You know that in order to go to Hell, you have to go through Atlanta. That was true for us. Through Atlanta, to Miami for the first mini-leg of the journey.

Robo and Pettus were on another set of flights that were due to land in Salvador the morning after we did, so Jean and I were alone the whole way down.

The Embassy Suites Miami was nice, but we hardly got a chance to experience the niceness. We had a miserable early awakening the next morning to Jean’s obnoxious Blackberry alarm–a three-tone chime thing that’s supposed to be cheerful, but is definitely not. It’s like getting “Harper Valley PTA” stuck in your head.

The food and selection at the sumptuous Embassy Suites breakfast bonanza were delicious, but we weren’t totally able to enjoy it for fear of being late for an overseas flight or getting diarrhea from the eggs.

I love airport red tape like I love a spike being driven deep into my temple, and the intercontinental aspect of the flight made me jumpy in advance. So here we stood in a massive line waiting to check in with TAM. There were only two agents on duty, and each person checking in took forever. I tried to divert myself by watching this group of attractive Brazilian girls, one wearing tight jeans and stiletto heeled leopard shoes. Wheee-doggie! I wanted to know what they were all talking about. Then I realized it had happened again: my itch to be able to speak every language on earth had kicked in.

There has always been the argument of “Oh, Portuguese is just dirty Spanish. If you can speak Spanish, you can speak it.” versus “Your Spanish is not welcome here, sir.” It’s definitely more of the latter as far as real communication, but more of the former in written stuff. Once you knew the similiarities between the two and could exploit them, it was helpful. But they are definitely in no way similar languages. Portugeuse is actually more beautiful than Spanish, the way they do that ZJJJJJ  or JZZZZ sound in everything. It’s real slidey and sexy. And the cadence is very lyrical, like Italian. It is one fantastic language.

Back to the check-in line: we noticed a plethora of Barbie Dream Houses being checked through as luggage. Also a big-screen TV, and other assorted appliances. Even a top of the line Graco carseat. It’s because not only is the selection in Brazil smaller, the import tax is exorbitant. And with the dollar being the weakest it had ever been, it was cheaper to fly to Miami and buy stuff for your kids and take it back yourself.

We also experienced the phenomenon of the luggage wrapper: a giant rotating wheel of Saran Wrap that they used to completely encase luggage (for a 5.00 fee). I personally didn’t care if anybody went through my luggage (which they did). I had brought clean underwear, so my fear of being taunted by the luggage handlers was assuaged in advance.

We waited in this line for about an hour, getting more agitated by the second, listening to nothing but Portuguese around us, mentally calculating exactly how long it was going to take them to process the line, and how it was getting time to board our flight.

Suddenly about 5 agents appeared and began hustling us Saõ Paul-bound passengers through luggage and everything else. It was totally weird. Before we knew it, we were on the plane. All in about 10 minutes. TAM definitely re-defines the concept of “hurry up and wait.”

The flight to Saõ Paulo was about 9 hours of intercontinental torture.
We were ONE row behind the roomy exit row, which was filled with sprawling people who would glare at you if you used “their row” to GET THROUGH THE PLANE. As if they owned it!
Jean had the added bonus of the BLACK BOX in her leg space. It was nice, big, sharp cornered, and there for the entire 9 hours.

Oh, they came through with the hot towels that are supposed to make you feel special. Sure. Real special. These “towels” were really like baby wipes heated in the microwave, only without the nice baby smell. I suppose it was rather “refreshing” to wipe my face. Especially when you consider it’s surely covered with the spores of all the other inhabitants of the plane. It’s probably a health department requirement, considering the way the flight attendants come through with the HAZMAT bag and gloves to pick up the used “towels.” It has such a comforting clinical feel to it.

They also passed out some kind of “meal”, came through with the drink cart a couple of times, and generally did a great job of ignoring us.

Meanwhile, they were being feted and massaged and pampered up in First Class. I seethed the whole time thinking about First Class. Then I would seethe a while thinking about the people sprawled in the exit row. Then I would seethe a while because I wanted some kind of drink, and they had NONE of the traditional stuff. No bloody mary, no liquor except for scotch! Besides, the liquor cart was as scarce as the Loch Ness Monster, and they didn’t seem like they were in the mood to have any of the inmates drinking. It was kind of like, “not an option.”

I read a large portion of Rick McCammon‘s new book, Queen of Bedlam, that I had bought signed from my pal Jake at Alabama Booksmith, so I was at least happily diverted on one hand, if not downright miserable at the same time.

When we landed in Saõ Paulo, the beginning of the Brazilian Airport Clusterfuck had begun! Here we are with no Portuguese, and no idea what to do with our luggage. Some people had told us to pick it up and take it to be checked in to Salvador. Some said not to, that it would go by itself. Nobody knew the answer nor how to tell it to us. And of course I had immediately begun to sweat the minute we landed. Good sign.

It was just like The Amazing Race. I told Jean that I finally understood why everybody gets so huffy with each other on that show.

We finally stayed at the luggage thing long enough to find ours, then dash it over to some mysterious place where a woman yelling into a walkie-talkie shooed it on up the moving belt. She told us in English that our flight was boarding! But WHERE was the flight boarding? Her accent was so heavy that we both nodded dumbly as she gestured wildly and told us where to go. We dashed off and immediately ran out of directional steam.

Nobody knew where we were supposed to go. Nobody knew how to tell us, either, except for a nice British woman who pointed to Domestic Departures and suggested we try there. Good thing.

The leg to Salvador was better. Much less crowded, and Jean and I got to pick seats. We also got the introduction to TAM’s candy greeting. A flight attendant cruises casually through the cabin with a wicker basket of chocolate/caramel candies, offering them to each passenger lovingly, as if to indicate that the luxury had really begun. I took only one this first time, but saw others grabbing handfuls. I made a mental note.

Our flight was stocked with cute college age Brazilian girls who were promptly set upon by a bunch of college age Brazilian boys. It kind of portended the Carnaval atmosphere. The stewardesses on TAM wear these tight white knit shirts with a dark blue skirt. Most of them wore it pretty well, but one of our stewardesses had obviously recently gained weight. Her spare tire was kind of funny, and the way she kept rearranging her clothes when we were landing was also interesting. I recognized it immediately, being totally at home with fidgeting in tight clothes. You just want to make the clothes bigger somehow, or fidget your way into an instant 30 pound weight loss.

We met a really nice guy who spoke fantastic English from having lived in NYC a couple of years. His name was Mercio, and
he assured us that Salvador was the place to be for Carnaval. He was coming down a few days early just to get in the spirit of Salvador before the big hoo-hah. It was enticing when he talked about all the different music and stuff. Of course, being such a greenhorn at this whole Carnaval business, and taking for granted that everyone in the world will get a Jetsons reference,, (even though there were only 26 original episodes), I stupidly replied to him with “So! It sounds like a bunch of “Samba Ramba Si, Si Si!”

“Oh no,” Mercio said. “That is more like Rio Carnaval. In Salvador, there are all kinds of music: axé, fado, blahblahblah.”

There was no way to explain the ridiculousness of my remark, and also, if I tried to tell him that I knew a fair amount about Brazilian music, I’d sound like a pretentious asshole, so I had to shamefacedly hope the conversation shifted.

When Jean and I ran into Mercio again at the luggage thing, we had another exchange about the food, but I was still stinging inside. We finally got our luggage (practically effortlessly, though sweatily)  and headed out to meet Carol. There was a massive, cheering crowd out there, all fired up and ready to scoop up whomever it was trudging out to meet them. It was like being rock stars.