Jean had read in her travel books about some of the peculiarities and customs of Copacabana and Ipanema beaches. These two world-famous stretches of sand and surf were reportedly home to miles and miles of bikini floss, with only inches and inches of fabric to go with it. Whee doggie!

The Blackberry announced our last day in Rio with zeal. We had decided to sleep a half hour later since we were left to our own devices again, and had blown it out the night before at Porcão. Maria had prepared the usual top shelf breakfast, and all was right with the world.

The last few mornings had seen my relationship with Maria blossom into beautiful “Bom dia, Maria“s, “delicioso“s, and giggles. I made it a point to get “delicioso” right, because Patricia had told me that a small mispronunciation like “delicia” could convey something else entirely: delicia being the slang you would use when ogling a hot woman. Didn’t want to make that mistake with Maria.

Meanwhile, Robson maintained the obsequious half-bow.

Pettus had been outside talking to him and listening to him sing. He made a request of her that was rather unusual: that we write down the amount of money we intended to tip each person in the house and put it with the tips themselves.

HUH?? Well, it’s true that the guests tip the cook, houseman and concierge and any drivers, etc. There’s a “serving suggestion” for how to gratuitize the various people, and I’m sure that many guests give a lump sum assuming it will be distributed appropriately.

Apparently Robson felt he had been shorted in the past. He didn’t say how, but just wanted to know if we would write the amount we intended to give each person and leave the note with the money. Fine with us. I guess. “I don’t trust him,” Robo repeated.

Jean called Sylvia to get the two cabs necessary to cart us to the ferry terminal. She also asked her to check on hang gliding for Robo and Pettus, telling her we were going to Copacabana that day. “I’m on my way there,” Sylvia said.

She came in about five minutes later with the news that hang gliding was still out of the question because of something other than clouds. Another puppetmaster? Who knows. I was secretly relieved I wasn’t going to have to identify the Kennemers’ crushed remains at some Rio morgue. I know Pettus was disappointed, but don’t quite know what Robo thought about the situation.

“I wonder where is the tax,” Sylvia said suddenly, dialing her cell phone. We heard a lightning-speed one-sided conversation of zh zh ão gee, then she turned to us and said, “One of the drivers had car trouble. They will be right here.” As if on cue, we heard a horn outside.

We headed out the door, locked it with a flick, and exited the gate. There was only one cab there. Huh? We ordered two. Jean was about to say something to Sylvia when there was a lurching motion on the curve. It was the second tax, stuttering its way around the corner and up the little hill to us. The car looked familiar, and there was something about the smoke coming from the driver’s window. When he got out, beaming, I knew. It was The Whistler! I should have seen his mole coming.

I don’t think Jean was interested in riding with him, so she, Pettus and Patricia got in the other cab. Robo, Daniel and I got in with The Whistler. Down the hill was easy. He turned to me and smiled broadly, blasting Portuguese that indicated we were old pals. (I think.) We had barely passed the McDonald’s when his car stalled. He looked at us with knowing bewilderment, muttered something, then began to try the starter. After two failed attempts, he began the whistle. The car stammered to life. Off we went, another three or four blocks, where he was able to coast into a gas station.

Daniel and I got out to get something from the store. The driver put in a tiny amount of both kinds of gas, whistled the car to life, and we were off. Oops. Nope. More calm whistling. Here we sat listening to him fail to bring the thing around with his tunes. Finally Robo asked if we needed to call another cab. Daniel translated. The guy said “náo,” just as the engine caught. As if he needed to shit or get off the pot, we barreled into traffic. The Whistler turned and grinned at all of us, then said something to Daniel. They both laughed.

The terminal was in sight almost immediately, and we all jumped out, thanked the guy, paid and gratuitized him, and met the girls at the ticket booth. We felt like old hands at this ferry thing by now. Particularly with the advantage of having our pair of Cerqueira-bots with us at all times.

The cruise over was pleasant. I was really beginning to see how Niterói would be a fantastic place to live in the Rio area. Many of the important buildings in downtown Rio were within easy walking distance of the terminal. And the Metro station wasn’t far, either.

As we joined the human herd leaving the ferry, we spied what looked like a Brazilian flea market in the public area outside the terminal. Cha-CHING! I love flea markets! And one in a different language would be even cooler. Pettus was also very keen to get over there, too, being not only an aficionado, but a professional at this type of bargain.

The massive display and Pettus’ salivating expression served to make Robo extremely nervous, but he gamely followed us over there. There were about 100 tables lined up, some under the highway ramp with stuff that was kind of familiar, but BETTER than what you would find at the Alabama State Fairgrounds. The first vendor I approached detected my non-Brazilness and guessed correctly on the American bit. I tried to begin our conversation in Portuguese, but he changed directions instantly, beginning to speak to me in fantastic English. “I love to practice my English,” he beamed. “I never get a chance to do it here.”

“You can practice on me,” I agreed, spying a cool, cool, art deco cigarette or knick knack box. “How much?” I asked him.

“Ten,” he said.

“Dollars?” I asked, already excited.

“No, Reais,” he replied.

“Will you take less?” I tried.

“No, I don’t think so. The price is very low already.”

He was right. I handed him 10 Reais and he wrapped my prize in old Rio newspapers, then put it in a recycled plastic grocery sack.

I was about to explode with excitement, having found the neatest thing there for the cheapest price in less than two minutes. I grabbed Daniel and Patricia and said, “Y’all come with me. I may need help.” I had already spotted my future second purchase: a clay teapot comprised of sea creatures. There was a tiny blue ceramic fish as the finial to the pot lid. Crabs, flounders, lobsters, fish and shrimp all coexisted in a jigsaw puzzle fashion on the outside. I had to have it. The dealer may have sensed this, because when I asked him how much, he said something in Portuguese. “Sixty Reais,” Daniel translated.

Now, I already would have paid 30 bucks for it, being so totally unusual, but I decided to give the guy the brushoff and come back. My father was the king of that move. He used to go to pawn shops looking for old musical instruments and scored repeatedly. His biggest coup was in the form of a solid silver flute that he paid fifty bucks for. “I had to start to walk out of the place about 6 times and have the guy stop me each time before I finally got it,” he was proud of telling.

I had nowhere near the nerve he had, and am a threat to break down like a shotgun. It was all I could do to casually walk away and begin looking at other stuff. Good thing I spotted a little portrait of Jesus colored with butterfly wings that diverted my acquisitive lust. I inquired about its price, said “não” and walked away. The vendor brought me back with a lower price: 10 Reais. “Okay,” I said, about to holler with excitement.

I made an effort to look at the plethora of other stuff, and saw about a thousand coveted things, but knew a) we had no money, and b) we had to carry it all home on the plane. The quality and unusualness of the goods made it all painfully enticing.

Pettus, meanwhile had spotted an African mask that was incredible. I sauntered over to see it, loving it and telling her she needed to buy it. The 150 bucks was very good. I looked up to see Robo briskly approaching us and shouting, “Petttus, STEP AWAY from the TABLE.” We all had a good laugh, she put the mask down (being a good haggler) and walked away.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I just knew some interloper was at my table buying my teapot. I grabbed the Cerqueira-bots and we headed back. I offered the guy 30 Reais. He countered with 40. I caved and said OKAY with a giant smile and obrigado. D&P stood back, surely thinking that I was a sap. But look what I got! The little fish on top has a chipped tail, but it’s still beautiful.

Jean was handling all this very well. She knew that I was self-monitoring as far as bringing back something large. But she was also aware of my herniated wallet-hole, and only gave me a small amount of cash. I had to go back to her to get teapot money, professing to have less, so I still had about 20 Reais left.

Several vendors had very good replicas of antique religious artifacts that fooled me at first. As I began to see the pattern, it dawned on me that there were a lot of other replicas there. They were cleverly mixed in with real antiques, and probably flew off the shelves for two reasons: either people were fooled, or they didn’t care because the replicas were so good looking.

It was all the real deal at this particular table. They had nothing but a blast of the craziest array of stuff there. I spotted this frame made with butterfly wings, priced 20 Reais. I tried to get it for 15. No dice. The lady was a bitch. Oh well. I wanted it. I had the money, which was catching my leg on fire, so I handed it to her, and she silently wrapped the frame up for me. It is so very wonderful. Notice Frank’s composite proof. We never pay money for that kind of stuff. Proofs are fine. Those Vantine folks are making a killing without us.

Jean, meanwhile, had gotten into the act, having spotted a pair of solid silver cake plates for about 150 bucks. We debated, debated, debated, but decided: a) too heavy; b) customs risk; c) didn’t really need it.

Pettus was working Robo over, but he refused to give sway for once. I was amazed at the whole thing, thinking surely she was gonna get that mask. I told them both that they’d get home and have regrets. Which they did.

It was time to go, though I could have stayed a lot longer if conditions had been different. Nevertheless, I was happy as a clam, and along with Jean, clutched four recycled plastic grocery bags filled with Rio-newspaper-wrapped treasures.

It was on to the Metro, with Pettus’ interior compass and Jean’s maps. We immediately came upon one of the trees that I had wanted to photograph the day we were dashing from the closed art museum to the cab place. This tree was really something. The blooms looked like red magnolia blossoms and the rest of the plant resembled something from Little Shop of Horrors.

It was hot as hell, but we plodded along toward the Metro. This pigeon told the tale about the heat. Regardless of us gathering around to look at him and take his picture, he refused to leave his spot in the shade of this phone kiosk.