The Rio Holiday information had said that Niterói had several good restaurants, and that they were right down the hill from Mirante de São Francisco. It was not only correct, it was CORRECT.

We had asked Marcelo that day where we should eat before Carnaval. He indicated several good choices, briefly describing each. We decided on Paludo because it was deemed as a family restaurant with a good variety, but not too fancy, and it would not be as time-consuming as some of the more elegant choices. We told Marcelo what we had decided, and he replied with “the look” and another expression of his that I particularly loved, “Ees very good.” We believed him, of course, because he wasn’t just some guy trying to find us a restaurant. He was our pal, and knew what for. Besides, I had already transferred Carol’s proxy to him. He was duty bound.

Paludo fronts the beach, like all the other restaurants we tried on our stay. It was a very lively scene, with scores of friendly folks milling around everywhere. Were it not for the air thick with unfamiliar words, we could have been in any cool beach town in the US. But the similarity ended there.

The schtick at Paludo is very simple. You select your meal from an incredible array of foods buffet style, and then you are charged for the weight of your plate. Cool!  And when I say “buffet style,” I don’t mean a metal rail, your tray, and a lineup of hairnetted women named Pearline and Maudie asking, “Serve you please?”

Not at all. The food is presented in a maze of goodness. All the offerings are under sneeze glass, and the serving tables are arranged in a serpentine fashion that offered more and more interesting choices each time you turned a corner. I suppose a very smart, thrifty, fat person could really maximize his portion if he knew the average weight of the stuff there. I would think that shrimp would be lighter than, say, beef. Don’t think for a minute that I didn’t consider these things. “Matzoh ball? No thanks. I think I’ll have this lobster mousse.”

The place was really good, elegant design for a “family” restaurant, though I did see several kids. It was on two levels, with a glass front wall, so there were beach views from the top floor, which we chose. We asked Marcelo to eat with us, but he politely declined, saying he was going to sit in the bar. We told him not to get too drunk, and he promised to behave.

Our food was delicious, and the seating was nice. I had felt better during the day, but was still feeling kinda weeeennnh. Nevertheless, I managed to eat most everything I put on my plate, and had beer and coffee. I guess that doesn’t really describe somebody that feels kinda weeeennnh, and in retrospect, it might have been slight anxiety about the hurdles required for a successful Carnaval experience. I had my camera, of course. We had all decided that at the price of tickets, there probably wouldn’t be any camera snatchers running around. And in a packed bleacher, no neer-do-well was gonna go anywhere fast.

While we ate, the big-screen TV on the wall next to us was playing what we decided was a Carnaval-based soap opera. I’m not kidding. This Brazilian drama was replete with über-hot bodies and slick, tanned skin, flashy costumes, and intercut with what I assume was actual footage of a past Carnaval. I still didn’t totally get the concept of Rio’s Carnaval, having only the crazy Salvador experience under my belt.

I may be dreaming this, but I think Marcelo sent us over a dessert, or bought our dessert or something? Maybe not. I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting it mixed up with the time we had to drag him drunk out of a bar and throw him in the back with the propane tank. Or did I dream that? I didn’t know what was real anymore, with the Carnaval soap opera, the acidophilus and all.

We were off to O Sambódromo (the Sambadrome)!

Early intelligence had said that the Sambódromo was in a sketchy part of town, and to be very careful of everything. I guess the grab-and-dash gag would be the thing to watch out for most of all when you were outside going in. Marcelo let us off right by a gate, and told us to call him when we were 30 minutes from being ready at the same place. He had given Jean his cell phone number earlier, and all ducks were in a row. Our tickets included some kind of magnetic swipe card, and something we wore around our necks to get through the various check-points to Carnaval. I had my camera in duffel position 1 and clutched to my chest like a baby as we threaded our way over mud puddles spanned by boards, through crowds of people not only in plain dress, but an extremely sweaty contingent wearing elaborate costumes in various stages of removal. Here’s where the photographer with the balls gets the great shots. Not Ben Burford. “Waaaaahhhh!!! Waaaahhhh!! Noooo! Don’t touch my camera!!! Waaaaahhhh!!!” Robo, meanwhile, had the temerity to take his little bitty video camera out and get a little footage. It won’t happen that way next time. I’m not having missed-shot malaise ever again.

Once inside, nothing looked threatening at all, and in retrospect, it wasn’t really that way outside, either, if you were in a crowd. I released my death grip on the camera and even considered getting a couple of shots before we went up. But there was nothing really interesting enough (not) to make me take that gol-durned camera out of that gol-durned duffel bag and THEN go through the other shit. I need a camera welded onto my wrist some way.

We began the trip up all the stairs to Sector 7. It was like being at Legion Field back in the day. Vendors everywhere, people milling around everywhere, concrete, steel, and stairs, stairs, and more stairs. When we reached our spot and emerged out in the open, Tijuca had just begun their show. It was a strange, yet totally familiar sight.

Good googly GOOT! The place was packed! And everything was wet from a recent shower. At least we weren’t there for that. We surveyed the situation, and finally found a spot, of course halfway down an aisle. Pettus led, followed by Robo, Jean and then me. I was the caboose powered by a poor rendition of liçensa, a shortening of the expression for “excuse me.”  Nobody seemed particularly bothered by us, and many returned my expectant smile immediately.

Somebody asked us if we wanted Tijuca flags, and of course we accepted them eagerly. All righty! We were here! There was no danger of any kind except possibly dying from overstimulation! Nothing but smiles and excited people. We had a few minutes to get acclimated before the parade got to us. Being in Sector 7, we were dead center, and right across from the judges!!! Yepper! They were going to be doing the maximum show when they were in front of US! Not that anybody behind us would get less, because everybody in every parade was so pumped they were about to explode. You could feel it physically, I swear.

Unidos da Tijuca (referred to as Tijuca) was coming slowly from our right. The first thing we saw, besides the blue and yellow flags that we were frantically waving, was a gigantic blue and gold peacock who would furl and unfurl its wings in time to the music that I hadn’t caught onto yet, blaring tastefully and pleasingly from the speakers that lined the runway. Nice, we all thought. What kind of motor would that take, Robo and I wondered. And then we discovered that the peacock’s epidermis was homo sapiens, and its feathers were controlled by same. Meu Deus!

Once we had gotten over the shock of the peacock, we were able to settle in and really look at the stuff coming next. But first, you need a primer on Rio Carnaval.

This is the Carnaval that you’ve seen on TV with the near-naked, feather clad women dancing in impossibly high boots. It’s also so much more. There are 12 Samba Schools. Their sole existence relies on their performance at Carnaval every year. Samba Carnaval in Rio, unlike the other side parties, citywide blocos and parades, etc., takes place over two days, with an extra “parade of champions” day featuring the finalists. The first six schools parade the first day, and the other six the next day.

Each school has a music director, a costume director, and everything else to put on an eye-popping show. They are all housed in what Marcelo told us were the “shacks,” big old buildings downtown that have been repurposed for fun. Every year, the schools have a theme for the parade, in addition to theme music written especially for the performance, I think. The theme song is sung by the whole school, peppered with live percussion, and repeated for the entire time the school is on the street. There is an MC who also serves as main vocalist, driving the whole song to a fever pitch for almost an hour. All the MCs I saw were gigantic, lusty black Brazilian baritones who would put Luther Vandross to a serious test.

There are various levels of participation. You can go to your samba school all year long to perfect intricate choreography, you can take a lighter schedule and do some basic moves, you can pay for your costume, know the samba step, and promise to be in the “best-of” performance should your school get there, or you can be a hot Brazilian star. If you’re there strictly to samba without any preparation, you buy your costume at one of several outlets representing the schools, show up at the Sambódromo when you’re supposed to, and hit the street alongside several thousand other rabid folks with the same theme song stuck in their heads. And please don’t forget the 300+ costumed percussionists that are interspersed throughout each performance for maximum force of samba beat.

I don’t know how much of your costume you actually get to keep, but I suspect it’s only the headgear, as evidenced by the two feather-clad guys in the last section. Or maybe the school takes them up for cleaning and safekeeping should they make it to the finals.

Meanwhile, Tijuca was bringin’ it on, with an instantly memorable theme song, and the subject of “things collected.” Here is a cool penguin float followed by a closeup of some of the major players in Tijuca’s show.

Notice the people hanging out of the camarotes. They’re the private boxes that you can buy a regular old ticket for, or come to party with one of the several companies, etc. that rent them for the event. Also notice the furry blue bears and the closeup that follows: cutout belly and vents galore.

Tijuca continued their assault on the Sambódromo, and the floats just got wilder and wilder.
This little number here was a real eye-popper. The first half was a giant psychedelic mushroom with little elves rising from the top in rhythm.

This was followed by two 25 foot tall, bald, topless fairies. Fantastic bodies, but glitter for hair, and slightly menacing expressions. Compare their size to the operator on the ground and the people gawking from the camarotes. On the heels of the dollhouse, this was also visually thrilling and unsettling. The giant multicolored pixies were moving up and down in time to the music as well, due to the people on the float producing sympathetic vibrations, but in other cases from a hidden operator inside. I was beginning to feel the vibe of the Rio designers, and how it compared with Carnival that I’m familiar with in Mobile and New Orleans: gaudy, wild, scary, funny, mysterious, otherworldly. But Rio had them beat, hands down. This was serious, fun and fantastic entertainment.

Vila Isabel had exploded in the east with the traditional fireworks, but in tech savvy Rio of the 21st century, every parade was accompanied by the garish flashing of sponsorships on a huge digital screen. For some (smart) reason, they went for maximum overdrive on the flashing, and it blended almost comfortably with the pyrotechnics and the lineup to follow.

We also noticed a giant television camera on a track that ran the length of the parade route. During the performances the camera would zip back and forth at lightning speed. Just another cool thing to watch.

Flávia and I had become real buddies by this time (translated “several beers each”), and she began to tell me about good bars for us to visit in Rio.
“Carioca bar,” she said several times. Why of course! Karaoke! I LOVE karaoke. If we got a decent buzz, maybe Marcelo could escort us to our humiliation. “Yes!” she said excitedly, seeing my enthusiasm. “Ees very good Carioca bar!”
“Karakoe? Where you sing along, right?” I asked, beginning to wonder.
“Yes! Lots of singing! Great music!” Flávia enthused. “Ees great Carioca bar. Not tourists so much!”
“?” I stared at her trying to figure this all out.
“Oh!!” she finally realized. “Not karaoke! Carioca! Locals are called Cariocas,” she told me in a sentence punctuated by “uhhh.” So wonderful to have a new partner to climb the Tower of Babel with.

And here they were! Vila Isabel with their show, Ossos do Oficio, a salute to the workers of Brazil, whatever kind of worker they may have been or may be. They were also intent on helping to dispel the myth of the lazy Brazilian.

If that was the case, they did it right out of the chute with two whirling dervishes that eventually slowed down enough to reveal that they were the flag couple for Vila Isabel. Being as these two can garner a lot of points, I would have to say that they were magnetic, funny and sexy in addition to being great dancers. The guy and girl had a whole Louis Prima/Keely Smith vibe about them that was very entertaining, and managed to compete easily with all the flash around them..

The first big float was a couple of winged horses with fish tails bearing psychedelic compasses. Beautiful, stately and trippy all at the same time, I erroneously dub them “Pegasus.” The glow underneath was like some people put under their cars in blue or purple. I personally love it, though Jean would probably not support an expenditure for such an accessory on my Honda.

Aha! My first sighting of “the great and powerful Oz” in the belly of Pegasus 1 (or is it 2). And for a flying horse, this nag sure needs a lot of guys to push.

Being that I have no inkling what the dual Pegasi had to do with workers in Brazil, I’ll now proceed with a great and valid account of what was to follow from Vila Isabel’s bag of tricks.

The next float was devoted to the Amazons, the mythical female warriors of the jungle, and for whom the real Amazon is named. Amazons were purported to be women with no breasts, I think due to the fact that they would get caught in a bowstring, and no Amazon wanted her tit lopped off by a faulty shot at a male interloper. In essence, the Amazons were the first working women of Brazil. Enjoy them in all their glory, but be warned: these are just make-believe Amazons. They all have breasts. All of them.

Once again, I will remind you, these girls are play acting.

How do you reckon these girls got this cushy gig? Being delightfully half naked in a shower of cool water for the good of your samba school? For mankind? Carámba! Does that look like Hillary Swank or WHAT? Surely these girls were not warriors, but, like, fashion coordinators or enablers for the Amazons themselves. There is no other explanation.

And here’s Robo and Pettus posing in front of all this pageantry. Notice how Robo’s eyes are still about 30 yards in the back of his head.

This next little blast of samba-steppers represented the Amazon once the women decided to let the men in. Coordination of colors. Orderliness. Hidden agendas.

The next float represented the slaves of Brazil, exploited by the Portuguese when they first claimed the marvelous land mass for their own. These are warriors that have become ex-warriors, but still manage to persist.

He’s a big one, isn’t he? Notice the girls behind his arm.

The next float represented the graceful adoption of servitude to the Portuguese royalty by the Brazilians. It also represented a huge amount of enlightenment and education for the Brazilians, directly and indirectly. The direct association with royalty had an immediate effect. The cultural seeds planted by King John VI, especially when Rio was the capital of Portugal, had a major long-term impact. The fact that a whole float would be devoted to such a thing is further indication that the Brazilians are not immune to work in any fashion, and celebrate the work they have.

When Marcelo dropped us off at the Sambódromo, the deal was for us to call him on his cell phone when we were 30 minutes from ready to be picked up. He was gonna go home and sleep until we needed him. It was the only logistical stumbling block that could possibly mar our Carnaval experience, and it tried to loom in my psyche, but for some reason I wouldn’t let it. The spectacle we were witnessing had driven pessimistic thoughts from my mind. There were two more schools left: Grande Rio and Beija-Flor. We decided to watch Grande Rio and call Marcelo when they were past us.

Our little spot with Flávia and Co. already felt like home. We were giddy with overstimulation, and the whole weirdness of it all. Two of her friends had left earlier to be samba-steppers in one of the parades prior, or the beginning of this one, but gol-durnit, I don’t have a picture of their group, I don’t think. Flávia may have told me when they came by, but I interpreted it as something else entirely. A lot of that goes on in the international party room, because you do a bunch of smiling and enthusiastic nodding, reading faces and intonations like a psychiatrist, but having no idea what is really being said.

Grande Rio (pronounced “Gron-jee Hee-oh”) was presenting O gás do Brasil, celebrating the record-breaking natural gas deposit in Coari, part of the Amazon rainforest. They were also balancing this excitement about the energy source with environmental cautions. So we’re talking energy with a conscience. It seems that the majority of Brazilians in the Samba line of work are very eco-aware. Portéla, another of the old, revered schools, dedicated their entire theme to nature and the dangers humans present to themselves through our negligence and greed.

Right out of the chute they were scientific looking and primitive at the same time. The first display was an incredible spinning dance performed by Icarus-like characters in and out of geodesic dome frames. Inside, the winged men were whirling like motorcycle hell drivers at the fair. The fluid movement of the guys flying around inside coupled with the outside movement of the bird men was perfectly choreographed, yet as wild and random-looking as nature itself.

Anything on a curvy track has always mesmerized me, and this was like watching a kaleidoscope perform before your eyes without the annoyance of having to turn the tube.

I would imagine that these particular performers didn’t do a lot of drinking beforehand.

The flag couple followed. With this shot, who would know there were people inside those fluffy green and black outfits? What happens to all these feathers when it rains? Or when some galoot steps on a hank of them in an exuberant off-sides? And, yes, the first thing I wondered about what how sweat resistant these suits were.

There was a couple sitting in front of us who weren’t Brazilians, but weren’t Americans, either. The wife had blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a California tennis-bracelet-wearing look about her. The husband was older, balder and goofier looking. The entire time we were enjoying the parades, this woman, wearing a translucent raincoat like a condom, would scowl and jerk her coat and body violently to herself when any slight movement or molecule dared to invade her space. Don’t think we all weren’t inadvertently guilty at one time or another during the night, and imagine her horror when we descended on the row at the beginning. Jean and I got a charge out of watching her refuse to be bowled over by the excess, and refuse to stand up much of the time. We finally got clued in to the fact that they were on a cruise ship when they pulled out big folders with a picture of a boat on them and left suddenly. But not before the woman flashed all of us the tiniest of smiles. That blew my mind more than anything. Not that she missed Grande Rio’s first hottie coming on the scene.

I say “hottie,” but Flávia told me she was an older star in Brazil. I’m kind of picturing Ann Miller or Carol Channing here, maybe. She obviously had an inflated sense of self importance, because on our way out, we saw her with bodyguards holding hands in a ring around her, but not an iota of interest from anybody in the vicinity.

In the picture, she almost looks like she’s imploring the crowd to love her. Bless her heart.

The gyroscopic orgy was not over yet. The first float was led by a flock of silver Icarus-men and featured more twirling people and enough blinding color and glow to get the point across. With the feathered riders thrown in, it became a fascinating clash of primitive, scientific, and mythical.

Look at old silver boy above, and imagine all of these gyroscopes filled with crazily rotating doppelgängers. Woo! And look who they brought along to keep the science nerds from going completely off the deep end!

After all the primitive natural glory of the dinosaurs, Grande Rio shifted gears abruptly as if to say, “Shit! We forgot that this was the anniversary of the Japanese migration of 1908! Better put something in. Quick!”

Don’t think they just whipped something up. This was a grand thing, complete with hot feathered woman and big-bellied scary whitefaced actor guy. Bonsai!

Grande Rio also seemed to be flush with feathery soloists–more any any of the other three groups we saw. This next little blonde number was energetic, sassy, and looked like the girl from next door. Provided you lived somewhere in Heaven.

And just as a fine restaurant serves a small dish of sherbet as a palate cleanser between courses (and really, what the hell is THAT all about?), G.R. erased the taste of Japan quickly with this young lady. And not by Occident, either.

Good thing, because hot on her heels was another incongruous, but necessary segment: the salute to the Portuguese Royal Family, due to the bicentennial status of their arrival and the love the Cariocas have for them and all.

The first two groups were incredibly adorned king and queen types, the women’s headdresses culminating in a sizable ball that cantilevered over their heads. How they held these aloft I’ll never know. Surely they worked out with neck weights during the year. This glamorous royalty did a fun little circle dance thing while the men toted torches, all under the glow of huge human street lamps. Could that be the energy tie-in? Did King John bring gas lamps to Rio? Anyone?   Anyone?   Marcelo?    Bueller?

The next group was by far the eeriest and saddest of all the things I had seen: a herd of what I would guess were the ghosts of extinct animals, represented by a pleasant-faced furry guy that looked a lot like Spike. Under each animal’s head was a human skull that obscured the face of the dancer. Only upon close inspection did these become visible. Almost like a whispering reminder to mankind that his abuse of nature will ultimately mean his own undoing.I was also beginning to notice that Grande Rio had taken extra pains to disguise its dancers. It meant for a more startling effect, when mobs of creatures were mobile under seemingly magical power.

I really don’t know what the scene was with breakfast. Something in the back of my mind says that we scheduled it for 10:30–too early for me, but probably too late for everybody else. When I finally got up, Daniel and Patricia were there, already on the couch watching Brazilian music videos. Pettus was downstairs making use of our pool–the only one of us who did, but I don’t think she ever got in. That unused feature of the house doesn’t amortize well.

I must say, that’s a very unenthusiastic expression. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that she wasn’t thrilled about me taking her picture. I don’t know what she was worried about. She always looks good. I, on the other hand, felt like I had been electrocuted the night before, then put in wet cement to sleep. People like me, we’re the photographers.

Daniel and Patricia got to experience the full impact of our breakfast, and were suitably impressed. I’m sure they told us about their flight over to Rio, but I was in La-La Land at the time. They could have been recounting a mugging or an airport luggage SNAFU; it didn’t matter. I responded with “That’s nice” to everything they told us, as my eyes glazed over the chocolate cake, morphing it into one of the African hotties in the Vila Isabel parade.

We didn’t want to waste any daylight, and Rio wasn’t getting any smaller, so Jean began the process of booking Marcelo for the day. It still would have been easier to call him directly, but we had to do everything through Sylvia, which added time to everything.

When Marcelo arrived, we all trudged out to the car. Well, not trudged, just didn’t have all that much spring in our step. Even Pettus. We didn’t have any set plan for the day, which is almost a detriment in a case like this. All I knew was that I had told Flávia we’d see them in Santa Teresa the next day. Marcelo asked what we wanted to do. “Let’s go to Santa Teresa,” I suggested. “We met a girl last night who said they were going to play there today.”

“Santa Teresa,” Marcelo replied. “Ees very nice.” He immediately took off, not forgetting the thumbs up to the guard.

On the way over the bridge, we marveled at all the cranes. I had noticed the day before how many there were that had been bent in half from a fatal load, appearing to be in the relaxed position until you saw the steel crumpled at the joint, the arm pointing straight down. They stood in the bay like poor old men in a nursing home.

Marcelo pointed out into the water and said, “That one is mine. I’ll sell it to you.” The whole off-the-wallness of the remark demanded more from me.

I indicated one of the bent ones and said, “Is that it? Good quality steel. Can’t you just see the advertising guys trying to come up with an ad campaign? Well, sir, we find that Butter Soft isn’t working for us as a tagline.”

Then from the back, in the desert dry voice, Robo chimed in, “I can’t believe it’s not metal! ” while giving a slight shake of the head and an emphatic half smile, like he’d just thought of a good idea–the same way he delivers all his devastating bon mots. The same way he nearly got us mobbed at Carnaval the night before with the “I’ve seen better” comment. He never fails to get a hearty laugh out of me, but this time, the remark went straight for my humor G spot.

Once in a blue moon, due to unknown sets of circumstances, somebody can sneak in the back door of hilarity with something that will completely take me out of body and send me into paroxysms of violent tear-inducing laughter that won’t quit for several minutes. And then, like a mosquito bite, the image of the remark will pop back into my head and start me over again. It’s something that has to gradually subside, or wear itself out. I can’t stop it like the hiccups, and it always leaves me weak and feeling like I’ve just done 50 situps in two minutes. All that said, there is absolutely no other feeling like it in the world.

Of course this made Robo laugh, not boisterously, but more like an intermittent idling motor, which would make me laugh more. Marcelo just stared at us in bemusement and amusement. He had some really complex expressions in his bag.

Once we got into Rio, Marcelo showed us the ancient Carioca aqueduct, which I snapped through the windshield. It was built in the mid 1700s to bring water to Rio from the Carioca River. In the late 1800s, after the Carioca began to fail to deliver enough, other methods of getting water were used, and the aqueduct was converted into a bridge for the tram running up to Santa Teresa. The aqueduct also spanned the site of the Passeío Publico, built in the late 1700s over a lagoon that was landfilled to not only extend Rio’s real estate, but also to get rid of trash and mosquito breeding ground. Marcelo had shown us part of the excavation the day before. You see how there are two levels to this thing. It was beautiful and cool as dirt!

Ain’t nothing like a little graffiti on a mid-18th-century historic treasure is there? Sigh.

The streets were thick with people in various pockets all throughout Rio, even before we got to Santa Teresa. I could see what Marcelo meant about “They’d rather be having fun.”

Or making pretty pictures.

We began the climb up the mountain to Santa Teresa while Marcelo gave us a briefing. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, it was home to many of the swells in Rio, affording beautiful views from every angle. Like so many of the former glory neighborhoods in America, this one began to go to seed in the early 1900s (WHY??), leaving gorgeous mansions tucked in everywhere.

And just like in America, in recent years, Santa Teresa has been brought back to life in a laid back way as a home to artists and performers, who understand the value of being surrounded by both natural and man-made beauty. I’m sure the real estate is pricey now, but I’ll bet during the early days of the revival, you could have had yourself one of those incredible homes for nothing. I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that in 1975, $10 to $25,000 American would have bought you some of the finest stuff on the hill. And it was fine.

Every turn in the narrow, curvy brick road offered a new angle on fine architecture and beautiful landscaping. But it by no means gave off any vibe of being an exclusive enclave. These grand old architectural dames were there for everyone’s enjoyment, and were mixed in with some downright meager dwellings and businesses. You’re asking, “Where are the pictures, Ben?” Well I DON’T KNOW, so GET OFF MY BACK! We were in the car. It was hard! LEAVE ME ALONE!    Sorry.

We passed several conclaves of revelers all the way up the mountain, and Marcelo casually remarked in his matter-of-fact deadpan, “Santa Teresa. Ees very popular for bars. People come up here to drink, then they go up to see The Christ.”

“Really?” I asked, not really doubting it. It’s close?

“Yes, he is right above us,” Marcelo replied. “But it will take a good bit of time to go up there. Better to plan another day.” Indeed.

We kept driving up, crossing the tram tracks that are still in use, seeing bars, galleries, small arty shops, and a gaggle of cool looking people, all smiling, all enjoying life. I began to realize that the only way we would find Flávia and Co. would be to accidentally run into them.

At what seemed to be the summit, but wasn’t by any means, we found a small street party going on in an intersection. We decided to park and check it out. The cop in the above picture was friendly, and there to assure everyone they would have a safe experience. At least that’s what he looks like.

Daniel and Patricia had, of course, just flown in from Salvador (and BOY were their arms tired!), and they were about as fresh as we were, having been stimulated to death the night before at Carnaval. But Daniel can eat at the drop of a hat, and everybody enjoyed the baked cheese skewers that somebody was selling.

We took in all the participants at the gathering. Looked like a melange of cool people with fun on the brain. Nothing huge, just fun. Some kind of music and rhythm going on at the core. I noticed a bunch of little throw-on costumes that lent a real down-home tone to the whole thing. Everybody I held the camera up to responded with the secret sign and a smile.

“What do you want to do now?” Marcelo asked us.

“Uhhh,” we all replied. “Is the Botanical Gardens open?” Jean asked.

“I don’t think so,” Marcelo replied. “It is still Carnaval.”

“What about Sugarloaf?” I asked. I had seen the cars going up there, so figured it was open. And surely it had a bathroom.

“Ees very close,” Marcelo replied, sealing the deal.

When we pulled up in the parking lot, there was a line that stretched down the steps to the ticket booths and around the perimeter. It looked long at first, but seemed to be moving fairly rapidly. What else were we gonna do? Ride around looking for something that had a shorter line? I don’t think so. We decided to gut it out.

I remember one trip Jean and I took with the boys to Magic Mountain in California. Roller coaster heaven! I was about to hyperventilate with expectation until I saw all the lines. So what did we do? Stand in each line for about 10 minutes, get antsy, then go try to find a shorter line. Which we never did. And we wasted a couple of good hours on this ridiculous maneuver. We finally settled down and stood in a few lines, and actually got to ride four big coasters that day. I hate crowds and lines. I also love theme parks. It’s like crushing the shell into the pecan meat. You have to pick it all apart gradually, separating out the shell, to get any meat. Or a plate of boiled crabs. It’s all a lot of work for a little pleasure.

We asked Marcelo if he wanted to come with us, but he said no, he’d stay in the car and read or go get something to eat. “Okay, we’ll meet you out here when we’re through, okay?” Jean was asking, as I hauled ass up the stairs to find the sanitário.

“I’ll meet y’all at the end of the line,” I hollered at them, noticing that Robo was coming up behind me. Inside the building I was met with various wall displays and a diorama of Rio, the bay and the various mountains that rise from it. There was a tiny little cable car mounting a tiny little Sugarloaf. Neat. There was also a gift shop, but it became a blur as I dashed past and up the stairs as fast as one like me can dash. Robo must have ridden my draft, because we appeared at the door to the sanitário simultaneously, and almost did a Three Stooges trying to get through it together.

Once we got back to the others, we saw that the line wrapped around by a memorial statue of a WWI or II Brazilian soldier. Maybe Marcelo can tell me who he is. While we were standing in the line, there was a vendor selling these little plastic bikini clad girls that you would clip on the edge of a beer can to make a handle. They were the perfect thing to bring back! I must say, though, it is a rather tacky juxtaposition with the statue.

And of course I began my photo onslaught on Daniel and Patricia with this pic in front of the stricken soldier.

We marveled at the people scaling the mountain behind the ticket booth. They were at least 100 feet in the air, clinging onto the face of the rock, looking like flies on a dark wall: hard to find at first. Watching them up there caused every orifice on my body to slam shut in fear. But I could hardly look away.

The line was indeed fast, and before we knew it, were up at the booth. Robo’s grant had included entertainment expenses for D & P, and this somehow translated into some clusterfuck at the ticket booth that took Patricia’s expertise (read “Portuguese”) to sort out for us. Of course we’d also be the very ones to hold up the line after we had worked that Yoruba curse on the people in front of us. Irony is so funny!

I was a tad fluttery about the whole thing of course, with the curse going awry, and my being so terrified of unsecured heights. In a machine or building I’m usually fine, but I have a special subsection in my book of fears for this. An air gondola is neither fish nor fowl. It’s a machine, but it’s on a stupid two inch cable. And there are 75 people in this thing supported by this long-ass wire that runs up to one huge mountain, stops, then goes up another slacky wire to Sugarloaf, 1299 feet above sea level.

So what do I do? As the car begins to magically, impossibly, lurch up to the first mountain, I say casually to Jean, “Look honey, we’re over all those trees. If the cable snaps they’ll be there to break our fall.”

“Stop that!” she hissed at me. Then we both started laughing nervously.

At this point, I had to ponder Robo and Pettus’ desire to hang glide while we were in Rio. Neither had ever done it or anything like it, and it sounded like fun to them. They had even asked Sylvia to look into it for them. Unfortunately, with the foggy weather we were still having, it was out of the question at the time. But there went my orifices again anyway, from just thinking about it.

We got to stage one quickly, disembarked easily, and began to gawk at the view. Though cloud-studded, it was still beautiful. I seemed to take a ton of pictures of The Christ through the haze, and some of them are pretty spiffy.

On the first level, there were benches everywhere, and people were lounging around like it was a park or something. I took a shot of the group, then Robo took one of Jean and me.

It’s totally amazing how much Jean looks like her mother.

Here’s another good shot of The Christ from this level

It was time to try to beat the rush to the tram up to Sugarloaf. Due to construction we had to follow a convoluted course over boards on scaffolding (fun) until we finally turned the corner to the next station. Here are a couple of cool shots of the convex mirror, the people in it, and the big mountain right behind.

In this closeup, it looks like Robo is pissed off about something. This could be the point in the trip where his sinuses began to revolt against him. The altitude may have been punching him in the forehead.

Once we had alighted the car, we were instantly hit with the unobstructed panorama that Sugarloaf affords. These shots of the harbor were very cool. Notice how the orange roofs of the chi-chi enclave below echo the favelas. Both ends of the money spectrum with similar visual impact. EYE ROW KNEE!

By this time, Daniel was hungry again. The grant included snacks, too! Robo handed him a bunch of Reais, and we walked up to the booth to order. I got a couple of agua com gaís (sparkling water), and then discovered that they had those cheese roll things! Daniel ordered that and a Coke. We all sat around, Daniel politely sharing his food, the rest of us like a bunch of dive bombers into the little paper tray. I chugged that agua com gaís pretty fast, then decided to go take another picture of The Christ ruling over Rio.

I also spent time taking pictures of other people with their cameras. There were a bunch of Australians there, and I did shots of 3 different Aussie couples.

The others were ready to go, and sent Daniel looking for me. “We’re ready to go,” he said “Are you?”

“Sure. I don’t think the view is gonna change.”

We saw a bunch of people heading for the tram station, so we hustled as fast as we could to beat them there without looking like we were trying to beat them there. That’s called “manners.”

Once inside, I took this shot of the group despite their protests. They all warned me that if we missed that tram they would kill me. Amazing they can look so pleasant and yet be so threatening.

We made the car without any trouble. But there was a counter that told how many could get on, and it was ticking madly toward the limit. And a few extra I noted, to my chagrin.

In order to divert herself, Jean began listening in on other conversations. There were enough English speakers there to have a little field day, and get her internal radio working again. She noticed a young American guy wearing an Ole Miss hat. He was with an Australian guy. Once we had gotten to the first station, she knew enough about him to say to him on the way out, “Are you from Mississippi?”

“Yes ma’am!” he said politely and enthusiastically. “How did you know?”

“Well first, your accent. And you have “Rebels” on the back of your hat. It was kind of a no-brainer.”

This brought on an advanced session of the “Do You Know? Game”. I believe he did know one of the Lee twins from Ole Miss, and had a bunch of friends that live in Mountain Brook that would know Frank’s friends from there. Ahh. Satisfying. That’s one of the beauties of being from the South. You can play “the game” for less than five minutes and have three connections. But to play it on level one of the Sugarloaf Experience was just pretty bizarre.

While they worked on the Rebel connections tapestry, I shot a couple of pictures of the gears and a beautiful hybiscus.

It turns out that the guy was here in Brazil on kind of an exploration trip. He had been to Argentina looking to buy property to set up a winery/fine restaurant/lodge and hunting deal for executives and jet setters. Being from the South, he was completely familiar with the hunting part. Having money, which he obviously did, would give him an edge with clientele.

He was with an Australian guy he had met at one of the hostels he had stayed in. So he was possibly short on money. But he was used to it, you could tell. Maybe just had a pedigree and not so much money now. I don’t know, but I kind of doubt it. He wielded the mantle of breeding easily, being pleasant, expansive, attentive to the girls and Patricia in particular, and willing to spend a little time with some fellow Southerners. His Aussie companion was also pleasant, but seemed completely disconnected with the conversation, especially when the young guy began to lapse into a definitive Mississippi drawl right before his eyes.

And don’t think for a minute that Mama Jean wasn’t trying to hook him up with Patricia. He had to promise that he would contact her if he came through Salvador on his travels before she would let him go. The thing is, I believed him when he said that he would.

None of us passed up the bathroom when we landed, and I got a chance to see a little more of what was in the gift shop. I’ll be switched if there weren’t several statues of Iemanjá on the shelf! I could tell because she was admiring herself in the mirror, and there were shells all around her. But only one who had felt her hot breath on his neck would recognize her with such clarity.

I rushed outside, only glancing at the diorama as I zoomed past. Fortunately, there was Marcelo waiting on us, to break the spell. I jumped in and took off my Crocs immediately, stuffing another water bottle into the side pockets on the door. I had quite a collection of half-drunk bottles going.

“Did you go eat?” I asked him.

“No. I read in the car,” he replied.

“Well I know for sure that I’m hungry, and I’m sure the rest of them will be by the time we get back home, so let’s go eat, okay? Surely y’all want to eat soon, don’t you?” I asked them.

“Duh!” was the response.

“Of course, then,” Marcelo said. “There are many good places.”

“Well, I want one that will give me some food,” I told him. “But it can’t be too fancy if we’re not going home to change.”

“I know a place,” he assured me.

I relaxed, knowing that my newly interested belly was gonna get some attention.

As we headed over the bridge to Niterói and passed one of the impotent cranes, I had a sudden revival of my earlier laughing fit. But only enough to wake me up a little. Not a full blown attack.

The way home (and yes, Mirante de São Francisco felt like home, especially now that D&P were there with us) had become familiar, and there were several ways to get there ultimately, but they were all scenic. Once you had crossed under the toll booths, the roads began to feel narrower and more random than in Rio proper. Sometimes we’d go by the Niedermeyer-designed art museum, other times not. I guess it depended on whatever mood Marcelo was in.

We drove along restaurant row, passing Paludo, and Porcão, which prompted Marcelo to remark, “There you can eat when you have time and want it to be very nice. When you eat there, it is a party.” We all took note that Porcão was at the top of the food chain.

“La Verdanna,” Marcelo said, as he pulled into the portico. “Ees very good. Meats brought to your table.”

That was all any of us wanted to hear as we began to pile out. “You’re going to eat with us, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Marcelo replied.

Jean loves having that ole picture made, doesn’t she?

La Verdanna was one of those places where the servers come by with skewers of all kinds of different meat. You are given a little card that has a green side reading “Sim” and a red side reading “Não”. If the green side is up, the guys keep coming by.

I think Marcelo knew some people there, because they seemed to buzz around us extra. Right out of the chute they came up with sausage on a skewer, filet, filet with garlic, roasted bananas, manioc flour, lobster puffs, French fries (Daniel got some), and three or four other things. I was saying “Sim” to everything, and before long, had a plateful of stuff.

They also brought out chicken hearts stacked neatly on a skewer. They really did look like little hearts. Daniel ate half the ones in the restaurant in addition to everything else they brought by. He was a marvelous, magical eating machine!  Oddly enough, I was already starting to get a little full from the rapid onslaught of skewer-to-plate-to-mouth that hits you the second you sit down, and the thought of the coraçãoes da frango kind of reminded me of stomach surfing in Salvador. So I politely flashed a “Não.”

Marcelo said “Don’t forget to try the food over there,” pointing to an elaborate buffet like the one at Paludo.

“Whaa??” I asked. “Is that included?”

“Yes,” he said. “Ees very good.”

I took his picture as a reward for this information.

Look at that noble face! A native Niteróian, just like Sergio Mendes! What’s not to love? Right in the middle of my waxing philosophic about Marcelo and his importance, he interrupted with “What about my image rights for the picture? Are you going to pay me image rights?” I responded with a big laugh, and then another picture. This time Daniel sniffed out the camera, joining the exclusive club that Robo and I are members of.

Looks like one of them gol-durned Jonas Brothers, doesn’t he? If he didn’t have that zit, he could be a star.

This next shot is funny, especially if you know Pettus. Every now and then she gets this look, especially if Robo is hammering her with some kind of information. I never have been able to tell if she is actually taking anything in, or is just mentally going, “La la la la la la la la.”

Despite the mass of food, we all decided to share a dessert. And managed to eat it all.

We headed out, all about to bust. I obrigado’ed the shit out of everybody, and so did Jean. “It’s obrigadA,” I told her on the way out. “You said obrigadO.”

“Yeah?” she answered.

“Well, I’m so much cooler than you.”

“Yeah?” she answered.

I responded by making them line up for a picture.

And then, just to make sure I wasn’t a total idiot about my hatred of flash, one with the flash.
I am right to hate it. And so is Pettus.

The valet pulled up with Marcelo’s car, and we all wedged ourselves in and headed home, which was by now a familiar thing.

When we were getting out of the car, Jean asked Marcelo, “Can you take us out tomorrow?” expecting an answer of “Yes, but you must call Sylvia.”

“No, I can’t,” Marcelo said. “I have someone else I have to pick up.” Inside my head, I heard the sound of screeching brakes.

“WHAT?” I blurted out? “What do you mean ‘have someone else to pick up’?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Marcelo said.

“Well what will we do?” I pleaded.

“There are a lot of cabs, and the ferry is good to get to Rio,” he said.

“We’ll try that,” the others said.

“Okay then,” I pouted. “I hope you have a great time with your new little friends.”

Marcelo laughed and said, “You will be fine. I will see you the next day.”

“You better,” we all said, getting the gate code right the first time and trudging in to watch Brazilian TV and plan the next day without The Man.