Having turned 60, besotted with nostalgia and surprising wrinkles, apropos of nothing whatsoever, I’ve decided to compose my college admissions essay. 

Under the haze of reminiscence, my university days were my peak. I gorged on knowledge. These days I’m stupider; I lack the fortitude for Proust, Thomas Wolfe, etc.

Sentimentality and lazy reading habits aren’t the only manacles of aging. We Seniors have trouble acknowledging our bodily decay. I decided to counteract the oblivious slide into aromatic decrepitude by retiring in Brazil, where everyone smells as if he just got out of the shower because he probably did. To ensure my zesty assimilation, a patient salesgirl introduced me to aftershave, eau de toilette, body splash, and from Avon, colônia desodorante, whatever that is. 

Am I a discombobulated Senior reliving my youth in an admissions essay? You bet. However, in my defense I missed the opportunity forty years ago to surf this essayistic wave. The college I applied to was an alternative school – no SATs or personal essay was required. 

Despite (or because of) the drug-addled ’70s, my exoskeleton hadn’t developed sufficient body armor, and I was ill-equipped for rejection. I put all my chips on the roulette wheel of a school with open admissions. Amazingly, I got in.

Allowing for the ensuing decades of memory loss, I’m sure I didn’t write an admissions essay because if I had, I’d have a copy. I keep everything. Psychologists used to call us anal retentive until internet porn put that phrase to bed. Nowadays, we obsessive retainers have computers with a zillion megabytes of memory, and nobody notices how much we’re amassing. People accumulate digital possessions so easily and surreptitiously it’s not noticed. Is someone saving all of Taylor Swift’s Instagram photos? I’m sure they are considering she has 240 million followers. 

Although writing a college admissions essay at my age is a catalyst for awakening deceased past lives as foolproof as a séance, I’ve chosen a present-day topic. As my high school English teacher advised – write what you know. 

My essay theme: “What Brazil Means to Me.” I’ve written my kicker opening and closing lines.

Opening: “I came to Brazil to find god.”

Closing: “What Brazil means to me is I never have to be alone again.” 

Pretty good, huh? Now I just need to fill-in the rest. I’m imagining the opening and closing lines will give me enough leeway for everything but the kitchen sink. I’m unclear why “everything but the kitchen sink” covers the gamut, but it’s an expression my mother enjoyed when I was a boy so I love it.

Before I lose points from the admissions committee for grammatical errors, or worse, you jump to conclusions about my lack of respect for The deity, let me clarify why I’ve neglected to capitalize the Lord in my opening. While my lack of capitalization could be seen as the absence of belief in a higher power, it’s actually a lack of faith in myself. I can’t find my slippers in the morning, how am I going to find God? It may not be in my skill set. Thus to make my mission less daunting, I’ve lowered its capitalization status.

If we acknowledge globalization, then why not global religions? What is the justification for capitalizing one God but not many gods? Doesn’t that demean the polytheistic Hindus, not to mention the ancient Greeks, inventors of geometry and togas?

Be that as it may, whatever that segue entails, it’s germane to note that my journey to Brazil from Brooklyn commenced when I’d convinced myself finding God would guarantee eternal happiness. I’d be sashaying down the red carpet onto the private jet to nirvana. 

Perhaps I was delusional, but after all, God works in mysterious ways. How many accounts have you heard of deathbed conversions? If I were dying, I’d fill my room with candles and shrines to every God. I’d be watching YouTube videos of the Dalai Lama meditating, and the Hare Krishnas would be camped out in my kitchen preparing vegan dishes to save my soul. 

Disclosure: In the early 1970s, I stayed in a Hare Krishna temple for a week in Mexico City. I was on the road and desperate for a hot shower. I prayed with them at 5 am and spent the rest of the day washing the largest cooking pots I’d ever seen. Perhaps it was my hunger, but the free food was fantastic.

My retirement plan was simple – if one is in search of a monotheistic God, what better place than Brazil with an 80 percent Christian household? Brazil is so Christian that when you order a T-bone steak, the slang is file igreja (church beef). Brazil is so Christian if you do a fast cleaning of your house, you say, “I cleaned only where the priest walks.”

There are about 120,000 Jews in Brazil. I think there were that many living on my block in Brooklyn. What I admire about Jews is we aren’t allowed to lapse. We might forget to practice our religion, like having a cold with a side order of amnesia, but no one ever declares, “I’m a lapsed Jew,” like a lapsed Catholic can say. If your mother is Jewish, you’re in; it’s a closed loop. 

For many, religious inclinations slip away like water disappearing in a bathtub. We don’t notice the escaping warmth until we’re shivering. I expected it would be easier to find God in a place where everyone had already found Him. When I moved into an apartment building in a large city in Brazil and met my hallway neighbors, they were a lovely Jewish couple in their 90s. Of the 2500 Jews living in our city, two of them were my nearest neighbors. Now I had faith I’d find faith.

I hunkered down in my spiritual quest like a child with a blanket over his head, frightened but desperate to peek out. I was at a metaphysical tipping point. I feared my godlessness among believers might have me thrown to the lions. 

As faith would have it, I met a Brazilian woman who offered to take me to her church. Not only was Maria a bona fide Catholic, but she spoke English. Soon I was following her around like a motherless duckling. It beat embracing my fear, which I was afraid to do. 

I accompanied Maria to church one Wednesday, the day of novenas, which repeat every-hour-on-the-hour from 6 am to 10 pm. In a Catholic nutshell, a novena is a shorter version of a Mass. On Sundays, there are only eight Masses. 

Maria’s church practiced Liberation Theology, a Latin American strain of Catholicism that places a greater emphasis on charity than on Vatican dictates. My first rendezvous with the theology revealed a church interior with no images of Christ, on or off the cross. There was a lovely depiction of the Virgin Mary with child. Also, the priests weren’t wearing black/white collars. I discovered the confessional had disappeared, which seemed to me the most attractive part of Catholicism, the get-out-of-jail-free card. 

Next it was, “We don’t believe Mary was a virgin when she gave birth to Jesus. It’s a metaphor,” Maria told me. Church rituals were a mere backdrop, the shadows on the cave wall where man first stamped his spiritual hand. 

Despite my outsider status, inside I felt warm. I don’t know if Elias Canetti was thinking of a Mass when he wrote Crowds and Power, but a church crowd is compelling. Like a Broadway theater, the front rows are the most coveted. Everyone wants to be closer to the action, i.e. God. Enmeshed in a crowd who believes in the same thing at the same time in the same place is like being in an arena. Isn’t everyone at a Dylan concert devoted to him? 

I realized regular churchgoers aren’t that different – they’re just more up-front. The moment the doctor cuts our umbilical cord, we’re on our own, lost in a labyrinth of dark caves. Religion provides a spelunker’s lamp. Is it weakness when a man with a broken leg uses crutches?

While I haven’t yet taken the heralded leap of faith, it’s not a falsehood to say I’ve made a connection. I uncovered what everyone already knew – if you’re looking for God, church is a good place to start. People go there to talk to Him. 

The reality of living in a foreign country with a foreign language, a foreign religion, and a foreign woman is not as easy as it sounds. Maria has been my salvation, an exhalation of calm. Being with her is medicine. 

Our silent bond reminds me of sitting in an empty 14th century cathedral in old Europe listening to the timeless peace. 

Unlike other Jews from Brooklyn, I’m no longer worried that I haven’t got it all figured out. Yet.

What Brazil means to me is I never have to be alone again. 

Anyway, that’s my admissions essay. I doubt it will get me into a good school, but I’m relieved it’s out of the way.