We piled into Marcelo’s car, still hee-hawing about the facially challenged royals. In retrospect, I feel kind of like a stupid American turd for my ridicule at their expense, particularly after learning more about them and how they contributed so much to their beloved Brazil. Ennnhhhh. They’re dead. And I’m in the “no prize” category myself, so it gives me license to laugh WITH them. Well. Vanquished that guilt quite neatly, eh?

I don’t know if Marcelo was offended at me dogging his predecessors. I tried to put myself in his place by imagining a Brazilian goofball coming here and ripping on the likes of Mary Todd Lincoln (dog) or Martha Washington (clock-stopper), but it just couldn’t conjure up any indignation. Alas, our forebears usually don’t look like Laura Linney as Abigail Adams.

Everything in Petrópolis was pretty close together, so the trip from the museum to the cathedral took only a couple of minutes. On the way over, Marcelo pointed out one of the flamboyants that grow all over the country. This one was a brilliant yellow color, but they range into the bright reds as well, depending on the variety. Poinciana is in the same family. With the German-style house in the foreground, this certainly looks like anywhere but Brazil.

After a couple more turns, we entered the circle that housed the Catedral de São Pedro de Alcântara. This gorgeous structure was commissioned in 1843 by DPII upon the founding of Petrópolis. Work stalled on the project for years due to financial and other setbacks, and it didn’t finally open until 1929. The actual completion of the cathedral wasn’t until 1969. 1969?? That’s so “modern!” This place looks like something from 18th century France.

Once again, I fail to realize that Brazil is one of the Americas, and we’re mighty young over here compared to all the oldsters in Europe.

Dom Pedro II and his beloved Teresa lie in state here since their relocation in 1939. After the royals were allowed back into Brazil in 1922, they brought DPII and Teresa home, but didn’t bury them in the cathedral until 1939. Their daughter Isabel and her husband Count d’Eu are buried behind them, to their left and right. The chapel is beautiful, with incredible stained glass and a bunch of DPII’s favorite relics–many from the famous martyrs.

I guess the Count didn’t totally piss everybody off, because there he is, right next to his in-laws, like he never did anything wrong. Oh. I think that’s the point.

There was a really neat statue of St. Anthony holding a poor child that prompted the hyper-reverent Robo to create a great photo gag for me. He seems to be immune to any kind of retribution from goddesses, saints and the like. What is it?

There were people inside doing something. I couldn’t tell if it was a service or not. Maybe a tour of some kind.

Beautiful! What’s next? A picture of my international family. Robo looks like he’s feeling a little stricken again. St. Anthony? Is that you? Jean looks great wearing one of my pairs of Crocs.

On the way to the car, Marcelo pointed out a nice shot of the cathedral through the trees.

I countered with an equally beautiful shot of a pair of teal panties stuffed amongst the decorative stonework. I pointed it out to Marcelo, and asked him what kind of people attended mass here. Or were the sermons THAT fiery?

We were hungry. Marcelo didn’t know of anywhere particular to eat, so we kind of cruised around till we came back to the parking lot that led to Dumont’s house. Across from it was a row of “shoppes” and a restaurant through a courtyard that looked promising.

I can’t remember the name of the place, but it was situated in an old house that gave it a good old country cooking meat-and-three appeal. The tiled back porch had been converted into a bar on one end, and a serving line that began on the other and ran the width of the house. There was a buffet set out that had been picked through pretty well, especially considering our late arrival. No matter. It looked fine, and if we spent all our time driving around looking for food, there was a chance we’d miss it altogether.

We lined up and found that there was all kinds of stuff to eat, and the hairnetted replenishment girl was right behind us with a panful of chicken thighs. Jean found her favorite thing in the line: hard-boiled pickled quail eggs. She went apeshit for those, while Daniel and Patricia ate french fries, black beans and rice, and any other starch in the area.

We got our plates and wormed our way into the middle room crammed with long tables and small wooden chairs, me having to turn sideways and let out half of my air to be able to squeeze by. A quickie dash for either fresh food being put out or the sanitário would have been out of the question, being as it would involve about twenty “licença”s waiting on the other sprawling diners to scoot up for you.

Robo was miserable, and spent most of the lunch sneezing and blowing his nose. I’ve never seen quite a look like the one on Daniel’s face. It reminds me of the expression on Frederic March’s face as he begins the change from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde; Pettus looks like she’s wiping off some extraneous spray of some kind.

It was time to find the sanitário and split. The bathrooms were right next to the bar. And I mean RIGHT NEXT TO. Like, you could hear the blender in the bathroom, and I’m sure some sort of vice-versa would be applied as well.

The back porch had a small table with free coffee cuplets, and some sort of sweet thing that was weird. I got me a tiny coffee and headed out the door to the courtyard, which was ringed with shops, some “upscale” and some real handicrafty. At that moment, everybody behind me began to laugh hysterically. “What?” I asked. “What?”

Apparently, a local Dom Pedro-lovin’ pigeon had decided to take an airborne grunt right on my white whale shirt! Wasn’t THAT fun? It was the caliber equivalent to a huge goiter on a tiny neck, and I was sure everybody in Petrópolis would notice it. They didn’t, but Marcelo certainly did. And told me about it. I have no idea what Petrópolin birds eat, but it goes through them fast and comes out in mass quantities.

I had asked if we could go to some kind of computer store and find me a reader for my flash card. I had stupidly not packed one of the four that I have (three bought under similar circumstances), thinking that I’d never have access to any kind of computer to dump the pictures onto, much less storage to take them home. I didn’t take into account: a) the house computer at Mirante de São Francisco, or my iPod, which would neatly store all the pictures I wanted. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

But I was running out of flash card space at an alarming rate, and as we’ve already seen, I missed a ton of shots already. What a revoltin’ predicament! Surely the little metropolis of Petrópolis would have a camera/computer store that would remedy my problem quickly for less than 30 bucks American (allowing a healthy markup rate for “technology”).

Petrópolis is an unusual little city in that it has so many faces, and they’re all turned in and staring at each other. Start with the outskirts, which blend quickly into little streams, bridges, and neighborhoods that could have been yanked from a high-rent Leave it to Beaver, to a giant cathedral, a palace, and suddenly a little downtown area that consisted of stores lining a horseshoe that began at the bottom of a big hill, ran all the way to the top, then back down again.

The sidewalks were packed with people, who ran the gamut from very light to very dark; very  atttractive to very plain; and very rich to very poor. They had obviously relaxed the standards of elitism that exited in Petrópolis in the early days. The way all the businesses were individually owned and not real “chainy” looking, and with the plethora of department-type stores, it reminded me a lot of downtown Birmingham when I was growing up. Daniel and I were the ones who left the car to scout out the card reader, and we passed many a place that looked just like J.J. Newberry’s on 19th Street–sundries for living right there in the front window, and goods piled high on shelves lining both walls and glutting the middle.

I saw three stores on the first visual sweep that had “camera” in the name. It looked very encouraging!

First store. Nothing but digital developing.

Second store. Blank stare.

Third store. A glimmer of hope. Two nerds behind the counter! Computers on stands! But weirdness in that the recordable CDs were in a locked cabinet behind them, and they only had two sleeves of them; everything else was strewn all around the desk. The other cabinets had random things like headphones in them, and other stuff that I certainly didn’t need. Daniel told the guys what I was looking for. I held up the card. They conferred excitedly, and then one of them held up a finger while the other guy rummaged through a drawer, bringing out an input bay with a Medusan tangle of cords coming out of it
. In the first place, it would have to be hard-wired to the computer. But it also had nothing resembling a card reader, even if we did feel like dismantling Steve’s PC and putting it in. They both looked at us, then it, berated each other in fast Portuguese, then threw it back in the drawer. “Não,” they finally told Daniel. I got the message.

Marcelo and the rest of them sat patiently in the car for us, but I finally had to give up. It blew my mind how the things that we even have in some gas stations here are nowhere to be found in Brazil. Another thing that contributes to their happiness?

I was bummed out, and starting to panic a little about the flash card situation. Marcelo assured me that we would find something the closer we got to Rio. He was like a parent assuring a child that he wouldn’t start the first day of school without a book bag. I had to believe him.

We began the descent back down the mountain. There were spectacular views everywhere, and the fog had lifted enough from the morning to put heavily textured skies front and center in the whole spectacle. Marcelo was amenable to stopping for pictures whenever I asked him to, but I tried not to do it too much as a courtesy to the others. This view forced me to ask him. We were coming up on a hairpin curve that jutted out over the mountain, looking like it was floating above the valley below. Cool. Cool. Cool. Robo, Pettus and I got out. This was one of the cases where I walked up on Robo as he was narrating his footage. I think I said something about there maybe being snakes in the tall grass we were standing in. It gave us both a little jolt, me especially, because I started high steppin’ as a reflex.

Woo! Pretty! We passed all the rug, empty vegetable and favelette places on the way down, until we spotted this crazy spaceship thing up the next hill on the right.

“Can we stop?” I asked excitedly.

Everybody agreed, and Marcelo pulled into a parking lot that led to this interesting structure. So this was just a roadside park, eh? Where was the sanitário? Apparently these gents didn’t find one either.

This thing was cool as grits! And of course it immediately put us in mind of the Niedermeyer Modern Art Museum in Niterói. But it was just sitting here, overlooking this incredible valley, like something straight from an apocalyptic Jetsons. So very, very neat. I was convinced at this time that Rio had been visited by extraterrestrials more than once. I mean, really. Deny it, okay?

Is this George Jetson’s bombed out living room? Of COURSE it is! There was graffiti everywhere, and a busload of obnoxious tourists from what we deemed was Israel, so the idyllic nature was somewhat tainted. On the way back to the car, we encountered a group of locals who were playing ball on the pavement beneath the spaceship. This thing was on a steep hill, with sparse population that met the eye going either direction. So these kids walked however far, up or down a huge hill, and met here to play. They must have been in incredible shape. They were aloof to my uplifted camera and quizzical expression at first, but the longer I stood there and snapped other things, the more they warmed up. Cute. Look for the secret thumb in there. Also a good old peace sign.

We hopped in the car to continue on back to Niterói. The ride back was quieter even than the ride up, which was plenty quiet. Robo, Pettus and Jean dozed in the back seat, with Daniel and Patricia comatose in the backback.

Robo felt bad, bad, bad, but the only effect it had on our time was the decrease in bone dry witticisms from that incredible brain of his.

Marcelo didn’t forget me and my card reader, and before we got to the bridge, he pointed out a huge Wal-Mart-like store off of the right service road. We wound our way into the huge parking lot, which looked just like any giant Wal-Mart parking lot in Florida. This chain’s name started with an “F,” and was something like “Fourier.” The logo was a very nicely selected green “F.” I can’t remember the name, but Marcelo will tell me.

We all went inside except Robo, who said he was gonna lie down in the back seat. The HOT back seat in a stopped car with no air conditioning. Sounded delightful to me, but probably served the purpose for him.

Upon entering the store, there was still nothing to dissuade me that this was just a Wal-Mart in a samba suit. The signage was totally American looking, except for the words on it.  All the departments looked just like they do here, except there was just a slight disconnect with the majority of brands, labels and logos being unfamiliar to me. Immediately to the right was a huge stereo/computer section with a guy at the counter that knew exactly what I needed. He pulled one from behind the glass within a half minute–one of those readers that accepts all the cards, with a price that was surprisingly great, considering the high cost of technology in Brazil. It was about 15 bucks American. Marcelo thought it was such a good deal he got himself one.

I left Jean, Pettus and Marcelo there to get whatever else they needed, and for Jean to try to get money from their ATM and deal in tandem with Marcelo at the Customer Service desk. I had to flee. My goal was to get us several big bottles of agua com gaís for the house, because cocktail hour was a threat to decimate our supply.

The last couple of nights, I had begun a new ritual: tromp down two flights of stairs to the PMS 361 green rumpus room; grab as many limão as I could, stuffing them into my pockets; grab the cachaça and sugar bowl; and finally get the wooden mortar and pestle; get back upstairs as quickly and painlessly as possible; then begin to cut and smash enough limes to make drinks for Jean, Robo and Pettus. Whatever liquor I used, I always topped it with a healthy splash of agua com gaís, making the caipirinha or roska less lethal and longer lasting.

So here I go trotting down the aisles by myself. Patricia and Daniel were in the stereo department looking at stuff, and I felt confident to try the mission solo. Strutting happily in my slue footed gait, my head was like a sprinkler, going left to right and back again, stopping to gape at an unfamiliar product or smile broadly at fellow shoppers. I even threw the thumb in there a couple of times and got one in return with nary a hitch.

I found the drink aisle, which was dominated by the usual American suspects and Brazil’s favorite energy drink: Guaraná Antarctica (pronounced “Gwa-RAHN-ah Ont-ARCH-tee-ka”). Guarana is one of those natural energy herbs that has been around for centuries. It was sold in the U.S. as a substitute for speed back in the day, and with today’s youth’s fixation on rev-me-up drinks, it’s a natural. And very popular. I had one on the plane from São Paulo to Salvador. It wanted to taste like a Mountain Dew, but didn’t. It was something else. I’m sure you could get used to it easily, though, and spend your days zooming around Brazil.

All well and good, but where the hell was the agua com gaís? Suddenly, a cute Brazilian girl appeared, ignoring the bird shit stain on my white whale shirt, and asked in Portuguese if I needed help. I was bursting with excitement over my card reader, and brimming with love for Brazil and her people. My response was a blinding smile and the words “agua com gaís” and “grande” (pronounced “GRON-gee”). She smiled back at my hapless Americanness and led me over two aisles. There were the waters! But the gaís was another matter. We couldn’t find any for the longest time. But she persisted, looking through every bottle there until we found three big ones. The only ones they had. CRAZY. Wal-Mart, but NOT Wal-Mart. Something else entirely. I don’t know what in the hell was in those other bottles, but it was certainly not agua com gaís, which is sold in every bodega in Rio, and consumed enthusiastically by all. Curiouser and curiouser.

Jean and them were God-knows-where, so I got in a checkout line with no translator or anything, just like every other outer-Rioan that was there with me. I felt so very powerful, having money in my pocket, recognizing the denominations of the coins (when given time), and knowing that all I had to do was scream “Marcelo” like a girl and he would eventually come and rescue me, after finishing whatever it was he was doing at the time, and walking as slowly as he could, stopping to look at everything on the way.

There was a young couple ahead of me who had a small cartful of stuff. When I appeared behind them, clumsily wielding the three bottles of ACG, they immediately let me in front of them. Wow! Just like in Alabama! I thought surely I could make the transaction speedily and then give them a perfectly pronounced “obrigado” and a smile, leaving with dignity.

Uh, no. “Price check on this Ag-wa com GAis” was what I heard. Somebody in a vest rushed over and she and the checker looked at the water, turning it over and over. The girl in the vest looked at the cashier with an expression that said, “Whatever,” and she rang it up. My big plan to rip the money off and hand it to her in exact change was shot to hell after all this. I had crumbled long before, and babbled all kinds of shit to the young couple in my Portuguese-cum-Spaniguese. They were happily accommodating of me and my bird stain. I held out my hand with all the money I had, the checker picked out what she needed, smiled broadly while she sacked my ACGs, and we all had a nice goodbye, me loving Brazilians more than ever at that point. I am so very easy.

I met the others just about as I emerged from the line. When we got to the car, Robo was roasting inside, but at least had a door open with his legs sticking out.

Marcelo managed to find his way out of the labyrinth that was the parking lot. Then the service road, then the bridge. He commented that we had really missed the traffic for some reason. He had been expecting more. All I knew was that I wanted to get home with my new card reader and ACG, make the trek down 2 and up 2, and get the evening going. Food would be whatever it was.

We passed more incredible graffiti. The whole public art concept continued to gnaw at me. This was beautiful. But is it ALL beautiful? Who decides? And who is this guy? I see the word “Mafia.” Is that a good thing in Rio? I hate to say it, but he kind of looks like Fred “Rerun” Berry from What’s Happenin’?

This was a poignant shot, I thought.

The section of Niterói we were in was characterized by small winding roads with a melange of structures ranging from small houses to restaurants to larger homes hidden by fences and landscaping. Marcelo pointed to the left at a wall topped by an iron fence and backed by lush foliage. “My parents live there,” he said.

To me, that was tantamount to taking us home to meet them. I was very flattered. It looked like a nice piece of property, too. Little by little Marcelo had begun to reveal himself. With the information about his sister in Petrópolis and his parents in what appeared to be cushy digs in Niterói, combined with his immense knowledge of history, botany and such, I had figured that he was well brought up, with an appreciation of knowledge, beauty and history. There was nobody better that we could have gotten to shepherd us through Rio. How did we luck into that?

We took route B home, I noticed–the one via beach road that went by Niedermeyer’s spaceship–more fantastic juxtaposition. It was a spectacular ride, and as we approached it, Marcelo told us how the mayor had bought all the property opposite the museum years ago, even though there was a ban on building there. A massive, elegant condo development stood there now.

“Ees very funny. This land was to stay as it was. No building. The mayor buys the land, and suddenly there are condos here.”

“Well, DUH!” I replied. Here we were, international brothers both being screwed by the elected.

The views of the bay we had sailed the day before were spectacular. I couldn’t help but correlate the value of the real estate in Niterói with that in the U.S.–in Destin, for example. I just couldn’t comprehend the whole thing.

We passed the Jesuit church of São Lourenço dos Indios on the hill of São Lourenáo. The church was started in 1560 and construction continued for a couple of hundred years afterwards. It is named after another church in Portugal, and if I’m not mistaken, Marcelo told us it is the oldest church in the area.

Before we knew it, we were at the McDonald’s. Mirante was only a blink away. We got out, Marcelo getting out as well, like a boy with some good manners.

“Can you take us out tomorrow?” we asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Hoo-HAH!” I exclaimed. “Okay den! I’ll see you tomorrow, Marcelo! Thanks for a great day! Honey, y’all are gonna work it all out, okay?” With that, I wriggled into the house after a staggering Robo, dropped the ACG on Steve’s lovely hand-made dining room table (which was our “kitchen counter”), threw the bag with the card reader at the computter, and headed down to PMS 361 for cocktail fixins. Daniel and Patricia had decided they wanted McDonald’s, and none of us argued a bit. It actually sounded good to me. What a conundrum it all is.

All I cared about was getting my cards emptied and safe. The reader plugged right into the PC. And at that point, Daniel and I both discovered that there were CARD READERS ALREADY ON THE FRONT OF THE PC, with mine FRONT and CENTER! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

I had to take a break, and shoot the last picture on the current card before I made it disgorge all its loveliness into Steve’s computer.

We gave our orders to D&P, who were gonna walk down the hill and possibly back up. Fine with us. It was all safe. It wasn’t dark yet. Down they went. We cocktailed, and I began to wrestle with the heinous PC operating system, trying to download my pictures with en
ough confidence to erase a flash card. TOUGH THINKING. Required much agua com gaís and everything under it.

I hate to be a dick, but I HATE PCs. I’m a Mac boy, and have been long enough to know that my hatred is well founded. A task that would have taken 1 minute to set up plus download time on my Mac, suddenly became an “adventure” of window after window with cryptic questions that, if answered incorrectly, could result in massive amounts of calculation time on the computer’s behalf, plus the erasure of all digital information in a half mile radius. Robo walked by a couple of times, shook his head and said, “My programmers won’t use anything but a Mac.”

When Daniel and Patricia got back (via tax–it was too much for them to walk up the hill), we all rushed the bag to get our food out. Suddenly everybody was starving. And, in true form all across the world, THEY SCREWED UP OUR ORDER and I’M THE ONE WHO GOT SCREWED! No matter. I had business to attend to.

I snagged Daniel and made him help me wade through the tangle of PC-speak to get what I needed done. I thought I’d be able to just plug in my iPod and put the pictures there. But NO! My iPod was formatted for Mac, and in order to even smell a PC’s out port, it has to be re-formatted for PC. So, basically, I was saying that my pictures were more important than the music on my iPod. No question. The decision was instantly made to reformat. Why was it such an ordeal after that? I don’t know. I fogged over again and let Daniel do the big nasty for me.

Tomorrow’s itinerary was gonna be aladsasvafbu0u0uasn and probablymaybeseeingtheChrist Botanical gardenswhatever Maybehang glidingforRobo andPettuswhoknewbut at least Marcelo was taking us.

When the Blackberry announced the day, for once it wasn’t pure torture. We had come in early the night before and gotten to bed at a decent hour, so I actually jumped out of the rack and turned the thing off before it had gotten through a whole sequence.

Something was different about the light seeping in from behind the blackout curtains. What? THE FIRST SIGHT OF BLUE in Rio! The sky outside the window was riddled with birds, so I snapped a couple of pictures. It was amazing when I first looked at them, because I initially thought it was dirt on my lens.

The pair of birds in the upper right look like a hammerhead shark. Cool.

Sylvia came by right after breakfast to get our laundry and bring us our belated bonus gift: five pairs of Havaianas! The pineapple is so yesterday’s news as a sign of welcome. Nothing says “Howdy! Come on in!” to the smart Brazilian like a pair of flip flops.

They were supposed to have been waiting on us when we got there, but weren’t, because of their not knowing our sizes. Jean and Pettus wanted to make sure we got everything that came with the house, so stayed on Sylvia about it. It was nice the way she lined them all up behind the sofa in a happy display.

Robo and Pettus asked her again about hang gliding, since it was more clear today. She said she’d check on it and get back to us. In the meantime, Marcelo had pulled up outside. Suddenly, Maria and Robson appeared, gathered up the clothes, and were out the door behind Sylvia’s implied shooing motion. We followed.

I have no idea how we had settled on seeing the fort this morning. I think Marcelo had mentioned that it was close and would be a good early outing. We were trying to wait on it to clear up a little more before we went up to see The Christ, and the Botanical Gardens, which was also on our agenda for the day. We found out later that Marcelo leads groups of school kids through the Gardens regularly, and is quite a naturalist. I had already figured that out.

Other than to go to the restaurants, this was the only time we took a left at the McDonald’s. The Bay beach road carried us past the Niedermeyer terminal (closed), then the landscape gradually changed to look like Apalachicola, Florida, or something from Destin in the really old days. This was Jurujuba, an old fishing village on Guanabara Bay.

We continued along the beach road, which was curvy as hell at times, with natural rock ledges looming over the car as we zoomed past. Marcelo pointed out Adam and Eve, two secluded beaches that got their names from the isolation of the place, and the nudity that usually takes place when people get together there.

I was about to bust, I was so excited to see The Christ. Ever since I had seen him in pictures, it had been a fascination and a small obsession. This Seventh Wonder of the Modern World combined one of my biggest fears and one of my biggest loves in one awe inspiring package. Pictures taken above the statue’s head looking down would bring my acrophobia to the surface every time, but in a strange comfortable way. When I first saw The Christ upon arrival in Rio, all I could do was kind of sigh, the way he overlooked everything. And, yes, he has incredible peripheral vision.

The awesomeness of huge things is another of my passions, and poor little ole Vulcan would have to stand on top of his own head twice before he would reach The Christ, who is 90 feet tall with a 90 foot hand span. The herculean efforts required for something like this make me swell with pride for mankind’s attempts to be great.

We decided not to ride the tram up the mountain, but instead have Marcelo take us as far as he could, then we would board a minivan to ride to the top for a small fee. The tram looked really neat, being the train that brought the stuff to the top of Corcovado for the construction of the statue. It went through the dense foliage that hugged the mountain, and was supposed to be a great trip.

Naah. We wanted to get there fast. Upon seeing the tram and the track it took up the mountain, I was kind of sorry we didn’t do it. But we were there, and of course Marcelo wasn’t coming with us. He drove his car to the top of the hill to wait with the others who weren’t making the trip. I’m sure he read his history and science magazines that he kept in the car. Or napped. Probably napped. The magazines were most likely props.

The drop off point was somewhere outside of Santa Teresa, which is pretty high up already. It was teeming with people, but they were kind of just milling around: some official, some not, everyone looking kind of specious. There was a cop asleep in his car while all this loading and unloading went on. We all got in the van, waiting only a couple of minutes for it to fill up with other people. The ride up to the statue was neat, with the continually curving road draped on one side with lush green foliage and perilously seductive on the other, with tiny little Rio peeking through the small trees–the only thing that would keep us from plummeting off of Corcovado should our driver lose control of the van. WHEE!!!

The feel of the urban jungle as we ascended the mountain was strange, because I knew there were hundreds of people all around us, but it appeared that we were the only ones there.

When Carol and family had been to see The Christ previously, there were a multitude of steps to mount. We were fortunate to have arrived at the modernization of holy access. The bad part was now merely a slightly healthy flight of beautiful stone stairs at the bottom which led to a plateau with a couple of elevators up to the next level.

The crowd was big, but not overbearing by any means. We got an elevator rather quickly. This was a weird experience, in that the cars were very narrow and twice as deep, causing us to line up in there kind of like parachute jumpers. Through the green tinted glass, we could see our ascent through the vegetation that opened on another panoramic view. It was as if the elevator had no bottom when you looked straight out the window. Slightly creepy.

Our elevator operator had blonde spikes in his hair, and the look of Johnny Rotten, but he was wearing an official Jesus elevator operator vest, so I figured he was okay. I felt sure that the same rigorous specifications had been applied to this job as those for the security guards around town. When we reached the next level, the door opened behind us, we all turned around and quickly filed out, giving the operator our various versions of “obrigado/a.” Instead of telling us to “wank off” or something like that, he smiled broadly and said in stilted English, “Enjoy The Christ.” Indeed.
Gorgeous. The top tier was achieved by riding a brand spanking new escalator. Jean and I were both thankful. Well, who WOULDN’T be? At the top right under the statue, there was a throng of people milling around excitedly, everybody with cameras, many taking pictures of loved ones or companions by lying on the ground and shooting up to get The Christ in the picture looming protectively over the subject. Like the Kennemers.

Yeah, I lay down on the hot pavement to take this picture. I don’t know where the hell Jean was, but my frying back couldn’t take any more, so she didn’t get the photographic blessing. The views from there were unbelievable–the horse track was a funny counterpoint to The Christ. He didn’t look down AT the track, but you knew he could see them anyway.

There was so much hedonism for him to see, with the sexy beaches and all! But I didn’t feel one iota of judgment. Not one. This beautiful bug climbing on Christ’s granite (natch) base was so pretty and cool and kind of unlikely looking. What would a bug be doing up this high? How long did it take him to get here? Surely he was born here in one of these patches of vegetation. He looked so small and dedicated against the enormous mass of stone, like he was making his own trek of faith old style to see Jesus. May be.

Jean took a good picture of Robo and me, after which I took long shots of The Christ and more of the crowd.

This vertiginous shot looks like the shelf of people is fixing to crash down onto the city below. Shudder.

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.

The entrance to the Metro looked more like a department store, with a huge graphic of a pretty Brazilian girl looking happy and “mobile.” We followed our noses until we had found the ticket booth, adjoined by several closed snack stands. Except one, and it had the water I needed.

The rest of the group stood around the ticket booth trying to figure out what to buy while I blissfully caved in the flimsy plastic bottle with a rapid evacuation of liquid. By this time, they had figured out what tickets to buy and exactly where we were to go. It was actually very simple. The maps aboard the train were easy to read, and after we disembarked, we would have to walk about 6 blocks or so to the beach. Not bad.

The car was full of people in relaxed gear. No businesspeople. Many pairs of Havaianas.

On the route to the beach from the station, we encountered sidewalk vendors of all kinds, including a raw coconut lady, who sold us a couple of cups of the real thing. Inside a large mobile ice chest, she had several pre-drilled green coconuts ready to pour. Primitive, yet sophisticated! You could buy the whole coconut complete with straw, or buy the small cup, which we did. Still glyceriney tasting, but I could just FEEL the electrolytes pulsing through my system.

Somehow, Robo, Pettus and the kids had gotten ahead of Jean and me, and when we caught up to them, it was at a street corner covered with a plush high rise condominium. They excitedly reported that they had seen a Playboy Brazil model leave the condo and cruise toward the beach!

Patricia had pointed her out as what the Brazilian woman’s ideal for legs would be. The doorman to the condo had been listening from inside his grated entrance, and told them that she was a playmate. He also asked if they’d like to see her pictures, because he happened to have the magazine. Well, duh! Of course they did, and when Jean and I came up, he was more than happy to show us, too. Whee! What a claim to fame for the poor sap. But we were all thinking that Copacabana was gonna be packed with her ilk! We hustled on.

The beach had been expanded in 1960 by new sand from nearby Botafogo Bay. After this, there was no stopping the popularity and fame to be enjoyed by Copacabana and Ipanema.

The place was lined with various local vendors, and tiny food and beverage joints. We managed to find an empty table under an umbrella at Big Bob’s Hamburgers. (Weird, huh? We found out later that the burgers were, too.) Pettus and Patricia had bathing suits on under their clothes, but the rest of us looked like landlubbers.

Robo decided to take his shoes off and walk on the hot sand. Meanwhile, Jean and I had wandered out toward the water, she taking off her Crocs, me leaving mine on, including the socks. I took shots of Jean and the surrounding fauna. Uhh. Where was that Playmate? Cause there wasn’t anybody here that looked like that!

A-HA! A towel sitter! The place was crawling with ’em. And butt brushers, to boot. Apparently NONE of these people had read the books Jean had read. We began to figure that they were probably tourists, and had scared most of the pretty girls away to Ipanema Beach next door. We also learned that Copacabana and even Ipanema were no longer pinnacles of dazzling Brazilian beach beauty. The glitterati had moved on to Búzios, three hours up the road.

By this time, I had already stepped in enough water to completely soak my socks inside my Crocs. So Jean took my picture.

Hey WAIT!  I didn’t have a towel with me! Oh. Wrong guy. Maybe this is it.

There! All righty. Beach: nice. Water: cold. Brazilian hotties: nottie. We decided to go back up to Big Bob’s tables and hang around while the others had their Copacabana experiences. While we were sitting there, I had brief 12-word conversations with some of the people sitting around us. Kids were coming up constantly trying to sell us candy and other trifles, which we refused politely. But when a guy came up with a bunch of wood carvings, particularly the wooden mortar and pestle for making caipirinhas, I was suddenly interested. I asked if he had made them, and he said “yes,” but I don’t think he did. However, the 12 bucks American that I paid for it was well worth it whether he made it or not. It’s already received a severe workout here in the States, and is one of those things I would have killed myself had I not gotten.

Pettus and Robo were ready to go off to the beach for how long, we didn’t know, or really care. It was comfortable watching the pigeons wander around in the shade of the tables. We did nothing more but actually enjoy the sun, look at all the people and lovingly mother over our flea market goods and my new caipirinha maker. I felt like Jean’s grandmother, Big Mama, (also Carol’s grandmother, God rest her soul), who used to love to sit in the mall and watch the people for hours.

I love in this picture how one pigeon is coming into the frame on the left just as one is leaving the frame on the right. These Brazilian birds were so much better photographically trained than the ones in the U.S., I’m convinced.

Carol had given Daniel some money to buy jeans for school while we were in Rio, being that they weren’t available in Salvador. Somehow, D&P found them at Ipanema beach, a mile or so down the road. Before Patricia got into her bathing suit, I took their picture by Big Bob’s.

It finally hit me the other night who Patricia keeps reminding me of! She’s got this whole Scarlett Johansson thing going on! I saw the actress on some talk show the other night, and it was like a ton of bricks dropping on my head.

 After everybody split, Jean and I sat at the table contentedly, me drying my socks in the sun on one of Big Bob’s chairs. I saw a cute beachgoer and offer her for your inspection. The incredulous, odor-detecting smell on her face can only indicate that she has caught her boyfriend sitting on a towel.

There was a team of volleyballers warming up for a match to our right.

That was all I had written when I first posted this story. Blog teamster Estado Coco Robo has since written in:

You may already have this coming up, but in case not, it’s probably worth mentioning somewhere around “There was a team of volleyballers…” that the volleyball was soccer-style — feet, head, chest, but no hands. I did a quick look-up on it. it’s called futvolei (FOOCH-volley).

That Robo has class. Notice how he allowed for the fact that I may have been planning to mention the style of volleyball going on. No way in hell did I know anything about nothing! That’s why I put these specious facts out there like targets: just waiting for clarification or refutation. It’s fun! It’s educational!    Let’s return to the newly-enriched “narrative.”

The futvolei players were a brief diversion just in time for Pettus and Robo to return from the beach and Jean from the public locker room under the street, where she tried to wash the sand off of her feet. It was gonna cost 2 Reais, so she declined and came back up to Big Bob’s to give us a huffy account about the ripoff going on downstairs.

Yep. Time to go. But D&P had just left only about 30 minutes earlier. What would the plan be?

Lest Carol think that we were trifling with Daniel & Patricia’s safety, we were in constant phone contact with them, and apprised them of our schedule every five minutes. Of course, had anything sudden happened, our cellular connection would have been little help. But. But. But. I could just hear Nelson’s voice in my head: Mollie will KILL me!

So what did we do? Called them up to find out where they were, and if it were going to be better for them to come back to us at Copacabana or meet us at the ferry terminal. A cab had pulled up in front of us, and we quickly decided to jump in it rather than schlep ourselves back to the Metro. Robo looked like he had “enjoyed” the beach to the fullest, and I was ready to get back home and try out my caipirinha maker.

Between Jean and the Cerqueira-bots, they decided to have them cab over to meet us at the ferry terminal. That enabled us to savor our ride to the terminal in a tiny cab. The driver was a large Carioca with a modest afro and a ready smile. He spoke about five words of English, but understood “ferry terminal,” because Jean had Patricia tell him via cell phone where to take us. Smart!

I must say that at this moment I was firing on all cylinders, and had revved up my spindly Portuguese sufficiently to actually “converse” with the cabbie all the way. He smiled, seeming to understand what I said, and spoke many words that I was totally down with. Jean later reported that it was an amazing thing to listen to, but if they showed the replay it would be a completely different story, I’m sure. We were probably reading each others’ expressions, and using nouns like “Copacabana,” “Cristo,” “Sugarloaf” and “Playboy Playmate.”

Meanwhile, we had gotten the word from D&P that their cab driver was an idiot. Either that, or crazy like a fox. He had managed to find them a traffic jam to sit in, even though there were very few cars on the road around them.

Our cabbie pulled up to the terminal at that precise moment, as if to further punctuate the stupidity of Daniel & Patricia’s temporary handler. I wondered if he knew the Whistler. We got out of the cab, regaling the driver with big fat obrigadoes the size of his hair. His glistening smile as he pulled off was rewarding and reassuring.

The whole Terminal area was beautiful. It almost resembled the backlot of a film studio.

All righty! Here we all were. Robo and Pettus had bought the tickets for D&P, and all we needed to get on the next ferry were the Cerqueiras themselves. Jean and I had already put our tickets in the turnstiles and were standing inside when the phone rang. Cabbie has managed to get them lost, but has assured them that he knows where to go now. Robo and Pettus stayed outside the gates to wait on their arrival. Once again, we were separated like families at a jail visit.

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.

It was so early that my brain has a hard time dredging up a lot. The airport was very lightly crowded, and we got our stuff checked in quickly while Daniel and Patricia waited outside the line. Their flight was due to leave later, so they had the pleasure of watching us go through TAM preliminaries.

We bid our sad goodbyes to the Cerqueira-bots, making them promise not to get kidnapped or anything. I also mentioned that should they happen to run into the goddess Iemanjá when they got back to Salvador, to tell her I had left the country.

Pettus had given me her library copy of John Grisham’s Playing for Pizza, since she had finished it. It was short and looked like perfect airline reading.  I was hoping for full diversion on the way to São Paulo.

The candy greeting was right on time. Jean and I had perfected [I thought] the multi-grab to get 3, even 4 pieces without looking like a front-loader excavating a foundation. I don’t know how Jean scored, but I ended up clawing at the basket bottom for as long as I dared, and only coming up with two. My move was not slick at all. I felt the lardish buffoon as the white-shirt-blue-skirted-neck-scarf-wearing stewardess looked at me with thinly veiled impatience dusted with disgust. Probably no chance of getting a Bloody Mary out of her. I smiled sheepishly, hoping to prevent any lapse in service.

There were three of us on the row, and we were nowhere near any comfort zones in the airplane, so I buried my head in the book while Jean managed to alternately doze and read scandal rags until we landed.

One would think that Jean and I had learned something from our last experience at the São Paulo airport. But we didn’t. So we all followed Robo through the same string of rumors about where the luggage was, and if it was indeed in the airport at all. We fell for a few of those, rushing through the place in a wiggly tandem, finally gambling on the luggage and winning.

And at last! Robo had found out where to go. It was like a glass mouse maze containing escalators and windows, windows, windows. When we got to what was supposed to be our entrance, I saw a horrified expression on his face as he was the first to realize that we were at the international departures section. WTF?? The SIGN had SAID Domestic Departures, I swear!

I can only remember his head, as if it were on a pole, sticking above the crowd and rotating like crazy. He finally pointed back to where we had come from and we all dashed after him. It was correct this time, but I could tell you nothing about anything, being as we were schlepping three uncooperative suitcases plus carry-ons, and none of them could speak Portuguese.

By some miracle, we found the place to check the suitcases (easy), and made it on to the waiting area to do some serious waiting. There were a bunch of international duty free stores. Robo scanned the area and turned to Pettus. “Step away from the shops,” he said.

“I’m not gonna buy anything,” she protested half-heartedly.

We wandered through the aisles, but there was really nothing of huge bargain status to buy. Not even liquor. Especially liquor. It was more expensive. Back to the uncomfortable metal chairs with an absurd back slant. I still would rather sit there as long as I could than be in the plane, and since we had reserved seats, I figured we’d make it, so I didn’t bother to stand in the line.

Once aboard, we couldn’t even see Pettus and Robo. Jean and I were in a two-seat configuration that wasn’t that bad. There were no boxes and no third passenger. But there was no empty third seat, either.

Jean kept watching this group of French people who were obviously on some kind of tour. They had been rather vociferous and fun-loving in the airport, and made themselves known as a cohesive force immediately. The tour guide or leader was a chatty thing, and I noticed that she would talk to all the people in serving positions in a very French way.

“I wonder what she’s up to,” Jean muttered to me. “She keeps talking to that stewardess, and they keep pointing up to first class.”

“I don’t know,” I said, knowing exactly what she was driving at. I almost wanted to avoid any hassles and stay where we were, but was dying to know what was up with the tour director’s excited motioning to her group and their subsequent rush to the front of the plane. “Why don’t you go and see what they’re doing,” I offered. If anybody could make chicken salad out of this chickenshit flight, it would be Jean.

“Okay,” she said, and disappeared down the aisle, passing a man who had his head covered with a blanket the entire time we were boarding.

She returned in a hurry and breathlessly whispered, “Get up, we’re going to first class. Try not to attract attention.”

“What about Pettus and Robo?”

“I looked for them, but can’t find them. And they’re not in this section. We gotta go!”

I delicately and nonchalantly grabbed everything at lightning speed that I had already spread out all over our two seats and followed Jean up the aisle past blanket guy and hot on the trail of those brazen French. After busting through the hymen of First Class, Jean immediately sought out her brand new best friend the stewardess, who pointed to two seats that were across the cabin from each other. Jean took the one against the left wall, and I ended up in the very front seat on the right side. For first class, probably the worst real estate in the room. But who cared?

I settled into my seat next to a portly gentleman who looked like a businessman that would wield a lot of cash. He was very congenial, and I couldn’t tell what his nationality was. I had managed to scarf three candies on the greeting out in steerage, and had them in my pocket. I tried to find some kind of position to read in for a while, and wrestled with the controls for a good five minutes while the executive looked at me with a bemused expression. After turning around three times like a dog does, I settled down and popped a candy into my mouth and picked up the novel where I had left off.

I let it dissolve in my mouth for as long as I could stand before I had to give it the bite. When my teeth came apart, something felt strange, but I knew instantly what it was: my freeking gold crown had come out of my lower right jaw. A lotta gold, I’ll tell ya! And a great crown job, done in 1975. Probably 400 bucks worth of gold there.

I did my very best to not act freaked out, as I ate the candy surrounding the crown. This had happened before, and I knew that sometimes they can be put back in like a jigsaw puzzle piece, at least temporarily, and with careful chewing can work beautifully until repair can be made. This I did with little effort. I then turned to the large man and offered him my other two candies, which he took graciously.

He had meanwhile been having trouble with his chair controls, and called the steward to help. I looked around frantically to make sure there were other seats, because I felt sure that this was the ONLY paying first class passenger. I was in awe of his fine demeanor, considering he surely knew none of us hillbillies belonged there. Fortunately, he was able to find other arrangements, and as he left, he gave me a cheerful salute.

I settled back into my seat, placated by the wonderful re-fit of the crown into the crag it came from. I was still just waiting for some prissy head guy to sweep through the curtains and point to all of us, curse the stewardesses in flowery Portuguese, and throw us out. But it never happened, so I was free to fiddle with the stupid chair in peace.

The air began to hum with the vibration of breakfast! I don’t know how, I just knew it! My virgin experience. I was trying to figure out how to say “eggs ben
edict” and “mimosa” in Portuguese.

I looked up and a young lady was handing me a box and holding a pot of coffee.

What? If I were Mr. Businessman, I’d be royally pissed off about this. But I could only smile at her, us both knowing what an airborne social climber I was. It was almost a condescending look she gave me, as if she had read my book of expectations and then set it ablaze right before my eyes. “Eu não posso ler o inglês,” she spat, as the match reflected in each of her red fingernails.

“Obrigado,” was my meek reply, as I took the box gratefully. It was the same stuff they got back in economy class. W T F?

Oh well. I ran through the contents voraciously and had two cups of coffee on top of that before I picked the book up again. My crown was acting as if it had never left its socket. Jean was asleep to my left. I pulled down the shade, spent 10 of 15 minutes adjusting the seat, put the book down and went to sleep for however long that would be. When I awoke, we were landing in Manaus.

I immediately began to feel guilty for having sneaked up to first class without Robo and Pettus. “Don’t tell the Kennemers about our being up here,” I said to Jean on our way out.

“Why? They won’t care,” she said.

“I feel bad about leaving them,” I whined.

“Whatever,” she tossed back. “I still say they won’t care.”

We were herded up a ramp to the luggage claim, an area about the size of a small meeting room, packed with humanoids. The conveyor stuck out of one wall like a giant silver fist. We looked over to see Robo and Pettus leaning over the luggage, Robo’s face bearing the sinus expression. I was glad to keep my mouth shut about the first class upgrade after taking a look at him.

In true fashion, the Kennemers’ luggage, both dainty pieces of it, came out within mere seconds of us bellying up to the belt. That seemed to bode well for Jean and me, being as we had been loaded close to the same time. But it was not to be. And why, I’ll never figure out. Possibly because our suitcases were the largest ones on the conveyor, and caused it to groan in displeasure as it spit them out at us. By this time, the room was almost empty.

We schlepped our stuff out into the main lobby, which was lined with shops of all kinds and interspersed with bars and snack kiosks. Immediately, a tall black guy with beautiful dreads held up a sign reading “Anavilhanas Lodge” practically in our faces. How he knew it was us I’ll never know. Once again, I’m sure Robo and Pettus were the tipoff. Jean and I look so international you can’t tell WHERE we’re from.

The guy smiled broadly, spoke stellar English with a cool accent, and gestured like a surfer as he told us we would be leaving shortly, but were waiting on one more passenger for the van to the lodge. He told us we had a little more than an hour, and suggested we eat and relax, that he would find us when the van arrived.

To the left, anchoring the whole room, in a place of honor next to the tourism office, was a Big Bob’s Hamburgers! I was hungry as hell, being only tormented by the tiny suggestion of a breakfast.

We trooped over to the table area and immediately commandeered one, building a fortress around us with our luggage. Robo and I went up to get the food. The menu read just like something in America, obviously because WE are the king of hamburgers. We ordered various stuff, me getting some kind of burger.

Our faces must have been very interesting as we all took our first bites. Like Darrin trying to eat Samantha’s cooking on Bewitched is what I picture. “Man, this is WEIRD!” I said. “It’s got so much filler in it. Is there any beef?”

“I think it’s soy,” Jean said. Neither one of us stopped eating.

Robo and Pettus had gotten chicken. “Well it’s kind of like a McNugget sandwich,” Pettus said. “But it’s not bad.” Robo wasn’t saying much, just looking suspiciously at his food.

“I think I’m gonna walk around,” he said, getting up. “Can y’all watch my stuff?”

“I’ll go with you,” Pettus said.

“We’ll watch the stuff,” we said.

As they disappeared into the crowd, Jean and I ruminated on the contents of our lunch. The texture was like half-quiche, half oatmeal, kissed with the lips of a big beef cow. I had never experienced anything even close. There was no similarity to even a McDonald’s patty. It was almost repellant. By then I had begun to wonder if it were some kind of special meat that only Brazilians can eat–kind of like drinking their water. It started to freak me out a little bit, but I kept eating the “hamburger” anyway. I don’t need to be sick in the Amazon, I thought, reaching for the rest of Pettus’ food.

Presently, Robo returned carrying a great safari hat with “Amazona” and a leopard embroidered on it. It was one of those button-the-sides things with the string to go under your chin. “I only paid 10 bucks for it!” he enthused.

“Where?” I shouted.

I was already headed down the left side by the time he had finished telling me. He was right! I got a hat like his but with a toucan on it, and a crocheted sun hat decorated with polished wood for Jean. Only 20 bucks for both!

We had more time left, so Jean decided to see if she could get some money from an ATM. AGAIN. I stood by her while she tried all the machines to no avail. There was a young guy and girl of undetermined nationality also having a go at getting something from the uncooperative machines. They were having no more luck than we were, and I made some kind of pithy comment about it as I was lurking around, then asked the girl if they were on their honeymoon. She gave me a strange look and shook her head.

We had been seeing them all the way from Rio to Manaus. Her boyfriend
was carrying around a berimbau wrapped in brown paper, but there was no
disguising what it was. Robo wondered what it was going to be like
carrying it around all over Brazil.

Our greeter showed up shortly, and waved us to the curb outside where our van was waiting. He and the driver took care of all the luggage, managing to get it in with no difficulty. I was extra mindful of the carryon that had my Rio treasures in it, but all was handled beautifully. We had been waiting on an Indian gentleman to complete our group. When he got in, we all greeted him cordially. He responded in kind. His name was Rupi. That’s what I thought he said. As it turns out, it was true. Like the money, but spelled differently.

Also in our van was the young couple from the ATMs. They were both camera-ready, the guy being particularly effusive, speaking in flawless English.
“I am Yavor. This is Natacha,” he told us.

We began to introduce ourselves just as the van took off.

I knew we were going on a ferry, but didn’t really grasp it when it was told to me.

lt had never really occurred to me that you don’t just “drive” into the Amazon rainforest. There are many hoops to jump through, the first being the ferry from Manaus. I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t this. A big concrete landing pad with a two-track ramp to load cars on with. There was no office, no administration of any kind–just various people hanging around.

There were a couple of ferries on the water, this being the first one. It wasn’t ours. It looks like several boats are tied on to the thing. And he didn’t land at our place, so there’s no telling what he was up to.

Our ferry was coming. Look at the gaggle of Brazilians standing at the bow/stern to get off as fast as they can. Right now, the only way to get from the Amazon to Manaus and vice versa is via ferry.

The ferry is an important factor in preventing the wholesale rape of the Amazon. Any resources taken from there must travel by ferry to get to the rest of Brazil or the world. It is a pain in the ass, obviously, and it’s surely time-and-money-prohibitive in certain cases.

When the giant boat pulled up, our greeter hopped out of the van, telling us that he had to get off there. “Aww,” we all said. He was great, and we were sorry to see him go.

“You will be in good hands with the driver on the ferry,” he began. “And when you get across, you will be met by the owners of the lodge, who will ride there with you all.”

I didn’t understand a word of what he was saying. My mind was on a million other things. Like scorpions, snakes, candiru catfish, piranha and heat.

We were all asked to stay in the van while we drove onto the ferry. Makes sense. I mentioned to Yavor that we had noticed his berimbau. “Yes, I had to have one,” he said. “I am a musician in Bulgaria. I am very interested in these instruments.”

We also learned that Yavor is a lawyer in addition to being a musician and that Natacha was some sort of doctor from Belgium. Wow! What a couple of losers! And so unattractive!

Natacha also spoke very good English, but was not quite as fluent, nor as ebullient as Yavor. But she sure was channeling Julia Roberts! I told her that one night at dinner and Yavor said, “You have a friend for life.”

“Well surely people tell her that all the time,” I insisted.

“Yes. Once or twice,” she replied shyly.

There were about six cars and a couple of vans and trucks aboard in addition to fifty or so people, who stood on the stairs and upper deck. Sometimes they’d go down to entertain the captain, who saw my camera and turned it on for me.

This shot of the pedestrian passengers is quite pretty.

The ride was longer than I thought, and I was thirsty again. Fortunately, there was a little guy with a big aluminum bowl filled with ice and various drinks, including the blessed agua. I bought a couple for Jean and me at 2 Reais each. Still a bargain, and nobody was trying to rip anybody off just because they were captive on a ferry in the middle of the river. That seemed to be the mindset of the Brazilian small vendor everywhere. They operated under invisible price guidelines, obviously, because we never paid more than 2 Reais for water anywhere, under any circumstances. Even the beer at Rio Carnaval was reasonably priced.

Robo had donned his new hat and even buttoned up the sides. Quite a complement to his beard. I had begun to realize that his scruffiness was directly linked to how bad he felt. And I get the idea that he felt less than stellar at that moment.

We were all getting kind of antsy. Yavor decided to go up and converse with some of the locals. In addition to great English, his Portuguese was also fantastic. The kids of course loved him, and I could see how the performer in him was a permanent resident of his psyche.

Jean looked at me and said, “Enough pictures of me. Let me take one of you.” I should have been suspicious, knowing our history and all, but I let her. Another album cover! Love Songs for Manatees. Notice the embroidery on Robo’s hat. TEN BUCKS AMERICAN! Who can believe it?

It was time to land! When we approached, I could feel a weird commercially festive vibe, like a tiny little Cozumel or something. There was a floating bar surrounded by kids swimming in the Rio Negro. It was very strange to me to see the kiss of tourism on the lips of this former virgin. It’s hard as hell to get there, so whatever attractions they have are kind of thrown together at best. The naive charm is ingrained, but I’m not so sure it can last much longer.