Once we had entered the plane we saw that it was not totally packed. It gave us a glimmer of hope that the 3+-hour flight could possibly be made with an empty seat between Jean and me. When we’re flying Southwest, we have a method that usually yields us the empty seat:
• Make no eye contact with those coming down the aisle
• Buy or rent Enquirer, Star, Globe, and Hustler and spread them all over the three seats
• Buy or rent used cups and food paper to spread around with the magazines
• Take shoes off and display sock feet prominently
• Sit as fatly in the seats with as much body spilling all over the place as possible–think “Jabba the Hutt”

But this was TAM, and the seats were assigned. We went ahead and tried the “method” anyway, hoping that any possible row companion would be compelled to find another seat without even attempting actual contact with us.

Either “the method” worked, or there was nobody else assigned to our row, because we had that golden empty seat–a small piece of aeronautical real estate worth more per square inch than the finest Fifth Avenue penthouse.

To top off this small victory, the TAM candy greeting was right behind. This time, we both took two candies. I still didn’t have the nerve to get a handful like I had seen other people do. Being that we were gonna be on the plane with the stewardess for all that time, I didn’t want our first introduction to be greed-based. I was counting on some real TAM service, untainted by a bad first impression. THIS time, I wasn’t going to even THINK of the people up in first class. Uh huh.

The stewardesses were cute as hell, as usual. THIS time, maybe we really WERE gonna experience the TAM luxury they foretold with the candies. Then, as if by magic, our little TVs came on with the flight instructions given in four or five languages. Yippee!! Until Jean’s TV immediately began to strobe and change colors rapidly. It was totally trippy, but useless for watching anything. She turned it off and looked at me. We both burst out laughing.

And don’t think the in-flight entertainment wasn’t top notch. If the trip weren’t long enough for a couple of movie options, they would stick in a videotape (not a CD, a videotape) of either a CBS drama or comedy. The problem was, besides the inherent rotten playback quality of an overused videotape at the get-go, they tended to start a one-hour drama when there wasn’t enough time left in the flight to see the end. That happened several times during our travels. It was as if whoever it was that taped the show had forgotten to set their VCR correctly and the last 10 minutes were missing, so they played it back for the passengers accordingly.

After a little flying time, I was hungry. The coconut water had cured me! Not really. Flying makes me hungry. Like anything does. Suddenly, the big “food and beverage cart parade” showed its head at the back of the plane. Of course. We were almost at the front of the plane.

So here they come, moving like slugs, greeting people left and right in Portuguese, and doling out what, on any menu, should be called “The Oliver Twist.” First of all, you’re sitting there trying not to obviously crane your neck to see what they’re serving. Then you’re trying not to drool all over the Enquirers and Hustlers, but can’t WAIT for that stupid cart to get to your place. By then you’ve figured out the pattern: left aisle; smile; serve meal, ask for drink order; give drink order to drink caboose; serve drinks. Right aisle: lather, rinse, repeat.

And then it gets close to you, and suddenly the pattern changes! They start going three rows at a time on one side, completely bypassing YOU! WHAT???

Did I still have a little taint from Iemanjá on me somewhere? Now, besides just squirming and salivating; I was politely, internally steaming, too. But here was the cart, finally! Two foil-covered packets were handed to us rather unceremoniously, I thought.

“Drink? Uh. Bloody Mary?” asks Jean, doing the traditional raised volume and implied quote marks.
“?” replies the stewardess.
“Tomato juice?” asks Jean, loudly.
“?”
“Liquor?” asks Jean. I lean over and do the “drinky-drinky” motion for the stewardess. She nods and holds up a bottle of wine.
“Diet Coke? Coke Lite?” Jean enunciates, as if she were chewing ice. The stewardess pulls out a can of Jean’s second choice, plops two ice cubes in a tiny plastic cup, and pours it three-quarters full.
“May I have the can?” Jean shouts, masticating and enunciating like a pro. The stewardess is nonplussed as she hands her the can.

Having already decided that unless I wanted a Red Wine Sunrise, there was nothing liquory to be had. Besides, the red wine was already open. Uh. This was a morning flight. When was it opened? Shudder. I ordered club soda and lime AND coffee. Egads, in retrospect, I wonder if the coffee was made with “plane water”. Double shudder!

Never mind! The FOOD was here! Jean and I both reverently furled the foil on our breakfast treasures. “Fresh”-like fruit salad, some bready thing, and then the items that scream “LUXURY”: the butter, packaged as if it were churned by the actual descendants of Dom Pedro II; the cheese, with some logo on it indicating how only the most elite get to eat it; and the “jelly” made from the belly button lint of Venus and “kissed” with a hint of jasmine or equivalent. Yeah, great. But it was in reality, a FREEKING PAT OF BUTTER, smaller than a credit card size piece of cheese, and enough jelly to spread on a communion wafer. I’d rather have a trio of Brand X butter, cheese and jelly with a decent Zippy Mart-sized pack of saltines to go with it. Hell, a small “classy” tin of sardines or fish steaks would also be great with the saltines, too! Except a whole planeful of that would be kind of “fragrant.”

We nevertheless attacked the food. It’s always great to open that stuff, like the little baby butter, especially with my sausage fingers. All that internal packaging does nothing but take up potential food space! Sigh. I was beginning to seethe again, as I envisioned them in First Class, eating Eggs Benedict, drinking Mimosas and laughing at all of us in “economy class” as they watched us on closed circuit High-Def TV.

After our airline meal, Jean and I “settled back, relaxed, and enjoyed our flight to Rio.” Not. It has always amazed me that the captain has the balls to tell the passengers to “sit back, relax and enjoy the flight to blahblahblah.” UNLESS YOU ARE IN FIRST CLASS, there is NO WAY to relax and NOTHING to ENJOY about the flight. Anywhere. I get grumpy just thinking about it.

The pilot’s initial greeting was in Portuguese. It was long, flowery, sexy, and ended with not only the suggestion to enjoy the flight, but to possibly “get some” on the way. Next came the Spanish translation. Shorter, slightly less warm. Finally came the English. Three sentences: “I am Captain. We are flying. You will enjoy.” But it was still English spoken by a Latin. Still sounded like butter on pancakes.

I fidgeted my way through the rest of the flight. With all the movement, I may as well have walked to Rio. But we were finally FREE!! We had no problem finding our luggage, and went to the place where Jean told us we were going to be met by the Rio Holiday-authorized driver.

The house we had rented in Rio (actually Niterói, across the bay from Rio) came with access to a concierge, a cook/maid who would prepare breakfast each day, and a driving service. The guy who owns the outfit, Steve, lives in Washington state, I think. He is an ex-Microsoft exec who invested in nice rental real estate in Rio. Jean had researched it extensively on the internet, communicated with Steve a bunch, and the deal was great. We originally had more people on the trip when we booked the house, but despite the fact that poor “Other Nancy,” (Nancy Blackledge) couldn’t come with us, it was still cost effective. And that’s including the couple of days we couldn’t spend there, but paid for anyway, due to the length of rental required.

So anyway, we went to the place where the driver was supposed to meet us, but of course there was no driver. Had the clusterfuck actually begun so quickly? But Jean had the number of our concierge, Sylvia, and was in immediate contact when we weren’t picked up soon. We were standing at the tourist information booth, and though they were pleasant and cute, they were no help. In addition, the maid had come to clean the counter. She sprayed stuff all over the place, then began an expert wipe-down, all the while chatting amiably with the booth girls. They were all having a high old time speaking their Portuguese. I wanted to know what they were talking about.

After a bunch of speculation in English on our parts, and a bunch of “girl talk” in Portuguese on everybody else’s part, Jean got it from Sylvia that the driver had gone to the international pickup place. He didn’t know we were coming from within Brazil. But I thought we WERE at the international pickup place. Mongo confused.

Well, who cared. Our driver was here! We met halfway between the curb and the information booth. He didn’t know he was supposed to get us there, he said, in good English. But he was pissed off about the snafu, I could tell. We followed him across to the parking deck where his car was parked. Earlier, Robo had been telling me about some of the cars in Brazil that were powered with Propane and gas. Wow! Interesting, Robo! He had also told me about how they weren’t quite as powerful as a full-on gas engine. Also interesting. I didn’t know how it would apply to me other than just a neat fact.

Our driver’s car was one of those hybrids! I was looking at Jean’s and my three massive pieces of luggage, all these humanoid passengers, and then at the giant propane tank in the back of the car. How was this going to work? Between Robo, Jean and the driver, we got all the stuff in there. They piled in the back seats, and let me have the front seat again. I turned to tell the driver that I was sorry about the mixup. He immediately reminded me of Peter Dinklage, one of my favorite actors.

I asked him his name.

“Marcelo,” he replied.

“Well hey, Marcelo!” we all chirped. And off we went into a misting, grey day in Rio de Janeiro (pronounced “Hee-oh Zzzzhhah-NEH-ro” all the while swallowing that last “r”). Marcelo didn’t say much on the way, while we all jabbered incessantly in English. I wondered if it was as mysterious to him to hear it from us as the Portuguese was for me. We did all agree that we wanted to find a liquor store, and Jean had been Jonesing for a Bloody Mary ever since being denied one on the flight. We asked Marcelo if there was a liquor store.

It was then that I saw for the first time the expression that I would see so many more times during our stay in Rio and come to love: Marcelo would repeat the word in the interrogative, in this case “Liquor?” all the while looking in the rear view mirror, his eyebrows raised, but still at their permanently sympathetic angle. But inside that head of his, the wheels were turning at a furious rate. In this case, he was thinking, Holy shit, these people want to go to some liquor store. Everything is closed for Carnaval. I’ve got another group to pick up. (He always had somebody else to pick up after us. I felt so cheap and third-rate.)

“Well, there may be something.” He dosed out the words.

On we drove, toward Niterói. We were staying across the bay from Rio, a recommended thing from many people. Niterói is like a friendly suburb of Rio. Not that Rio is not friendly, but Niterói was spawned as a fishing village, and still has the more relaxed vibe. It’s so weird. It’s only across the bay! We drove past several beaches, asking Marcelo if we could swim there.

“Swim?” he asked. “No. I wouldn’t swim there.” He used contractions in some cases.

“What about that liquor store?” we asked.

“I think I know a place,” he repled. “But we must hurry. I have someone else to pick up. . . .”

“We’ll hurry!” we promised. Marcelo responded by driving some back streets of Niterói and finding a bodega on a street that ran perpendicular to the bay. The mist had turned to a light but steady rain.

“You have ten minutes,” Marcelo said, completely deadpan. I looked at him. “And then I’m calling the police.” I burst out laughing.

“We’ll hurry, I swear!” I vowed.

I already loved this guy.

Marcelo hung around outside, chatting with one of the men from the bodega. I got the impression that he didn’t want to crowd us, and wanted to remain at arm’s length due to whatever type of driver protocol there is in Brazil–or anywhere else. It also must be considered from his point of view: here he comes to get us after a miscommunication right out of the chute, he’s got somebody else to pick up later, and it’s US that he’s picking up. The sight of Jean’s and my luggage would have been enough to put anyone on guard.

What he didn’t know about us is that short of his being some kind of serial killer or something, we would have loved to have him hang around. The house had plenty of room. We could have made him owner for a day like they do in Salvador.

But meanwhile, we had a mission: liquor, snacks for Pettus, and Bloody Mary mix for Jean. Right. It didn’t take too terribly long to peruse every shelf in the store and find not only no Bloody Mary mix, but no tomato juice, either! It was becoming apparent that in Brazil, they don’t drink their tomatoes. (That’s one thing they’re missing! And they COULDA had a V-8! Maple syrup is another thing that’s rare as hen’s teeth there. Carol had us bring a couple of jugs of it to her. In Salvador, a 6 oz. bottle was like 30 Reais, or fifteen bucks!)

There were several people working in there, all friendly and smiley,especially after my mangled “boa-tarde” to each one of them. I found the guy who looked like the owner: he was mopping and ordering everybody around at the same time. I tried to ask for tomato first, then juice. No way that was gonna work. I held up my finger politely for a pause and dashed outside to ask Marcelo what the Portuguese word was for “tomato”.

“Tomate,” (kind of pronounced toe-mah-tay) he said. Why I didn’t ask him for the name of the whole finished product in juice form, I’ll never know. I headed back in and said “toe-mah-tay” to the man and then did the drinky-drinky motion. Ahh! he understood! He pulled me to the back to show me the fresh tomatoes.

Finger up. “Desculpe,” I said. Out to talk to Marcelo. All the while, a tall guy had been standing by watching this Berlitz opera play out. After some speedy Portuguese with Marcelo, he relayed their conclusions to the owner.

“Ahh! Tomatksvvi;ahjlav0diu!” he beamed, understanding. A golden pause. “Não,” he concluded, his face losing its glow.

I was crushed. Jean was crushed. I had begun to feel the lure of a good old BM, myself and this was indeed distressing news. Not for the tall guy! He said something to the manager, then disappeared out the door. We stood around kind of looking at everything politely, having no idea what he had gone to do. Robo and I were standing there with our liquor purchases. Vodka and, you guessed it, Bacardi Gold.

Were we supposed to wait? Marcelo was still standing outside, and our ten minutes were UP! I stuck my head out the door and hollered, “Don’t call the police!” Marcelo’s eyes disappeared under the canopy of eyebrows as he let out a laugh that made him my international brother instantly. “No,” he said. Surely he was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, we weren’t assholes. Quite a breakthrough, in my opinion.

Back inside, Pettus had paid, and decided to come back in and look for something else. Whatever it was, it wasn’t there, and she tried to get back out to go to the car. The elaborate turnstile system was of a design that none of us could decipher. She started asking one of the guys how to get out, mainly by pointing, and trying to say “saida” (exit). He handed her a pack of batteries with a quizzical look on his face. “No,” Pettus said, laughingly exasperated. “Saida.” I was no help. All I could do was watch and wait for the tall guy. Pettus’ new friend then handed her some water. “No,” she said, shaking her head and making a lunging movement with her arm toward the door. The cashier, enjoying the spectacle, finally clued in to what Pettus really wanted, and let her out.

Just then, the tall guy reappeared with two tiny cans of tomato juice! We all cheered, I “obrigado”ed the shit out of him and everybody else, and told the owner how beleza his store was. Believe it or not, I was not sweating at this time, so I had to leave the “suado” card in my pocket. We laughingly piled into Marcelo’s car. The rain had picked up, and we still had to find Mirante de São Francisco, our house for the stay.

Jean had the address. Marcelo had the address. We had liquor in the car in addition to TWO tiny cans of tomato juice and the snacks Pettus had bought. I had nothing to worry about, as usual. I couldn’t logisticize my way out of a paper bag, so having Jean to plan everything is a blissful thing, indeed.

Marcelo piloted us almost surreptitiously through many of the same back streets as before, and seemed to know the area pretty well. We later found out that he was indeed from Niterói, but at this moment, we were just amazed at his skills. He picked up his radio/cell phone and began another mysterious conversation with his “contact” on the other end. Given all the fast, slidey, zzhh-zzhh talk going on sotto voce between them, I couldn’t tell if he was looking for the house, or arranging to have us kidnapped. It would be just our luck to get THAT driver.

We finally came out at a large four-lane boulevard with a nice planted median broken by turnarounds all the way up and down the street. The side opposite us was striped with roads all going up the mountain to different subdivisions, apparently. Marcelo took a right, got in the left lane, turned through the median and got on the other side in the right lane. We saw a gated street on the right, and he turned in. Marcelo rolled down the window and began a quick conversation with the “guard,” a guy in street clothes wearing a windbreaker and managing to smoke a cigarette under the hood without getting it wet. Looked qualified to me. He shook his head at Marcelo, his ashes flying in a semicircle, and pointed down the street. I heard “dois,” I think.

Marcelo gave his first thumbs-up of our visit, to my secret delight. He zoomed off down the street (as fast as one can “zoom” with God-knows-how-many pounds of humanoids AND 3 tons of luggage) and began to turn in the next street. It was also gated, and there was also a guard, but he didn’t even get up from his lawn chair. The gate opened obediently and we pulled right through. Marcelo rolled the window down and did the short directional interrogation. The guy shook his head and pointed UP the street. Great. This gave me a second to reflect on the security industry in Brazil. Obviously thriving. No office required. No investment. Plenty o’ business. Only requirements would be an ability to appear whoop-ass, and surface trustworthiness. And in many cases, I suspect the mere presence of a guard is just enough deterrent for would-be criminals.

Marcelo pulled out, went through the median, and turned back in the other direction. He made another left turn through the third median, just in time to realize that the street we wanted was 50 feet BEHIND us. Sheiss! Back to the next turnaround, down the requisite number of blocks, and then a turn onto our street. With no gate. And no guard. Hmmm. I was immediately assuaged when I saw the initial houses on the street–cool modernist architecture in the Brazilian style–the delightful marriage of clean lines and Mediterranean accents. Me likee!!

The road was steep immediately, and we began to slightly rattle up the rough surface. Every turn was a hairpin as we climbed steadily. At the second curve, I saw what appeared to be a concrete favela on the right, and casually said, “There it is,” all the while waiting on somebody to refute the remark. Marcelo just looked at me with no expression. I began to wonder if that appeared to be an elitist asshole American remark, though meant in jest.

We continued up and around, trying to find our address. It was then that we discovered that the houses were numbered randomly. Odd and even numbers appeared on both sides of the street, and we passed 2230, 512, 440, 132, 3235, and never did find our number. Another Brazilian oddity? I didn’t think so. Marcelo seemed as baffled as we did. He got on the radio again to chat with “control.”

“Okay,” he said, and immediately took a right turn onto a small street that was at an 89 degree angle up the hill. The valves clattered, the car stuttered, and I turned to half-jokingly ask, “Do we need to get out?”
“No,” he said calmly, as he rolled back down the street to get a running start. We all began to cheer him and the car at the herculean effort. It took the hill with the surety of a mountain goat. At the top of THAT road, he took a left and began going around a curve surrounded by rock walls on both sides. The houses were all behind wooden or iron gates, which came right up to the street. There were very demure little V-shaped spikes on all the walls, rooflines, and anywhere else a ne’er-do-well may put his Havaianas. So much classier than good-ole razor wire, which was also in existence, but not so blatantly. “There it is,” Marcelo said, and we saw a little guard shack with a windbreaker-clad guy smoking inside. It was between two houses, ours being the one on the right.

The gate had a digital keypad on the outside that worked in conjunction with the key. After 8 or ten tries, with Marcelo’s help we got in. Immediately inside was a small courtyard, partially covered by the house roof. The water was sheeting off the barrel tiles onto the concrete, and I trod gently in my Crocs, fearing a slip. Meanwhile, we had been met by a young black Brazilian with a tall, Frankensteinish head, wearing black nerd glasses with white adhesive tape on one earpiece. This was Robson (pronouned “Hobson.” Carol told me that she felt sure that his name was “Robson,” a very common Brazilian name, and that, of course, it would be pronounced “Hobson.”). With him were a couple of other guys and two women. They immediately began to bring in the luggage, Robson orchestrating the whole event in Portuguese, speaking only rarely to us in obsequious English. This was always accompanied by an unnerving half-bow, both hands in prayer position. I really don’t want anyone bowing to me. Oh, all right. Maybe Jean. Hahahahahahaaaahhaaaaaaaa!!!!!

Jean had thought it prudent to line up Marcelo for the next day to take us to Copacabana to get our Carnaval tickets from the broker. “They told us we had access to a driver the whole time we’re here,” she said in her international tone. “Are you our driver?”
“If you want me to be, yes,” Marcelo replied. Did I detect a slight gleam?
“We do!” we all shouted. “Can we just arrange with you?” Jean asked.
“Yes, but you must call and book me,” he said.
“Okay, we’ll do that, but we’ll tell you first. Can you take us to Rio tomorrow?”
“Yes,” he said. “You will call Sylvia.”

We waved goodbye to Marcelo as he did a beautiful 3-point turn in the narrow, cobbled street, gave the secret sign to the guard, and disappeared around the corner. While Robson and his minions distributed the luggage, we walked into our (gulp!) un-airconditioned-except-for-bedrooms house. There was a large fan in two corners of the huge room. I set them to work immediately before anything else.

Of course the Kennemers didn’t care about the lack of air. They can live comfortably in any environment. Their home in Birmingham (designed by my father!) is a gorgeous, what they now call “mid-century” house on the crest of Shades Mountain. It was without air conditioning when they bought it 28 years ago, and they kept it that way until very recently, being perfectly happy with the breezes off the mountain that rushed through the breezeway. Pettus said she got hot a few times in the summer, but most of the time was fine. They had an air conditioner in their bedroom that made Robo cold. Pettus would describe lying in bed with no covers burning up while Robo snored under three blankets.

Jean and I, meanwhile, like our air conditioner set at “meat locker” 24/7.

We went out onto the back porch to look at our stellar view of the bay: Sugarloaf, and the Christ statue, in addition to several forts, sailboats, and even a McDonald’s. What?

Wow! Idyllic.

We then looked to the right and down one tier at some of our neighbors. The dichotomy of lifestyle quality in Brazil in such close proximity slapped me in the face. I don’t know if this was an abandoned house under construction, as the one we saw earlier may have been, because both houses had construction chutes. Given the fact that our neighbors’ construction chute doubled as a mudslide for the kids, it was probably abandoned construction.

Once back inside, we saw that Robson and crew had taken the luggage down one floor to the bedrooms. There were three on the floor, the master bedroom suite featuring all the steam/jacuzzi stuff of hedonist dreams. We gave that bedroom to Pettus and Robo and took the one nearest the stairs. It was cozy goodness. There was a balcony that ran the length of the house on this floor as well, but we never went out on it, of course. It was the kind of thing that a vacationer would use only after having exhausted all other Rio entertainment. We didn’t have that kind of time.

By this time, Sylvia, the mysterious concierge from the other end of Jean’s phone calls, had appeared upstairs with Maria, our cook. We headed up to meet them. Maria said hardly anything at all. She had an Amazon native look about her, with a body that went from her torso immediately to her head. She was very sweet, but also smashed by submissive body language. I knew I was gonna have to work hard to make her love me.

Sylvia was a dish. She elicited an immediate Roy Orbison growl, which drew a smile, but not a giggle. Sophisticated city girls don’t tumble as quickly as the Bahians?  Hmmm. Tough crowd.

She led us downstairs to the bottom floor for our orientation and our first caipirinhas. The basement area was incredible, painted a gorgeous Pantone 361 green. The stairs ended in a large wet bar with refrigerator and drinking water machine, the bottle hidden by a needlepointed cover that said “Rio Holiday,” bearing a sign that said “WE DRINK BOTTLED WATER HERE.” I gave an involuntary shudder at what was obviously another message from Iemanjá.

There was shelf after shelf of gleaming glass topped with all sorts of different liquor for use/purchase. Not a drop of Meyers’s Rum anywhere, but THREE bottles of Bacardi Gold. Sigh. The prices for consume/buy were comparable to what you would have paid at a store. We actually paid a little more for our Bacardi Gold at the bodega than we would have had to pay to have the bottle fall over on the shelf and pour into our mouths.

The bottom floor also had a pool table, a ping pong table, big screen TV, and an elevated bedroom suite in the middle of it all. It opened out onto the patio and pool, replete with barbeque facilities, etc. Just like Cerqueira-la! What a fabulous place.

The two other women were working busily at the bar making our drinks while Sylvia gave us the lowdown on Mirante de São Francicso. Her English was stellar, with an accent like one of the Muldovian princesses on any episode of Mission: Impossible. Woo! The only word that she missed repeatedly was “taxi,” which she pronounced “tax.” It was so charming to hear her tell us we could go down to the restaurants, then call her to get a “tax.” It was then that I felt compelled to ask her the big question:

“Sylvia, can we flush toilet paper here, or do we have to use the garbage cans?” She looked at me with an expression that changed from incredulity to amusement to business in a split second.
“You can use the garbage cans for the toilet paper if you want,” was all she said before moving on to the next feature of the house. In retrospect, maybe she was so flummoxed by the fact that I would not only know about the toilet paper secret, but would ask about it. But I’m sure her mind’s eye was viewing a film that she would rather not see.

By then, our drinks were ready. They were delicious, and we were gonna learn how to do them. That’s what the “unlimited caipirinhas” part of the deal meant. We had access to all the cachaça we wanted, and bowls, baskets and bushels of limes, limes, limes! Yessiree! Get down!

NOT SO FAST, BURFORD.

I was still a little green around the gills (not quite the Pantone 361, more like a 373), and though I sipped my drink, I didn’t wolf it down the way the REAL Ben Burford would have. The pod person sitting in my place almost hurled as Sylvia mentioned the fact that we could have a chef come over and do us a barbeque if we wanted.

I then realized that I was experiencing anxiety on all fronts. Here’s this huge fantastic house with all this room. Blackledge can’t come. We’ll never use all the space. It’s raining. When will it quit? When will my gullet set me free? How much was this house? Are those people down the hill happy? Will Marcelo remember to get us? You mean you have to come all the way down here for the liquor? When will we use this pool? What about the kids? I wonder if the dogs are all right. What am I gonna do about running out of flash card space? I don’t play pool well. Nor ping pong. What’s this checkers set with shot glasses for pieces on the table? I can’t drink that much. How will we ever take advantage of our free caipirinhas? We’ll never use all this space. Why is there razor wire everywhere?  What are we gonna do here? Will it be hard to get places? Will everything be crowded? What about our Carnaval tickets? Did we get ripped off? WHERE THE HELL is CAROL?!

Sylvia was wrapping up her presentation. It was time for me to learn how to make the caipirinhas, which was a great diversion at the time. The two ladies demonstrated the smashing of the limes with the mortar and pestle (wooden), the addition of a couple of spoons of sugar from the covered dish designed to dissuade ants (not), followed by two shots of cachaça, measured with a jigger. The instructor looked at me quizzically to see if I got it? Of course I got it. As she repeated the directions for closure, ending with “and then two of the cachaça,” I countered with “o mais!” Both ladies giggled. Ahhhh. Still golden, though still jittery.

Sylvia’s job entailed anything we wanted her to do. Well, you know, not ANYTHING, but really, anything. She would even order pizza for us, get the “tax” to bring it to us, and tell the driver how to get here and everything. That sounded good to us. (Or as good as anything could sound to me). We wanted to hang around on the main level and learn how to work the TV, internet, and free long distance.

Ahh, yes. The FREE long distance. It became my three companions’ major obsession getting it to work. They kept talking in carrier-ese, and saying stuff about Seattle that I didn’t understand. Jean talked to a couple of people, Sylvia first, and I believe it was fixed in a couple of days. Who knows? I didn’t want to call anybody. I wanted to figure out the dern TV so I could have some more Brazilian video fun.

The night panorama was breathtaking, and had a very calming effect.
But there was the McDonald’s sign in the bottom left corner. The only thing that could serve to yank me back to enough familiar reality to short circuit the scene temporarily. Corporate sponsorship logos are like pimples on a pretty face. That’s pretty dangerous talk for an advertising guy.

Two other very, very important things happened this night.
• I learned how very stupid I was for not having taken acidophilus, like our pal Jim Klopman, the world traveler and bon vivant, had told us to do. Robo had his with him, of course, and that evening I began to take it. Even before our Queen Pizza arrived in its nifty round cardboard box.
• Robo told me that the coffee in Salvador was made with the sweet waters of the tap! I may should have watched that.

To top that off, the acidophilus seemed to put me on the road to a miracle cure, and I began to feel better. Surely the placebo effect, but better nevertheless. The few slices of the Queen Pizza I had were delicious. If we ordered it again, given my rate of improvement, we’d have to order something substantially bigger.

Then we figured out the TV.

I could sleep in peace. We had no firm plans for the next day except for getting our Carnaval tickets. We thought maybe Marcelo could kinda show us around a little bit, then we could come back and rest, go out to dinner in Niterói, then go to Carnaval around 11:00.

Why the HELL was Jean setting that stupid Blackberry?

Because Maria was going to have breakfast for us at 9:00, the time we kind of landed on. Nobody wanted to miss THAT.

We had asked Maria (through Sylvia) to have breakfast ready at 9:00.

After enduring several rounds of Blackberry Roulette and losing to Jean, I finally got out of bed and trudged up the stairs. I smelled coffee. Jean stayed behind to perform those pesky morning tasks. By the time I got upstairs, the breakfast had been out for a while. Well, hell, it was 9:30 and we asked for 9:00 breakfast. Subtract 0 from 30. We were that late.

Robo and Pettus had just gotten up there themselves, though they were both bathed, scrubbed and pumped full of vigor. Pettus had just come in from the balcony where she was listening to Robson sing. He writes religious music, and was singing to her about the poverty. Pettus said he had a beautiful voice. Robo kicked in immediately with “I don’t trust him.”

We all marveled at the breakfast: fried eggs on a platter, toast, bacon, those little cheese biscuit ball things, two kinds of juice (though slightly watery), coffee, chocolate cake (!), three kinds of melon, pineapple, cigar-rolled ham and cheese slices, regular biscuits, hot water, cocoa powder, and a blap bag for me.

The massive amount of food ordinarily would have sent me over the edge, but I was STILL ever so slightly touchy in the appetite. Lucky for Pettus. She was able to eat the cheese biscuit things like popcorn, because I was absolutely no competition, Robo was diverted with some of the other food and Jean wasn’t up there yet. The fried eggs were cooked for 9:00 consumption, so they were kind of cold-ish, and beginning to get that Dorian Gray’s portrait look about them. But I love eggs more than anything, and ate two. They went down pretty well with an acidophilus chaser. The bacon was a no-brainer. I could be in a coma and still be able to eat bacon.

Overall, breakfast was a success for me, and I could feel myself climbing out of the abdominal abyss. Once again, however, Robo ratted out the cook. He told me (after the dern trip) that Maria was making the coffee with tap water. Hmmmm. And I don’t think there’s a coffeemaker in Brazil that gets hot enough to sterilize the bad juju out of coffee water.

Jean finally arrived to a half eaten breakfast, though we had saved her the good parts. She popped a Diet Coke, got us both a Danactiv out of the refrigerator (an earlier habit we had taken up courtesy of Jim Klopman. Why, oh WHY didn’t I listen to him about the acidophilus at the get-go?) and came back in to report that Robson had told her that Maria was appalled that the food had been sitting there so long and felt responsible for the cold breakfast. We all decided at that moment to schedule tomorrow’s for 9:30. “I don’t trust him,” Robo said.

There were heavy clouds outside and it was kind of misting. What the HELL? This was RIO! What was up? Excuse me sir, there’s a collect call from a Miss E. Ahmanjah. Will you accept the charges?

Jean called Sylvia. Sylvia was going to call Marcelo. We hung around waiting for the deal to  go down, everybody checking email in rotation, me alternately standing in front of the fans and walking out on the balcony to see if the weather had changed. We heard a horn, grabbed our stuff, (my camera in relaxed duffel position 2, Jean’s myriad envelopes and massive purse, along with super-travel-sized Ziplocs of only about one-tenth of the medicine inventory, Robo with his little bitty video camera, and Pettus unencumbered as always) and rushed out to meet Marcelo.

We all assumed our positions, greeted our new pal warmly, and headed down and out. I began to understand why we had been told of the glories of Niterói. The beach at the bottom of our hill was nice, though not necessarily for swimming, inhabited by what appeared to be a very reputable bunch of folks, and the vibe was very relaxed. Not quite Bahian, because they were still touched by the urbanity of Rio, but more laid back than Rio, possibly because of their fishing heritage. There was a row of great restaurants all fronting the bay, all probably a result of the modern booming of Niterói. Just like in America, I imagine the people in Rio discovered that Niterói was ONLY ACROSS THE BAY, and more the kind of place you’d want to raise your children, with wooded, hilly, winding streets and charm everywhere.

But wait! There’s also the modern art museum AND a ferry terminal, both designed by the world-revered Oscar Niemeyer. Ooh la LAH! How incredible can you GET? How about incredible enough to also be the birthplace of Sergio Mendes?! If that doesn’t cap it off, nothing can.

We cruised through the streets of Niterói heading toward the bridge to Rio. The two ways to get from Niterói to Rio are the bridge and the ferry. It’s a short hop to the terminal in Niterói, and it lets off in Rio right downtown. But then there’s the bridge. We never saw any real traffic there, and when we were with Marcelo, that’s the route we took. But he also managed to tell us a few horror stories about the traffic there, enough to make us totally afraid of the unseen menace.

We were itchy to get to Copacabana and pick up our Carnaval tickets. Jean had been dealing with several brokers at one location, going back and forth from elated to bummed out to broke to thrifty. We had finally landed on seats in Sector 7, which is for the locals. The tourist sector has reserved seats, but the only ones left were right on the ground. None of us thought that would be as good, and opted for taking our chances in Sector 7, which has no reserved seats. You just got there and plopped down, kind of like at a high school football game. The brokers assured us it would be a great Carnaval experience, and the tickets cost less than tourist sector. After having been once, I can see how it might be an interesting alternative to be at ground level–but not with the tourists–definitely with the locals.

Marcelo went some mysterious way through Rio to Copacabana, occasionally pointing something out and telling us what it was. We passed a bunch of fantastic governmental buildings from the colonial period and later. They were huge, ornate, and filled with broken windows and covered with graffiti. They were right at eye level a lot of the time as we zoomed through Rio on the expressway. It broke my heart to see the waste of beauty and the destruction of same. I asked Marcelo if any of these historic treasures were being renovated for re-use. He said that a few were. At least they weren’t tearing them down. Better to have them sit there and be reawakened at a later date by somebody with some vision than to be bulldozed just for the land. But I suspect there isn’t a bunch of money lying around Rio to participate in THAT KIND of foolishness.

We wound through downtown Rio, weaving our way to Copacabana. Everything was closed. And I mean EVERYTHING. The metal garage-type doors were down everywhere. Each was covered with graffiti, of course, and it presented a creepy post-apocalyptic scene. Jean asked Marcelo why everything was closed for Carnaval, when it seems like the merchants could make more money when more people were in town. Marcelo replied in a tone filled with respect, humor and bewilderment, “Because they would rather be having fun.” And that RIGHT THERE is the heart of the Brazilian existence. Marcelo’s respect is well felt.

After ten or fifteen U-turns in various places, we arrived at the ticket place. It was still raining, and the sidewalk came right up to the street in a giant puddle. Marcelo pulled right up onto the sidewalk enough to park over the puddle for us to get out. Wow! Like an automotive Sir Walter Raleigh, he was! We all tiptoed out of the car, me especially, since I had on vented Crocs with socks (standard) and knew that the water could still rush into my shoe.

We dashed into the place, which was very cool, with no walls, only glass partitions and large curved counter at the back of the room. There were mannequins dressed in various Carnaval costumes, and pictures of the different samba schools on the walls. A couple of videos of a never-ending Carnaval (probably from last year) were going nonstop, and a staff of several good looking Brazilians was helping the clientele.

We were all elated to find that our tickets were indeed there, legit, and without strings or asterisks attached. We trooped back outside, dodging rain and puddles and piled back into the car. I had left my camera in duffel position right on Marcelo’s floor. Like leaving it with a priest. At that point we had decided that we lucked into meeting the only guy we would want to usher us through life in Rio. Particularly since Daniel and Patricia weren’t due to arrive till 7 a.m. the next morning. Marcelo was going to take us to Carnaval that night, then pick us back up when we called (expected to be around 4 a.m.)  I never for one minute thought anything different would happen, and it was one anxiety crossed off my list.

As we pulled off, Marcelo asked us where we wanted to go.

“Take us to see some old stuff,” I said. The others didn’t seem to care, and nodded in agreement.

“All right,” Marcelo said, and headed toward the old part of town. On the way, all of us asked him various questions, many inane. He would respond in his patented manner each time, and seemed to know more and more every time we asked him anything. I was giddy with busting down not only first-acquaintance barriers, but having another language coach to help me with my Jones to learn fluent Portuguese in three days.

We arrived at a square and parked with no difficulty. There was absolutely nobody downtown. We were right across from the Old Cathedral and next to the statue of Tiradentes, two vital pieces of not only Rio’s, but Brazil’s history as well.

Somehow, this gorgeous Cathedral had escaped the insult of graffiti, as far as I could tell. Across the street was the Palacio Tiradentes, an old public building that was now serving as a museum. During our various excursions around Rio, Marcelo would point out several historic buildings that were now museums. I liked that.

In front of this fantastic building was a statue of Tiradentes, Brazil’s number one martyr. Marcelo gave us the lowdown. (Man! He knew a bunch about Brazilian history!) In a nutshell, during the late 1700s, Portugal was taking Brazil’s gold (a true motherlode) rapidly, and using the Brazilians to mine it. When they mined less than Portugal expected, they were taxed on the difference. Tiradentes saw the heinous inequity, and plotted to overthrow the whole rotten deal and establish freedom for the people. He was betrayed by a man he believed to be a friend and compatriot. Tiradentes was arrested, hanged, then quartered, his body parts marched throughout Rio and sections of Brazil to truly quash any type of rebellion they may have had in mind. I hate people that do stuff like that.

Here’s Tiradentes in his stony glory. Notice the shackles on his wrists if you can.

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