Patricia had woken up during Daniel’s and my ribald laughter at the floating condoms, but Jean managed to rack through it all. I dragged the kids together for an atmospheric shot with the castle in the background. Just for their Mom! Too bad Daniel has his eyes closed. Maybe I could Photoshop them open.

We plowed through all the trash back toward the marina, passing by one of the airports, and getting to see planes take off over us. That was very cool, except they were both TAM, so I involuntarily flinched each time.

We were back. I don’t know what I had expected at the beginning, but it was great to have that boat to ourselves, regardless of the weather or non-festive conditions. It was relaxing, pretty, and atmospheric. I think we lucked out in this case, considering the crappy foundation of the day.

The harbor was beautiful and placid. Where were the people? I guess clouds drive them inside. We disembarked over the planks, me making sure rack-scar-riddled Jean got across safely. It was time for the sanitário!

There were several interesting signs in the bathroom, all in Portuguese, but I got the drift. In addition to the one about not flushing toilet paper, the one on the wall when you first entered said something like “We know there are drains in the floor, but you are not supposed to pee there regardless of whatever compulsions you may have. The urinals are for you to pee in.” You must admit, my translating skills had really gotten good!

Robo came in behind me, and I reminded him not to use the drains. He appreciated the heads up.

When we came out, there was Jean at an ATM trying to get cash again. This was the third one she had tried that day, having two unsuccessful encounters at the ferry terminal. Still no luck. She decided it was time to call the credit card company. I began to fog over and headed for the exit.

Somebody was hungry. Guess who. Anyone?     Anyone?   Daniel. That’s right. Daniel. We were fortunate to walk two doors down and find a little store with three or four guys hanging around fast talking in the their native tongue. We all got what we wanted, me getting another agua com gaís, Daniel getting whatever food they had in the case.

We had really timed this perfectly, though, because on a little TV with a snowy picture standing in the corner, they were giving the final scores of Samba Carnaval! Of course I was rooting for Tijuca and Grande Rio, being as they were two of the only four I had seen. Everybody agreed that Grande Rio was fantastic, and they were in the top winners, as was Tijuca. The guys had a spirited conversation going that Patricia translated as their discussion of the scores. The Rioans take their Carnaval seriously. Every inhabitant seems to have a school that he roots for, and these guys were pissed off because they thought Beija-Flor was going to win, like they had five out of the last six years.

Which they did. And we JUST MISSED THEM! Arrrrghhhh!

Beija-Flor has been rather controversial with whispered rumors of “too much corporate sponsorship” and the like. Their director and carnavalesco, Laíla (one name) was also in the news frequently. Many loved him, but just as many hated him. I ran across this item about Laíla that I found very interesting. It’s interesting that the “thugs” in the story would be dedicated enough to one school to commit felony. It also amazes me that the “thugs” or any of the macho inhabitants of Rio wouldn’t be casting anti-male slurs against half the costumes. Curiouser and curiouser.

We expressed our condolences to the guys in the bodega about Beija-Flor’s win, then headed to the gate to get a cab.

Robo looks like he’s feeling a little better in this picture.

Jean had her trusty travel books with her in the MawMaw purse, and we set about looking for something to do that would combine food and fun. She zeroed in on an entry about Confeitaria Colombo, a 100+ year old confectionary that is world famous, and a Rio staple. Jean had said two things that interested me: 100+ years and confectionary. That’s like, food, right?  We were all down with it. I took these pictures of a neat bird while we alternately sat on the curb, wandered around, made Patricia laugh, and eyed the other cabbie who was parked several spaces down. He didn’t have enough room for all of us, but knew somebody who did, and he called him for us. But then he just sat there looking at us like “Thanks for screwing me out of the fare, ya’ bastards!” I think Robo tipped him with a finder’s fee, and his attitude cleared right up.

The cab pulled up, knew exactly where we wanted to go, and then proceeded to try to screw us on the fare. But P & D were on top of the matter and alerted us. The guy then came up with some kind of “addendum” to the fare code that we didn’t know about. Rather than argue, we paid him, glad that we were at least in one car. I envisioned Marcelo with his new friends out at Porcão, rattling off things like “nothing is too good for these wonderful people!” and toasting wildly with one hand while he waved a skewer of filet mignon with the other.

Confeitaria Colombo was on a side street, almost like an alley. I guess being as old as it is, things built up around it, sometimes in an unexpected way. There were doors rolled closed all around the place, but being a tourist mecca, and obviously still important to Rioans, it was open.

The impact upon coming in was devastating, like walking into some kind of jewelry box with tiny people in it, and even tinier treats everywhere. The stained glass on the dome ceiling over the balcony was incredible. It reminded me of the glass that the people on The Poseidon Adventure crashed through when the boat turned over. There were gigantic mirrors lining the walls, each framed in hand carved wood. All the swells in Rio and all the royalty made this place a tradition. The hoi polloi is always quick to follow the rich. And the tourists will go wherever they’re told. But this place still held onto enough real atmosphere to make me feel like I was being treated.

We nosed around, looking at all the stuff in the cases, actually too much to take in, then got in line for a table. There was an old lady in front of us who began to bitch up a storm to a maitre d’. He immediately sat her at a table which she quickly deemed unsatisfactory. The last I saw of them, they were deep into the place, she pointing out various tables, many occupied, and screeching in Portuguese. Patricia encapsulated her rant for us: “You are treating me like a beggar.” I began to look at the champagne and get ideas.

We got seated presently, and began to examine the huge menu. Patricia was totally in charge of Jean and me. Daniel was going to eat anything he could. I began to look around at the decor. It was certainly lush, and looked more like something European, but then I suppose it was their influence on the upper class of Rio that was being emulated. The mirrors were stunning, all about twelve feet high with intricate carved wood frames.

And juxtaposed nicely around the room with these antique treasures were a ton of potted poinsettias. Plastic poinsettias. With dust on them. WTF? Surely they were put there to make the less fortunate feel at home. It was somewhat akin to going into Queen Elizabeth’s bathroom and finding a big can of Glade and a book of matches on the toilet seat.

We settled on a melange of flavors, some savory, some sweet. I also ordered a bottle of Califonia Chandon champagne, which was weird. It was more expensive here than in the U.S., but it was a known value, and not that much more given the 2 to 1 nature of the dollar. Robo, meanwhile, seemed to be do
ing bad. Jean offered him the entire array of her apothecary, but he politely declined, having issues that prevent him from taking stuff willy nilly like so many people do. I looked up and he was on the phone. To whom? Doctor? Who knows. He’s such an international sort, there’s no telling.

It took a long time to get our food, but at least we had the champagne to enjoy. D&P got a couple of Cokes. We noticed several tables having a hell of a time getting their checks or paying them, and that didn’t bode well for us. But what would we do? The wait staff seemed to be “confident” enough to let the customers stew in their own juices just long enough to show the upper hand, but not long enough to keep them from coming back.

Didn’t seem to bother Pettus and me. After the champagne, especially. And the food was delicious. The chicken and meat pies were a great complement to the champagne and chocolate that came with it.

While we were waiting on the check, I decided to scout out the bathroom. Duh. The walls were covered with 70s wood paneling and small framed pictures of Old Rio that were fascinating. Once again, there were signs everywhere. A new one to me, which I then saw throughout the rest of the trip, entailed asking you to use both hands to get the towel out of the dispenser. And I don’t mean as a “serving suggestion,” because these messages were taped on there extra.

Maybe they have crappy towel dispensers that don’t go through the rigorous inspection we have in the U.S. Here, you can read the instructions about “both hands” on the dispenser, ignore it, and have it work anyway. The towel dispenser people know that they could be sued if somebody gets a crooked towel, even if they don’t follow the directions printed on the dispenser. It’s a good thing, because stupid people need to live, too!

The toilet stall contained a large lidded garbage can and a fervent plea on the wall to use it. I can’t imagine how old the plumbing may have been, but I CAN see how much fun a sewage backup in this place would be. It might be the only thing that would get the wait staff to step lively.

The whole thing was a real high-tea-style treat, and with the exchange rate, cost about what a breakfast at the Original Pancake House would. Except for the champagne, which was about as expensive there as it is here–about 22 bucks American.

Once outside, I insisted on a picture of the group showcasing one of the famous Brazilian sidewalks. I don’t know how many designs there are in Rio, but they are in other cities as well, such as Manaus, which you will see later.

This picture is perfectly balanced: Jean and the MawMaw purse and Daniel make great bookends for poor sick Estado Coco Robo and his girls.

We decided that since we were downtown, we’d try to find Robo some relief for his sinuses, and Jean wanted to buy whatever over the counter stuff they had that required a prescription in the U.S. She likes to get antibiotics and Lomotil and stuff like that. And as you can see, the purse had room for more!

We got what we wanted at the pharmacy (one of the only things open), and began walking toward the ferry when we saw a real attractive liquor and gourmet foods store open in an old building. It was like walking into the library of some shipping baron: kind of dusty; with beautiful wood walls, floors and counters; and an overwhelming selection of bottles stacked ceiling high, all labeled meticulously, many very pricey. I immediately looked for Meyers’s Rum, but THEY DIDN’T HAVE IT! They DID, however, have a very nice bottle of Appleton Estate Xtra Reserve Black Label, which cost a little more than in the U.S.: about 50 bucks. But I decided to get it anyway, and Jean doesn’t care. She wants me to be happy. Ain’t that sweet?

Once I had made my request known to the man, he pulled over a rolling
ladder and climbed to the rum shelf, all the while looking down at me
quizzically as he pointed to various bottles, until he landed on the
Appleton. I was excited to have anything other than the ubiquitous Barcardi Gold, and Robo was going to be delighted as well once he tasted it. He had been pretty well indoctrinated into the ways of dark rum, lime and club soda, and the Appleton is delicious.

The liquor proprietor and the ladies on the food side were very nice, given our sizable purchases and on-board translators. We needed to haul ass, however, because it was getting dark, and we wanted to get to the ferry. The museum guard’s translated words came back to mind for me, and I’m sure the others as well. I could already feel my duffeled camera trying to burrow into my body, and the bottle of Appleton’s was almost as precious. It’s odd how once dusk hits, people walk faster, more resolutely, looking straight ahead. I was doing all that, except for the straight ahead part. My head was set on “rotate.”

Everything in downtown Rio proper seemed to be in a good proximity to the ferry terminal. We found it easily, especially with Pettus the homing pigeon’s surefire directions. She has an uncanny directional chip in her head that allows her to remember how to get places after going there only once. We tested her more than once, and her rating was over 90%. Simply amazing. I couldn’t find my way out of a pill bottle.

We arrived at the terminal just as the departure clock was ticking down to 3 minutes. Surely we could get tickets in time to make that ferry. Well, not really. Jean got our tickets without any trouble, but Robo and Pettus had all kinds of trouble since D&P were on their bill. The lady managed to give them two tickets and then just stood there. Patricia explained that they needed two more. The lady got the idea and began to process the order, taking Robo’s money. He handed the tickets to D&P, and Jean gave me one. We hurried over to the turnstiles, all marked with a green “x,” and got our passes through. The clock was ticking down to 20 seconds when Jean, Robo and Pettus all tried to get through the turnstiles. They repeatedly put their tickets through the reader, but they were returned every time. The friendly green “x” had been replaced by an uncooperative red one.

There was no way the three of us were gonna take the ferry by ourselves, so we sauntered over to them to chat, kind of like visiting loved ones in prison. They were locked out until the ferry had left. It’s a pretty good system, actually.

Once they got inside, we sat under a fan as much as we could, and Jean tried unsuccessfully  AGAIN to get money out of the ATM. Since she had time to hang around, she began the calls to the credit card company right there. I was fogging over again.

The next ferry was there quickly, and we all dashed aboard like we were gonna miss it. But in the endless cycle of admittance and blockage, there were gonna be people just like Jean, Robo and Pettus, who were left standing outside staring at a red “x” for this very ferry.

The trip over was rather silent due to our semi-exhaustion and mass of infirmities. We boarded two cabs and got home with no difficulty, since we had the Cerqueirabots 2000 aboard.

We decided to get Sylvia to order us a few Queen Pizzas, since D&P hadn’t had them yet. Fine with me. I was ready to eat anything, and it was time to deflower that pretty little bottle of Appleton. It was delightful, and Robo heartily agreed. We spent the time waiting on the tax to bring the pizzas by taking turns on the computer, looking at the view, and watching Brazilian TV. It was such a wonderful scene of domesticity.

Jean’s books had yielded information on a great day trip to Petrópolis, the summer home of the Portuguese royalty and their sycophants, er, friends. We would get Marcelo to take us there. Back on the phone to Sylvia to book Marcelo for. . . “What time do we want to leave tomorrow?” Jean hollered at us.

“10:00,” Pettus hollered back.

“10:00,” Jean said to Sylvia. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Yeah, the pizzas got here, and they’re delicious. Okay, thanks! We’ll look for Marcella at 10.”

“It’s MarcelO,” I corrected her. “You’re calling him Marcella, which is feminine. You’re gonna make him mad. MAR-CEL-O.”

“What?” she asked.