42nd Street was heaven for me!!! Remember Jim Brown? He was big then.
Jim Brown just being sexy and good looking.
1971-1972 winter in New York City... with the statue of Liberty far away...
Billboard's Top 5 on 20 November 1971
1. Theme from 'Shaft' - Isaac Hayes
2. Gypsys, tramps & thieves - Cher
3. Imagine - John Lennon
4. Baby I'm a-want you - Bread
5. Have you seen her? - Chi-Lites
Battery Park with its ugly buildings in the background... note a patch of snow on the ground...
Arthur is the author of the photos on this page. He worked at Peter Pan Records' office where I used to work as a machine-operator in the night-shift. Arthur lived next-door to us on Wilson Avenue. He was born of Portuguese parents who migrated to the USA.
Blacula was big... and sleazy.
Billboard's Top 5 on 25 December 1971.
1. Brand new key - Melanie
2. American pie - Don McLean
3. All I ever need is you - Sonny & Cher
4. Anticipation - Carly Simon
5. George Jackson - Bob Dylan
I arrived in New York City on a Saturday morning, 2nd October 1971, having flown overnight from Rio de Janeiro. The trip took 9 hours and as I slept through most of it, I arrived at JFK Airport quite refreshed to start a brand new day in the Northern Hemisphere.
After having gone through immigration and customs I had my first little surprise in the new land: when I tried to open a glass door in front of me it actually opened by itself before I could reach it. It was one of those automatic doors equipped with infrared beams. If someone or something blocks the beam the door is triggered open. Wow! So much for advanced technology! I could not help but laugh at my naiveté and went ahead to look for a bus to take me to Manhattan. I had been told at the plane that there was such a service. It didn't take long for me to find the bus-stop and for it to move on. My first ride on American soil. I would not take my eyes off the window trying to absorb as much of the landscape as possible.
It was early Saturday morning. I cannot recall how but after a while I realized the bus was already in Manhattan. The bus must have taken the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and when I became conscious I was in Manhattan already. Even though I did not recognize any of the land-mark buildings I knew from photos I'd seen in magazines it had to be Manhattan because the main road - probably 3rd Avenue - was wide and long. The first thing I noticed was spurts of white steam coming out of holes down the long avenue. Later, I was told the steam came from furnaces and boilers installed at the basement of buildings... for it is a mamoth job to keep a big city like New York warm during autumn and winter.
Soon after we entered Manhattan I noticed passengers would signal the bus driver and he would stop a certain places to let them off. For some silly reason I started fretting after the 3rd such stop and thought I'd better get off somewhere soon. I didn't have enough English to ask for directions from the driver so I decided to get off the next time someone asked him to stop. I got hold of my guitar and suitcase - just like Paul Simon's 'Homeward bound' - and stepped off onto the sidewalk. There was a public phone near the corner and I thought I'd ring that Cuban friend of Bernardo's who lived in Queens. I don't remember his name anymore. I told him I had just arrived from Brazil. He was nice and invited me to visit him whenever I was 'settled'. I thanked him, said goodbye and was back at square one.
While I was talking in Spanish with him a big yellow taxi (I had never heart Joni Mitchell's 'Big yellow taxi' yet) pulled up near the phone booth. A Black driver got out of his seat and leaned against his car. After I hung up the phone he started talking to me. That would be my first cultural shock. I couldn't understand a single word he said. The only word I picked out was 'Dallas' or 'dalla'. It could not be Dallas... we were not in Texas! After some time I suspected 'dalla' would mean 'dollar'... bingo! I was right on! The fellow probably was talking 'jive' to me and I felt he was very friendly. Little did I know I had been really lucky to find a polite New Yorker the very first time I had to interact with one... in that heartless town. Later on I would find out that most New Yorkers are aggro and uncivil most of the time.
I showed the driver my address-book with a Newark address written on it and he spoke something I did not understand. I showed him some money I had received as change from a 100-dollar note at JFK. He picked out a 20-dollar bill and said it would be more than enough. He told me to get into the cab and drove to the Port Authority Bus Terminal on 8th Avenue next to 41st Street. When he stopped the cab I inferred I had arrived somewhere I could get a bus to Newark, New Jersey. He had driven no more than 5 minutes. I gave him a 20-dollar bill and he gave me a lot of change.
This is the entrance of the mamoth New York-New Jersey Port Authority Bus Terminal on 8th Avenue between 40th & 41st Streets.
I got off the taxi and went straight through those doors you see in the photo above into the lobby. There was an information desk with some Black female officers wearing uniforms. I went to one of them and showed her the address-book. She looked at me and uttered something that could be either six, sixteen, sixty or sixty-one. I was not sure about numbers in English, they sounded so much alike. Even so I gathered I had to go upstairs two more stories to the platform.
When I got to the top of some narrow escalator I entered a huge dark garage floor with many bus bays. I spotted the bus that would leave for Newark in a few minutes and mounted on it. I felt good inside the dark stationary coach. Soon the driver got onto his seat and started the bus descending a circling ramp that would take us all the way into the Lincoln Tunnel built under the Hudson River bed that separates New York from New Jersey. Wow! So much excitement for one morning.
When I least expected I was flying high on the New Jersey Turnpike - a highway suspended by the tallest-possible pylons over swamp-land on a vast wasteland. I could have never thought when I first heard Simon & Garfunkel's 'America' singing about 'counting the cars of the New Jersey Turnpike, they all come to for America' I would be there in less than 3 years.
In the very first few hours in America, there was I... counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike, just like Paul Simon had profesized in 'Bookends'. I couldn't believe my dreams were all being fulfilled with every passing moment. I looked back and saw the Manhattan skyline getting smaller with the Empire State and all.
While we were still riding on the highway I wouldn't have to worry. When the bus left it I braced myself for trouble and kept an eager eye where it led. Now I know the bus had entered south Newark and was heading towards Pennsylvania Station through Raymond Boulevard and Market Street but then I wouldn't have a clue where I was.
After a while, just like I had done in the Airport shuttle-bus in Manhattan, I decided it was about time for me to get off and that's what I did when it stopped next. This time I was even luckier. I got off the bus at Ironbound Station Place. I saw a bench near a statue of some Catholic saint - that I later found out it was Madre Cabrini's - and thought I might as well sit down and have a smoke. I used to smoke Salem mentholated cigarettes then. So much had already happened since my plane had touched down at the break of dawn. It must have been close to 9:00 AM. After smoking I looked at my left and saw there was a sign bearing the name of the street that joined the square. I crossed the street to have a close inspection and to my real surprise it said: Ferry Street... the very street I was about to search for. It's funny that I just took it as naturally as possible.
I got hold of guitar & suitcase and started walking up the street. I would have to look for a certain dona Eugênia, who owned a newsagency at 112 Ferry Street. Used to the decimal system in Brazilian culture I thought 112 would be found on the next block. But that was not the case. Americans use a different system of street numbering. I had to walk up 4 blocks, crossing 1. Union Street, 2. Prospect St., 3. Congress St. and 4. Jefferson St. before I arrived at #112. Dona Eugênia's newsagency was located in the block between Jefferson and Madison streets. It's an easy way to remember past American Presidents' names.
Licia E.W. had told me Tia Eugênia was a nice woman and there she was just in front of me behind the counter on 112 Ferry Street. It was hard to tell her age. She was probably between 40 and 45. She had two adult children, a male and a female - both worked at the Newark Airport that employed many documented Brazilians who were a 'caste' among those who lived in the Ironbound. Tia was one of those Brazilian women that you trust as soon as you lay eyes on her. When I entered her shop carrying a guitar case and a suitcase she knew right away where I had come from and what my intentions were. I told her I had been sent by Licia and gave her a chocolate box. She just smiled and said I could leave my stuff behind the counter and 'stick around' for as it was a Saturday she expected a lot of Brazilian customers coming in and out of her store.
Tia (it means 'aunt' in Portuguese) had a hearty laughter that could turn into a guffaw depending on her mood. She talked to anyone and seemed to know each and every person who came in. She was portly but not fat. She reminded me of my father's Aunt Anna, my grandmother Albina's younger sister. Having a de-facto prominent role in the Brazilian community in the Ironbound, she knew secrets from every corner but her lips were sealed. She never bad-mouthed anyone but if you read between the lines you'd know who she was talking about.
There was a cardboard box at a corner on top of one of the counters which contained mail - and that's where most Brazilian men directed themselves to as soon as they entered the store. They went through the letters to check if they had mail. 112 Ferry Street was a notorious address within the Brazilian community in the Ironbound - most of them tourists who had over-stayed their visas or illegal immigrants who were afraid to give their real addresses to employers so Tia allowed everyone to use her shop's address in case 'La Migra' (the Immigration police) showed up inadvertently. I would soon be added to that select list too.
After having gone through immigration and customs I had my first little surprise in the new land: when I tried to open a glass door in front of me it actually opened by itself before I could reach it. It was one of those automatic doors equipped with infrared beams. If someone or something blocks the beam the door is triggered open. Wow! So much for advanced technology! I could not help but laugh at my naiveté and went ahead to look for a bus to take me to Manhattan. I had been told at the plane that there was such a service. It didn't take long for me to find the bus-stop and for it to move on. My first ride on American soil. I would not take my eyes off the window trying to absorb as much of the landscape as possible.
It was early Saturday morning. I cannot recall how but after a while I realized the bus was already in Manhattan. The bus must have taken the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and when I became conscious I was in Manhattan already. Even though I did not recognize any of the land-mark buildings I knew from photos I'd seen in magazines it had to be Manhattan because the main road - probably 3rd Avenue - was wide and long. The first thing I noticed was spurts of white steam coming out of holes down the long avenue. Later, I was told the steam came from furnaces and boilers installed at the basement of buildings... for it is a mamoth job to keep a big city like New York warm during autumn and winter.
Soon after we entered Manhattan I noticed passengers would signal the bus driver and he would stop a certain places to let them off. For some silly reason I started fretting after the 3rd such stop and thought I'd better get off somewhere soon. I didn't have enough English to ask for directions from the driver so I decided to get off the next time someone asked him to stop. I got hold of my guitar and suitcase - just like Paul Simon's 'Homeward bound' - and stepped off onto the sidewalk. There was a public phone near the corner and I thought I'd ring that Cuban friend of Bernardo's who lived in Queens. I don't remember his name anymore. I told him I had just arrived from Brazil. He was nice and invited me to visit him whenever I was 'settled'. I thanked him, said goodbye and was back at square one.
While I was talking in Spanish with him a big yellow taxi (I had never heart Joni Mitchell's 'Big yellow taxi' yet) pulled up near the phone booth. A Black driver got out of his seat and leaned against his car. After I hung up the phone he started talking to me. That would be my first cultural shock. I couldn't understand a single word he said. The only word I picked out was 'Dallas' or 'dalla'. It could not be Dallas... we were not in Texas! After some time I suspected 'dalla' would mean 'dollar'... bingo! I was right on! The fellow probably was talking 'jive' to me and I felt he was very friendly. Little did I know I had been really lucky to find a polite New Yorker the very first time I had to interact with one... in that heartless town. Later on I would find out that most New Yorkers are aggro and uncivil most of the time.
I showed the driver my address-book with a Newark address written on it and he spoke something I did not understand. I showed him some money I had received as change from a 100-dollar note at JFK. He picked out a 20-dollar bill and said it would be more than enough. He told me to get into the cab and drove to the Port Authority Bus Terminal on 8th Avenue next to 41st Street. When he stopped the cab I inferred I had arrived somewhere I could get a bus to Newark, New Jersey. He had driven no more than 5 minutes. I gave him a 20-dollar bill and he gave me a lot of change.
I got off the taxi and went straight through those doors you see in the photo above into the lobby. There was an information desk with some Black female officers wearing uniforms. I went to one of them and showed her the address-book. She looked at me and uttered something that could be either six, sixteen, sixty or sixty-one. I was not sure about numbers in English, they sounded so much alike. Even so I gathered I had to go upstairs two more stories to the platform.
When I got to the top of some narrow escalator I entered a huge dark garage floor with many bus bays. I spotted the bus that would leave for Newark in a few minutes and mounted on it. I felt good inside the dark stationary coach. Soon the driver got onto his seat and started the bus descending a circling ramp that would take us all the way into the Lincoln Tunnel built under the Hudson River bed that separates New York from New Jersey. Wow! So much excitement for one morning.
When I least expected I was flying high on the New Jersey Turnpike - a highway suspended by the tallest-possible pylons over swamp-land on a vast wasteland. I could have never thought when I first heard Simon & Garfunkel's 'America' singing about 'counting the cars of the New Jersey Turnpike, they all come to for America' I would be there in less than 3 years.
In the very first few hours in America, there was I... counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike, just like Paul Simon had profesized in 'Bookends'. I couldn't believe my dreams were all being fulfilled with every passing moment. I looked back and saw the Manhattan skyline getting smaller with the Empire State and all.
'Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnkipe we all come to look for America...' Paul Simon's 'America' from the 1968 album 'Bookends'. Newark Bay Bridge at North Bayone Park. Newark skyline in the background.
While we were still riding on the highway I wouldn't have to worry. When the bus left it I braced myself for trouble and kept an eager eye where it led. Now I know the bus had entered south Newark and was heading towards Pennsylvania Station through Raymond Boulevard and Market Street but then I wouldn't have a clue where I was.
After a while, just like I had done in the Airport shuttle-bus in Manhattan, I decided it was about time for me to get off and that's what I did when it stopped next. This time I was even luckier. I got off the bus at Ironbound Station Place. I saw a bench near a statue of some Catholic saint - that I later found out it was Madre Cabrini's - and thought I might as well sit down and have a smoke. I used to smoke Salem mentholated cigarettes then. So much had already happened since my plane had touched down at the break of dawn. It must have been close to 9:00 AM. After smoking I looked at my left and saw there was a sign bearing the name of the street that joined the square. I crossed the street to have a close inspection and to my real surprise it said: Ferry Street... the very street I was about to search for. It's funny that I just took it as naturally as possible.
I got hold of guitar & suitcase and started walking up the street. I would have to look for a certain dona Eugênia, who owned a newsagency at 112 Ferry Street. Used to the decimal system in Brazilian culture I thought 112 would be found on the next block. But that was not the case. Americans use a different system of street numbering. I had to walk up 4 blocks, crossing 1. Union Street, 2. Prospect St., 3. Congress St. and 4. Jefferson St. before I arrived at #112. Dona Eugênia's newsagency was located in the block between Jefferson and Madison streets. It's an easy way to remember past American Presidents' names.
Licia E.W. had told me Tia Eugênia was a nice woman and there she was just in front of me behind the counter on 112 Ferry Street. It was hard to tell her age. She was probably between 40 and 45. She had two adult children, a male and a female - both worked at the Newark Airport that employed many documented Brazilians who were a 'caste' among those who lived in the Ironbound. Tia was one of those Brazilian women that you trust as soon as you lay eyes on her. When I entered her shop carrying a guitar case and a suitcase she knew right away where I had come from and what my intentions were. I told her I had been sent by Licia and gave her a chocolate box. She just smiled and said I could leave my stuff behind the counter and 'stick around' for as it was a Saturday she expected a lot of Brazilian customers coming in and out of her store.
Tia (it means 'aunt' in Portuguese) had a hearty laughter that could turn into a guffaw depending on her mood. She talked to anyone and seemed to know each and every person who came in. She was portly but not fat. She reminded me of my father's Aunt Anna, my grandmother Albina's younger sister. Having a de-facto prominent role in the Brazilian community in the Ironbound, she knew secrets from every corner but her lips were sealed. She never bad-mouthed anyone but if you read between the lines you'd know who she was talking about.
There was a cardboard box at a corner on top of one of the counters which contained mail - and that's where most Brazilian men directed themselves to as soon as they entered the store. They went through the letters to check if they had mail. 112 Ferry Street was a notorious address within the Brazilian community in the Ironbound - most of them tourists who had over-stayed their visas or illegal immigrants who were afraid to give their real addresses to employers so Tia allowed everyone to use her shop's address in case 'La Migra' (the Immigration police) showed up inadvertently. I would soon be added to that select list too.
Reminiscing about that particular 2nd October 1971, I realize Tia was the first person I really inter-acted in the USA. Since I arrived at her store at 9:00 am until I left it a quarter of an hour before 5:00 pm I had spent almost 8 hours in and out of her business. Tia tried to get various Brazilian fellows interested in my plight but most of them just checked the mail-box, bought a Brazilian newspaper or magazine and went away somewhere else. Having spent so much time with Tia, I grew to appreciate her as if she was a relative or a friend of mine. It's a pity I never had the chance to show her how much I liked her.
Soon I noticed that the first thing Brazilians asked when they met me was: 'Where are you from in Brazil?' Most Brazilians who lived in the Newark area were Mineiros, young males from Minas Gerais, a land-locked state west of Rio de Janeiro and north of Sao Paulo. When I answered I was from S.Paulo, most Mineiros would lose interest in the conversation and turned to something else. Young and not-so-young males came from near-by places like Paterson, Passaic, Elizabeth and Kearny, across the Passaic River just 4 blocks away.
After having been addressed by a few guys who came in and went out, Tia must have noticed I wasn't going anywhere so the next time she saw a fellow my age she asked him to help me fill out an application to get myself a Social Security number. Tia had a form somewhere and she fetched it and gave to me. I sat down and filled in the blanks. Thank God I had enough notion of the English language to be able to fill it in by myself without having to ask for help from older Brazilian migrants. I bought a local stamp and went up to the Post Office on Merchant Street to mail it out before it closed at 12 noon.
Here was I in the United States of America in 1971, being benefited by the Social Security Act introduced by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt 36 years before. Modern U.S.A. was a product of those hectic years.
A Paulista fellow who called himself Frank (Francisco most likely) and looked a bit like Goths-Punk do today - after knowing I was from S.Paulo said he could help me find work. He knew a small plastic factory where they always needed hands. He took me to the sweatshop which was not too far from Ferry Street (I presume it was on Lafayette Street) and introduced me to the boss; I promised him I would be back there at 10:00 pm to start working night shift on that very day... my first day in the USA.
Around noon I was invited by a Portuguese man I had met earlier hanging around Tia's news agency to have lunch with him at a Portuguese restaurand called 'Sol e Mar', two blocks away. Although I wasn't actually hungry I went along for the ride. I could see that Rodrigo was a lonely man for wouldn't fit in either with the Portuguese living in Newark or the Brazilian fellows that were much younger and devil-may-care.
Soon I noticed that the first thing Brazilians asked when they met me was: 'Where are you from in Brazil?' Most Brazilians who lived in the Newark area were Mineiros, young males from Minas Gerais, a land-locked state west of Rio de Janeiro and north of Sao Paulo. When I answered I was from S.Paulo, most Mineiros would lose interest in the conversation and turned to something else. Young and not-so-young males came from near-by places like Paterson, Passaic, Elizabeth and Kearny, across the Passaic River just 4 blocks away.
After having been addressed by a few guys who came in and went out, Tia must have noticed I wasn't going anywhere so the next time she saw a fellow my age she asked him to help me fill out an application to get myself a Social Security number. Tia had a form somewhere and she fetched it and gave to me. I sat down and filled in the blanks. Thank God I had enough notion of the English language to be able to fill it in by myself without having to ask for help from older Brazilian migrants. I bought a local stamp and went up to the Post Office on Merchant Street to mail it out before it closed at 12 noon.
Here was I in the United States of America in 1971, being benefited by the Social Security Act introduced by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt 36 years before. Modern U.S.A. was a product of those hectic years.
A Paulista fellow who called himself Frank (Francisco most likely) and looked a bit like Goths-Punk do today - after knowing I was from S.Paulo said he could help me find work. He knew a small plastic factory where they always needed hands. He took me to the sweatshop which was not too far from Ferry Street (I presume it was on Lafayette Street) and introduced me to the boss; I promised him I would be back there at 10:00 pm to start working night shift on that very day... my first day in the USA.
Around noon I was invited by a Portuguese man I had met earlier hanging around Tia's news agency to have lunch with him at a Portuguese restaurand called 'Sol e Mar', two blocks away. Although I wasn't actually hungry I went along for the ride. I could see that Rodrigo was a lonely man for wouldn't fit in either with the Portuguese living in Newark or the Brazilian fellows that were much younger and devil-may-care.
Rodrigo was older than the average migrants I had met so far - maybe in his mid-to-late 30s - who had arrived from São Paulo just a few days before myself; probably the Thursday (30 September 1971) flight from Rio. Supposing Rodrigo was born in 1935, he first migrated to Brazil when he was 20 yeas old, in 1955, worked hard and managed to buy himself a bar-restaurant on Rua Brigadeiro Tobias. He acquired the bar with a partner I suppose must have been a Portuguese man too. Apparently it was a successful enterprise but after a few years he fell in with his partner and decided to leave it all behind and start a-new elsewhere. Rodrigo's bar was located on the same street where Licia E.W. had her travel agency, so I guess he too must have arrived in the USA through her services.
Rodrigo ordered cod fish as a main dish. Suddenly he seemed content and even proud of his feat, was in his element. He knew and appreciated Portuguese cuisine and ordered a bottle of wine from which I partook just a sip. Even though Rodrigo sounded upbeat I knew he was apprehensive about his situation. I think he had regrets of having left his Portuguese wife and all behind in São Paulo to be stuck in this place where he did not understand the language. He was somewhat lost. He had got used to Brazil's slow pace of life and now he was scared of this hard environment where his own countrymen were indiferent of his plight.
Portuguese men living in the USA then were mostly illiterate, self-centered and brutalized by decades of fascism. They shunned the society of Brazilians and considered South Americans 'second-class citizens'. This is a self-defeating expression on account that most Brazilian men were not even 'citizens' to start with. There was an understanding that most Brazilian guys were illegal immigrants (undocumented migrants) which was true and most Portuguese people were documented due to bi-lateral agreements the USA government had had with the Portuguese fascist government of Oliveira Salazar (1932-1968, almost 40 years of dark authoritarianism) since the end of WWII. That was also true.
Rodrigo ordered cod fish as a main dish. Suddenly he seemed content and even proud of his feat, was in his element. He knew and appreciated Portuguese cuisine and ordered a bottle of wine from which I partook just a sip. Even though Rodrigo sounded upbeat I knew he was apprehensive about his situation. I think he had regrets of having left his Portuguese wife and all behind in São Paulo to be stuck in this place where he did not understand the language. He was somewhat lost. He had got used to Brazil's slow pace of life and now he was scared of this hard environment where his own countrymen were indiferent of his plight.
Portuguese men living in the USA then were mostly illiterate, self-centered and brutalized by decades of fascism. They shunned the society of Brazilians and considered South Americans 'second-class citizens'. This is a self-defeating expression on account that most Brazilian men were not even 'citizens' to start with. There was an understanding that most Brazilian guys were illegal immigrants (undocumented migrants) which was true and most Portuguese people were documented due to bi-lateral agreements the USA government had had with the Portuguese fascist government of Oliveira Salazar (1932-1968, almost 40 years of dark authoritarianism) since the end of WWII. That was also true.
Rodrigo who I suppose must have followed the same instructions as given to me by dona Lícia had found accomodation the first day he arrived. He lived in a room on the 2nd floor of a 3-story-house on Wilson Avenue corner with Barbara Street which boasted a go-go bar owned by a Brazilian man called Alberto. He was a tall, slim, bald man in his early 40s who worked some place at Newark International Airport. Rodrigo was worried he could not find work because he wasn't as young as the rest of us and could not rely on either Brazilians or Portuguese men to help him with English when applying for a job.
Newark's Ironbound was practically a Portuguese enclave in a mostly-Black town. Before we parted at the Portuguese restaurant, Rodrigo promised he would ask his landlord about providing a bed for myself.
I went back to Tia's shop to see if I could meet with someone to help me find accomodation. Tia said she would shut the store at 5:00 pm so I still had a few hours left. But I was getting uneasy. In the first part of that Saturday morning I had had a lot of fun lingering at Tia's shop but now I was getting weary of the wait and uncertainty.
The morning period had been fraught with excitement. There was always someone new saying something interesting or taking me along to visit a grocery-mini-market where one could open the fridge and reach for a great variety of Tropicana juices. Tomato juice of many brands. I loved tomato juice with lemon since the first time I tasted it on the Varig DC-10 the night before. I also fell in love with the taste of apple juice which I had never tasted before this trip. Exquisite! I could no stop drinking can after can. In the Puertorican grocery store there were also guava and peach nectars and other fruit from Latin America. Ferry Street was definitely fun!
There was a record-store across the street 3 houses down towards Wilson Avenue where they played Puerto Rican hits. They had a Sarita Montiel album cover on their window. I was suddenly marvelled but as everything happened so intensily I couldn't think deeply on the things I was experimenting. I think it was exactly at this record shop I saw a poster announcing Italian pop sensation Rita Pavone would be singing that very night at the Mosque Theater on 1020 Broad Street.
Three blocks up Ferry Street, on the same sidewalk, there was a coffee shop owned by a Brazilian man. I was taken there to have a coffee or a guaraná which was bottled somewhere in Canada and exported to the USA. It had a juke-box where I heard Joan Baez's 'The night they drove Old Dixie down' for the 1st time. I also heard John Lennon's 'Imagine' and 'Happy Xmas' ('War is over') there for the 1st time a few days later.
Half an hour before Tia's closing time when I was about to start to be really worried, Rodrigo finally returned with good news. He had spoken to his landlord who said I could share his room. I would pay 16 dollars a week. Earlier, Tia had hinted that place was not the best for a 'good-boy' like me. She even mentioned the landlord's nick name as 'Alberto-Deus-me-livre' (Albert-God-forbid) and gave her familiar guffaw (laughter).
Rodrigo got hold of my guitar case, I took my suitcase and up we went Ferry Street crossing seven streets, namely: 1. Madison St., 2. Monroe St., 3. Adams St., 4. Jackson St., 5. Van Buren St., 6. Polk St., 7. Merchant St., where there was a Post Office and Ferry Street turns left while starting up at Saint Stephen's it forks out into Wilson Avenue.
On Wilson Avenue we walked another 9 blocks, namely: 1. Patterson, 2. Hensler, 3. Lafayette, 4. Ann, 5. Darcy, 6. Marne, 7. Garrison, 8. Komorn and finally 9. Barbara Street. This would be my neighbourhood for the next year or so.
As we entered the building from Barbara Street the first thing I noticed as we climbed up the narrow stairs to the 1st floor was a peculiar smell that emanates from those old frame-houses built from synthetic material like fiber-glass to insulate them from the bitter winter cold. As they get older they give off a peculiar smell laced with the heating-oil fumes let out from boilers in their basements (aka cellars). This peculiar smell would become familiar to me from then on. I was happy when I finally entered Rodrigo's room and I had the chance to sit down on the bed that would be mine for the next few weeks. Home sweet home very far away from home.
My single bed was on a corner next to a window which looked out on Wilson Avenue from which I could see the reflections of the go-go bar neon lights. Even though I was really tired I knew I could not really relax since I was supposed to start working at 10:00 pm at that small factory Frank had taken me to in the afternoon. I wasn't hungry for I had cod fish for lunch and a lot of apple and tomato juice during the day.
At about 9:00 pm I took courage and went out in search of the sweatshop but no matter what street I turned I could not remember where it was located. I was dismayed when I was back at Rodrigo's room and told him I just couldn't remember the place no matter what. At the same time I was glad I could finally lie me down to rest at the end of the longest day of my entire life. That was 2nd October 1971.
Being a Saturday night the go-go bar was packed up to the rafters with patrons and the juke-box blared till late hours. There was someone who kept on playing 'Ain't no mountain high enough' repeatedly. Diana Ross had taken 'Ain't no mountain' to #1 at Billboard on 19 September 1970, for 3 weeks. The song was more than 1 year old but still a favourite with this particular person who was a regular at the bar. I can't help but remember those early days in Newark's Ironbound whenever I hear it.
Three blocks up Ferry Street, on the same sidewalk, there was a coffee shop owned by a Brazilian man. I was taken there to have a coffee or a guaraná which was bottled somewhere in Canada and exported to the USA. It had a juke-box where I heard Joan Baez's 'The night they drove Old Dixie down' for the 1st time. I also heard John Lennon's 'Imagine' and 'Happy Xmas' ('War is over') there for the 1st time a few days later.
Half an hour before Tia's closing time when I was about to start to be really worried, Rodrigo finally returned with good news. He had spoken to his landlord who said I could share his room. I would pay 16 dollars a week. Earlier, Tia had hinted that place was not the best for a 'good-boy' like me. She even mentioned the landlord's nick name as 'Alberto-Deus-me-livre' (Albert-God-forbid) and gave her familiar guffaw (laughter).
Rodrigo got hold of my guitar case, I took my suitcase and up we went Ferry Street crossing seven streets, namely: 1. Madison St., 2. Monroe St., 3. Adams St., 4. Jackson St., 5. Van Buren St., 6. Polk St., 7. Merchant St., where there was a Post Office and Ferry Street turns left while starting up at Saint Stephen's it forks out into Wilson Avenue.
On Wilson Avenue we walked another 9 blocks, namely: 1. Patterson, 2. Hensler, 3. Lafayette, 4. Ann, 5. Darcy, 6. Marne, 7. Garrison, 8. Komorn and finally 9. Barbara Street. This would be my neighbourhood for the next year or so.
As we entered the building from Barbara Street the first thing I noticed as we climbed up the narrow stairs to the 1st floor was a peculiar smell that emanates from those old frame-houses built from synthetic material like fiber-glass to insulate them from the bitter winter cold. As they get older they give off a peculiar smell laced with the heating-oil fumes let out from boilers in their basements (aka cellars). This peculiar smell would become familiar to me from then on. I was happy when I finally entered Rodrigo's room and I had the chance to sit down on the bed that would be mine for the next few weeks. Home sweet home very far away from home.
My single bed was on a corner next to a window which looked out on Wilson Avenue from which I could see the reflections of the go-go bar neon lights. Even though I was really tired I knew I could not really relax since I was supposed to start working at 10:00 pm at that small factory Frank had taken me to in the afternoon. I wasn't hungry for I had cod fish for lunch and a lot of apple and tomato juice during the day.
At about 9:00 pm I took courage and went out in search of the sweatshop but no matter what street I turned I could not remember where it was located. I was dismayed when I was back at Rodrigo's room and told him I just couldn't remember the place no matter what. At the same time I was glad I could finally lie me down to rest at the end of the longest day of my entire life. That was 2nd October 1971.
Being a Saturday night the go-go bar was packed up to the rafters with patrons and the juke-box blared till late hours. There was someone who kept on playing 'Ain't no mountain high enough' repeatedly. Diana Ross had taken 'Ain't no mountain' to #1 at Billboard on 19 September 1970, for 3 weeks. The song was more than 1 year old but still a favourite with this particular person who was a regular at the bar. I can't help but remember those early days in Newark's Ironbound whenever I hear it.
The most popular record in that joint though was undoubtedly Rod Stewart's 'Maggie May'; the story of a teenager fellow who falls in love with an older woman...the highlight of the disc - apart from Rod's throaty voice - was a mandolin section at the end of the song... it played all day and all night. 'Sweet city woman' was also well played downstairs; a country-flavoured hit by Canadian band The Stampeders in which a banjo was prominent.
I awoke early on the Sunday, 3rd October 1971, the first time I had slept on American soil. I could hardly wait to go out. I had planned to go back to Manhattan! I bid Rodrigo 'so long' and walked down the 7 blocks to Wilson Avenue and the 12 blocks to Newark Pennsylvania Station where I knew I could take the bus to 41st Street. I didn't know then I could take the PATH tube train that was much cheaper than the bus and probably quicker too.
I awoke early on the Sunday, 3rd October 1971, the first time I had slept on American soil. I could hardly wait to go out. I had planned to go back to Manhattan! I bid Rodrigo 'so long' and walked down the 7 blocks to Wilson Avenue and the 12 blocks to Newark Pennsylvania Station where I knew I could take the bus to 41st Street. I didn't know then I could take the PATH tube train that was much cheaper than the bus and probably quicker too.
As the Manhattan-bound bus stopped at the kerb on Market Street under Penn Station I noticed an ad on its side announcing Yvonne De Carlo in Stephen Sondheim's 'Follies'. Miss De Carlo had been a favourite of mine since I was a boy of 9 living in Marilia-SP. The Broadway production had opened on 4 April 1971 at the Winter Garden at 1634 Broadway between 50th & 51st Streets. I looked at the poster and felt a happy feeling to know that Yvonne De Carlo was living next to me - in the same town. But I never actually thought about the chance of buying a ticket and watch the show. My one and only concern then was to find a job as soon as I could.
I can account for the first 2 days since I arrived in the USA. Saturday, 2nd October 1971, had been the most sensational day of my whole life. When I awoke early on Sunday, 3rd October 1971, I was eager to go out and take my first bus trip to Manhattan and that's what I did. I told Rodrigo I would stay out the whole day and directed my feet towards Ferry Street to wait for the Manhattan bus under Pennsylvannia Station.
I soon got used to Rodrigo's being my room mate. He was quiet and didn't do much. I remember him sitting on his bed either reading a letter he received from his wife in São Paulo - apparently they didn't have children - or quietly writing to her. I used to do a lot of letter writing too. He never went into details about his life. I only knew he had this business feud with his partner about the bar on Rua Brigadeiro Tobias, had felt betrayed by him - but never told me exactly what had happened. He decided to opt out of the partnership. He was sort of bitter about it but was more worried about his present situation than what had happened in the past.
Before the weather turned too cold, probably a couple of weeks after I moved in with him I invited Rodrigo to go to Manhattan with me for he'd never had set his feet there. I took my cheap camera along so Rodrigo took a few photos of myself on 42nd Street, posing in front of the old New York Times building on Times Square etc. I must have taken a few photos of Rodrigo so he could send it to his wife in São Paulo but I haven't kept any copy for myself.
As the days turned into weeks Rodrigo became gloomier for he still couldn't find a job. I had already worked at a cabinet maker's saw mill - which lasted a week and a half - being laid off due to my inability to saw timber properly. The Italian owner of the place said he was sorry to let me go but he'd be bankrupt if I continued to saw planks in that dreadful way. So I was back to square one.
Less than a week later though, one of the three Mineiro fellows who lived next door to us told me I could apply for a job as a machine operator at Synthetic Plastics Company, a record making factory he worked - at Francis Street, only 5 blocks away from where we lived. I don't remember his name no matter how hard I try. He was a good-natured fellow and did shift work making plastic ash-trays from a-quater-to-midnight (11:45 pm) until a quarter-to-eight (7:45 am) the following day. The very next morning I went down to the factory's office and filled in an application and started working there the next Monday night 28 October 1971, at a quarter to mid-night.
Rodrigo seeing I had already held 2 different jobs having arrived in the USA after him, was even more heavy-hearted though he never showed it.
Looking back at the time I went to live in the USA on 2nd October 1971, I could say with certainty that the first 3 months (October, November & December 1971) were the best of times. I could say I was mostly lucky in the first few weeks and months.
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