Rio, A.D.

Maracana Stadium.  Fluminense´s Christmas colors.  Soccer in Brazil.  Yeah, I said it, S-O-C-C-E-R.


Rio, A.D.

As the stage has already been set and I'm busy on my second microbrew of the day, I'm going to simply recap the places we did, and some we did not, visit.

Copacabana
Copacabana is a beach district and a bit like the defacto tourist headquarters of Rio.  It is a large 4km long halfmoon, bordered on the inside by the ocean, on the outside and above by enormous rock faces and at the bottom by the less iconic, but no less beautiful, Ipanema beach.  We first arrived here, we stayed here, we went to the beach here, we saw our first Brazilian bikini here and our first bright orange and mildly obese old man in a speedo riding a bike up and down the beach showing off what looked like an impregnated belly, outty and all, here.  Needless to say it was an interesting area, but we stayed because it was cheap, not for the bikinis.

We stayed at a hostel run by a woman with an autisticly anal retentiveness.  She also believed she was the most interesting woman in the world.  And though she didn't drink dos equis, she has taught belly dancing in Japan, grown up in Australia and built up her own hostel empire.  Her life story willl be released on Lifetime in 2014...if the world still exist.  Needless to say, we didn't get along.

Note on Pictures:
We didn't take a lot because we didn't want to lose (read: get stolen) our camera.  If it was dark, if we were on the beach or if we were drinking we left the camera, of which these activities took up a lot of our time.  Lo siento.

Ipanema Beach
The rich beach.  The "safer" beach.  No different, outside of the many Brazilians walking around hawking everything from fresh coconuts to hammocks, really from sitting on Newport (or, for those of you LA-ites, Venice) Beach during a perfect sunny day.  Thronged and thonged with people, it was a truly idylic setting for relaxing on the beach with thousands of other beach-goers.

Santa Theresa
A hill with great location.  Beautiful architecture.  Stunning views.  Steep hillside.  Trolly car.  Supposed to see the arches of Lapa, but me being nervous about some areas, forced us to get off too early.  Taking a trolly, you begin your ascent from the streets of Centro, passing a giant missile silo that doubles as a church, some graffiti-strewn buildings and finally into the lap-of-luxury that is Santa Theresa.  I'd like to say it is starkly different from the rest of the city, and it is, but as we stuck to the tourist roads, it was not starkly different from the city we experienced.  

Beths Bar
I'm pretty sure that no one can pronounce the name Beth properly in South America.  Variants such as "Bat,"   "Bet," and my personal favorite, as well as the name creating the most confusion amongst natives, "Pat."  That's why it was with great surprise that we came across a bar with Beths moniker.  I was sure that there would be a hitch, the owner loved the caped crusader or at least had some infatuation with flying mammals.  But alas, it was not the case, in fact someone just named their bar a gringos name they couldn't properly pronounce.  So if you're in Rio, on Nossa Copacabana st., stop in at Beth's bar and get yourself a cold one and a good laugh.

Walking Tour and The Philaharmonic/Playhouse (we don't remember what it was)
The downtown and cultural center, inevitably this is one of the poorest tourist areas and it is recommended to stay away at night and on the weekends and on holidays and if you're a tourist (the last is not true).  It's grimy, there is a lot of McDOnalds, a lot of shopping, a central market and, outside of the philaharmonic/playhouse, the most mmemorable things were: 1) the abundance of Brazilian flags--think Monday Night Football pizzaria banners with every football team flag--on every single restaurant and cafe supporting Brazilian football for the upcoming world cup (that worked out well...for Spain) and 2) Bahian street food, which is of Northern Brazil and slave decendency.  It is spicy and full of seafood.  My spiced shrimp stuffed in fried mandioc flour (imagine a crispy, savory donut) with hot sauce was delicious.  The building of unknown use was ornately decorated in gold, or fake gold, had rich people exiting its doors in the middle of the day, would not allow the likes of myself and Beth in its doors and was modeled after something in France.  Clearly it was quite gorgeous, pretentious and worth our ten minute ogling.

Maracana Soccer Stadium
A few facts about this stadium and Brazilian futbol for the uninitiated.
- Set the record for most people to ever attend one game
- Future home of the world cup, it is closing for a three year renovation, and probably already hosted a world cup, but when I haven't a clue.  Though, like Yankee stadium, they are apparently shrinking capacity presumably to over charge for seats and create a better [read: more elitist] experience.
- My friend Raman was heading to the World Cup in a matter of weeks and when I told him I was heading to Maracana stadium he said, and I quote, "I'm jealous".
- The last "a" in Maracana actually has a tilde attached to the top.
-Baseball is a much better game than soccer or futbol, even with the clear worldwide viewership advantage, but I have to admit that soccer fans might have the advantage in dedication.
- Brazil has won the World Cup more than any other country, five times, [fact] and may be the most passionate futbol country in the world [observation, though limited in scope and by my inherit American-ness].
- A completely random fact: futbol is actually called soccer in Australia, New Zealand, the good ol' US of A and apparently in South Africa, this years host, amongst probably other countries and to the assured disapproval of England.

Our experience was fantastic.  We watched Fluminense, one of the big four Rio teams, take on a middling team.  The Fluminense fans showed up in force, banners, jerseys for all from toddlers to the soon-to-be-deceased,  fireworks, the literal and figurative "whole shebang".  Which meant that, as we witnessed the second to final game preceeding the world cup, their half of the stadium was thoroughly full, while the opposing teams was almost completely empty.  It was a raucous, bumping crowd and when, in the second half after their opposition scored an equalizing goal, Fluminense came back and scored the crowd went absolutely insane--and this was a game that meant nearly nothing.  I can only imagine a game between two rivals or one in the heat of a close cup race.  A rabid fan base, loads of support and a passion (not to mention payload) to raze the stadium.

Lapa on Friday
Perhaps my favorite Rio experience and our one true night "going out".  Every single Friday a street party of true Carioca indulgence takes place.  5
 Reals, and freshly made, Caripinhas adorn the streets.  Countless beer and food vendors supply the masses with their elixirs.  And the youth of Rio comes out in full force to celebrate their two day liberty call.  It's the incarnation of Rio's vitality and we drank it up until 330 in the morning.

We spent the first part of the evening discussing blowing up cows in Thailand with grenade launchers, drunk American tourist and setting up obscene Make-A-Wish Foundation opportunities (yes, one and three relate)  with our hostel cohort, and part-time employee of the most interesting woman in the world, Patricia and her recently arrived boyfriend Nick (both of British origins). While the second half included me devouring a triple bacon cheeseburger with fried onions (an odd love affair South America has with fried onions and fast food), our desire to see the Arches of Lapa finally coming to fruition (which also happens to be the starting point of Lapa Friday nights) and me finally being sandwiched by two Brazilians...in a taxi van, one asleep, the other irrate that he either a) didn't have my beer, or b) that I was drinking the beer in a taxi at all.  Lots of music, booze and merriment to cap off our second to last night in Rio.

And now the things we didn't do, but will do, someday.  This list is not exhaustive by any means, just the three main ones.
 
Reserve (natural, not a state-of-being) Surrounding Jesus
A huge natural reserve surrounds the Christ the Redemeer statue.  It's probably the most legitimate urban jungle in the world.  Tons of different, and to us exotic, bird species, monkeys and countless other jungle inhabitants all right next to the metropolitan center of Rio.  There's supposedly hundreds of trails to be hiked and no doubt stunning views even beyond that of Christ.  We didn't have the chance to explore this area, but I'm sure you could spend days walking the jungle, and perhaps next time we will.  

Favela Tour
Maybe this isn't a "we" event.  I debated about doing a "tour" through the favelas.  We talked about the moral dilemma of taking a walk through the lives of people who live in miserable conditions of poverty, treating the experience as essentially a zoo--how demeaning that could feel, how resentful we would be under similar circumstances, how sad and frustrating the idea seems as a whole.  We decided not to, independantly.  The sense of being a voyeur in traveling in general has merit in its own right, but seeing the favelas firsthand as an "experience" felt, for lack of a better word, weird.  In hindsight, I wish I had.  My outlook of Rio is overwhelmingly positive.  I adore the city and its people, but I also have a one-dimensional understanding and appreciation for the city and its obscenely large population, most of which live in parts I did not visit.  This is not justification, but rather an acknowledgement.  There are tours that can purportedly be done of which the "profit" goes back into the community.  It is still riddled with moral dilemma, it still is voyeuristic, it still is abiding my curiousity more than it does anything else, but I think if I were to go again I'd probably like to see more of the darker side of Rio, morally hazardous though it may be.    

Christ the Redemer
One word: closed.  Christ was completely covered in scaffolding, sans his lips (strange that his lips either did not need renovating, they are too large to cover up, or they chose not to cover them.  Weird anyway you break it down.) until our last day in Rio.  Besides this Rio had been pounded by rain the weeks before our arrival and thus the road was closed sporadically our entire time there due to unsafe road conditions.  This precluded us from making the iconic Mecca.  It is still not perfectly clear whether either one of us felt we missed out.  The view and the picture of me and Jesus might have been epic, but in reality, not defining of our time in Rio.  

Two Random Events/Sightings 
Beth exacted sweet revenge on some teenage girls who thought it funny to give us change for a meal we bought by giving us all the change in Brazilian nickels.  She was so incensed she spread out their menus All Over Their Counter of their five foot long beach bar. (1) Nothing says fuck you like doing someones job for them.

No pictures for this, but I swear to Obama that either he was in Brazil driving us on the local bus to the bus terminal or some Brazilian plastic surrgeon is performing "Obamas" on people.  Uncanny, and if we weren't too awstruck, we wouldve have snapped his resemblance, his Brazilian brother.

(1) She and my uncle Ken are about on the same playing field for mature vengence.  Our (mu Uncle and mine) running $5 Dolphins vs. Chargers bet is covered by 500 pennies in a Crayola box, exchanged annually, but began by a bitter 50 year old repaying his 12 year old nephew.

P.S.  One other place to at least look up is this weird guy named Bobbi, who is an expatriate of somewhere,  bought a mansion and has parties once a month at "Casa de Bobbi.". We didn't go because there is a cover (and I'm adamantly opposed to paying any covers in life) and, more importantly it was during Lapa Friday night, but it sounds like an incredibly eccentric function, and I'm definitely not opposed to eccentricities. The other semi-positive is that pharrel and snoop shot a video there, I believe it is called "Beautiful", so you can see the mansion as well as the steps of lapa there, the steps being artsily fascaded steps, in Lapa.



A cloudy view of Rio from atop Sugar Loaf hill, as seen through funicular cables.



¨In the Copa, the Copacabana...¨  Two girls, one dirty old man: who said threes a crowd?...and I guess me, taking the picture. 



Santa Theresa from a trolly car.  Not pictured, missile silo church.  I was scared of retribution by religious fantics, so decided not to publish any images.  Sorry.


Mas Maracana.  The upper level is where all the die-hard fans sit.  We got there early to check out the stadium.  We also, accidentally, got lower level seats, though the Lonely Planet recommends sitting downstairs if you don´t want to be pegged by dead chickens and bottles full of piss, seriously, that is almost verbatim their recommendation. 



Pat´s gringo bar in Rio de Janeiro was all the rage for the Brazilians...and Beth.




Brazil, the only country in the world where the mens bathing suits have less material than the womens.   This is Ipanema beach, in all its glory.




Sunrise with Obama.  The view greeting us as we waited for Obama to pick us up and take us to the bus terminal.

CAPTION CONTEST!!!

This is a picture we took of a tree in the Amazon Jungle.  To the winner goes an EXTRAORDINARY souvenir.  Contest ends Monday night, so get your entry into the comments section as soon as possible.  Good luck, creative thinkers.

EXTENSION: Due to a lack of responses we are extending the deadline until Tuesday night. Likewise, if you don't want your name attached to this type of scandalousness, email me at Jason.vic1@gmail.com with your caption. For those two who have respnded, excellent work.

P.S. Don't feel like it has to revolve around us, anything will suffice.
P.P.S. The postings begin this evening, so scroll down for new post and/or caption contest results.

Rio, B.C.(D). (1)

This was not our view. This is not our picture. Please, person we stole it from on Flickr, do not sue us.

In a city rife with crime and famous for its world renowned revelatory parties and nightlife, including Carneval, and perhaps more (in)famous for its prime real estate favelas, only one man could, oddly fittingly, watchover such a house of sin, The Big J, Jesus.

I've loved South America for many a reason, but I've yet to love it for its metropolitan settings. That no longer holds true. Rio is--outside of a rampant problem with drugs and it's complementary mistress, guns--the embodiment of what a larger-than-life city should encapsulate. It is beautiful, it is loaded with culture, it is a haven of diversity, its people are happy and friendly; the city literally and figuratively dances with passion and life, and you cannot help to catch this sense, if only for those few days you spend there you too will join the ranks of a unique subset of citizens, Caroacas.

The most incredible sunset awaited us at the top of Sugar Loaf. Astounding!!!

We had originally planned five days in Rio as we only received a 30 day visa for one of the largest--and hands down most expensive country that we are visiting (2)--countries in the world. Instead we spent 1/3 of our Brazilian days in Rio de Janeiro and, in fact, could probably have spent all 30 and still felt we didn't have enough time.

Our actual view of Christ the Redeemer, covered in scaffolding.

The city itself is an amalgam of man and nature. A perfect metropolitan area infused with nothing short of its ideal organic counterpart, tropical and dramatic forms of nature.

As we drove into the city via a hired taxi we were filled with trepidation. (3) Horror stories of robberries, backpack pillagers, small brazilians dressed as Millie vanillie and other gory, but no less graphic, details filled our imaginations of a city fraught with dangers. These were never completely put at ease, but from the moment we arrived downtown, we were inundated with so many other stimuli we were forced to shove concern to the background.

Beautiful city, beautiful views.

Looking at Rio for the first time was very much for me like (no, I'm not going to make some virginal analogy here) being a child and seeing the Vegas horizon for the first time. (4) Just before entering the central downtown area you round a bend and just across the horizon you can see the outline of Christ the Redemeer. It's faint and you aren't positive, but it's just cross-like enough that you simply know. Within fifteen minutes you begin to have a sense of the enormity of the surrounding hills and see how striking and an important part of the landscape they play. There you are in the middle of downtown: smog, cars, buses, grim, noise, stench. Then you are passing through a tunnel in the middle of one of these hills and you exit and you aren't there any longer. You are sandwiched between El Capitan and halfdome and directly in front of you is a lake, sun glimmering off its placid waters. There's apartment buildings and cars and people and still even some of that city grim, but it is all dwarfed by these massive pieces of granite and this still lake. By the time you realize it you are through another tunnel and the sweet stench of ocean slaps you in the face, awakening you to the terrestial reality of Rio de Janeiro.

Our hostel was located in Copacabana upon a San Francisco-steep hill at the end of the street, but not the end of the hill, which had plenty of undeveloped hillside above us. As such, we had a vicious climb to and fro, but could wake to the sight of little monkeys playing in the trees across the street; A few blocks from the beach, the middle of one of the Americas most populous cities and monkeys are prancing around in its center, tourist center at that.

As nature encroaches upon man, man equally seems to encroach upon nature. The sheer granite rock faces are playgrounds for rock climbers. Hiking up Sugar Loaf hill before sunset afforded us equal views of the downtown landscape on one side and two rock climbers laborously attempting to summit one of the unique city-located climbs, on the other side. The view from where we stood above the city almost captured its entirety, while no doubt there's on top of the granite face, did.

The multi-faceted conglomeration doesn't just apply to its physical appearances. It's Life [and I'm going to use American cities here as comparisons because, well, I'm American and that's what I best know] is best described as the spirit of New Orleans, the hours of Vegas, the plasticity of Hollywood, the pride (read self-awareness in greatness) of New York and the vitality that only the youth can inspire, which, because there is no American parallel, is like that of the third world. (5) It is iconic in every single way.

On Courtneys last night we really got to experience the lively culture as we went to a Samba show and traditional Brazilian dinner at the famous Casa Rosa. We were surrounded by music, people (many tourist included), dancing, Cairpirinhas, tasty snacks and the fluid Brazilian dance/fight, Capaweara (I can't even pronounce this word, let alone spell it, so that is my own phonetical spelling.). She ate feijoada, a slow cooked bean stew with seasoned pork roast (or butt) and Brazilian spiced sausage (honestly a bit like farmer johns smoked kilbasa--the pork butt was much more interesting) is dumped over rice and covered with farofa, a dried mandioc flower with giant bits of bacon (a traditional ketchupian condiment and delicious with enough bacon. It's shining trait, besides the aforementioned bacon, is that it adds a wonderful crunch to the food. Good texture for something slow-cooked.). Delicious.

In a fairly intimate, tri-leveled courtyard was the samba show, which I don't really know how to classify or what the music technically entails, but the show we experienced that night was like happy jazz meets a bounce house (maybe a little skaw in there for good measure). It was fun, energetic and Brazilian.

Lastly, and probably the most incredible performance, was the impromptu amateur Capawearas. Apparently this "dance" was created by slaves who were not allowed to fight, by rule of their masters. In an effort to either practice fighting or as a way to let out pent-up aggression, or both, the slaves created a fight-like routine, similar to something you would see in The Matrix, put to music and all. It's a combination of beautiful, seemigly choreographed, leg sweeps, arching kicks, ducks, blocks and vertical jumps with a hang-time that would make Brent Barry jealous. Fluid and smooth, incredible to watch. Each "fighter" would take a turn dancing, chanting and playing the big, long bow-like instrument (it sounds cool, but I can't describe the sound). It was just another example of the uniquness that is Brazil.

Courtney, incredible in her own right, left us to fend for ourselves the next day. We left her at the airport, headed back to our hostel and monkeys, and drifted off to sleep, resting ourselves for the next five days in Rio.


(1) B.C.(D). means Before Courtney's Departure. We loved Rio, we spent an equal amount of time there before and after Courtney left, we decided a before and after post sounded like good fun. So, you have to read about two Rios.
(2) We are not gracing the shores of Guiana, French Guiana, Suriname or Venezuela. I believe that although poor, most of these countries are fairly expensive in tourist terms, but I cannot vouch for this. If you are interested in visiting, try this site called google (pronounced goo*guh*lei in Spanish) for more information. We also skipped Uruguay, for circumstancial reasons.
(3) Don't fret our money-minded fans, we went with three other people and actually saved money thru a 3 hour taxi tour.
(4) for those of you who have never been to Vegas as a kid, think Disneyland, or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, things that forever seem surreal in your memory, because they are so overwhelmlingly magical during that initial experience.
(5) One night we headed out to an every weekend fair/concert held between Friday night and Sunday (yes, more than 36 hours of partying every weekend). We had trouble finding it, and didn't arrive till just before midnight, the time when the big concert ended and late-night revelry began. It seemed as if the whole city was there. The last song happened to be about Rio and I swear to god half the crowd, maybe 50k people or more (not including the mass that had already left to catch the last subway), were doing one giant Congo line. Everyone else was jumping up and down and singing. We were all frustrated because we trudged around the ghetto for an hour and a half looking for this place, but once we got there, the vibe was palpable, and we couldn't have had a better time.

Sugar Loaf, one of Rio´s most iconic rocks and the serene and awe-inspiring setting of one of our Rio hikes.

Dearest Ihla(s):

This Antarctica is for you, Ihla(s).

I'm addressing this as an open letter to you both, so you know why I had to leave, but will always hold our time together close to my belt. It would never have worked between all three of us, not to mention Beth who would never have accepted such an agreement. I'll miss you...both.

What follows is my ode to our forever conjoined memories:

Two of the loveliest islands in brazil, perhaps the world in its entirety. One made of honey, one known for its girth, if a name is anything.

We left the confines of the Serra Verde train in search of love, beauty and relaxation; Courtney love, Beth beauty and me relaxation. We found all but love for Courtney (no strapping young Brazilian man swept her off her feet in a passionate Portuguese frenzy).

Arriving in Paranagua with no map in hand we struggled through our limited Portuguese vocabulary--and would have made the worlds charades champion proud--somehow reaching the underwhelming dock. Finding what looked like a scurvy-ladden sailor, we immediately jumped to negotiations. Obviously getting a great deal, we paid. Two shockerrs followed: 1) I found out there is a cure for scurvy, it's called citrus, and 2) the scurvy-laden sailor was no sailor. See, instead of handing the tickets over, he said he'd be back before we left. We had 15 minutes, he was getting in a taxi. I asked for the money back. He refused, then conveniently stopped understanding anything. I yelled, he shrugged. A fat man came over. He asked the situation, then manhandled the thief to the real ticket booth, even forcing the would-be thief to hand over the cash. The only drawback being the man (we later found that he was our captain) asking me to tip the thief, as he eventually led us to the ticket booth. $1 and the feeling of filth later and we were on our way to the first of my Ihlas.

Bad beginnings can be precursors to sweet nothings, sometimes. The captain guided us to the boat in which we embarked upon destiny. Two hours of navigating through meandering mangroves led us to the open ocean. Engrossed with lustful thoughts, I didn't give a second thought to our first mid-ocean stop, wherein we transfered a passenger to a similar boat, sailor feet swinging wildly to prevent a collision of colossal calamity. Clearly seasoned veterans at work, we traveled onward. Not until our second stop did I begin to worry that fate might have other plans for myself and Ihla do Mel. As our captain leapt across the jowls of the sea, leaving our ship guideless and adrift not to mention the passengers in utter confusion, fear drifted into my mind. Flash forward ten seconds and one new captain and we are good to go, or so we all think.

Captain starts the engine. Vicious metal-on-metal grinding. Second attempt is successful, but the rudder was damaged. No workie. 1st mate, the Brazilian MacGyver, saves the day with a giant, fleshly beer belly, sandals and a broomstick (for the rudder). Only catch is that he must sit in back and get directions from the captain, in front. (1) With a broomstick we glide into port, anchor up to 3 other boats (apparently easier than the dock), "Discovery Zone" our way to the dock and into the awaiting arms of my aching flower.

old truck tires. nature. juxtaposition. (on the way to Ihla do Mel. we couldn´t find a good picture of the mangroves.)

That's when I first saw her, Ihla do Mel. Exotic Ihla du jour. Some might think your wide, sturdy frame and lima beam-like contours antiquated, but I personally find the unique shape of your "land" intoxicating and particularly gratifying. In this day and age of Botox, butt-lifts and non-FDA approved hair removal I find you a breath a natural Aphrodisiatic air.

Our first night was unforgettable, swinging in the hammock outside of our quaint cabana. While the rain washed away our worries, the night left nothing to be desired. Daybreak welcomed us outdoors and into the sun for a day filled with long walks along the partly black sand beaches. This was almost as satisfying as the first time I entered your grotto. The wide and pristine entrance only led us into deeper caverns of passion that won't soon be forgotten. The only complaint to be voiced is that our last afternoon was soiled by the oncoming storm. But, perhaps that was simply loves interjection, forcing us inside to drink caripinhas long into the night, leaving nothing to the imagination.

The welcoming grotto on Ihla do Mel.

Sadly, the next day we parted ways. I left before you awoke. (2). This bittersweet moment only becomes sweet upon recollection as leaving led me to my second mistress, Ihla Grande.

Even the lighthouse of Ihla do Mel is left in a fog.

We arrived on the morning of my birthday to a small town named Andres dos Reis. To add to an already anxious and anticipatory mood, we had to wait for the departure of the next ferry almost 9 hours later. We wasted the time loitering in the park, if you know what I mean.

1 1/2 hours of Carribean-like, undulating-wave riddled plowing--through the ocean--we arrived to a harem of hostal owners ushering us to their dens of sin. Beto hostel welcomed us and eventually introduced me to the indescribable beauty of Ihla Grande.

Ihla grande is a fitting name. If located just a bit north, you would have been the stuff of legends--beautiful Amazonian women, even the type of 13 year old boy fantasies, could never live up to your reality. Big, luscious, fertile, exotic, and giant peaks outlining your flawless figure, dreams are not sufficient to describe your sensuousness. (3)

You rang in my birthday with great zeal. Once again the Carpirinhas played their role almost, ALMOST, to perfection. Hours of...[Due to explicit content between a man and an island, details of this birthday night must be excluded from this post.]

The Tropics (kinda). Life. Is. Easy.

My first day being a score plus eight years old felt like being seventeen and deflowered all over again. A breakfast filled with eggs, salchichas, cheese, coffee cake, coffee, fresh juice and fruit was ideally refreshing after such a night. This second gorging kept me going through our hikes along the pristine beaches, our meandering jaunts through your elegant forest and my topless frolicking in your crystalline azul waters.

Rock. Boat. Shadows of us. Ihla Grande.

The most pleasant surprise was my first prison experience. Your abandoned jail was not only exhilirating--an ancient jailhouse being reclaimed by nature while overlooking prime beach real estate is not your first expectation--but enlightening. The fresh water pools, the natural slide which I took into your pleasantly warm waters and the ancient aqueduct, which was at one point a conduit for that exact same water to help breath life into the people of your nostalgically quiet and charming beach pueblo, were exquisite.

My first prison experience. Definitely not as bad as I thought it would be. Those are the pylons for the pier and you can see the outer wall of the prison (it´s dim, apologies) next to the sand wall.

Our last evening was set off by the most intense tropical island storm I have had the pleasure of experiencing. It poured all night, the wind gusted through the already misshapen palms and the streets flowed with our mutual tears of inevitable loss. It was a love that burned only as bright as those passions that live too shortly, but alas, it left us both wanting. Someday, perhaps we can find a way to realize the end, but if not, it will always live on.

Yes, that is a swim-up bar in the background. Can´t get much more perfect than that.

As my time with you both tended to mimik one another I leave you both, and Brazil, with the sense of what could have been. If only we had more time, maybe things would have been different. Alas, we part ways knowing only that what was, was brilliant and unduplicable; But, perhaps one day we can try. (4)

Ihla Grande, portending towards a seething lover...you know, because of the clouds in the background.


(1) five minutes into the new captains tenure, we had our second scare when he left the helm and entered the W.C., for no less than five, 5, minutes. While he was busy reading "Brazilian Fish with Bad Habits," we all were hoping that the first mate would blindly steer us clear of all trouble. He did and the captain came out more jolly, presumably lighter and ready to guide us to port.

(2) stop judging, you'd have done the same.

(3) the only flaw, which one might perceive as such, is sitting atop the second peak. A teenage mistake, a drunken bet or perhaps a love of aviaries, I do not know, but upon the horizon sits an outline resembling an eagle in repose. Something I came to know and love as "The most refined tit-tat in the world."

(4) You'll be deforested, developed and global-warmed and I'll be a wrinkley-bald, impotent and jaded old man, so memories might have to suffice.

Note: Our Internet access is slow. Hopefully we will have some pictures up and a Rio post by Tuesday.

Bonus Picture:
The vine covered aqueduct in the middle of the forest was quite impressive.

Thank you, my big red tumor:

Life in a bag, a big fucking bag granted, but still a bag, is not necessarily what I'd have expected it to be.

I've traveled a bit before (1), six weeks here, two and a half there, but after some point in time, it no longer counts as "travel," as much as life. I have no home. I have no cups, plates, or semi-decent cutlery. I have no stationary point (unless you count the Internet) where someone can send me "Happy Bastile Day--glad you aren't in prison" cards. Life is constant change, that, and my bag. The change I like, the bag part is not as simple.

I've always liked the idea of paring down life to the basic necessities: a few pairs of briefs, a good pair of jeans, a computer (with a couple of solid poems (2)), and a handful of books, not to mention a stolen paycheck, or two. Simple, easy living, without all the misery that more stuff brings you. Beautiful really, until the realization that a weeks worth of clothing, an iTouch and a handful of books weigh the same amount as a 3 year old child on Maury Povich, 50 pounds of physical and emotional burden, to be almost exact.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about long days on the beach or seeing some of the most exotic/beautiful/etc. cities in the world, I'm not even complaining about having to dig through five plastic bags of clothes, four different jugs of shampoo/lotion/soap/deodorant, three books, and two cans of bug spray just to find my last pair of "clean" quick-dry underwear. No, I'm complainig about its complete and utter ubiquitous presence in my life.

I get on the bus, it's there. Off, the same. I go to bed starring at it's vibrant, if mildly bold, colors. I then wake up to it, starring at me this time, asking if we will be leaving today, because it's bored of sitting in the room all day. Even when I leave it for the day, its presence is felt, threatening to pick-up and leave me for some other, and no-doubt more local, owner. Constant. Ever-present. Necessary.

I try to apply Benjamin Franklin's not-so-apt saying--"Necessity is the mother of invention"--whenever possible. When applied here, however,I learn that I'm either a miserable inventor or Benjy is full of shit, because with each passing day it becomes more and more "necessary" that my bag carry itself and that doesn't seem to be happening.

Instead, we travel. We walk, talk and occassionally fight our way through this land they call South America. Arm in trusty shoulder sling without the slightest bit of space, unless you count the thinly veiled piece of cotton separating our ever-moistening connection.

Nope, no separation, just me and my big, heavy, corpse-ly bloated, red backpack. It's like a tumor I cannot rid myself of, not because I can't, but because I don't want to. And sometimes this makes me happier than I've ever been and other times it makes me long for my own apartment with my own couch, but much, much cleaner.

(1) I've also vacationed, the difference being whether you can take your Rollie suitcase everywhere or not.

(2) I wrote in porns, but iNotes duly corrected my vulgar "misspelling" to poems. In case your wondering, I have neither with me, Beth is disgusted by poems.

Bienvenido a Brazil!

With heavy hearts and slightly lighter wallets, we bid farewell to beloved Argentina and headed towards Brazil. A $145 per person visa foreshadowed the storm of expenses to come, and the dark and dreary rainclouds that have plagued Brazil this year greeted us at our first stop, the beachy, tropical forest town of Florianopolis on Ilha do Santa Catarina. Prized for its many beaches that border subtropical rainforest and its laid back atmosphere, Floripa (as it is affectionately called) indeed has much to offer... particularly on bright, sunny days. Such was not our luck, so we took advantage of the few sunny moments we got and braved the rain the rest of the time.

Our hostel was next to Lagao da Conceicao, a beautiful and peaceful lake we enjoyed many walks along.

Me and my prima, Courtney, who came to meet up in Iguazu and run through Brazil with us.

As close as we got to sunbathing...

Brightly colored, adorable homes dot the coasts.

Jason and Courtney, preparing to hit the sand on the crazy sand dunes.

Our visit to a small, quaint fishing village on the island. Dozens of men throw out huge weighted nets, hoping for some luck in catching some fish.

Serra Verde Express from Curitiba to Paranagua boasts 13 tunnels and 67 bridges and tropical forest galore.

Unfortunately, the weather was sort of crappy, and most of the time the view looked like this.

Crossing one of the 67 bridges.

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The train ride also boasts several waterfalls, most of which you could not see through the fog.

After a short night´s rest in the shady town of Curitiba, some of us chose to option the train as nap time.