We figure we must have gotten to bed around 3:30 the night before. Jean and I both were totally eager to get up the next morning.

“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”

silence long enough to almost go back to sleep

“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”

Jean, of course, has managed to ignore all of this. Another minute of ­silence.  Almost     almost           almost

“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”

I HATE THAT BLACKBERRY! HATE! HATE! HATE! And here’s the truly insidious part of its alarm system: a full three-minute pause in which you have time to lower your blood pressure from all the hate previously expressed, relax, and float back into the arms of Morpheus, who quickly turns back into a screeching harpy
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”

Jean was still impervious to the whole affair. With stomach roiling, I sluiced out of the bed, grabbed the malefactor by the cord and dangled it in front of her snoring face. “You need to turn this thing off,” I pouted. “I don’t know how.” Actually I DID know of a way to turn it off, but I didn’t want to upset Brazil’s delicate sewer system, and I definitely didn’t want to have to “call the man” to unstop the toilet.

It was 10:00. Carol had obviously let us sleep, but had herself been up since 8:00 bustling around the house getting ready for the first of two parties she was having in our honor. Simply amazing. Here we were barely alive, and she had already scouted and climbed a jackfruit tree, paid a friendly Salvadoran to carry it and her up the hill on his back, meanwhile peeling and preparing the jackfruit in ancient Bahian tradition before she even arrived back in the kitchen. Okay, not really. She was probably making coffee or something. But the house was definitely alive, even though we weren’t.

I drew a little solace from the fact that Daniel was still asleep in his lair, and would continue to do so for another couple of hours. Vicarious living through the young. If only they could bottle it.

Carol’s notes say that this morning was when I had my massage with Luciana, which is probably correct. It also explains why I lurched back to the bedroom, took a shower, then promptly flopped on the bed in my underwear and began to doze. Jean, meanwhile, was getting ready, dodging three giant suitcases and their contents, my sodden clothes, and was oblivious to me lying there.

Then Carol came in and told me to cover up, I was embarrassing the help. WHAT?? In “naked” Brazil? Curiouser and curiouser. You’d think that my big leviathan self sprawled out in my underwear would be nothing to them after all their thongs and stuff. In actuality, she probably wanted me to cover up because I was grossing everybody out. THAT, I’ll believe.

Today’s party was going to be barbecue and roskas prepared by Sr. Itamar and his assistant/barman Joasias. Of course in Cerqueira-la there just happens to be an incredible barbecue pit. Obviously the chefs in the area will travel and work parties readily. Ordinarily this kind of thing would have me down there swilling liquor and cleaning the grill with my teeth. But my gullet was doing half-gainers on me, so I wasn’t sure.

I did manage to go back to sleep, covered up of course, and stay in that position until well after most of the guests had arrived and all the pre-party flurry had taken place. I dragged myself up in time to slip into my new pair of Havaianas, grab my camera and gingerly make the trip down the stairs to the party.

Yep. They were all there. Nothing like walking into a room of people you don’t know with a head like a rock and a stomach like a dinghy on the open sea. Good thing I had my camera. Carol had invited several of their friends, many from the Expats Society, and they exhibited the same characteristics as the other Bahians. Everyone was laid back, gliding through the heat like it was nothing.

Two of the guests, David and Betty Breedlove, were in Brazil because of David’s job at Ford. David had bought a ticket to march in the Chiclete com Banana bloco, which is, like the biggest one, and was scheduled to begin in the late afternoon.

Patricia told me how all of her mother’s friends want her to call them by their first names, but Betty Breedlove prefers to be called “Mrs. Breedlove,” just as Patricia has done since childhood. Patricia obviously prefers it, too, because she said she couldn’t call her anything else.  I, personally, love the moniker “Mrs. Breedlove.” It sounds like the name of a sweet little English lady that would serve you scones. It’s also the name of the next-door neighbor of Patty McCormick in The Bad Seed, one of the greatest old black & white shockers EVER.