So, I’ve settled into a new one-bedroom apartment in Downtown São Paulo. The place has character: huge rooms, high ceilings, French doors leading out to a small terrace where I can sit and write (theoretically), with my feet being massaged on top of the clothes dryer. My street is one of those formerly-grand boulevards gone to seed, complete with prosties and crackheads (think ’70s Times Square). In fact, twice, I was propositioned on the sidewalk in front of my building by unscrupulous and sordid characters. It’s all novel-worthy, if anything.