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!