When the ferry pulled up, we looked at Robo and Pettus like “Well? What now?” Daniel and Patricia still hadn’t arrived, but we had talked to them only a couple of minutes earlier, and they assured us that they felt sure the cabbie had finally figured out where to go THIS time. Jean and I had nothing else to do but get on the ferry and get our own tax back to the house. She called Sylvia to arrange it all, and I must say, having a concierge was pretty great.

The boat we had gotten on was a little different than the ones we had experienced before. This was a genuine piece of shit craft after what we had become used to. The seats were not even vinyl. They were “pleather,” and many of them had huge gouges in them. No adjusting of the chairs on this heap. Just a rigid back and weird leg space to help you get over the fact that there were no amenities aboard. Several windows were cracked, and the life jackets were not only visible, which they hadn’t been on the other boats, but seemed to scream out, “Mulheres e crianças primeiras! (Women and children first!)”

Now how bad could a boat wreck in little ole Guanabara Bay be? Hmmm. Nothing there to eat you, per se, unless it was the bacteria. And of course, you could always get cut on some kind of light bulb. And then there was the drowning thing. I began to sing what I thought was “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” to Jean, and she hushed me quick. Good thing. I have no idea what the words are. But the Edmund was just 12 miles off the shore of Lake Erie, or one of those giants up there. It seems so close. But so far.

I have a fear/fascination with being plunged into endless deep water all alone in the middle of nowhere. I don’t know if this would qualify. There’s no way you could have missed a life jacket on THIS boat.

We landed with no difficulty at all and gratefully got off the ferry. There was our tax, waiting on us just as Sylvia had said! I half expected it to be the Whistler, but it wasn’t–although he was certainly qualified to find our house. This was some guy who knew enough English to assure Jean and me that we would get there. If he could have gotten us to the McDonald’s, we could have found the rest of the way. But that was not a problem.

I had all the fixins from PMS 361 on the table when the four of them staggered in with what I could only describe as ashen faces.

“Did you bastards get the good ferry?” I hollered at them. I was mutilating some limes in the house caipirinha maker while my new one stood and watched. Jean had pointed out how stupid I would be to deflower it before I packed it, lest there be some kind of fruity skankiness factor involved.

“Oh yeah, we got the good ferry all right,” sneered Pettus. “We almost got killed!”

“What in the HELL are you talklng about?” Jean and I yelled simultaneously.

“Here we were cruising along fine. Then everybody begins to notice a huge freighter coming straight at us. We were on a gnat-and-elephant collision course, and everyone on the ferry had figured that out, except apparently the captain,” Robo enthused. “A bunch of people flocked to the windows and some headed out to the front deck, maybe to play human bumper or to get the best view possible before they were crushed to death. I kept hearing ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ in my head.”

“Me too!” I shouted. “I was just singing it to Jean a little while ago! Wih-ih-ih-ih-IERD! So what happened? You’re not dead.”

“Well, finally the captain, who must have worked for TAM, obtained ‘situational awareness.’ He shut down the engines and then reversed, but we were still drifting forward. When the freighter’s bow passed, we were maybe 150 feet away. By the time its mid-section was in front of us, that was down to around 50 feet or so. And then suddenly it was clear. We started up again and kept going as if nothing had happened. Nothing but the fear.”

“Well, if you had been on that piece of shit WE were on, you wouldn’t have had to look for a life jacket,” I said, not wanting to steal their ferry story thunder. “At least y’all are here. Where we gonna eat? We thought La Verdanna again. Known quantity, right down there, easy to get a tax to. Eh?”

“Great,” they all said.

“You must tell us about your wonderful cab driver!” I gushed to D&P.

“You wouldn’t have believed him,” Patricia said, in a tone mixed with exasperation and wonder. “At first we thought he was trying to get more money from us, but we finally decided that he was just really, really, stupid. He was nice. Just really stupid.”

“Bummer. What time do y’all wanna go to La Verdanna? Honey, are you calling Sylvia?”

Of course she was.

After showers and bracers, we were ready for the cabs, which pulled up almost the second we were ready. I wondered what Marcelo was doing. He had probably picked up a couple of real pikers, and they were sitting by the side of the road eating fish steaks and crackers. HA! As long as he was there to take us to the airport, he could eat whatever he wanted.

When we walked into the restaurant, they all seemed to remember us immediately. I wonder why? Maybe it was Daniel’s zit. Who knows? Whatever it was, they seated us in a side room right next to the bar at a long table that had fun written all over it.

The waiters instantly swarmed us, and most of them we recognized from a few nights earlier. They came back to us! But really, what’s not to attract them? There was Patricia. There were the two gleaming blondes who weren’t Argentinian. There was a chance to see the largest purse ever brought into the city limits of Niterói. And there was my stellar, fawning Portuguese coupled with a willingness to drink anything they brought me.

As usual, Daniel sucked down all the chicken hearts, but we were all more judicious about what we took, being hip to the mistake of gluttoning out at the beginning.

Apparently, the waiters had raised their funness quotients. Word must have gotten around about Marcelo’s comment about Porcão being a party. It seemed that we were jiving with the staff all night long, and were partying like it was 1999, even though we all had to get up at about 4 a.m. to leave the next day.

The Verdanna crew was effusive in their warm goodbyes to us, and we reciprocated in kind. I have compared the food, service, ambience and everything else that goes with a great dining experience, and I can safely say that US dollar for US dollar, that is the best food value I’ve ever had in my life. There. I’ll stand on a limb and say it again.

The pair-o-tax that Sylvia or whoever it was had gotten, were right there to whisk us (cars and riders groaning) up the hill to Mirante de São Francisco to settle down, gather up our stuff from all over the house, inventory all consumables, pour a bunch of cachaça in used agua com gáis bottles to take home, and begin the torture of packing for the Amazon, remembering that we may only be able to bring ONE suitcase. HORROR upon HORRORS.

All I cared about was the  safety of my flea market goods and caipirinha maker. All else was replaceable except for my camera, ipod and flash cards, and they weren’t gonna be crushed or leaked on. It was accomplished easier than I thought, and I was able to flop down on the bed at what I thought was a decent hour, while Jean did all the REAL packing.

Then that GOL-DURNED BLACKBERRY began its chirpy dirge at some ungodly hour.

We got up, dragging like hell, me dreading every future second of air travel and all that encompassed it. We trudged upstairs after my leaving our suitcases in the hall for Robson and crew, remembering to itemize our gratuities in writing. As if to validate the whole event, there was Robson’s cute wife standing there with him. He introduced her to us and she gave
us a sweetly obsequious greeting. I felt like a turd about the whole thing. It seemed the whole house was filled with people doing stuff for only us, whether they wanted to or not.

I took a beautiful picture of Patricia before photographing several sheets from the Mirante house manual. Jean informed me that there was some discrepancy in what she was getting from two sources about the number of free airport transfers we had. I wish I had taken a picture of the drug section.

All of us had to witness that even when we first arrived, there was no sunscreen in the “pay-as-you-use” amenities basket on the first floor. We didn’t want to “pay” the 10 bucks for something we hadn’t “used.” That type of thing can get really complicated. I could imagine a house full of 14 people all drinking the liquor in PMS 361 and being presented with a huge, possibly specious tab at the end. I suppose the best way to keep track of that would be to keep the empties like caterers do.

Once all that was completed and endured, we got outside and there was Marcelo along with his assistant car, being as we couldn’t get all six of us and our luggage in his regular vehicle. It was great to see him, and kinda sad at the same time. We had all gotten really attached to Marcelo, and it was completely obvious how he had enriched our trip to Rio like no one else could have. He and Carol were truly perfect counterparts.

We all piled in the appropriate vehicles, me in the front with Marcelo, waved goodbye to the guard and the beautiful house, and zoomed down the curvy road that would lead us to the airport and beyond.

When we arrived at the airport, I let Jean and Robo take care of gratuitizing Marcelo. I was mainly interested in getting his email address so I could send him some pictures. It was the first time I had seen the word “lavoyer.” We all gave him giant American hugs (except Robo, who’s not much of a hugger) and I told him I’d be in touch. I wasn’t kidding. Now he’s on the hook to help me authenticate some of this tome.

The airport. I began to shudder involuntarily.