November 2008 Archives

After our airline meal, Jean and I "settled back, relaxed, and enjoyed our flight to Rio." Not. It has always amazed me that the captain has the balls to tell the passengers to "sit back, relax and enjoy the flight to blahblahblah." UNLESS YOU ARE IN FIRST CLASS, there is NO WAY to relax and NOTHING to ENJOY about the flight. Anywhere. I get grumpy just thinking about it.

The pilot's initial greeting was in Portuguese. It was long, flowery, sexy, and ended with not only the suggestion to enjoy the flight, but to possibly "get some" on the way. Next came the Spanish translation. Shorter, slightly less warm. Finally came the English. Three sentences: "I am Captain. We are flying. You will enjoy." But it was still English spoken by a Latin. Still sounded like butter on pancakes.

I fidgeted my way through the rest of the flight. With all the movement, I may as well have walked to Rio. But we were finally FREE!! We had no problem finding our luggage, and went to the place where Jean told us we were going to be met by the Rio Holiday-authorized driver.

The house we had rented in Rio (actually Niterói, across the bay from Rio) came with access to a concierge, a cook/maid who would prepare breakfast each day, and a driving service. The guy who owns the outfit, Steve, lives in Washington state, I think. He is an ex-Microsoft exec who invested in nice rental real estate in Rio. Jean had researched it extensively on the internet, communicated with Steve a bunch, and the deal was great. We originally had more people on the trip when we booked the house, but despite the fact that poor "Other Nancy," (Nancy Blackledge) couldn't come with us, it was still cost effective. And that's including the couple of days we couldn't spend there, but paid for anyway, due to the length of rental required.

So anyway, we went to the place where the driver was supposed to meet us, but of course there was no driver. Had the clusterfuck actually begun so quickly? But Jean had the number of our concierge, Sylvia, and was in immediate contact when we weren't picked up soon. We were standing at the tourist information booth, and though they were pleasant and cute, they were no help. In addition, the maid had come to clean the counter. She sprayed stuff all over the place, then began an expert wipe-down, all the while chatting amiably with the booth girls. They were all having a high old time speaking their Portuguese. I wanted to know what they were talking about.

After a bunch of speculation in English on our parts, and a bunch of "girl talk" in Portuguese on everybody else's part, Jean got it from Sylvia that the driver had gone to the international pickup place. He didn't know we were coming from within Brazil. But I thought we WERE at the international pickup place. Mongo confused.

Well, who cared. Our driver was here! We met halfway between the curb and the information booth. He didn't know he was supposed to get us there, he said, in good English. But he was pissed off about the snafu, I could tell. We followed him across to the parking deck where his car was parked. Earlier, Robo had been telling me about some of the cars in Brazil that were powered with Propane and gas. Wow! Interesting, Robo! He had also told me about how they weren't quite as powerful as a full-on gas engine. Also interesting. I didn't know how it would apply to me other than just a neat fact.

Our driver's car was one of those hybrids! I was looking at Jean's and my three massive pieces of luggage, all these humanoid passengers, and then at the giant propane tank in the back of the car. How was this going to work? Between Robo, Jean and the driver, we got all the stuff in there. They piled in the back seats, and let me have the front seat again. I turned to tell the driver that I was sorry about the mixup. He immediately reminded me of Peter Dinklage, one of my favorite actors.

I asked him his name.

"Marcelo," he replied.

"Well hey, Marcelo!" we all chirped. And off we went into a misting, grey day in Rio de Janeiro (pronounced "Hee-oh Zzzzhhah-NEH-ro" all the while swallowing that last "r"). Marcelo didn't say much on the way, while we all jabbered incessantly in English. I wondered if it was as mysterious to him to hear it from us as the Portuguese was for me. We did all agree that we wanted to find a liquor store, and Jean had been Jonesing for a Bloody Mary ever since being denied one on the flight. We asked Marcelo if there was a liquor store.

It was then that I saw for the first time the expression that I would see so many more times during our stay in Rio and come to love: Marcelo would repeat the word in the interrogative, in this case "Liquor?" all the while looking in the rear view mirror, his eyebrows raised, but still at their permanently sympathetic angle. But inside that head of his, the wheels were turning at a furious rate. In this case, he was thinking, Holy shit, these people want to go to some liquor store. Everything is closed for Carnaval. I've got another group to pick up. (He always had somebody else to pick up after us. I felt so cheap and third-rate.)

"Well, there may be something." He dosed out the words.

On we drove, toward Niterói. We were staying across the bay from Rio, a recommended thing from many people. Niterói is like a friendly suburb of Rio. Not that Rio is not friendly, but Niterói was spawned as a fishing village, and still has the more relaxed vibe. It's so weird. It's only across the bay! We drove past several beaches, asking Marcelo if we could swim there.

"Swim?" he asked. "No. I wouldn't swim there." He used contractions in some cases.

"What about that liquor store?" we asked.

"I think I know a place," he repled. "But we must hurry. I have someone else to pick up. . . ."

"We'll hurry!" we promised. Marcelo responded by driving some back streets of Niterói and finding a bodega on a street that ran perpendicular to the bay. The mist had turned to a light but steady rain.

"You have ten minutes," Marcelo said, completely deadpan. I looked at him. "And then I'm calling the police." I burst out laughing.

"We'll hurry, I swear!" I vowed.

I already loved this guy.

Marcelo hung around outside, chatting with one of the men from the bodega. I got the impression that he didn't want to crowd us, and wanted to remain at arm's length due to whatever type of driver protocol there is in Brazil--or anywhere else. It also must be considered from his point of view: here he comes to get us after a miscommunication right out of the chute, he's got somebody else to pick up later, and it's US that he's picking up. The sight of Jean's and my luggage would have been enough to put anyone on guard.

What he didn't know about us is that short of his being some kind of serial killer or something, we would have loved to have him hang around. The house had plenty of room. We could have made him owner for a day like they do in Salvador.

But meanwhile, we had a mission: liquor, snacks for Pettus, and Bloody Mary mix for Jean. Right. It didn't take too terribly long to peruse every shelf in the store and find not only no Bloody Mary mix, but no tomato juice, either! It was becoming apparent that in Brazil, they don't drink their tomatoes. (That's one thing they're missing! And they COULDA had a V-8! Maple syrup is another thing that's rare as hen's teeth there. Carol had us bring a couple of jugs of it to her. In Salvador, a 6 oz. bottle was like 30 Reais, or fifteen bucks!)

There were several people working in there, all friendly and smiley,especially after my mangled "boa-tarde" to each one of them. I found the guy who looked like the owner: he was mopping and ordering everybody around at the same time. I tried to ask for tomato first, then juice. No way that was gonna work. I held up my finger politely for a pause and dashed outside to ask Marcelo what the Portuguese word was for "tomato".

"Tomate," (kind of pronounced toe-mah-tay) he said. Why I didn't ask him for the name of the whole finished product in juice form, I'll never know. I headed back in and said "toe-mah-tay" to the man and then did the drinky-drinky motion. Ahh! he understood! He pulled me to the back to show me the fresh tomatoes.

Finger up. "Desculpe," I said. Out to talk to Marcelo. All the while, a tall guy had been standing by watching this Berlitz opera play out. After some speedy Portuguese with Marcelo, he relayed their conclusions to the owner.

"Ahh! Tomatksvvi;ahjlav0diu!" he beamed, understanding. A golden pause. "Não," he concluded, his face losing its glow.

I was crushed. Jean was crushed. I had begun to feel the lure of a good old BM, myself and this was indeed distressing news. Not for the tall guy! He said something to the manager, then disappeared out the door. We stood around kind of looking at everything politely, having no idea what he had gone to do. Robo and I were standing there with our liquor purchases. Vodka and, you guessed it, Bacardi Gold.

Were we supposed to wait? Marcelo was still standing outside, and our ten minutes were UP! I stuck my head out the door and hollered, "Don't call the police!" Marcelo's eyes disappeared under the canopy of eyebrows as he let out a laugh that made him my international brother instantly. "No," he said. Surely he was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, we weren't assholes. Quite a breakthrough, in my opinion.

Back inside, Pettus had paid, and decided to come back in and look for something else. Whatever it was, it wasn't there, and she tried to get back out to go to the car. The elaborate turnstile system was of a design that none of us could decipher. She started asking one of the guys how to get out, mainly by pointing, and trying to say "saida" (exit). He handed her a pack of batteries with a quizzical look on his face. "No," Pettus said, laughingly exasperated. "Saida." I was no help. All I could do was watch and wait for the tall guy. Pettus' new friend then handed her some water. "No," she said, shaking her head and making a lunging movement with her arm toward the door. The cashier, enjoying the spectacle, finally clued in to what Pettus really wanted, and let her out.

Just then, the tall guy reappeared with two tiny cans of tomato juice! We all cheered, I "obrigado"ed the shit out of him and everybody else, and told the owner how beleza his store was. Believe it or not, I was not sweating at this time, so I had to leave the "suado" card in my pocket. We laughingly piled into Marcelo's car. The rain had picked up, and we still had to find Mirante de São Francisco, our house for the stay.

Jean had the address. Marcelo had the address. We had liquor in the car in addition to TWO tiny cans of tomato juice and the snacks Pettus had bought. I had nothing to worry about, as usual. I couldn't logisticize my way out of a paper bag, so having Jean to plan everything is a blissful thing, indeed.

Marcelo piloted us almost surreptitiously through many of the same back streets as before, and seemed to know the area pretty well. We later found out that he was indeed from Niterói, but at this moment, we were just amazed at his skills. He picked up his radio/cell phone and began another mysterious conversation with his "contact" on the other end. Given all the fast, slidey, zzhh-zzhh talk going on sotto voce between them, I couldn't tell if he was looking for the house, or arranging to have us kidnapped. It would be just our luck to get THAT driver.

We finally came out at a large four-lane boulevard with a nice planted median broken by turnarounds all the way up and down the street. The side opposite us was striped with roads all going up the mountain to different subdivisions, apparently. Marcelo took a right, got in the left lane, turned through the median and got on the other side in the right lane. We saw a gated street on the right, and he turned in. Marcelo rolled down the window and began a quick conversation with the "guard," a guy in street clothes wearing a windbreaker and managing to smoke a cigarette under the hood without getting it wet. Looked qualified to me. He shook his head at Marcelo, his ashes flying in a semicircle, and pointed down the street. I heard "dois," I think.

Marcelo gave his first thumbs-up of our visit, to my secret delight. He zoomed off down the street (as fast as one can "zoom" with God-knows-how-many pounds of humanoids AND 3 tons of luggage) and began to turn in the next street. It was also gated, and there was also a guard, but he didn't even get up from his lawn chair. The gate opened obediently and we pulled right through. Marcelo rolled the window down and did the short directional interrogation. The guy shook his head and pointed UP the street. Great. This gave me a second to reflect on the security industry in Brazil. Obviously thriving. No office required. No investment. Plenty o' business. Only requirements would be an ability to appear whoop-ass, and surface trustworthiness. And in many cases, I suspect the mere presence of a guard is just enough deterrent for would-be criminals.

Marcelo pulled out, went through the median, and turned back in the other direction. He made another left turn through the third median, just in time to realize that the street we wanted was 50 feet BEHIND us. Sheiss! Back to the next turnaround, down the requisite number of blocks, and then a turn onto our street. With no gate. And no guard. Hmmm. I was immediately assuaged when I saw the initial houses on the street--cool modernist architecture in the Brazilian style--the delightful marriage of clean lines and Mediterranean accents. Me likee!!

The road was steep immediately, and we began to slightly rattle up the rough surface. Every turn was a hairpin as we climbed steadily. At the second curve, I saw what appeared to be a concrete favela on the right, and casually said, "There it is," all the while waiting on somebody to refute the remark. Marcelo just looked at me with no expression. I began to wonder if that appeared to be an elitist asshole American remark, though meant in jest.

We continued up and around, trying to find our address. It was then that we discovered that the houses were numbered randomly. Odd and even numbers appeared on both sides of the street, and we passed 2230, 512, 440, 132, 3235, and never did find our number. Another Brazilian oddity? I didn't think so. Marcelo seemed as baffled as we did. He got on the radio again to chat with "control."

"Okay," he said, and immediately took a right turn onto a small street that was at an 89 degree angle up the hill. The valves clattered, the car stuttered, and I turned to half-jokingly ask, "Do we need to get out?"
"No," he said calmly, as he rolled back down the street to get a running start. We all began to cheer him and the car at the herculean effort. It took the hill with the surety of a mountain goat. At the top of THAT road, he took a left and began going around a curve surrounded by rock walls on both sides. The houses were all behind wooden or iron gates, which came right up to the street. There were very demure little V-shaped spikes on all the walls, rooflines, and anywhere else a ne'er-do-well may put his Havaianas. So much classier than good-ole razor wire, which was also in existence, but not so blatantly. "There it is," Marcelo said, and we saw a little guard shack with a windbreaker-clad guy smoking inside. It was between two houses, ours being the one on the right.

The gate had a digital keypad on the outside that worked in conjunction with the key. After 8 or ten tries, with Marcelo's help we got in. Immediately inside was a small courtyard, partially covered by the house roof. The water was sheeting off the barrel tiles onto the concrete, and I trod gently in my Crocs, fearing a slip. Meanwhile, we had been met by a young black Brazilian with a tall, Frankensteinish head, wearing black nerd glasses with white adhesive tape on one earpiece. This was Robson (pronouned "Hobson." Carol told me that she felt sure that his name was "Robson," a very common Brazilian name, and that, of course, it would be pronounced "Hobson."). With him were a couple of other guys and two women. They immediately began to bring in the luggage, Robson orchestrating the whole event in Portuguese, speaking only rarely to us in obsequious English. This was always accompanied by an unnerving half-bow, both hands in prayer position. I really don't want anyone bowing to me. Oh, all right. Maybe Jean. Hahahahahahaaaahhaaaaaaaa!!!!!

Jean had thought it prudent to line up Marcelo for the next day to take us to Copacabana to get our Carnaval tickets from the broker. "They told us we had access to a driver the whole time we're here," she said in her international tone. "Are you our driver?"
"If you want me to be, yes," Marcelo replied. Did I detect a slight gleam?
"We do!" we all shouted. "Can we just arrange with you?" Jean asked.
"Yes, but you must call and book me," he said.
"Okay, we'll do that, but we'll tell you first. Can you take us to Rio tomorrow?"
"Yes," he said. "You will call Sylvia."

We waved goodbye to Marcelo as he did a beautiful 3-point turn in the narrow, cobbled street, gave the secret sign to the guard, and disappeared around the corner. While Robson and his minions distributed the luggage, we walked into our (gulp!) un-airconditioned-except-for-bedrooms house. There was a large fan in two corners of the huge room. I set them to work immediately before anything else.

Of course the Kennemers didn't care about the lack of air. They can live comfortably in any environment. Their home in Birmingham (designed by my father!) is a gorgeous, what they now call "mid-century" house on the crest of Shades Mountain. It was without air conditioning when they bought it 28 years ago, and they kept it that way until very recently, being perfectly happy with the breezes off the mountain that rushed through the breezeway. Pettus said she got hot a few times in the summer, but most of the time was fine. They had an air conditioner in their bedroom that made Robo cold. Pettus would describe lying in bed with no covers burning up while Robo snored under three blankets.

Jean and I, meanwhile, like our air conditioner set at "meat locker" 24/7.

We went out onto the back porch to look at our stellar view of the bay: Sugarloaf, and the Christ statue, in addition to several forts, sailboats, and even a McDonald's. What?

Wow! Idyllic.

We then looked to the right and down one tier at some of our neighbors. The dichotomy of lifestyle quality in Brazil in such close proximity slapped me in the face. I don't know if this was an abandoned house under construction, as the one we saw earlier may have been, because both houses had construction chutes. Given the fact that our neighbors' construction chute doubled as a mudslide for the kids, it was probably abandoned construction.

Once back inside, we saw that Robson and crew had taken the luggage down one floor to the bedrooms. There were three on the floor, the master bedroom suite featuring all the steam/jacuzzi stuff of hedonist dreams. We gave that bedroom to Pettus and Robo and took the one nearest the stairs. It was cozy goodness. There was a balcony that ran the length of the house on this floor as well, but we never went out on it, of course. It was the kind of thing that a vacationer would use only after having exhausted all other Rio entertainment. We didn't have that kind of time.

By this time, Sylvia, the mysterious concierge from the other end of Jean's phone calls, had appeared upstairs with Maria, our cook. We headed up to meet them. Maria said hardly anything at all. She had an Amazon native look about her, with a body that went from her torso immediately to her head. She was very sweet, but also smashed by submissive body language. I knew I was gonna have to work hard to make her love me.

Sylvia was a dish. She elicited an immediate Roy Orbison growl, which drew a smile, but not a giggle. Sophisticated city girls don't tumble as quickly as the Bahians?  Hmmm. Tough crowd.

She led us downstairs to the bottom floor for our orientation and our first caipirinhas. The basement area was incredible, painted a gorgeous Pantone 361 green. The stairs ended in a large wet bar with refrigerator and drinking water machine, the bottle hidden by a needlepointed cover that said "Rio Holiday," bearing a sign that said "WE DRINK BOTTLED WATER HERE." I gave an involuntary shudder at what was obviously another message from Iemanjá.

There was shelf after shelf of gleaming glass topped with all sorts of different liquor for use/purchase. Not a drop of Meyers's Rum anywhere, but THREE bottles of Bacardi Gold. Sigh. The prices for consume/buy were comparable to what you would have paid at a store. We actually paid a little more for our Bacardi Gold at the bodega than we would have had to pay to have the bottle fall over on the shelf and pour into our mouths.

The bottom floor also had a pool table, a ping pong table, big screen TV, and an elevated bedroom suite in the middle of it all. It opened out onto the patio and pool, replete with barbeque facilities, etc. Just like Cerqueira-la! What a fabulous place.

The two other women were working busily at the bar making our drinks while Sylvia gave us the lowdown on Mirante de São Francicso. Her English was stellar, with an accent like one of the Muldovian princesses on any episode of Mission: Impossible. Woo! The only word that she missed repeatedly was "taxi," which she pronounced "tax." It was so charming to hear her tell us we could go down to the restaurants, then call her to get a "tax." It was then that I felt compelled to ask her the big question:

"Sylvia, can we flush toilet paper here, or do we have to use the garbage cans?" She looked at me with an expression that changed from incredulity to amusement to business in a split second.
"You can use the garbage cans for the toilet paper if you want," was all she said before moving on to the next feature of the house. In retrospect, maybe she was so flummoxed by the fact that I would not only know about the toilet paper secret, but would ask about it. But I'm sure her mind's eye was viewing a film that she would rather not see.

By then, our drinks were ready. They were delicious, and we were gonna learn how to do them. That's what the "unlimited caipirinhas" part of the deal meant. We had access to all the cachaça we wanted, and bowls, baskets and bushels of limes, limes, limes! Yessiree! Get down!

NOT SO FAST, BURFORD.

I was still a little green around the gills (not quite the Pantone 361, more like a 373), and though I sipped my drink, I didn't wolf it down the way the REAL Ben Burford would have. The pod person sitting in my place almost hurled as Sylvia mentioned the fact that we could have a chef come over and do us a barbeque if we wanted.

I then realized that I was experiencing anxiety on all fronts. Here's this huge fantastic house with all this room. Blackledge can't come. We'll never use all the space. It's raining. When will it quit? When will my gullet set me free? How much was this house? Are those people down the hill happy? Will Marcelo remember to get us? You mean you have to come all the way down here for the liquor? When will we use this pool? What about the kids? I wonder if the dogs are all right. What am I gonna do about running out of flash card space? I don't play pool well. Nor ping pong. What's this checkers set with shot glasses for pieces on the table? I can't drink that much. How will we ever take advantage of our free caipirinhas? We'll never use all this space. Why is there razor wire everywhere?  What are we gonna do here? Will it be hard to get places? Will everything be crowded? What about our Carnaval tickets? Did we get ripped off? WHERE THE HELL is CAROL?!

Sylvia was wrapping up her presentation. It was time for me to learn how to make the caipirinhas, which was a great diversion at the time. The two ladies demonstrated the smashing of the limes with the mortar and pestle (wooden), the addition of a couple of spoons of sugar from the covered dish designed to dissuade ants (not), followed by two shots of cachaça, measured with a jigger. The instructor looked at me quizzically to see if I got it? Of course I got it. As she repeated the directions for closure, ending with "and then two of the cachaça," I countered with "o mais!" Both ladies giggled. Ahhhh. Still golden, though still jittery.

Sylvia's job entailed anything we wanted her to do. Well, you know, not ANYTHING, but really, anything. She would even order pizza for us, get the "tax" to bring it to us, and tell the driver how to get here and everything. That sounded good to us. (Or as good as anything could sound to me). We wanted to hang around on the main level and learn how to work the TV, internet, and free long distance.

Ahh, yes. The FREE long distance. It became my three companions' major obsession getting it to work. They kept talking in carrier-ese, and saying stuff about Seattle that I didn't understand. Jean talked to a couple of people, Sylvia first, and I believe it was fixed in a couple of days. Who knows? I didn't want to call anybody. I wanted to figure out the dern TV so I could have some more Brazilian video fun.

The night panorama was breathtaking, and had a very calming effect.
But there was the McDonald's sign in the bottom left corner. The only thing that could serve to yank me back to enough familiar reality to short circuit the scene temporarily. Corporate sponsorship logos are like pimples on a pretty face. That's pretty dangerous talk for an advertising guy.

Two other very, very important things happened this night.
• I learned how very stupid I was for not having taken acidophilus, like our pal Jim Klopman, the world traveler and bon vivant, had told us to do. Robo had his with him, of course, and that evening I began to take it. Even before our Queen Pizza arrived in its nifty round cardboard box.
• Robo told me that the coffee in Salvador was made with the sweet waters of the tap! I may should have watched that.

To top that off, the acidophilus seemed to put me on the road to a miracle cure, and I began to feel better. Surely the placebo effect, but better nevertheless. The few slices of the Queen Pizza I had were delicious. If we ordered it again, given my rate of improvement, we'd have to order something substantially bigger.

Then we figured out the TV.

I could sleep in peace. We had no firm plans for the next day except for getting our Carnaval tickets. We thought maybe Marcelo could kinda show us around a little bit, then we could come back and rest, go out to dinner in Niterói, then go to Carnaval around 11:00.

Why the HELL was Jean setting that stupid Blackberry?

Because Maria was going to have breakfast for us at 9:00, the time we kind of landed on. Nobody wanted to miss THAT.

We had asked Maria (through Sylvia) to have breakfast ready at 9:00.

After enduring several rounds of Blackberry Roulette and losing to Jean, I finally got out of bed and trudged up the stairs. I smelled coffee. Jean stayed behind to perform those pesky morning tasks. By the time I got upstairs, the breakfast had been out for a while. Well, hell, it was 9:30 and we asked for 9:00 breakfast. Subtract 0 from 30. We were that late.

Robo and Pettus had just gotten up there themselves, though they were both bathed, scrubbed and pumped full of vigor. Pettus had just come in from the balcony where she was listening to Robson sing. He writes religious music, and was singing to her about the poverty. Pettus said he had a beautiful voice. Robo kicked in immediately with "I don't trust him."

We all marveled at the breakfast: fried eggs on a platter, toast, bacon, those little cheese biscuit ball things, two kinds of juice (though slightly watery), coffee, chocolate cake (!), three kinds of melon, pineapple, cigar-rolled ham and cheese slices, regular biscuits, hot water, cocoa powder, and a blap bag for me.

The massive amount of food ordinarily would have sent me over the edge, but I was STILL ever so slightly touchy in the appetite. Lucky for Pettus. She was able to eat the cheese biscuit things like popcorn, because I was absolutely no competition, Robo was diverted with some of the other food and Jean wasn't up there yet. The fried eggs were cooked for 9:00 consumption, so they were kind of cold-ish, and beginning to get that Dorian Gray's portrait look about them. But I love eggs more than anything, and ate two. They went down pretty well with an acidophilus chaser. The bacon was a no-brainer. I could be in a coma and still be able to eat bacon.

Overall, breakfast was a success for me, and I could feel myself climbing out of the abdominal abyss. Once again, however, Robo ratted out the cook. He told me (after the dern trip) that Maria was making the coffee with tap water. Hmmmm. And I don't think there's a coffeemaker in Brazil that gets hot enough to sterilize the bad juju out of coffee water.

Jean finally arrived to a half eaten breakfast, though we had saved her the good parts. She popped a Diet Coke, got us both a Danactiv out of the refrigerator (an earlier habit we had taken up courtesy of Jim Klopman. Why, oh WHY didn't I listen to him about the acidophilus at the get-go?) and came back in to report that Robson had told her that Maria was appalled that the food had been sitting there so long and felt responsible for the cold breakfast. We all decided at that moment to schedule tomorrow's for 9:30. "I don't trust him," Robo said.

There were heavy clouds outside and it was kind of misting. What the HELL? This was RIO! What was up? Excuse me sir, there's a collect call from a Miss E. Ahmanjah. Will you accept the charges?   

Jean called Sylvia. Sylvia was going to call Marcelo. We hung around waiting for the deal to  go down, everybody checking email in rotation, me alternately standing in front of the fans and walking out on the balcony to see if the weather had changed. We heard a horn, grabbed our stuff, (my camera in relaxed duffel position 2, Jean's myriad envelopes and massive purse, along with super-travel-sized Ziplocs of only about one-tenth of the medicine inventory, Robo with his little bitty video camera, and Pettus unencumbered as always) and rushed out to meet Marcelo.

We all assumed our positions, greeted our new pal warmly, and headed down and out. I began to understand why we had been told of the glories of Niterói. The beach at the bottom of our hill was nice, though not necessarily for swimming, inhabited by what appeared to be a very reputable bunch of folks, and the vibe was very relaxed. Not quite Bahian, because they were still touched by the urbanity of Rio, but more laid back than Rio, possibly because of their fishing heritage. There was a row of great restaurants all fronting the bay, all probably a result of the modern booming of Niterói. Just like in America, I imagine the people in Rio discovered that Niterói was ONLY ACROSS THE BAY, and more the kind of place you'd want to raise your children, with wooded, hilly, winding streets and charm everywhere.

But wait! There's also the modern art museum AND a ferry terminal, both designed by the world-revered Oscar Niemeyer. Ooh la LAH! How incredible can you GET? How about incredible enough to also be the birthplace of Sergio Mendes?! If that doesn't cap it off, nothing can.

We cruised through the streets of Niterói heading toward the bridge to Rio. The two ways to get from Niterói to Rio are the bridge and the ferry. It's a short hop to the terminal in Niterói, and it lets off in Rio right downtown. But then there's the bridge. We never saw any real traffic there, and when we were with Marcelo, that's the route we took. But he also managed to tell us a few horror stories about the traffic there, enough to make us totally afraid of the unseen menace.

We were itchy to get to Copacabana and pick up our Carnaval tickets. Jean had been dealing with several brokers at one location, going back and forth from elated to bummed out to broke to thrifty. We had finally landed on seats in Sector 7, which is for the locals. The tourist sector has reserved seats, but the only ones left were right on the ground. None of us thought that would be as good, and opted for taking our chances in Sector 7, which has no reserved seats. You just got there and plopped down, kind of like at a high school football game. The brokers assured us it would be a great Carnaval experience, and the tickets cost less than tourist sector. After having been once, I can see how it might be an interesting alternative to be at ground level--but not with the tourists--definitely with the locals.

Marcelo went some mysterious way through Rio to Copacabana, occasionally pointing something out and telling us what it was. We passed a bunch of fantastic governmental buildings from the colonial period and later. They were huge, ornate, and filled with broken windows and covered with graffiti. They were right at eye level a lot of the time as we zoomed through Rio on the expressway. It broke my heart to see the waste of beauty and the destruction of same. I asked Marcelo if any of these historic treasures were being renovated for re-use. He said that a few were. At least they weren't tearing them down. Better to have them sit there and be reawakened at a later date by somebody with some vision than to be bulldozed just for the land. But I suspect there isn't a bunch of money lying around Rio to participate in THAT KIND of foolishness.

We wound through downtown Rio, weaving our way to Copacabana. Everything was closed. And I mean EVERYTHING. The metal garage-type doors were down everywhere. Each was covered with graffiti, of course, and it presented a creepy post-apocalyptic scene. Jean asked Marcelo why everything was closed for Carnaval, when it seems like the merchants could make more money when more people were in town. Marcelo replied in a tone filled with respect, humor and bewilderment, "Because they would rather be having fun." And that RIGHT THERE is the heart of the Brazilian existence. Marcelo's respect is well felt.

After ten or fifteen U-turns in various places, we arrived at the ticket place. It was still raining, and the sidewalk came right up to the street in a giant puddle. Marcelo pulled right up onto the sidewalk enough to park over the puddle for us to get out. Wow! Like an automotive Sir Walter Raleigh, he was! We all tiptoed out of the car, me especially, since I had on vented Crocs with socks (standard) and knew that the water could still rush into my shoe.

We dashed into the place, which was very cool, with no walls, only glass partitions and large curved counter at the back of the room. There were mannequins dressed in various Carnaval costumes, and pictures of the different samba schools on the walls. A couple of videos of a never-ending Carnaval (probably from last year) were going nonstop, and a staff of several good looking Brazilians was helping the clientele.

We were all elated to find that our tickets were indeed there, legit, and without strings or asterisks attached. We trooped back outside, dodging rain and puddles and piled back into the car. I had left my camera in duffel position right on Marcelo's floor. Like leaving it with a priest. At that point we had decided that we lucked into meeting the only guy we would want to usher us through life in Rio. Particularly since Daniel and Patricia weren't due to arrive till 7 a.m. the next morning. Marcelo was going to take us to Carnaval that night, then pick us back up when we called (expected to be around 4 a.m.)  I never for one minute thought anything different would happen, and it was one anxiety crossed off my list.

As we pulled off, Marcelo asked us where we wanted to go.

"Take us to see some old stuff," I said. The others didn't seem to care, and nodded in agreement.

"All right," Marcelo said, and headed toward the old part of town. On the way, all of us asked him various questions, many inane. He would respond in his patented manner each time, and seemed to know more and more every time we asked him anything. I was giddy with busting down not only first-acquaintance barriers, but having another language coach to help me with my Jones to learn fluent portuguese in three days.

We arrived at a square and parked with no difficulty. There was absolutely nobody downtown. We were right across from the Old Cathedral and next to the statue of Tiradentes, two vital pieces of not only Rio's, but Brazil's history as well.


Somehow, this gorgeous Cathedral had escaped the insult of graffiti, as far as I could tell. Across the street was the Palacio Tiradentes, an old public building that was now serving as a museum. During our various excursions around Rio, Marcelo would point out several historic buildings that were now museums. I liked that.

In front of this fantastic building was a statue of Tiradentes, Brazil's number one martyr. Marcelo gave us the lowdown. (Man! He knew a bunch about Brazilian history!) In a nutshell, during the late 1700s, Portugal was taking Brazil's gold (a true motherlode) rapidly, and using the Brazilians to mine it. When they mined less than Portugal expected, they were taxed on the difference. Tiradentes saw the heinous inequity, and plotted to overthrow the whole rotten deal and establish freedom for the people. He was betrayed by a man he believed to be a friend and compatriot. Tiradentes was arrested, hanged, then quartered, his body parts marched throughout Rio and sections of Brazil to truly quash any type of rebellion they may have had in mind. I hate people that do stuff like that.

Here's Tiradentes in his stony glory. Notice the shackles on his wrists if you can.

The Rio Holiday information had said that Niterói had several good restaurants, and that they were right down the hill from Mirante de São Francisco. It was not only correct, it was CORRECT.

We had asked Marcelo that day where we should eat before Carnaval. He indicated several good choices, briefly describing each. We decided on Paludo because it was deemed as a family restaurant with a good variety, but not too fancy, and it would not be as time-consuming as some of the more elegant choices. We told Marcelo what we had decided, and he replied with "the look" and another expression of his that I particularly loved, "Ees very good." We believed him, of course, because he wasn't just some guy trying to find us a restaurant. He was our pal, and knew what for. Besides, I had already transferred Carol's proxy to him. He was duty bound.

Paludo fronts the beach, like all the other restaurants we tried on our stay. It was a very lively scene, with scores of friendly folks milling around everywhere. Were it not for the air thick with unfamiliar words, we could have been in any cool beach town in the US. But the similarity ended there.

The schtick at Paludo is very simple. You select your meal from an incredible array of foods buffet style, and then you are charged for the weight of your plate. Cool!  And when I say "buffet style," I don't mean a metal rail, your tray, and a lineup of hairnetted women named Pearline and Maudie asking, "Serve you please?"
 
Not at all. The food is presented in a maze of goodness. All the offerings are under sneeze glass, and the serving tables are arranged in a serpentine fashion that offered more and more interesting choices each time you turned a corner. I suppose a very smart, thrifty, fat person could really maximize his portion if he knew the average weight of the stuff there. I would think that shrimp would be lighter than, say, beef. Don't think for a minute that I didn't consider these things. "Matzoh ball? No thanks. I think I'll have this lobster mousse."

The place was really good, elegant design for a "family" restaurant, though I did see several kids. It was on two levels, with a glass front wall, so there were beach views from the top floor, which we chose. We asked Marcelo to eat with us, but he politely declined, saying he was going to sit in the bar. We told him not to get too drunk, and he promised to behave.

Our food was delicious, and the seating was nice. I had felt better during the day, but was still feeling kinda weeeennnh. Nevertheless, I managed to eat most everything I put on my plate, and had beer and coffee. I guess that doesn't really describe somebody that feels kinda weeeennnh, and in retrospect, it might have been slight anxiety about the hurdles required for a successful Carnaval experience. I had my camera, of course. We had all decided that at the price of tickets, there probably wouldn't be any camera snatchers running around. And in a packed bleacher, no neer-do-well was gonna go anywhere fast.

While we ate, the big-screen TV on the wall next to us was playing what we decided was a Carnaval-based soap opera. I'm not kidding. This Brazilian drama was replete with über-hot bodies and slick, tanned skin, flashy costumes, and intercut with what I assume was actual footage of a past Carnaval. I still didn't totally get the concept of Rio's Carnaval, having only the crazy Salvador experience under my belt.

I may be dreaming this, but I think Marcelo sent us over a dessert, or bought our dessert or something? Maybe not. I don't know. Maybe I'm getting it mixed up with the time we had to drag him drunk out of a bar and throw him in the back with the propane tank. Or did I dream that? I didn't know what was real anymore, with the Carnaval soap opera, the acidophilus and all.

We were off to O Sambódromo (the Sambadrome)!


Early intelligence had said that the Sambódromo was in a sketchy part of town, and to be very careful of everything. I guess the grab-and-dash gag would be the thing to watch out for most of all when you were outside going in. Marcelo let us off right by a gate, and told us to call him when we were 30 minutes from being ready at the same place. He had given Jean his cell phone number earlier, and all ducks were in a row. Our tickets included some kind of magnetic swipe card, and something we wore around our necks to get through the various check-points to Carnaval. I had my camera in duffel position 1 and clutched to my chest like a baby as we threaded our way over mud puddles spanned by boards, through crowds of people not only in plain dress, but an extremely sweaty contingent wearing elaborate costumes in various stages of removal. Here's where the photographer with the balls gets the great shots. Not Ben Burford. "Waaaaahhhh!!! Waaaahhhh!! Noooo! Don't touch my camera!!! Waaaaahhhh!!!" Robo, meanwhile, had the temerity to take his little bitty video camera out and get a little footage. It won't happen that way next time. I'm not having missed-shot malaise ever again.

Once inside, nothing looked threatening at all, and in retrospect, it wasn't really that way outside, either, if you were in a crowd. I released my death grip on the camera and even considered getting a couple of shots before we went up. But there was nothing really interesting enough (not) to make me take that gol-durned camera out of that gol-durned duffel bag and THEN go through the other shit. I need a camera welded onto my wrist some way.

We began the trip up all the stairs to Sector 7. It was like being at Legion Field back in the day. Vendors everywhere, people milling around everywhere, concrete, steel, and stairs, stairs, and more stairs. When we reached our spot and emerged out in the open, Tijuca had just begun their show. It was a strange, yet totally familiar sight.

Good googly GOOT! The place was packed! And everything was wet from a recent shower. At least we weren't there for that. We surveyed the situation, and finally found a spot, of course halfway down an aisle. Pettus led, followed by Robo, Jean and then me. I was the caboose powered by a poor rendition of liçensa, a shortening of the expression for "excuse me."  Nobody seemed particularly bothered by us, and many returned my expectant smile immediately.

Somebody asked us if we wanted Tijuca flags, and of course we accepted them eagerly. All righty! We were here! There was no danger of any kind except possibly dying from overstimulation! Nothing but smiles and excited people. We had a few minutes to get acclimated before the parade got to us. Being in Sector 7, we were dead center, and right across from the judges!!! Yepper! They were going to be doing the maximum show when they were in front of US! Not that anybody behind us would get less, because everybody in every parade was so pumped they were about to explode. You could feel it physically, I swear.

Unidos da Tijuca (referred to as Tijuca) was coming slowly from our right. The first thing we saw, besides the blue and yellow flags that we were frantically waving, was a gigantic blue and gold peacock who would furl and unfurl its wings in time to the music that I hadn't caught onto yet, blaring tastefully and pleasingly from the speakers that lined the runway. Nice, we all thought. What kind of motor would that take, Robo and I wondered. And then we discovered that the peacock's epidermis was homo sapiens, and its feathers were controlled by same. Meu Deus!

Once we had gotten over the shock of the peacock, we were able to settle in and really look at the stuff coming next. But first, you need a primer on Rio Carnaval.

This is the Carnaval that you've seen on TV with the near-naked, feather clad women dancing in impossibly high boots. It's also so much more. There are 12 Samba Schools. Their sole existence relies on their performance at Carnaval every year. Samba Carnaval in Rio, unlike the other side parties, citywide blocos and parades, etc., takes place over two days, with an extra "parade of champions" day featuring the finalists. The first six schools parade the first day, and the other six the next day.

Each school has a music director, a costume director, and everything else to put on an eye-popping show. They are all housed in what Marcelo told us were the "shacks," big old buildings downtown that have been repurposed for fun. Every year, the schools have a theme for the parade, in addition to theme music written especially for the performance, I think. The theme song is sung by the whole school, peppered with live percussion, and repeated for the entire time the school is on the street. There is an MC who also serves as main vocalist, driving the whole song to a fever pitch for almost an hour. All the MCs I saw were gigantic, lusty black Brazilian baritones who would put Luther Vandross to a serious test.

There are various levels of participation. You can go to your samba school all year long to perfect intricate choreography, you can take a lighter schedule and do some basic moves, you can pay for your costume, know the samba step, and promise to be in the "best-of" performance should your school get there, or you can be a hot Brazilian star. If you're there strictly to samba without any preparation, you buy your costume at one of several outlets representing the schools, show up at the Sambódromo when you're supposed to, and hit the street alongside several thousand other rabid folks with the same theme song stuck in their heads. And please don't forget the 300+ costumed percussionists that are interspersed throughout each performance for maximum force of samba beat.

I don't know how much of your costume you actually get to keep, but I suspect it's only the headgear, as evidenced by the two feather-clad guys in the last section. Or maybe the school takes them up for cleaning and safekeeping should they make it to the finals.

Meanwhile, Tijuca was bringin' it on, with an instantly memorable theme song, and the subject of "things collected." Here is a cool penguin float followed by a closeup of some of the major players in Tijuca's show.

Notice the people hanging out of the camarotes. They're the private boxes that you can buy a regular old ticket for, or come to party with one of the several companies, etc. that rent them for the event. Also notice the furry blue bears and the closeup that follows: cutout belly and vents galore.
 

Tijuca continued their assault on the Sambódromo, and the floats just got wilder and wilder.
This little number here was a real eye-popper. The first half was a giant psychedelic mushroom with little elves rising from the top in rhythm.

This was followed by two 25 foot tall, bald, topless fairies. Fantastic bodies, but glitter for hair, and slightly menacing expressions. Compare their size to the operator on the ground and the people gawking from the camarotes. On the heels of the dollhouse, this was also visually thrilling and unsettling. The giant multicolored pixies were moving up and down in time to the music as well, due to the people on the float producing sympathetic vibrations, but in other cases from a hidden operator inside. I was beginning to feel the vibe of the Rio designers, and how it compared with Carnival that I'm familiar with in Mobile and New Orleans: gaudy, wild, scary, funny, mysterious, otherworldly. But Rio had them beat, hands down. This was serious, fun and fantastic entertainment.

Vila Isabel had exploded in the east with the traditional fireworks, but in tech savvy Rio of the 21st century, every parade was accompanied by the garish flashing of sponsorships on a huge digital screen. For some (smart) reason, they went for maximum overdrive on the flashing, and it blended almost comfortably with the pyrotechnics and the lineup to follow.

We also noticed a giant television camera on a track that ran the length of the parade route. During the performances the camera would zip back and forth at lightning speed. Just another cool thing to watch.

Flávia and I had become real buddies by this time (translated "several beers each"), and she began to tell me about good bars for us to visit in Rio.
"Carioca bar," she said several times. Why of course! Karaoke! I LOVE karaoke. If we got a decent buzz, maybe Marcelo could escort us to our humiliation. "Yes!" she said excitedly, seeing my enthusiasm. "Ees very good Carioca bar!"
"Karakoe? Where you sing along, right?" I asked, beginning to wonder.
"Yes! Lots of singing! Great music!" Flávia enthused. "Ees great Carioca bar. Not tourists so much!"
"?" I stared at her trying to figure this all out.
"Oh!!" she finally realized. "Not karaoke! Carioca! Locals are called Cariocas," she told me in a sentence punctuated by "uhhh." So wonderful to have a new partner to climb the Tower of Babel with.

And here they were! Vila Isabel with their show, Ossos do Oficio, a salute to the workers of Brazil, whatever kind of worker they may have been or may be. They were also intent on helping to dispel the myth of the lazy Brazilian.

If that was the case, they did it right out of the chute with two whirling dervishes that eventually slowed down enough to reveal that they were the flag couple for Vila Isabel. Being as these two can garner a lot of points, I would have to say that they were magnetic, funny and sexy in addition to being great dancers. The guy and girl had a whole Louis Prima/Keely Smith vibe about them that was very entertaining, and managed to compete easily with all the flash around them..

The first big float was a couple of winged horses with fish tails bearing psychedelic compasses. Beautiful, stately and trippy all at the same time, I erroneously dub them "Pegasus." The glow underneath was like some people put under their cars in blue or purple. I personally love it, though Jean would probably not support an expenditure for such an accessory on my Honda.

Aha! My first sighting of "the great and powerful Oz" in the belly of Pegasus 1 (or is it 2). And for a flying horse, this nag sure needs a lot of guys to push.

Being that I have no inkling what the dual Pegasi had to do with workers in Brazil, I'll now proceed with a great and valid account of what was to follow from Vila Isabel's bag of tricks.

The next float was devoted to the Amazons, the mythical female warriors of the jungle, and for whom the real Amazon is named. Amazons were purported to be women with no breasts, I think due to the fact that they would get caught in a bowstring, and no Amazon wanted her tit lopped off by a faulty shot at a male interloper. In essence, the Amazons were the first working women of Brazil. Enjoy them in all their glory, but be warned: these are just make-believe Amazons. They all have breasts. All of them.


Once again, I will remind you, these girls are play acting.

How do you reckon these girls got this cushy gig? Being delightfully half naked in a shower of cool water for the good of your samba school? For mankind? Carámba! Does that look like Hillary Swank or WHAT? Surely these girls were not warriors, but, like, fashion coordinators or enablers for the Amazons themselves. There is no other explanation.

And here's Robo and Pettus posing in front of all this pageantry. Notice how Robo's eyes are still about 30 yards in the back of his head.

This next little blast of samba-steppers represented the Amazon once the women decided to let the men in. Coordination of colors. Orderliness. Hidden agendas.

The next float represented the slaves of Brazil, exploited by the Portuguese when they first claimed the marvelous land mass for their own. These are warriors that have become ex-warriors, but still manage to persist.


He's a big one, isn't he? Notice the girls behind his arm.

The next float represented the graceful adoption of servitude to the Portuguese royalty by the Brazilians. It also represented a huge amount of enlightenment and education for the Brazilians, directly and indirectly. The direct association with royalty had an immediate effect. The cultural seeds planted by King John VI, especially when Rio was the capital of Portugal, had a major long-term impact. The fact that a whole float would be devoted to such a thing is further indication that the Brazilians are not immune to work in any fashion, and celebrate the work they have.

When Marcelo dropped us off at the Sambódromo, the deal was for us to call him on his cell phone when we were 30 minutes from ready to be picked up. He was gonna go home and sleep until we needed him. It was the only logistical stumbling block that could possibly mar our Carnaval experience, and it tried to loom in my psyche, but for some reason I wouldn't let it. The spectacle we were witnessing had driven pessimistic thoughts from my mind. There were two more schools left: Grande Rio and Beija-Flor. We decided to watch Grande Rio and call Marcelo when they were past us.

Our little spot with Flávia and Co. already felt like home. We were giddy with overstimulation, and the whole weirdness of it all. Two of her friends had left earlier to be samba-steppers in one of the parades prior, or the beginning of this one, but gol-durnit, I don't have a picture of their group, I don't think. Flávia may have told me when they came by, but I interpreted it as something else entirely. A lot of that goes on in the international party room, because you do a bunch of smiling and enthusiastic nodding, reading faces and intonations like a psychiatrist, but having no idea what is really being said.
 
Grande Rio (pronounced "Gron-jee Hee-oh") was presenting O gás do Brasil, celebrating the record-breaking natural gas deposit in Coari, part of the Amazon rainforest. They were also balancing this excitement about the energy source with environmental cautions. So we're talking energy with a conscience. It seems that the majority of Brazilians in the Samba line of work are very eco-aware. Portéla, another of the old, revered schools, dedicated their entire theme to nature and the dangers humans present to themselves through our negligence and greed.

Right out of the chute they were scientific looking and primitive at the same time. The first display was an incredible spinning dance performed by Icarus-like characters in and out of geodesic dome frames. Inside, the winged men were whirling like motorcycle hell drivers at the fair. The fluid movement of the guys flying around inside coupled with the outside movement of the bird men was perfectly choreographed, yet as wild and random-looking as nature itself.

Anything on a curvy track has always mesmerized me, and this was like watching a kaleidoscope perform before your eyes without the annoyance of having to turn the tube.

I would imagine that these particular performers didn't do a lot of drinking beforehand.

The flag couple followed. With this shot, who would know there were people inside those fluffy green and black outfits? What happens to all these feathers when it rains? Or when some galoot steps on a hank of them in an exuberant off-sides? And, yes, the first thing I wondered about what how sweat resistant these suits were.

There was a couple sitting in front of us who weren't Brazilians, but weren't Americans, either. The wife had blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a California tennis-bracelet-wearing look about her. The husband was older, balder and goofier looking. The entire time we were enjoying the parades, this woman, wearing a translucent raincoat like a condom, would scowl and jerk her coat and body violently to herself when any slight movement or molecule dared to invade her space. Don't think we all weren't inadvertently guilty at one time or another during the night, and imagine her horror when we descended on the row at the beginning. Jean and I got a charge out of watching her refuse to be bowled over by the excess, and refuse to stand up much of the time. We finally got clued in to the fact that they were on a cruise ship when they pulled out big folders with a picture of a boat on them and left suddenly. But not before the woman flashed all of us the tiniest of smiles. That blew my mind more than anything. Not that she missed Grande Rio's first hottie coming on the scene.

I say "hottie," but Flávia told me she was an older star in Brazil. I'm kind of picturing Ann Miller or Carol Channing here, maybe. She obviously had an inflated sense of self importance, because on our way out, we saw her with bodyguards holding hands in a ring around her, but not an iota of interest from anybody in the vicinity.

In the picture, she almost looks like she's imploring the crowd to love her. Bless her heart.

The gyroscopic orgy was not over yet. The first float was led by a flock of silver Icarus-men and featured more twirling people and enough blinding color and glow to get the point across. With the feathered riders thrown in, it became a fascinating clash of primitive, scientific, and mythical. 


Look at old silver boy above, and imagine all of these gyroscopes filled with crazily rotating doppelgängers. Woo! And look who they brought along to keep the science nerds from going completely off the deep end!

After all the primitive natural glory of the dinosaurs, Grande Rio shifted gears abruptly as if to say, "Shit! We forgot that this was the anniversary of the Japanese migration of 1908! Better put something in. Quick!"

Don't think they just whipped something up. This was a grand thing, complete with hot feathered woman and big-bellied scary whitefaced actor guy. Bonsai!


Grande Rio also seemed to be flush with feathery soloists--more any any of the other three groups we saw. This next little blonde number was energetic, sassy, and looked like the girl from next door. Provided you lived somewhere in Heaven.

And just as a fine restaurant serves a small dish of sherbet as a palate cleanser between courses (and really, what the hell is THAT all about?), G.R. erased the taste of Japan quickly with this young lady. And not by Occident, either.

Good thing, because hot on her heels was another incongruous, but necessary segment: the salute to the Portuguese Royal Family, due to the bicentennial status of their arrival and the love the Cariocas have for them and all.

The first two groups were incredibly adorned king and queen types, the women's headdresses culminating in a sizable ball that cantilevered over their heads. How they held these aloft I'll never know. Surely they worked out with neck weights during the year. This glamorous royalty did a fun little circle dance thing while the men toted torches, all under the glow of huge human street lamps. Could that be the energy tie-in? Did King John bring gas lamps to Rio? Anyone?   Anyone?   Marcelo?    Bueller?

 

I really don't know what the scene was with breakfast. Something in the back of my mind says that we scheduled it for 10:30--too early for me, but probably too late for everybody else. When I finally got up, Daniel and Patricia were there, already on the couch watching Brazilian music videos. Pettus was downstairs making use of our pool--the only one of us who did, but I don't think she ever got in. That unused feature of the house doesn't amortize well.

I must say, that's a very unenthusiastic expression. If I didn't know better, I'd swear that she wasn't thrilled about me taking her picture. I don't know what she was worried about. She always looks good. I, on the other hand, felt like I had been electrocuted the night before, then put in wet cement to sleep. People like me, we're the photographers.

Daniel and Patricia got to experience the full impact of our breakfast, and were suitably impressed. I'm sure they told us about their flight over to Rio, but I was in La-La Land at the time. They could have been recounting a mugging or an airport luggage SNAFU; it didn't matter. I responded with "That's nice" to everything they told us, as my eyes glazed over the chocolate cake, morphing it into one of the African hotties in the Vila Isabel parade.

We didn't want to waste any daylight, and Rio wasn't getting any smaller, so Jean began the process of booking Marcelo for the day. It still would have been easier to call him directly, but we had to do everything through Sylvia, which added time to everything.

When Marcelo arrived, we all trudged out to the car. Well, not trudged, just didn't have all that much spring in our step. Even Pettus. We didn't have any set plan for the day, which is almost a detriment in a case like this. All I knew was that I had told Flávia we'd see them in Santa Teresa the next day. Marcelo asked what we wanted to do. "Let's go to Santa Teresa," I suggested. "We met a girl last night who said they were going to play there today."

"Santa Teresa," Marcelo replied. "Ees very nice." He immediately took off, not forgetting the thumbs up to the guard.

On the way over the bridge, we marveled at all the cranes. I had noticed the day before how many there were that had been bent in half from a fatal load, appearing to be in the relaxed position until you saw the steel crumpled at the joint, the arm pointing straight down. They stood in the bay like poor old men in a nursing home.

Marcelo pointed out into the water and said, "That one is mine. I'll sell it to you." The whole off-the-wallness of the remark demanded more from me.

I indicated one of the bent ones and said, "Is that it? Good quality steel. Can't you just see the advertising guys trying to come up with an ad campaign? Well, sir, we find that Butter Soft isn't working for us as a tagline."

Then from the back, in the desert dry voice, Robo chimed in, "I can't believe it's not metal! " while giving a slight shake of the head and an emphatic half smile, like he'd just thought of a good idea--the same way he delivers all his devastating bon mots. The same way he nearly got us mobbed at Carnaval the night before with the "I've seen better" comment. He never fails to get a hearty laugh out of me, but this time, the remark went straight for my humor G spot.

Once in a blue moon, due to unknown sets of circumstances, somebody can sneak in the back door of hilarity with something that will completely take me out of body and send me into paroxysms of violent tear-inducing laughter that won't quit for several minutes. And then, like a mosquito bite, the image of the remark will pop back into my head and start me over again. It's something that has to gradually subside, or wear itself out. I can't stop it like the hiccups, and it always leaves me weak and feeling like I've just done 50 situps in two minutes. All that said, there is absolutely no other feeling like it in the world.

Of course this made Robo laugh, not boisterously, but more like an intermittent idling motor, which would make me laugh more. Marcelo just stared at us in bemusement and amusement. He had some really complex expressions in his bag.

Once we got into Rio, Marcelo showed us the ancient Carioca aqueduct, which I snapped through the windshield. It was built in the mid 1700s to bring water to Rio from the Carioca River. In the late 1800s, after the Carioca began to fail to deliver enough, other methods of getting water were used, and the aqueduct was converted into a bridge for the tram running up to Santa Teresa. The aqueduct also spanned the site of the Passeío Publico, built in the late 1700s over a lagoon that was landfilled to not only extend Rio's real estate, but also to get rid of trash and mosquito breeding ground. Marcelo had shown us part of the excavation the day before. You see how there are two levels to this thing. It was beautiful and cool as dirt!

 Ain't nothing like a little graffiti on a mid-18th-century historic treasure is there? Sigh.

The streets were thick with people in various pockets all throughout Rio, even before we got to Santa Teresa. I could see what Marcelo meant about "They'd rather be having fun."

Or making pretty pictures.

We began the climb up the mountain to Santa Teresa while Marcelo gave us a briefing. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, it was home to many of the swells in Rio, affording beautiful views from every angle. Like so many of the former glory neighborhoods in America, this one began to go to seed in the early 1900s (WHY??), leaving gorgeous mansions tucked in everywhere.

And just like in America, in recent years, Santa Teresa has been brought back to life in a laid back way as a home to artists and performers, who understand the value of being surrounded by both natural and man-made beauty. I'm sure the real estate is pricey now, but I'll bet during the early days of the revival, you could have had yourself one of those incredible homes for nothing. I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that in 1975, $10 to $25,000 American would have bought you some of the finest stuff on the hill. And it was fine.

Every turn in the narrow, curvy brick road offered a new angle on fine architecture and beautiful landscaping. But it by no means gave off any vibe of being an exclusive enclave. These grand old architectural dames were there for everyone's enjoyment, and were mixed in with some downright meager dwellings and businesses. You're asking, "Where are the pictures, Ben?" Well I DON'T KNOW, so GET OFF MY BACK! We were in the car. It was hard! LEAVE ME ALONE!    Sorry.

We passed several conclaves of revelers all the way up the mountain, and Marcelo casually remarked in his matter-of-fact deadpan, "Santa Teresa. Ees very popular for bars. People come up here to drink, then they go up to see The Christ."

"Really?" I asked, not really doubting it. It's close?

"Yes, he is right above us," Marcelo replied. "But it will take a good bit of time to go up there. Better to plan another day." Indeed.

We kept driving up, crossing the tram tracks that are still in use, seeing bars, galleries, small arty shops, and a gaggle of cool looking people, all smiling, all enjoying life. I began to realize that the only way we would find Flávia and Co. would be to accidentally run into them.

At what seemed to be the summit, but wasn't by any means, we found a small street party going on in an intersection. We decided to park and check it out. The cop in the above picture was friendly, and there to assure everyone they would have a safe experience. At least that's what he looks like.

Daniel and Patricia had, of course, just flown in from Salvador (and BOY were their arms tired!), and they were about as fresh as we were, having been stimulated to death the night before at Carnaval. But Daniel can eat at the drop of a hat, and everybody enjoyed the baked cheese skewers that somebody was selling.

We took in all the participants at the gathering. Looked like a melange of cool people with fun on the brain. Nothing huge, just fun. Some kind of music and rhythm going on at the core. I noticed a bunch of little throw-on costumes that lent a real down-home tone to the whole thing. Everybody I held the camera up to responded with the secret sign and a smile.

"What do you want to do now?" Marcelo asked us.

"Uhhh," we all replied. "Is the Botanical Gardens open?" Jean asked.

"I don't think so," Marcelo replied. "It is still Carnaval."

"What about Sugarloaf?" I asked. I had seen the cars going up there, so figured it was open. And surely it had a bathroom.

"Ees very close," Marcelo replied, sealing the deal.

When we pulled up in the parking lot, there was a line that stretched down the steps to the ticket booths and around the perimeter. It looked long at first, but seemed to be moving fairly rapidly. What else were we gonna do? Ride around looking for something that had a shorter line? I don't think so. We decided to gut it out.

I remember one trip Jean and I took with the boys to Magic Mountain in California. Roller coaster heaven! I was about to hyperventilate with expectation until I saw all the lines. So what did we do? Stand in each line for about 10 minutes, get antsy, then go try to find a shorter line. Which we never did. And we wasted a couple of good hours on this ridiculous maneuver. We finally settled down and stood in a few lines, and actually got to ride four big coasters that day. I hate crowds and lines. I also love theme parks. It's like crushing the shell into the pecan meat. You have to pick it all apart gradually, separating out the shell, to get any meat. Or a plate of boiled crabs. It's all a lot of work for a little pleasure.

We asked Marcelo if he wanted to come with us, but he said no, he'd stay in the car and read or go get something to eat. "Okay, we'll meet you out here when we're through, okay?" Jean was asking, as I hauled ass up the stairs to find the sanitário.

"I'll meet y'all at the end of the line," I hollered at them, noticing that Robo was coming up behind me. Inside the building I was met with various wall displays and a diorama of Rio, the bay and the various mountains that rise from it. There was a tiny little cable car mounting a tiny little Sugarloaf. Neat. There was also a gift shop, but it became a blur as I dashed past and up the stairs as fast as one like me can dash. Robo must have ridden my draft, because we appeared at the door to the sanitário simultaneously, and almost did a Three Stooges trying to get through it together.

Once we got back to the others, we saw that the line wrapped around by a memorial statue of a WWI or II Brazilian soldier. Maybe Marcelo can tell me who he is. While we were standing in the line, there was a vendor selling these little plastic bikini clad girls that you would clip on the edge of a beer can to make a handle. They were the perfect thing to bring back! I must say, though, it is a rather tacky juxtaposition with the statue.

And of course I began my photo onslaught on Daniel and Patricia with this pic in front of the stricken soldier.

We marveled at the people scaling the mountain behind the ticket booth. They were at least 100 feet in the air, clinging onto the face of the rock, looking like flies on a dark wall: hard to find at first. Watching them up there caused every orifice on my body to slam shut in fear. But I could hardly look away.

The line was indeed fast, and before we knew it, were up at the booth. Robo's grant had included entertainment expenses for D & P, and this somehow translated into some clusterfuck at the ticket booth that took Patricia's expertise (read "Portuguese") to sort out for us. Of course we'd also be the very ones to hold up the line after we had worked that Yoruba curse on the people in front of us. Irony is so funny!

I was a tad fluttery about the whole thing of course, with the curse going awry, and my being so terrified of unsecured heights. In a machine or building I'm usually fine, but I have a special subsection in my book of fears for this. An air gondola is neither fish nor fowl. It's a machine, but it's on a stupid two inch cable. And there are 75 people in this thing supported by this long-ass wire that runs up to one huge mountain, stops, then goes up another slacky wire to Sugarloaf, 1299 feet above sea level.

So what do I do? As the car begins to magically, impossibly, lurch up to the first mountain, I say casually to Jean, "Look honey, we're over all those trees. If the cable snaps they'll be there to break our fall."

"Stop that!" she hissed at me. Then we both started laughing nervously.

At this point, I had to ponder Robo and Pettus' desire to hang glide while we were in Rio. Neither had ever done it or anything like it, and it sounded like fun to them. They had even asked Sylvia to look into it for them. Unfortunately, with the foggy weather we were still having, it was out of the question at the time. But there went my orifices again anyway, from just thinking about it.

We got to stage one quickly, disembarked easily, and began to gawk at the view. Though cloud-studded, it was still beautiful. I seemed to take a ton of pictures of The Christ through the haze, and some of them are pretty spiffy.

On the first level, there were benches everywhere, and people were lounging around like it was a park or something. I took a shot of the group, then Robo took one of Jean and me.


It's totally amazing how much Jean looks like her mother.

Here's another good shot of The Christ from this level

It was time to try to beat the rush to the tram up to Sugarloaf. Due to construction we had to follow a convoluted course over boards on scaffolding (fun) until we finally turned the corner to the next station. Here are a couple of cool shots of the convex mirror, the people in it, and the big mountain right behind.


In this closeup, it looks like Robo is pissed off about something. This could be the point in the trip where his sinuses began to revolt against him. The altitude may have been punching him in the forehead.

Once we had alighted the car, we were instantly hit with the unobstructed panorama that Sugarloaf affords. These shots of the harbor were very cool. Notice how the orange roofs of the chi-chi enclave below echo the favelas. Both ends of the money spectrum with similar visual impact. EYE ROW KNEE!


By this time, Daniel was hungry again. The grant included snacks, too! Robo handed him a bunch of Reais, and we walked up to the booth to order. I got a couple of agua com gaís (sparkling water), and then discovered that they had those cheese roll things! Daniel ordered that and a Coke. We all sat around, Daniel politely sharing his food, the rest of us like a bunch of dive bombers into the little paper tray. I chugged that agua com gaís pretty fast, then decided to go take another picture of The Christ ruling over Rio.

I also spent time taking pictures of other people with their cameras. There were a bunch of Australians there, and I did shots of 3 different Aussie couples.

The others were ready to go, and sent Daniel looking for me. "We're ready to go," he said "Are you?"

"Sure. I don't think the view is gonna change."

We saw a bunch of people heading for the tram station, so we hustled as fast as we could to beat them there without looking like we were trying to beat them there. That's called "manners."

Once inside, I took this shot of the group despite their protests. They all warned me that if we missed that tram they would kill me. Amazing they can look so pleasant and yet be so threatening.

We made the car without any trouble. But there was a counter that told how many could get on, and it was ticking madly toward the limit. And a few extra I noted, to my chagrin.

In order to divert herself, Jean began listening in on other conversations. There were enough English speakers there to have a little field day, and get her internal radio working again. She noticed a young American guy wearing an Ole Miss hat. He was with an Australian guy. Once we had gotten to the first station, she knew enough about him to say to him on the way out, "Are you from Mississippi?"

"Yes ma'am!" he said politely and enthusiastically. "How did you know?"

"Well first, your accent. And you have "Rebels" on the back of your hat. It was kind of a no-brainer."

This brought on an advanced session of the "Do You Know? Game". I believe he did know one of the Lee twins from Ole Miss, and had a bunch of friends that live in Mountain Brook that would know Frank's friends from there. Ahh. Satisfying. That's one of the beauties of being from the South. You can play "the game" for less than five minutes and have three connections. But to play it on level one of the Sugarloaf Experience was just pretty bizarre.

While they worked on the Rebel connections tapestry, I shot a couple of pictures of the gears and a beautiful hybiscus.

It turns out that the guy was here in Brazil on kind of an exploration trip. He had been to Argentina looking to buy property to set up a winery/fine restaurant/lodge and hunting deal for executives and jet setters. Being from the South, he was completely familiar with the hunting part. Having money, which he obviously did, would give him an edge with clientele.

He was with an Australian guy he had met at one of the hostels he had stayed in. So he was possibly short on money. But he was used to it, you could tell. Maybe just had a pedigree and not so much money now. I don't know, but I kind of doubt it. He wielded the mantle of breeding easily, being pleasant, expansive, attentive to the girls and Patricia in particular, and willing to spend a little time with some fellow Southerners. His Aussie companion was also pleasant, but seemed completely disconnected with the conversation, especially when the young guy began to lapse into a definitive Mississippi drawl right before his eyes.

And don't think for a minute that Mama Jean wasn't trying to hook him up with Patricia. He had to promise that he would contact her if he came through Salvador on his travels before she would let him go. The thing is, I believed him when he said that he would.

None of us passed up the bathroom when we landed, and I got a chance to see a little more of what was in the gift shop. I'll be switched if there weren't several statues of Iemanjá on the shelf! I could tell because she was admiring herself in the mirror, and there were shells all around her. But only one who had felt her hot breath on his neck would recognize her with such clarity.

I rushed outside, only glancing at the diorama as I zoomed past. Fortunately, there was Marcelo waiting on us, to break the spell. I jumped in and took off my Crocs immediately, stuffing another water bottle into the side pockets on the door. I had quite a collection of half-drunk bottles going.

"Did you go eat?" I asked him.

"No. I read in the car," he replied.

"Well I know for sure that I'm hungry, and I'm sure the rest of them will be by the time we get back home, so let's go eat, okay? Surely y'all want to eat soon, don't you?" I asked them.

"Duh!" was the response.

"Of course, then," Marcelo said. "There are many good places."

"Well, I want one that will give me some food," I told him. "But it can't be too fancy if we're not going home to change."

"I know a place," he assured me.

I relaxed, knowing that my newly interested belly was gonna get some attention.

As we headed over the bridge to Niterói and passed one of the impotent cranes, I had a sudden revival of my earlier laughing fit. But only enough to wake me up a little. Not a full blown attack.

The way home (and yes, Mirante de São Francisco felt like home, especially now that D&P were there with us) had become familiar, and there were several ways to get there ultimately, but they were all scenic. Once you had crossed under the toll booths, the roads began to feel narrower and more random than in Rio proper. Sometimes we'd go by the Niedermeyer-designed art museum, other times not. I guess it depended on whatever mood Marcelo was in.

We drove along restaurant row, passing Paludo, and Porcão, which prompted Marcelo to remark, "There you can eat when you have time and want it to be very nice. When you eat there, it is a party." We all took note that Porcão was at the top of the food chain.

"La Verdanna," Marcelo said, as he pulled into the portico. "Ees very good. Meats brought to your table."

That was all any of us wanted to hear as we began to pile out. "You're going to eat with us, aren't you?" I asked.

"Yes, thank you," Marcelo replied.

Jean loves having that ole picture made, doesn't she?

La Verdanna was one of those places where the servers come by with skewers of all kinds of different meat. You are given a little card that has a green side reading "Sim" and a red side reading "Não". If the green side is up, the guys keep coming by.

I think Marcelo knew some people there, because they seemed to buzz around us extra. Right out of the chute they came up with sausage on a skewer, filet, filet with garlic, roasted bananas, manioc flour, lobster puffs, French fries (Daniel got some), and three or four other things. I was saying "Sim" to everything, and before long, had a plateful of stuff.

They also brought out chicken hearts stacked neatly on a skewer. They really did look like little hearts. Daniel ate half the ones in the restaurant in addition to everything else they brought by. He was a marvelous, magical eating machine!  Oddly enough, I was already starting to get a little full from the rapid onslaught of skewer-to-plate-to-mouth that hits you the second you sit down, and the thought of the coraçãoes da frango kind of reminded me of stomach surfing in Salvador. So I politely flashed a "Não."

Marcelo said "Don't forget to try the food over there," pointing to an elaborate buffet like the one at Paludo.

"Whaa??" I asked. "Is that included?"

"Yes," he said. "Ees very good."

I took his picture as a reward for this information.

Look at that noble face! A native Niteróian, just like Sergio Mendes! What's not to love? Right in the middle of my waxing philosophic about Marcelo and his importance, he interrupted with "What about my image rights for the picture? Are you going to pay me image rights?" I responded with a big laugh, and then another picture. This time Daniel sniffed out the camera, joining the exclusive club that Robo and I are members of.

Looks like one of them gol-durned Jonas Brothers, doesn't he? If he didn't have that zit, he could be a star.

This next shot is funny, especially if you know Pettus. Every now and then she gets this look, especially if Robo is hammering her with some kind of information. I never have been able to tell if she is actually taking anything in, or is just mentally going, "La la la la la la la la."

Despite the mass of food, we all decided to share a dessert. And managed to eat it all.

We headed out, all about to bust. I obrigado'ed the shit out of everybody, and so did Jean. "It's obrigadA," I told her on the way out. "You said obrigadO."

"Yeah?" she answered.

"Well, I'm so much cooler than you."

"Yeah?" she answered.

I responded by making them line up for a picture.

And then, just to make sure I wasn't a total idiot about my hatred of flash, one with the flash.
I am right to hate it. And so is Pettus.

The valet pulled up with Marcelo's car, and we all wedged ourselves in and headed home, which was by now a familiar thing.

When we were getting out of the car, Jean asked Marcelo, "Can you take us out tomorrow?" expecting an answer of "Yes, but you must call Sylvia."

"No, I can't," Marcelo said. "I have someone else I have to pick up." Inside my head, I heard the sound of screeching brakes.

"WHAT?" I blurted out? "What do you mean 'have someone else to pick up'?"

"Yes, I'm sorry," Marcelo said.

"Well what will we do?" I pleaded.

"There are a lot of cabs, and the ferry is good to get to Rio," he said.

"We'll try that," the others said.

"Okay then," I pouted. "I hope you have a great time with your new little friends."

Marcelo laughed and said, "You will be fine. I will see you the next day."

"You better," we all said, getting the gate code right the first time and trudging in to watch Brazilian TV and plan the next day without The Man.

This day looked like it had fang marks on it already due to Marcelo's having to take somebody else and leaving us to our own and Sylvia's devices. Sob. Jean and Pettus had investigated the ferries thoroughly, and had originally wanted to take the fast boat from the station that Oscar Niemeyer had designed. But it was closed. Oh really? Closed? You don't say!

They found out that the big ferry leaves every twenty minutes from the station on the bay in downtown Niterói. From the station in Rio we could get a cab, or try the metro, or any number of things. Oh joy! It sounded so organized. Actually, I didn't give a rip what happened as long as I didn't have to plan it, and could just sit around with my churren and watch Brazilian music videos and rag on things and cut the fool together. It was so easy to make Patricia laugh, which doubled the fun. Dry, understated Daniel and rip-roarin' cousin Ben would gang up on her for lengthy hilarity-fests. My favorite new imitation was the host of Brazilian Covernation's "muthafuckkah!"

We had finally eaten all of the chocolate cake, so Maria had baked a scrumptious pound cake to take its place. She had also gotten a feel on our eating needs, and cooked the requisite amount of bacon, loaded Pettus with cheese ball things, especially with D & P on board, and had cooked the fried eggs to perfection. We didn't see much of Robson. I think he sat out on the deck and sang most of the time.

After breakfast, Jean got on the phone with Sylvia to get us transportation to the ferry station.
We also didn't realize how much we had it made with Marcelo, because we all fit in his car together. This time, we were gonna have to get two cabs. Sylvia assured us that they would know what to do: take us to the ferry station. That was fine, because each car would have the advantage of a slightly used Cerqueira Translating Device aboard. We thought.

Jean was still getting her stuff together, and given the size of her MawMaw purse and the stuff she puts in it, that can be a considerable amount of time. The first cab was already there, and before we knew it, Robo, Pettus, Daniel and Patricia had taken off in it. Holy shit! What were we gonna do?
Call Sylvia and ask if she was sure she got two cabs, and where was the other cab if that were so. She assured us that everything was fine. The "tax" would be there any minute. He had had a problem. Sure. Likely story, we thought.

We were standing by the door with all our stuff together, when we heard a honk outside. Well that's good. Stage one is complete. We headed out to the car to greet a grizzled little Brazilian guy with a cigarette stub in his teeth and a mole the size of a cherry on his cheek. He graciously opened the door for Jean, and I got in the front. "We want to go to the ferry station," I told him, feeling sure he didn't speak English. He didn't. He just looked at me, smiled and spewed Portuguese from around the cigarette stub, did a quickie three-point turn, honked at the guard, and roared off down the street.

"Sylvia called you for us?" Jean asked from the back seat.

"Sylvia," he said. That was all.

He had no trouble finding his way back out, and we were on the main boulevard by the McDonald's presently. He took a right. That was good. He was on roads I knew. That was good. Then he took a turn I wasn't familiar with. And started whistling. Not just "whistling," but making beautiful bird-like tones in a melody that wasn't really a melody, but was beautiful nevertheless.

It began to have shadings of some kind of noir film, where the hideous kidnapper has the hidden depth to possess a talent such as singing or knitting, that will bring tears to the eyes. Naah. He knew where he was supposed to be going. Didn't he? Jean and I looked at each other like, "WTF?"

"One of the kids is gonna be in each taxi from now on," Jean said firmly from the back seat,  clutching that big purse like the grandmother in Flannery O'Connor's chilling "A Good Man is Hard to Find." I nodded dumbly. The beautiful whistling continued. Possibly the cigarette butt was acting as a reed of sorts. It was all so bizarre and unsettling enough for me to only glance at the beautiful downtown buildings before we rounded a corner and came to a halt at the curb of the ferry terminal.

Jean and I both exhaled with joy and began blurting our obrigadoes to the driver. He smiled broadly, shook my hand as I gave him the money Jean shoved at me, got in his cab and didn't roar off like I expected. He kind of hunched off. The car lurched repeatedly as he made his way down the road and out of sight. Jean and I looked at each other quizzically, and both said, "Maybe Sylvia wasn't kidding."

We turned toward the ticket booth, still not seeing the others. There was nothing else to do but get tickets. Surely they hadn't taken the ferry without us. Naaaah.  Naaaah???

Naaaah! There they were! We rushed up to them and Jean spouted her previous "last words" verbatim to everybody. "We were scared shitless!" we said in unison. "I thought we were gonna be fuckin' KIDNAPPED!" I shouted quietly, loving to drop the F-bomb around D & P. The hyperbole was just an extra fun way to illustrate a point.

And here was the ferry! We all got on together, finding seats with no problem. It was a big, modern thing, with a refreshment counter in the center, airplane-like seats with way more leg room, and big, clean windows. I wondered at the food amenities aboard, knowing this was a short little hop. But after gradually getting the picture that just because we were on vacation didn't mean everybody else was, I realized that if you did this every day going to and from work, the snack counter may be just what you would need.

We got seated easily, me next to a cute Brazilian girl with sexy high heels on. In my relief at not being currently held for ransom, I began to gush to her about my standard topics: the beauty of Brazil, the beauty of Brazilian women, and the sexiness of her shoes. She was very nice, and spoke enough English, when combined with my Spaniguese, to have a brief exchange.

When the ferry landed (quickly, I thought), we headed up the gangplank with the masses like people coming onto Ellis Island. Once we were out there, what did we do?

Get two cabs.

Where were we going to go?

The art museum?

Okay.

So Patricia directed one, and Daniel the other cab driver to the art museum in downtown Rio.
Our driver was faster than the other one, because he let us off, took the money, and screeched off before we could catch our breath. We turned around to look at the big modern concrete structure. There wasn't a soul in sight. If there had been tumbleweeds in Rio, they would have been blowing. Just then, the other cab pulled up.

The others got out, and paid their guy before we could stop them.

"This place may be closed," we told them as they came over to join us.

"Great. Well, let's go in here. There's a guy in here," somebody said.

We went through the double glass doors into a small lobby decorated with some great sculpture from the collection and a guard behind the desk. This was a real guard, with a uniform and everything. Patricia began the discourse, finding out quickly that the place was closed.

Since the museum was out, we decided to go on to the marina early. The afternoon's activities were the only thing planned, as we had decided to take a bay cruise on one of the public boats at 30 bucks each. A private excursion would have cost the 6 of us over 1400 dollars, according to Sylvia, so a public cruise it was. We needed to get to the marina. "Ask him if we can walk to the marina," Pettus said. "We can just go on there. Surely there's stuff we can do. And we can find out about the boat."

Patricia laid her delicious Portuguese on the guy, a large, dark man. He replied in emphatic tones, causing her to back up slightly as he spoke to her. She returned something shyly to him, then led us out the door. The guy half-smiled as I threw an obrigado over my shoulder.

When we got outside, Patricia said, "He told me that we would be unwise to try to walk to the marina. And I mean, he said it in terms like, in English would be 'you guys would be F-in' idiots to walk to the marina.' I think he meant it."

"Really?" Pettus was almost incredulous.

"He wasn't kidding," Patricia continued. "He said they'll pull a knife on you."

"Well I ain't walkin' to no marina anyway," I stated. "Don't tell me you're gonna have to call Sylvia to get us a tax."

"The guy said there were some down the street somewhere," Patricia said.

I was loving the idea of wandering around looking for a gol-durned "tax". Just loving it. I clutched my camera so tightly that I almost absorbed it. But fortunately, we saw a gaggle of cabs down the street a ways, and began a beeline toward them. I had the rotating head on high as we sped down the street. We passed some incredibly beautiful and exotic flowers growing from some trees, but I dared not take a picture. Besides, I was going to need surgery to remove the camera from my abdomen.

We were fortunate enough to find a cab van which accommodated Daniel in the very back with the propane tank. Nobody cared. We wanted to go to the marina. Before we all piled in the giant yellow cab/van, I took this shot of a cool tree. Things were looking up.

With Patricia's expert Portuguese, we managed to convey where we wanted to go to the driver. He took off fast, slinging gravel as he went. It seemed to say to the other cabbies hanging around there, "So long, losers! I've got me a REAL fare!"

We drove for a good long way before even coming close to the marina, which made us wonder who thought we'd be able to walk there, with or without the threat of knives. The driver pulled into the parking lot and straight up to a gate where he did the thumb thing, yelled a few sassy one-liners back and forth with the gate guys and drove straight through as it opened seemingly on his command. He's been here before, I thought.

All I cared about was seeing some people. That must sound like crazy talk from the guy who just told you he hated crowds. I was just talking about some kind of life in general. Nothing that would get in my way, maybe just an ambient crowd to show that the earth was still on its axis. We had yet to see any sunshine in Rio, and the grey skies along with the empty stores and attractions had taken on entirely too much of an apocalyptic sheen. It was downright depressing.

When we got out of the cab, I noticed that the marina was not exactly teeming with humanoids. The first thing we needed to do was find the office for the boat trip. This was one of those big party schooners that holds about 30 people, and takes a fun, music and beer-filled cruise around the bay. It cost 30 bucks American per person, so we decided to try it. It's not like it was going to be packed.

That is such an understatement. We were the only people who signed up for the 2:00 sailing. I'm sure the captain and mate were sitting in the office going "SHIT! We almost got us a bye!" But maybe not. They could have been glad anybody showed up at all, being as they were getting 360 Reais from us to be split by them. It's not like it was that expensive for them to run the thing. As a matter of fact, it was probably easy money for them. We had checked in at 1:15, and the guys told Jean and Robo for us to check back about 1:45 or so for the trip.

What were we gonna do? There was a cafe, but it was closed. The Marina Restaurant, however, was not. We decided to go in and check it out, not necessarily to eat, but maybe get a snack or something. This place was where the nautical elite of Rio eat, obviously, given the old wood walls, low ceiling, pleasantly deferential waiters in black and white, artwork and antique sailing gew gaws aplenty. The prices were absurdly high for eating, but there WAS a nice little cozy bar right to the left, with a very nice, competent bartender at the helm.

There was so much more to see from the Bay than I had expected. Besides the plethora of flotsam and jetsam, the buildings took on a more spectacular appearance when viewed from the water. We came up on a beautiful mint green structure that looked more like a fairytale castle than anything else. It was in actuality another museum, but had before that been the last government building in use before Brazil became a republic.

With all the naval accessories and cranes in the background, the magic wasn't as visible. But a good tight shot makes a world of difference.

So does a different angle.

After we had worn out our welcome at The Crystal Palace, and Jean had bought a souvenir demitasse set for her boss' sister-in-law, Marcelo suggested we go look at Alberto Santos-Dumont's little house.
WHO?
Alberto Santos-Dumont, the father of aviation, that's who.

"Whoa now, what about the Wright brothers?" you protest.

Well, I'm sorry to tell you, there are a bunch of historians and how-ever-many-billion Brazilians that will tell you differently. According to studies, the Wrights never documented the Kitty Hawk thing properly when asked to. Dumont has witnesses that saw his little box plane, called the 14bis, launch, fly and land, all unaided. The skeptics say that the Wrights didn't launch unaided.

Whatever. Marcelo let us off to walk up the tiny narrow stairs to the little house. Smashed against the wall was a vendor selling souvenirs and postcards. Robo told me how he always wanted to take a trip and only snap closeup pictures of the postcards instead of buying them, then passing the pictures off as his own. It sounded good to me.

There was a slight glare on the plastic, but it's a valid idea, I'll have to say. The guy running the booth looked at me like I was an idiot cheapskate, so I hit him with an "obrigado" and tried to zoom up the little steps after Robo, but tripped on one of the uneven and unusually tall risers on the way up.

Dumont's hideaway was indeed tiny, and looked like a dollhouse. He was extremely superstitious, and thought that each journey should start on the right foot. Therefore, the stairs in his house were all half-runged, and started with the right half. I can see OSHA's reaction to something like this.

His house was nothing more than one room with a loft. There was no kitchen, because he always ordered from the hotel across the street (which is now the Catholic University of Petrópolis). His bed doubled as his storage, and it was painfully short--about 5 feet 3 inches. Dumont was a short man. There was a tiny little bathroom with hot water rigged up in there somehow, and a giant jug above the toilet for ease of flushing.

The house looks like something in Disney World, doesn't it? Robo is walking into the loft from the upper yard, which was beautifully landscaped to further hide and beautify the house.

Fun! Interesting! What's next?

The navigation of the narrow stairs back to Marcelo's car. We were either going to the museum or the cathedral, depending on which was open first. I got a nice shot of the Catholic University, former hotel and food dispensary for Alberto Santos-Dumont.

The cathedral wasn't open yet, and we weren't ready for lunch, so Marcelo suggested we go to the  Imperial Museum, which was the former summer home of Dom Pedro II. He pointed out the group of horse-drawn carriages parked in front and said, "I was the driver for Amazing Race Brazil a few years ago."

"What?" Jean and I exclaimed.

"You know the show?" Marcelo asked, eyebrows almost to the ceiling.

"We LOVE that show!" we said in unison. "You got to be involved?"

"Yes. The people had to get in the carriages and do something. I drove the camera people  and the producers here. It was very interesting and fun."

"How totally cool!" I said, like I was talking to Phil Keoghan himself.
 
We pulled into the gate for Marcelo to let us out into the light rain.

"Are you coming?" I asked.

"No," he said. "You will enjoy it. Ees very good."

I had finally figured out that Marcelo had probably seen the sights enough to suit him, and why pay the admission fee to see them again?

The Palace was a beautiful Bermuda pink color with white accents. It was big and impressive, but not any larger than some regular old private mansions. It was, after all, just a summer home. Beyond the big wrought iron gate was a lush garden filled with myriad varieties of exotic plants cultivated by DPII himself. Marcelo said the whole family were avid gardeners. The green space provided a stunning view from the front, and privacy from the curious citizens that may want a peek.

Here's a nice shot of the Palace I found on Wiki.

It had started to rain as we walked up the long driveway to the house. Tender hothouse flower Robo covered up immediately with Jean's help.

Can you see the raindrops on my lens? I put that camera through its paces, but I want it to be safe.

The porte cochére was pretty, and looked like something at a Southern country club. I like this shot of P,D&J. It looks like some kind of album cover. What sort of band would it be? Daniel as lead singer with Pettus and Jean on backup? I think it could sell!

Jean had read that you put on these oversized slippers with buffers on the bottom of them in order for you to be able to walk on the floor. I was looking forward to that, since I like the slidey feel of being in my sock feet. As we got our shoes, I started to take a picture of Jean's feet in them. The guy at the front zoomed in to stop me immediately. "No pictures," he said, not in an unfriendly tone, but matter of fact.

"I just want to take a picture of the shoes," I protested.

"No pictures, please," the guy repeated. "You will leave your camera inside."

"Oh, all right," I pouted, putting it aside and skulking to the counter where they would take it and put it in a locker. They wanted everything we had: umbrellas, cameras, the MawMaw purse. . .EVERYTHING. I wondered how the purse was gonna fit in the locker, but they managed, once one docent got behind the other to help her shove it in.

The foyer was grand and lovely, with doors opening to both of the first rooms in each wing. We shuffled down the hall to the dining room, which had the dinner table set with the finest china. It was beautiful and elegant, but once again, not any larger than many dining rooms I had seen. It was then that we all heard a strange noise and turned to each other to ask what it was. We promptly found out. Beyond the plexiglas that blocked the door, there was a mechanical thing, about the size of a sofa lamp, topped with a little video screen that played jerky, intermittent images of faces. The robot thing clicked and whirred, moving in stereotypical fashion, though it was rooted to the ground.

None of us got it at first. What the hell was going on? Was it a security camera of some kind? We then read the sign on the wall. This was just one of the installations by emerging, or prominent, or student artists designed just for the Imperial Museum. This robot thing was supposed to represent the servants that habited the palace, and how their slavery and/or servitude reduced them to their mechanical roots. The ever-changing faces were self-explanatory. I've gotta say, they started off with a bang as far as installations go, because the rest of them sucked, and were contrived and pretty stupid. And don't tell me I don't understand "statement" art, because I do. All too well, sometimes.

We skated to the next room, which was the Empress' sewing parlor. She was fond of needlework, and would entertain ladies for hours as they sewed and gossiped. The feminine room was populated by about 8 matching chairs with tapestry covers. There were small tables all around, with the centerpiece being Her Highness' sewing kit made out of all kind of weird imported ivory and stuff.

The art installation gag in this room nearly made us do just that: gag. It consisted of a gigantic pink intestine-looking thing that wormed its way through the chairs and around the room. The card said that it represented the thread that sewing provided to these ladies. Bah! It looked like an attempt to pull a Cristo in a tiny space by wrapping and decorating it. But it lacked the enormous scale and effort of a Cristo, and came off as distracting and stupid. I was in full gear and riding my aesthetic high horse proudly by this time. Daniel and Patricia and I had managed to end up in a clump together, so I entertained them with my hyperbolic criticisms and creative use of cuss words.

We had gotten separated from the others because Daniel and I decided to go find the bathroom, which was not in the house (duh). We had to shuffle across the floor, leave our overshoes, and head down stone steps into the garden to find it. The roof was very low, and it was still raining, so Daniel and I were ducking under the eaves to find our sanitário. I had turned around to say something clever to him when I ran right into a beam hanging under the eave. "Sheisskopf!" I shouted.

"What?" Daniel laughed, probably most at the injury.

"Sheisskopf," I said. "It means 'shit head' in German."

"I'll have to remember that," Daniel said. And he will, too. It's probably already part of his vernacular. He latched onto "surreptitious" the first time I said it. It became our code word. But now, "sheisskopf" was coming up fast.

We found most of the others and continued rambling through the museum. The music room was on the end of the right wing, being a late addition, as a birthday present to DPII. The instruments were exquisite, including a gold harp that begged to be played. DPII and his family were all music lovers and many of them accomplished musicians themselves. The installation in this room involved giant backlit photos of a favela put over all the windows. The artist stated that, rather than see the beautiful garden of the rich when one looked out the room, he would see the pitiful poverty of a favela. It was kind of neat, and looked very strange when we first peered into the room.

This was when we started spotting the family portraits. Woo! These were some dog-ugly folks! And portraiture is supposed to be flattering. I'd hate to see what they really looked like. D,P& I had a blast running the royals down. I was riding a different high horse at this time: the superior saddle of the unrich and unwashed looking down on the cushy lifestyle of the royals.
Of course, it's nothing but an elaborate ruse to cover some serious sour grapes, but who cares? It's so much fun! By the time we had gotten out of the place and met Marcelo, I was blasting him with a diatribe that was just this side of communist. I assured him that I was no communist, and that I work my ass off, and that capitalism is the best, but I still couldn't reconcile the favelas, or poverty in general, and can't to this day.

We passed one of the formal sitting rooms, by now looking for the art gag first. Here we were met by a little sand castle sitting like a dog turd on a gorgeous rug. We all did a double take at first, then read the sign. It was some tripe about the temporary nature of sand castles, and just because you are so powerful, everything eventually deteriorates. I wondered how much of a grant these artists had received.

The crown jewels were appropriately impressive, and served to rev me up like a proletarian chainsaw. There was a jewelry box that Robo was fascinated with, marveling at how it got across the sea without being broken, due to its incredible delicacy.

Dom Pedro's study was nice, but the most impressive item was on the desk: the first telephone in Brazil, installed by DPII after he had seen Edison's display at the International Exposition of 1876. He couldn't call many places. Well, one, actually. The lines ran only to his farm on the outside of town.

The upstairs featured a plethora of bedrooms with stupid art displays in them. The beds were all hugely austere and uncomfortable looking, and in the nursery, the two massive wood cribs looked like either one would comfortably house Rosemary's baby. Cree-PEE!

On this floor, in a location that looked more like an afterthought, was a tiny little chapel, filled with religious artifacts. If people could get to heaven from an inventory like this one had, DP and Co. would be sitting at the Right Hand of the Father. Well, NEXT TO the Right Hand of the Father. I began a schtick about DP coming up there after having beaten or killed a servant, and how he would duck into the little chapel, give a little "Oops!" prayer and be good for the rest of the day. I'm sure he was a benevolent man, but he was the only one around to pick on at the time.

As we all headed back down the stairs, we were almost garroted by a bunch of strings that ran from the upstairs ceiling down through the stairwell. This near-lethal display represented the streams of light that come in the upstairs windows and spill down the stairs. Oh yeah.

In the diplomatic dining room, there were massive, ornate sideboards on each end of the room, and a plain but beautiful table about 20 feet long, with 20 or so chairs around it. Looking at the ceiling above the table was a giant image of the table and chairs as if reflected from a giant mirror. I don't think the artist could even bullshit his way through this one.

In the serving pantry, we were met with shelves of serving pieces and odd, weird pieces of furniture with no apparent function. When we walked in, we kept hearing a tiny chorus of high pitched electronic chimes, to discover that there were little speakers placed all around the room, each one emitting a sound at a different interval. This was in conjunction with some blinking Christmas lights, also strewn haphazardly around. FASCINATING! I think this represented the servants again, as their lives were run by the various bells rung by the royals.

"Oh! I see what's making the noise," Robo said suddenly, picking up one of the speakers. Daniel, Patricia and I were still gawking at the absurdity. Suddenly the chiming stopped. Robo had obviously shorted out the music circuit. He carefully placed the speaker back down on the cabinet, and we gigglingly headed out the door, where we met Pettus and Jean.

They were about burned out on the place, so we began to peek quickly in the remaining rooms. They insisted on my looking at one of the royal portraits in one room closely. The woman looked like she had a harelip. But not really. But kind of. Did she?

One of the sitting rooms across the hall was nice, but like the girls said, an overload of elegant antique furnishings will wear you out, so I can't describe the room much or what it was for, but I do remember Robo and me laughing at the art gag: four pots of white flowers that looked artificial but harmless, until all the flowers would begin to rotate furiously in the pots for about 10 seconds, then stop. Cool. Arty. Meaningful. WTF??

On that note, we headed to the locker room to get our stuff and glided to the front door. We doffed our overshoes, gave a round of obrigadoes, and met Marcelo, who was outside waiting on us. He pointed out that there was a little refreshment place inside the garages that housed DP's carriages.

This was for royal occasions. I could imagine the ambivalent feelings of the people as the royals paraded through the streets of Petrópolis. Given that there were so many upper class living there, I'm sure they didn't receive anything more than public platitudes. . .until they screwed up.

The everyday carriage was really nice. And they also had the engine of the Leopodina on a section of track next to the refreshment center. The train was named after Dom Pedro II's second daughter, and once ran a vital route.

I sent this picture to Marcelo with what I Babel Fished as "I hope this train doesn't start to move." It's surely wrong. When you feed it back in to check it, it sure as hell doesn't say that.

Of course, Daniel got something to eat at the snack bar, then we headed out into the spitting rain to the car, bypassing the magnetic pull of the souvenir booths at the entrance. It was time to see the cathedral. 

We piled into Marcelo's car, still hee-hawing about the facially challenged royals. In retrospect, I feel kind of like a stupid American turd for my ridicule at their expense, particularly after learning more about them and how they contributed so much to their beloved Brazil. Ennnhhhh. They're dead. And I'm in the "no prize" category myself, so it gives me license to laugh WITH them. Well. Vanquished that guilt quite neatly, eh?

I don't know if Marcelo was offended at me dogging his predecessors. I tried to put myself in his place by imagining a Brazilian goofball coming here and ripping on the likes of Mary Todd Lincoln (dog) or Martha Washington (clock-stopper), but it just couldn't conjure up any indignation. Alas, our forebears usually don't look like Laura Linney as Abigail Adams.

Everything in Petrópolis was pretty close together, so the trip from the museum to the cathedral took only a couple of minutes. On the way over, Marcelo pointed out one of the flamboyants that grow all over the country. This one was a brilliant yellow color, but they range into the bright reds as well, depending on the variety. Poinciana is in the same family. With the German-style house in the foreground, this certainly looks like anywhere but Brazil.

After a couple more turns, we entered the circle that housed the Catedral de São Pedro de Alcântara. This gorgeous structure was commissioned in 1843 by DPII upon the founding of Petrópolis. Work stalled on the project for years due to financial and other setbacks, and it didn't finally open until 1929. The actual completion of the cathedral wasn't until 1969. 1969?? That's so "modern!" This place looks like something from 18th century France.

Once again, I fail to realize that Brazil is one of the Americas, and we're mighty young over here compared to all the oldsters in Europe.

Dom Pedro II and his beloved Teresa lie in state here since their relocation in 1939. After the royals were allowed back into Brazil in 1922, they brought DPII and Teresa home, but didn't bury them in the cathedral until 1939. Their daughter Isabel and her husband Count d'Eu are buried behind them, to their left and right. The chapel is beautiful, with incredible stained glass and a bunch of DPII's favorite relics--many from the famous martyrs.

I guess the Count didn't totally piss everybody off, because there he is, right next to his in-laws, like he never did anything wrong. Oh. I think that's the point.

There was a really neat statue of St. Anthony holding a poor child that prompted the hyper-reverent Robo to create a great photo gag for me. He seems to be immune to any kind of retribution from goddesses, saints and the like. What is it?

There were people inside doing something. I couldn't tell if it was a service or not. Maybe a tour of some kind.

Beautiful! What's next? A picture of my international family. Robo looks like he's feeling a little stricken again. St. Anthony? Is that you? Jean looks great wearing one of my pairs of Crocs.

On the way to the car, Marcelo pointed out a nice shot of the cathedral through the trees.

I countered with an equally beautiful shot of a pair of teal panties stuffed amongst the decorative stonework. I pointed it out to Marcelo, and asked him what kind of people attended mass here. Or were the sermons THAT fiery?

We were hungry. Marcelo didn't know of anywhere particular to eat, so we kind of cruised around till we came back to the parking lot that led to Dumont's house. Across from it was a row of "shoppes" and a restaurant through a courtyard that looked promising.

I can't remember the name of the place, but it was situated in an old house that gave it a good old country cooking meat-and-three appeal. The tiled back porch had been converted into a bar on one end, and a serving line that began on the other and ran the width of the house. There was a buffet set out that had been picked through pretty well, especially considering our late arrival. No matter. It looked fine, and if we spent all our time driving around looking for food, there was a chance we'd miss it altogether.

We lined up and found that there was all kinds of stuff to eat, and the hairnetted replenishment girl was right behind us with a panful of chicken thighs. Jean found her favorite thing in the line: hard-boiled pickled quail eggs. She went apeshit for those, while Daniel and Patricia ate french fries, black beans and rice, and any other starch in the area.

We got our plates and wormed our way into the middle room crammed with long tables and small wooden chairs, me having to turn sideways and let out half of my air to be able to squeeze by. A quickie dash for either fresh food being put out or the sanitário would have been out of the question, being as it would involve about twenty "licença"s waiting on the other sprawling diners to scoot up for you.

Robo was miserable, and spent most of the lunch sneezing and blowing his nose. I've never seen quite a look like the one on Daniel's face. It reminds me of the expression on Frederic March's face as he begins the change from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde; Pettus looks like she's wiping off some extraneous spray of some kind.

It was time to find the sanitário and split. The bathrooms were right next to the bar. And I mean RIGHT NEXT TO. Like, you could hear the blender in the bathroom, and I'm sure some sort of vice-versa would be applied as well.

The back porch had a small table with free coffee cuplets, and some sort of sweet thing that was weird. I got me a tiny coffee and headed out the door to the courtyard, which was ringed with shops, some "upscale" and some real handicrafty. At that moment, everybody behind me began to laugh hysterically. "What?" I asked. "What?"

Apparently, a local Dom Pedro-lovin' pigeon had decided to take an airborne grunt right on my white whale shirt! Wasn't THAT fun? It was the caliber equivalent to a huge goiter on a tiny neck, and I was sure everybody in Petrópolis would notice it. They didn't, but Marcelo certainly did. And told me about it. I have no idea what Petrópolin birds eat, but it goes through them fast and comes out in mass quantities.

I had asked if we could go to some kind of computer store and find me a reader for my flash card. I had stupidly not packed one of the four that I have (three bought under similar circumstances), thinking that I'd never have access to any kind of computer to dump the pictures onto, much less storage to take them home. I didn't take into account: a) the house computer at Mirante de São Francisco, or my iPod, which would neatly store all the pictures I wanted. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

But I was running out of flash card space at an alarming rate, and as we've already seen, I missed a ton of shots already. What a revoltin' predicament! Surely the little metropolis of Petrópolis would have a camera/computer store that would remedy my problem quickly for less than 30 bucks American (allowing a healthy markup rate for "technology").

Petrópolis is an unusual little city in that it has so many faces, and they're all turned in and staring at each other. Start with the outskirts, which blend quickly into little streams, bridges, and neighborhoods that could have been yanked from a high-rent Leave it to Beaver, to a giant cathedral, a palace, and suddenly a little downtown area that consisted of stores lining a horseshoe that began at the bottom of a big hill, ran all the way to the top, then back down again.

The sidewalks were packed with people, who ran the gamut from very light to very dark; very  atttractive to very plain; and very rich to very poor. They had obviously relaxed the standards of elitism that exited in Petrópolis in the early days. The way all the businesses were individually owned and not real "chainy" looking, and with the plethora of department-type stores, it reminded me a lot of downtown Birmingham when I was growing up. Daniel and I were the ones who left the car to scout out the card reader, and we passed many a place that looked just like J.J. Newberry's on 19th Street--sundries for living right there in the front window, and goods piled high on shelves lining both walls and glutting the middle.

I saw three stores on the first visual sweep that had "camera" in the name. It looked very encouraging!

First store. Nothing but digital developing.

Second store. Blank stare.

Third store. A glimmer of hope. Two nerds behind the counter! Computers on stands! But weirdness in that the recordable CDs were in a locked cabinet behind them, and they only had two sleeves of them; everything else was strewn all around the desk. The other cabinets had random things like headphones in them, and other stuff that I certainly didn't need. Daniel told the guys what I was looking for. I held up the card. They conferred excitedly, and then one of them held up a finger while the other guy rummaged through a drawer, bringing out an input bay with a Medusan tangle of cords coming out of it. In the first place, it would have to be hard-wired to the computer. But it also had nothing resembling a card reader, even if we did feel like dismantling Steve's PC and putting it in. They both looked at us, then it, berated each other in fast Portuguese, then threw it back in the drawer. "Não," they finally told Daniel. I got the message.

Marcelo and the rest of them sat patiently in the car for us, but I finally had to give up. It blew my mind how the things that we even have in some gas stations here are nowhere to be found in Brazil. Another thing that contributes to their happiness?

I was bummed out, and starting to panic a little about the flash card situation. Marcelo assured me that we would find something the closer we got to Rio. He was like a parent assuring a child that he wouldn't start the first day of school without a book bag. I had to believe him.

We began the descent back down the mountain. There were spectacular views everywhere, and the fog had lifted enough from the morning to put heavily textured skies front and center in the whole spectacle. Marcelo was amenable to stopping for pictures whenever I asked him to, but I tried not to do it too much as a courtesy to the others. This view forced me to ask him. We were coming up on a hairpin curve that jutted out over the mountain, looking like it was floating above the valley below. Cool. Cool. Cool. Robo, Pettus and I got out. This was one of the cases where I walked up on Robo as he was narrating his footage. I think I said something about there maybe being snakes in the tall grass we were standing in. It gave us both a little jolt, me especially, because I started high steppin' as a reflex.



Woo! Pretty! We passed all the rug, empty vegetable and favelette places on the way down, until we spotted this crazy spaceship thing up the next hill on the right.

"Can we stop?" I asked excitedly.

Everybody agreed, and Marcelo pulled into a parking lot that led to this interesting structure. So this was just a roadside park, eh? Where was the sanitário? Apparently these gents didn't find one either.

This thing was cool as grits! And of course it immediately put us in mind of the Niedermeyer Modern Art Museum in Niterói. But it was just sitting here, overlooking this incredible valley, like something straight from an apocalyptic Jetsons. So very, very neat. I was convinced at this time that Rio had been visited by extraterrestrials more than once. I mean, really. Deny it, okay?

Is this George Jetson's bombed out living room? Of COURSE it is! There was graffiti everywhere, and a busload of obnoxious tourists from what we deemed was Israel, so the idyllic nature was somewhat tainted. On the way back to the car, we encountered a group of locals who were playing ball on the pavement beneath the spaceship. This thing was on a steep hill, with sparse population that met the eye going either direction. So these kids walked however far, up or down a huge hill, and met here to play. They must have been in incredible shape. They were aloof to my uplifted camera and quizzical expression at first, but the longer I stood there and snapped other things, the more they warmed up. Cute. Look for the secret thumb in there. Also a good old peace sign.

We hopped in the car to continue on back to Niterói. The ride back was quieter even than the ride up, which was plenty quiet. Robo, Pettus and Jean dozed in the back seat, with Daniel and Patricia comatose in the backback.

Robo felt bad, bad, bad, but the only effect it had on our time was the decrease in bone dry witticisms from that incredible brain of his.

Marcelo didn't forget me and my card reader, and before we got to the bridge, he pointed out a huge Wal-Mart-like store off of the right service road. We wound our way into the huge parking lot, which looked just like any giant Wal-Mart parking lot in Florida. This chain's name started with an "F," and was something like "Fourier." The logo was a very nicely selected green "F." I can't remember the name, but Marcelo will tell me.

We all went inside except Robo, who said he was gonna lie down in the back seat. The HOT back seat in a stopped car with no air conditioning. Sounded delightful to me, but probably served the purpose for him.

Upon entering the store, there was still nothing to dissuade me that this was just a Wal-Mart in a samba suit. The signage was totally American looking, except for the words on it.  All the departments looked just like they do here, except there was just a slight disconnect with the majority of brands, labels and logos being unfamiliar to me. Immediately to the right was a huge stereo/computer section with a guy at the counter that knew exactly what I needed. He pulled one from behind the glass within a half minute--one of those readers that accepts all the cards, with a price that was surprisingly great, considering the high cost of technology in Brazil. It was about 15 bucks American. Marcelo thought it was such a good deal he got himself one.

I left Jean, Pettus and Marcelo there to get whatever else they needed, and for Jean to try to get money from their ATM and deal in tandem with Marcelo at the Customer Service desk. I had to flee. My goal was to get us several big bottles of agua com gaís for the house, because cocktail hour was a threat to decimate our supply.

The last couple of nights, I had begun a new ritual: tromp down two flights of stairs to the PMS 361 green rumpus room; grab as many limão as I could, stuffing them into my pockets; grab the cachaça and sugar bowl; and finally get the wooden mortar and pestle; get back upstairs as quickly and painlessly as possible; then begin to cut and smash enough limes to make drinks for Jean, Robo and Pettus. Whatever liquor I used, I always topped it with a healthy splash of agua com gaís, making the caipirinha or roska less lethal and longer lasting.

So here I go trotting down the aisles by myself. Patricia and Daniel were in the stereo department looking at stuff, and I felt confident to try the mission solo. Strutting happily in my slue footed gait, my head was like a sprinkler, going left to right and back again, stopping to gape at an unfamiliar product or smile broadly at fellow shoppers. I even threw the thumb in there a couple of times and got one in return with nary a hitch.

I found the drink aisle, which was dominated by the usual American suspects and Brazil's favorite energy drink: Guaraná Antarctica (pronounced "Gwa-RAHN-ah Ont-ARCH-tee-ka"). Guarana is one of those natural energy herbs that has been around for centuries. It was sold in the U.S. as a substitute for speed back in the day, and with today's youth's fixation on rev-me-up drinks, it's a natural. And very popular. I had one on the plane from São Paulo to Salvador. It wanted to taste like a Mountain Dew, but didn't. It was something else. I'm sure you could get used to it easily, though, and spend your days zooming around Brazil.

All well and good, but where the hell was the agua com gaís? Suddenly, a cute Brazilian girl appeared, ignoring the bird shit stain on my white whale shirt, and asked in Portuguese if I needed help. I was bursting with excitement over my card reader, and brimming with love for Brazil and her people. My response was a blinding smile and the words "agua com gaís" and "grande" (pronounced "GRON-gee"). She smiled back at my hapless Americanness and led me over two aisles. There were the waters! But the gaís was another matter. We couldn't find any for the longest time. But she persisted, looking through every bottle there until we found three big ones. The only ones they had. CRAZY. Wal-Mart, but NOT Wal-Mart. Something else entirely. I don't know what in the hell was in those other bottles, but it was certainly not agua com gaís, which is sold in every bodega in Rio, and consumed enthusiastically by all. Curiouser and curiouser.

Jean and them were God-knows-where, so I got in a checkout line with no translator or anything, just like every other outer-Rioan that was there with me. I felt so very powerful, having money in my pocket, recognizing the denominations of the coins (when given time), and knowing that all I had to do was scream "Marcelo" like a girl and he would eventually come and rescue me, after finishing whatever it was he was doing at the time, and walking as slowly as he could, stopping to look at everything on the way.

There was a young couple ahead of me who had a small cartful of stuff. When I appeared behind them, clumsily wielding the three bottles of ACG, they immediately let me in front of them. Wow! Just like in Alabama! I thought surely I could make the transaction speedily and then give them a perfectly pronounced "obrigado" and a smile, leaving with dignity.

Uh, no. "Price check on this Ag-wa com GAis" was what I heard. Somebody in a vest rushed over and she and the checker looked at the water, turning it over and over. The girl in the vest looked at the cashier with an expression that said, "Whatever," and she rang it up. My big plan to rip the money off and hand it to her in exact change was shot to hell after all this. I had crumbled long before, and babbled all kinds of shit to the young couple in my Portuguese-cum-Spaniguese. They were happily accommodating of me and my bird stain. I held out my hand with all the money I had, the checker picked out what she needed, smiled broadly while she sacked my ACGs, and we all had a nice goodbye, me loving Brazilians more than ever at that point. I am so very easy.

I met the others just about as I emerged from the line. When we got to the car, Robo was roasting inside, but at least had a door open with his legs sticking out.

Marcelo managed to find his way out of the labyrinth that was the parking lot. Then the service road, then the bridge. He commented that we had really missed the traffic for some reason. He had been expecting more. All I knew was that I wanted to get home with my new card reader and ACG, make the trek down 2 and up 2, and get the evening going. Food would be whatever it was.

We passed more incredible graffiti. The whole public art concept continued to gnaw at me. This was beautiful. But is it ALL beautiful? Who decides? And who is this guy? I see the word "Mafia." Is that a good thing in Rio? I hate to say it, but he kind of looks like Fred "Rerun" Berry from What's Happenin'?

This was a poignant shot, I thought.

The section of Niterói we were in was characterized by small winding roads with a melange of structures ranging from small houses to restaurants to larger homes hidden by fences and landscaping. Marcelo pointed to the left at a wall topped by an iron fence and backed by lush foliage. "My parents live there," he said.

To me, that was tantamount to taking us home to meet them. I was very flattered. It looked like a nice piece of property, too. Little by little Marcelo had begun to reveal himself. With the information about his sister in Petrópolis and his parents in what appeared to be cushy digs in Niterói, combined with his immense knowledge of history, botany and such, I had figured that he was well brought up, with an appreciation of knowledge, beauty and history. There was nobody better that we could have gotten to shepherd us through Rio. How did we luck into that?

We took route B home, I noticed--the one via beach road that went by Niedermeyer's spaceship--more fantastic juxtaposition. It was a spectacular ride, and as we approached it, Marcelo told us how the mayor had bought all the property opposite the museum years ago, even though there was a ban on building there. A massive, elegant condo development stood there now.

"Ees very funny. This land was to stay as it was. No building. The mayor buys the land, and suddenly there are condos here."

"Well, DUH!" I replied. Here we were, international brothers both being screwed by the elected.

The views of the bay we had sailed the day before were spectacular. I couldn't help but correlate the value of the real estate in Niterói with that in the U.S.--in Destin, for example. I just couldn't comprehend the whole thing.


We passed the Jesuit church of São Lourenço dos Indios on the hill of São Lourenáo. The church was started in 1560 and construction continued for a couple of hundred years afterwards. It is named after another church in Portugal, and if I'm not mistaken, Marcelo told us it is the oldest church in the area.


Before we knew it, we were at the McDonald's. Mirante was only a blink away. We got out, Marcelo getting out as well, like a boy with some good manners.

"Can you take us out tomorrow?" we asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Hoo-HAH!" I exclaimed. "Okay den! I'll see you tomorrow, Marcelo! Thanks for a great day! Honey, y'all are gonna work it all out, okay?" With that, I wriggled into the house after a staggering Robo, dropped the ACG on Steve's lovely hand-made dining room table (which was our "kitchen counter"), threw the bag with the card reader at the computter, and headed down to PMS 361 for cocktail fixins. Daniel and Patricia had decided they wanted McDonald's, and none of us argued a bit. It actually sounded good to me. What a conundrum it all is.

All I cared about was getting my cards emptied and safe. The reader plugged right into the PC. And at that point, Daniel and I both discovered that there were CARD READERS ALREADY ON THE FRONT OF THE PC, with mine FRONT and CENTER! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

I had to take a break, and shoot the last picture on the current card before I made it disgorge all its loveliness into Steve's computer.

We gave our orders to D&P, who were gonna walk down the hill and possibly back up. Fine with us. It was all safe. It wasn't dark yet. Down they went. We cocktailed, and I began to wrestle with the heinous PC operating system, trying to download my pictures with enough confidence to erase a flash card. TOUGH THINKING. Required much agua com gaís and everything under it.

I hate to be a dick, but I HATE PCs. I'm a Mac boy, and have been long enough to know that my hatred is well founded. A task that would have taken 1 minute to set up plus download time on my Mac, suddenly became an "adventure" of window after window with cryptic questions that, if answered incorrectly, could result in massive amounts of calculation time on the computer's behalf, plus the erasure of all digital information in a half mile radius. Robo walked by a couple of times, shook his head and said, "My programmers won't use anything but a Mac."

When Daniel and Patricia got back (via tax--it was too much for them to walk up the hill), we all rushed the bag to get our food out. Suddenly everybody was starving. And, in true form all across the world, THEY SCREWED UP OUR ORDER and I'M THE ONE WHO GOT SCREWED! No matter. I had business to attend to.

I snagged Daniel and made him help me wade through the tangle of PC-speak to get what I needed done. I thought I'd be able to just plug in my iPod and put the pictures there. But NO! My iPod was formatted for Mac, and in order to even smell a PC's out port, it has to be re-formatted for PC. So, basically, I was saying that my pictures were more important than the music on my iPod. No question. The decision was instantly made to reformat. Why was it such an ordeal after that? I don't know. I fogged over again and let Daniel do the big nasty for me.

Tomorrow's itinerary was gonna be aladsasvafbu0u0uasn and probablymaybeseeingtheChrist Botanical gardenswhatever Maybehang glidingforRobo andPettuswhoknewbut at least Marcelo was taking us.

When the Blackberry announced the day, for once it wasn't pure torture. We had come in early the night before and gotten to bed at a decent hour, so I actually jumped out of the rack and turned the thing off before it had gotten through a whole sequence.

Something was different about the light seeping in from behind the blackout curtains. What? THE FIRST SIGHT OF BLUE in Rio! The sky outside the window was riddled with birds, so I snapped a couple of pictures. It was amazing when I first looked at them, because I initially thought it was dirt on my lens.

The pair of birds in the upper right look like a hammerhead shark. Cool.

Sylvia came by right after breakfast to get our laundry and bring us our belated bonus gift: five pairs of Havaianas! The pineapple is so yesterday's news as a sign of welcome. Nothing says "Howdy! Come on in!" to the smart Brazilian like a pair of flip flops.
They were supposed to have been waiting on us when we got there, but weren't, because of their not knowing our sizes. Jean and Pettus wanted to make sure we got everything that came with the house, so stayed on Sylvia about it. It was nice the way she lined them all up behind the sofa in a happy display.

Robo and Pettus asked her again about hang gliding, since it was more clear today. She said she'd check on it and get back to us. In the meantime, Marcelo had pulled up outside. Suddenly, Maria and Robson appeared, gathered up the clothes, and were out the door behind Sylvia's implied shooing motion. We followed.

I have no idea how we had settled on seeing the fort this morning. I think Marcelo had mentioned that it was close and would be a good early outing. We were trying to wait on it to clear up a little more before we went up to see The Christ, and the Botanical Gardens, which was also on our agenda for the day. We found out later that Marcelo leads groups of school kids through the Gardens regularly, and is quite a naturalist. I had already figured that out.

Other than to go to the restaurants, this was the only time we took a left at the McDonald's. The Bay beach road carried us past the Niedermeyer terminal (closed), then the landscape gradually changed to look like Apalachicola, Florida, or something from Destin in the really old days. This was Jurujuba, an old fishing village on Guanabara Bay.

I was about to bust, I was so excited to see The Christ. Ever since I had seen him in pictures, it had been a fascination and a small obsession. This Seventh Wonder of the Modern World combined one of my biggest fears and one of my biggest loves in one awe inspiring package. Pictures taken above the statue's head looking down would bring my acrophobia to the surface every time, but in a strange comfortable way. When I first saw The Christ upon arrival in Rio, all I could do was kind of sigh, the way he overlooked everything. And, yes, he has incredible peripheral vision.

The awesomeness of huge things is another of my passions, and poor little ole Vulcan would have to stand on top of his own head twice before he would reach The Christ, who is 90 feet tall with a 90 foot hand span. The herculean efforts required for something like this make me swell with pride for mankind's attempts to be great.

We decided not to ride the tram up the mountain, but instead have Marcelo take us as far as he could, then we would board a minivan to ride to the top for a small fee. The tram looked really neat, being the train that brought the stuff to the top of Corcovado for the construction of the statue. It went through the dense foliage that hugged the mountain, and was supposed to be a great trip.

Naah. We wanted to get there fast. Upon seeing the tram and the track it took up the mountain, I was kind of sorry we didn't do it. But we were there, and of course Marcelo wasn't coming with us. He drove his car to the top of the hill to wait with the others who weren't making the trip. I'm sure he read his history and science magazines that he kept in the car. Or napped. Probably napped. The magazines were most likely props.

The drop off point was somewhere outside of Santa Teresa, which is pretty high up already. It was teeming with people, but they were kind of just milling around: some official, some not, everyone looking kind of specious. There was a cop asleep in his car while all this loading and unloading went on. We all got in the van, waiting only a couple of minutes for it to fill up with other people. The ride up to the statue was neat, with the continually curving road draped on one side with lush green foliage and perilously seductive on the other, with tiny little Rio peeking through the small trees--the only thing that would keep us from plummeting off of Corcovado should our driver lose control of the van. WHEE!!!

The feel of the urban jungle as we ascended the mountain was strange, because I knew there were hundreds of people all around us, but it appeared that we were the only ones there.

When Carol and family had been to see The Christ previously, there were a multitude of steps to mount. We were fortunate to have arrived at the modernization of holy access. The bad part was now merely a slightly healthy flight of beautiful stone stairs at the bottom which led to a plateau with a couple of elevators up to the next level.

The crowd was big, but not overbearing by any means. We got an elevator rather quickly. This was a weird experience, in that the cars were very narrow and twice as deep, causing us to line up in there kind of like parachute jumpers. Through the green tinted glass, we could see our ascent through the vegetation that opened on another panoramic view. It was as if the elevator had no bottom when you looked straight out the window. Slightly creepy.

Our elevator operator had blonde spikes in his hair, and the look of Johnny Rotten, but he was wearing an official Jesus elevator operator vest, so I figured he was okay. I felt sure that the same rigorous specifications had been applied to this job as those for the security guards around town. When we reached the next level, the door opened behind us, we all turned around and quickly filed out, giving the operator our various versions of "obrigado/a." Instead of telling us to "wank off" or something like that, he smiled broadly and said in stilted English, "Enjoy The Christ." Indeed.
 



Gorgeous. The top tier was achieved by riding a brand spanking new escalator. Jean and I were both thankful. Well, who WOULDN'T be? At the top right under the statue, there was a throng of people milling around excitedly, everybody with cameras, many taking pictures of loved ones or companions by lying on the ground and shooting up to get The Christ in the picture looming protectively over the subject. Like the Kennemers.


Yeah, I lay down on the hot pavement to take this picture. I don't know where the hell Jean was, but my frying back couldn't take any more, so she didn't get the photographic blessing. The views from there were unbelievable--the horse track was a funny counterpoint to The Christ. He didn't look down AT the track, but you knew he could see them anyway.

There was so much hedonism for him to see, with the sexy beaches and all! But I didn't feel one iota of judgment. Not one. This beautiful bug climbing on Christ's granite (natch) base was so pretty and cool and kind of unlikely looking. What would a bug be doing up this high? How long did it take him to get here? Surely he was born here in one of these patches of vegetation. He looked so small and dedicated against the enormous mass of stone, like he was making his own trek of faith old style to see Jesus. May be.

Jean took a good picture of Robo and me, after which I took long shots of The Christ and more of the crowd.


This vertiginous shot looks like the shelf of people is fixing to crash down onto the city below. Shudder.