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.