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.