Ilha Grande, Days 2-3 (Jan 8-9th)

By morning, I had begun to think that my luck from my first two months of traveling with idyllic weather had changed and that cloudy weather was following me. But at least I had one incredible breakfast to start the day with.


I decided to wait until the following day to head to Lopes Mendes, the most stunning beach on the island, and worth waiting for better weather. In the meantime, I thought I would try a boat tour. I arrived at an operator just in time to join a full-day tour and got a discount for paying with cash rather than credit, as you often do (illegally) in Brazil. While I waited for the agent to draw up my ticket, I sat at the front with the adorable dogs who had the run of the place.


My tour consisted of a Brazilian couple, a Brazilian family, an English couple, two Dutch girls and two crew members. We stopped first about a quarter of the way around the island at the picturesque Blue Lagoon. There, I made my first attempt at snorkeling. Silly as it may sound, I have always been afraid of fish, but that fear has lessened significantly since I sucked it up and snorkeled. I'm still afraid of the big ugly ones, but I've developed something of a fondness for the little colorful ones.


In any case, we proceeded onward to a spot where a helicopter had crashed some years before, and there we viewed the wreck through our snorkel masks. Then, we moved onto the Green Lagoon, which proved quite similar to the Blue Lagoon except for its pigmentation. The sun made a brief appearance, but not until I had already submerged, so I couldn't get pictures at that time.


After making another stop or two at small, rather unremarkable beaches, unaccountably featured on the itinerary, we docked for lunch, which we had pre-ordered from the boat. I ate with the English couple, whose company I enjoyed far more than the paltry, overpriced salad I received.


Shortly after reboarding the boat, the sky broke open, and forced us to skip the last stop. I had hoped to hike from the last beach to a nearby waterfall and then onto the town, but the downpour prevented me from doing so.

The English couple invited me to dine with them that night, and we had a lovely meal of moqueca (Brazilian fish stew) paired with wine. Although the storm had abated shortly after we'd returned from our day trip, it began afresh during our dinner, and soon we found ourselves watching a torrent flood the dirt roads of the town. As the Brits tried to figure out a way back to their hostel, I ran for mine, only a block away, and once again made it an early night.

By morning, the rains had ceased and the clouds had broken up to some extent, leaving patches of blue sky between them. I decided to try my luck at Lopes Mendes. I had intended to hike there through the jungle, but sadly, the previous night's precipitation prevented me. Large puddles still sat in the roads and the jungle paths were slick and dangerous. So I jumped aboard a launch and went over water. And I still enjoyed a 20-minute jungle hike in any case, since the boats dock one beach over and the only way to finally get to the beach is on foot. I didn't get to see any howler monkeys, but I certainly heard them. When I came through the trees, I glimpsed paradise. Perhaps not as glorious as it would have been on a truly sunny day, but beautiful nonetheless.


I wandered halfway down the blessedly lightly-populated shore and set up camp under the shade of a clump of palm trees. I chatted with a Chilean couple at the end of a tour and snapped photos of the tiny crabs that kept popping up from the sand to inspect me.


I ventured into the water a time or two and watched a group of guys, including my tourist agent from the previous day, surf, break a few boards, and then settle into a futbol game on the beach.


My tourist agent recognized me and invited me on a walk to the far end of the beach. He flirted with me, but when I turned him down, he was unperturbed and responded in a way that pretty much summed up the advances I had countered from Brazilian men so far: When I teasingly offered my assurance that he would find another gringo girl, he replied in all seriousness, "Oh, no. I'll have another girl tonight. I just wanted you." I had to laugh at his forthrightness.

By the time I had returned to my little camp, the time had come for my launch back to town, so I collected my things and headed to the rocks on the end of the beach near the entrance to the jungle. There, I took in the panorama and watched the water break against the walls of rock around the bend.


After a few mesmerizing moments, I trekked back through the jungle to the boat. I then returned to my hostel, grabbed my things, and headed back to the dock to catch the ferry back to the mainland.

After the ferry and the bus back to Rio, during which I witnessed a jaw-dropping sunset that I chose to enjoy rather than photograph, I accepted Mosquito's invitation to stay in his guest room for the night. He arranged to have a friend of his take me to the airport the next morning, so I was set.

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Location:Ilha Grande, Brazil

Ilha Grande, Day 1 (Jan 7th)

At 5:30am the following morning, I was forced to wake the owner of my second Buzios hostel because I had forgotten to check out the night before. He uttered not a word of complaint, which I greatly appreciated, but by the time he had woken, dressed, and checked me out, I was cutting it perilously close to missing my bus to Rio. I hauled ass down to the station, only to find the bus waiting and the ticket office delayed in opening. A group of ten of us huddled outside the the building and watched the staff slooooowly deal with some issue with the air conditioner before they finally admitted us and sold us our tickets.

The bus ride itself flew by, and I slept through most of it. Unfortunately, I snoozed so soundly that my seatmate had to physically rouse me, and in my stupor and my hurry to collect my things and make it to the ticket counter for my next bus, I must have dropped my eye mask. I spent the next bus ride in mourning for my beloved sleep aid, a composite of two manufactured covers which my mother had sewn together for me into the perfect eye mask. And I had lost it. Boo.

I discovered on the trip, however, that much of the loneliness that had plagued me in Rio had dissipated. I still missed the sound of James unconsciously singing to himself, as he so often did on our bus rides together, and I thought of him, smilingly, as I suffered through my second tedious 20-min bus-driver snack stop of the day. "Inexplicable faffing!", he would have said. (Faffing is a British term signifying actions which waste time. He had decided that "Inexplicable Faffing" would make an excellent band name. I heartily agree.) But despite this, I felt far less lonely leaving Buzios than I had arriving there.

Unfortunately, said faffing had delayed our arrival at Armacao de ______, the port town closest to Ilha Grande, so I missed the last ferry of the day and had to pay to take a catamaran instead. I bought my ticket at the bus terminal and hauled my bags to the street to try to catch a bus to the dock. I
asked directions from a young Brazilian couple getting into a pickup truck, who kindly offered me a ride. I threw my bags on the flatbed and squished myself into the cab with them. They were adorable, and seemed to think my my Portuguese was good for an American just because I could say, "I bought a ticket."


They dropped me off at the harbor, with my thanks; I grabbed some snacks from the local supermarket, had some lunch out of a market stall, and finally boarded the catamaran. An hour and 45 minutes later, I stepped onto the dock at Ilha Grande. Sadly, I had missed the blue skies, so prevalent earlier in the day. By the time I arrived, the view was lovely, but decidedly overcast.


I wandered over the dirt roads to Biegarten hostel, where I had a wonderfully sunny room.


That evening, I had dinner with my roommate, who strangely enough had also been my roommate for one night in Rio, and a few of his friends. Afterward, I returned to discover that the rest of our tiny 13-person dorm was occupied by more people from Che Legarto in Rio: a group of eight Argentinian guys.


When they discovered that I was a singer, they insisted that I serenade them, and I obliged. In fact, they proved such a receptive audience that I ended up singing bits and pieces of songs they requested. When the romantic of the bunch (on the right) asked that I close out the evening with a bit of "I Will Always Love You", I barely made it through for giggling at his possibly real, possibly put-on tears.


I laughed myself silly that evening. Then I spotted a glowingly pink little friend on the wall. And the night was complete!


I took a photo to prove I could go to bed in Brazil before 4am and by 11pm, I was out like a light.



ATMs in Brazil give multiple denominations

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Location:Ilha Grande, Brazil

Buzios, Days 3-4 (Jan 5-6th)

On the 5th, I returned to Geriba, but this time in the company of Francisco and Santiago and some much finer weather.


We rented an umbrella, under which I sat my white self for most of the day, due to the patchy bits of sunburn that had bloomed on my skin since the previous day. Apparently, I had done a poor job of reapplying because I looked like I had been whipped, red slashes criss-crossing my body here and there, seemingly at random. So under the umbrella I sat, reading and writing. The boys teased me relentlessly for my tattered writing notebook, which I had bought in Bolivia for 10 cents and the cover of which featured a drawing of a cherubic black choir boy singing from a book of psalms. In other words, the teasing was merited. But I did get down a few lyrics and some ideas for restructuring part of my miniseries teleplay.


We had gotten a few empanadas on the beach, but by early evening, we were pretty ravenous, so we departed the beach in search of a fish market from which to buy the evening's main course. Alas, the markets had closed by the time we got there, but we did get a phenomenal view of the harbor for our trouble.


We settled for chicken. Santi, a true master in the kitchen, worked the brick oven grill and Francisco put together a delicious salad of greens, palmitas (hearts of palm), avocado, cucumber, carrots, and onions, all tossed together with lime and olive oil. Delicious.


I did the dishes and told the guys I would see them later, as they were going out for a boys' night. I had intended to spend the night in to catch up on some sleep, but my other roommates, Azul and Toi, motivated me. Before I knew it, I was in a dress and at a party. A large crowd had collected in a small square to hear reggae and forro (a traditional style of Brazilian dance music), including Maria and Ana and a rowdy Jewish South African futbol team also staying at our hostel.


We drank; we danced; we made merry. And at some point, I lost the key to my locker. I still have no idea where, and by the time I realized it, I'd had a few too many drinks to care much. I ended up abandoning the party to go dancing with three American sisters, who looked like triplets, and their German friend. The club disappointed, and we ran into Francisico and Santiago as they were leaving. After the German guy extricated me from the grasp of one particularly aggressive Brazilian guy, I walked back to the hostel, where I ran into Francisco again. We headed down to the beach to watch the sunrise and were greeted by the sight of a couple openly and rather athletically getting it on atop an overturned boat. So, yeah. There was that.

My last day in Buzios was largely uneventful. I had to pay seven bucks for one of the Nomads staff members to break open my locker, which he did, gleefully wielding a gigantic pair of clippers. Afterward, I had to switch hostels to a little place down the way, and the weather was abysmal. Rainy and windy the whole day, so I spent my time writing, working on the computer, and Skyping with my family. I had dinner with Santi, Francisco, and another pair of Argentinian girls back at Nomads, but I understood only about 40% of the conversation, as the girls' accents were quite thick. I said my goodbyes to the my roomies, the guys, and finally, the friendly staff at Nomads and thanked them for the brilliant idea of having a water filter at the hostel, meaning that I hadn't had to spend my usual amount on bottled water. (Seriously, you've no idea how much money I have spent on this.) And then I had return to pack so that I would be ready to catch an early bus the next morning.

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Location:Buzios, Brazil

Buzios, Days 1-2 (Jan 3rd & 4th)

My bus to Buzios left late and got stuck in rush hour traffic, so we were already running an hour and a half behind when we inexplicably stopped for food less than halfway to our destination. Well, not so inexplicably. Apparently, even on bus journeys of only 3 hours, Brazilian bus drivers are entitled to 30-minute breaks somewhere in the middle. While at our stop, the bus driver tried to flirt with me, asking me to let him know if there was anything I needed. It was all I could do not to reply, "Yeah, I need for us to get back on the damn bus and get moving!" Fortunately, once we proceeded onward, it was a smooth and pretty trip.

It took me a few minutes to find my hostel once I had jumped off the bus, but when I did, I was greeted warmly and shown a tiny four-girl dorm. One of my roommates, a Brazilian named Maria, invited me out to dinner with her and her friends before I had even opened my bag, and I accepted enthusiastically.

Maria had come to Buzios with six of her friends, all coworkers in a federal attorney's office in Sao Paulo. I spent most of the evening with her and one other girl, Ana, with whom I spoke Spanish. We had a great time discussing our jobs, families, and travel experiences, and of course men and cultural differences. ;)

My favorite moment came when I tried to explain the reason for my hospital stay in Cuzco, and Maria said, "Oh, yes! Blood clot!!" I looked at her with surprise. "How is it that you're struggling to find some common English phrases, but you know 'blood clot'?" She grinned ear to ear, "'House'!" I had forgotten that "House" is one of the two television programs I have heard mentioned almost exclusively on this trip, and as far as I can tell, it must be the most popular show on the planet. (The other is "The Wire", which is rightfully praised by almost all Brits as the greatest television show of all time. You should see the look of glee spread across their faces when I tell them I'm from Baltimore.)


Anyway, after a delicious meal at Restaurant Davide, where we all split two whole fish and a number of side dishes, we went for a decadent treat at Mil Frutas, where I had the best pistachio gelato I've found outside of Rome. Still not quite equal to my grandmother's homemade strawberry ice cream, but perhaps a close second. We then walked along the waterfront and stopped into a bar, but my inability to stifle yawns despite the excellent company forced me to head back to the hostel. My head hit the pillow, and I was out.

The following morning, I actually got a good look at the stunning setting of the hostel.


Perched on Rua de Piedra, the street closest to the beach, Nomads Buzios featured a stunning view of to the beach, with direct access down a short flight of stairs.


The staff served breakfast in the glass-walled bar area, overlooking the water, and most people took their portions out to the deck chairs to enjoy the sun as they ate. While piling my plate with fruit and cheese, I ran into Francisco, an Argentinian I had met briefly but seen often at my hostel in Rio. We reintroduced ourselves and chatted for a while.


Afterward, I went out into the town of Buzios and took care of a few errands before packing up a small bag and heading for the beach-- stopping for an acai on the way, of course.


I hopped a collectivo and went to Geriba, the beach most people seem to cite as their favorite on Buzios. I spent the slightly overcast day sunbathing, reading, people-watching, swimming, and, predominantly, napping. When I my ivory skin had had enough, I packed up and walked the couple of miles back to the hostel. Along the way, I picked up one of the gorgeous butter-colored flowers I had seen strewn across so many Brazil streets and pressed it into my notepad as a souvenir.


That evening, I sat out on the deck with Francisco, his friend Santiago, and Ana, discussing all manner of topics and reverting to English only where absolutely necessary.


Although we couldn't see the sun itself, we took in the candy-colored sky it left in its wake as we made our preparations for the night.


We decided to all go to dinner together: the Brazilians, the Argentinians, and me. But first we had a few near-perfect capirinihias concocted by the hostel's barman, while a fire dancer performed for us on the beach below.


Realizing a bit late that finding a table for twelve people presented quite a challenge we split into two groups. Ana, Maria, Santi, Francisco, two of the other girls, and I had dinner at an Italian spot that confirmed my commitment to eating only local food when I travel, but the conversation made up for the mediocre fare. As we left, capoeira dancers performed in the street outside the restaurant.


Afterward, the girls went to a club, and I went with the boys for a drink at a lovely bar on the beach, where a local serenaded the patrons with Seu George songs. We wandered around the boardwalk a bit, had a few more drinks at another bar, and called it a night.



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Location:Buzios, Brazil

Rio, Post-NYE (Jan 1st-3rd)

New Year's day was gray once again and many of my newfound friends were checking out of the hostel. I called my family members to wish them Happy New Year's and checked some things on-line while sitting on the porch of the hostel. I hadn't sat long before Mosquito pulled up in his SUV and shouted for me to join him for a ride around the city. We drove around and chatted about his extensive traveling experience, his kids, his study of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and most of all about hang gliding.

When the weather cleared a bit, we parked by Arpoador, the small beach between Copacabana and Ipanema, and I took some pics that would have been extraordinary if the weather hadn't been so dismal.


But we still had fun, and Mosquito bought me yet another coconut water, which, if I haven't explained it previously, is drunk straight from the coconut which has simply had it's top hacked off.


Afterward, we returned the coconut to the stand, where the server hacked it into pieces, making a spoon out of one shaving, so that I could eat the coconut meat. Delicious and surprisingly filling.


That night, I went out for a bit with my new roommate Tim to the hopping bar Emporio. There I met a pair of Brazilian girls who amusingly described to me the difference between Brazilian men and gringo men. In jilted English that only improved the telling, one of them said, "With Brazilian men, you know right away that they like you. They kiss you very soon. With gringo men is different. (She tapped her watch at this point.) Much time goes by, much taaaaalking and waaaaaiting. And even when they kiss you, you don't know if they like you." I found this hugely amusing, hearing it from their perspective. What to me was abrasive behavior on the part of the men in their country, to them was simply clarity of purpose.

The next day, the weather worsened even further. The rain came down solidly all morning with no sign of stopping, so Tim and I resolved to run some errands and see a movie. To give some perspective, the highlights of my day were Tim's conversation, this dolce de leche napoleon...


...and this crappy view of the city, with Cristo Redentor looming above on the left, from the mall cinema window.


That evening, Tim headed out to Emporio again, and I accepted an invitation from Mosquito for dinner. He took me to what at first glance looked to be a bottom-rung mall sushi joint, but there I had my favorite meal in Brazil. Brazil is home to the largest group of Japanese outside of Japan, and they know their sushi. I had a magnificent ahi tuna steak over baby asparag, and Mosquito ordered a huge sampler plate that tickled my palate in a way sushi never had before. The choicest morsel of all was a uniquely Brazilian twist on a salmon roll with cream cheese, bits of apple, and a powerful spice I don't know the name of. I stuffed myself silly, and still mourned over the pieces that I couldn't finish. Mosquito was a delightful dinner companion, entertaining me with more stories and introducing me to each of the dozen or so people who stopped to say hello during our meal. Seriously, the guy knows everyone in Rio!

I had planned to leave Rio for the seaside town of Buzios the following morning, but upon drawing back the curtain, I glimpsed the first bit of truly blue sky I had seen since I arrived. I literally leaped out of bed, packed my things, checked out, stored my bags, and hopped a bus to Sugarloaf mountain, determined to see a decent view before leaving.

When I arrived at the base of the mountain, I joined the line at the entrance only to find out about yet another bizarre, second line just for buying the tickets. But thanks to a precocious 9 year-old girl from Curitiba who spoke perfect English, her mother and I conspired to each stand in a different line, in order to cut down the wait time. The mother took my money for the entrance fee and left me in line with her child, Brenda, whose personality reminded me of a far-less-annoying version of my own at that age. I genuinely enjoyed talking with her and hearing about her international school, her ship's captain father, her dentist mother, and their recent trip to Disneyworld. At one point I told her how smart she was, and she replied, "Thank you. I know." The kid kept me laughing for the entire wait. I only wish I could recall more of her bon mots as we waited, watching the cable cars make the trip to Sugarloaf above us.


Her mother, Wanuska, returned with the tickets just in time for us to board the cable car, and together we made the first of the two ascents. From the lower mountain, the views were so lovely, I eagerly awaited the second.


The sky was cerulean and the sun out in full force, making for perfect photos but punishing heat, from which Brenda and I hid under umbrellas standing in for parasols. I had bought mine only moments before from a vendor on the street and was glad to have done so.


When we'd taken a turn around the first mountain, we got in line for the second cable car to Sugarloaf...


...and were treated to a visit by some adorable marmosets. (I'm 90% sure that's what they were, but if anyone knows better, please let me know.)





From the top, the view of the city was jaw-dropping, with Copacabana cutting a dramatic figure below.


The view of Cristo Redentor was almost better than it had been on Corcovado itself, for all the clouds I had seen that day.


Besides which, I had gotten to spend the day in the company of a lovely Brazilian family who bought me lunch atop the mountain before I'd had a chance to argue and who insisted that I stay with them if I was ever in Curitiba.


When we came down the mountain, Brenda's umbrella broke, and I gave her mine, decorated with pictures of Rio, as a present. We took the bus back together, and when they disembarked, I kissed them both goodbye gratefully. I then proceeded to my hostel, grabbed my things, and hopped a cab to the bus station, from which I headed onto Buzios.

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Location:R. Paul Redfern,Rio de Janeiro,Brazil

New Year's Eve in Rio (Dec 31st)

On the morning of New Year's Eve, I foolishly chose to make my pilgrimage to the mountain of Corcovado and the renowned statue of Cristo Redentor upon it. I say foolishly because only after getting off the bus at the base of the mountain did I realize that visiting Rio's most famous sites on the day when more people are in the city than any other pretty much guarantees epically long lines.

Fortunately, while on the bus, I met two lovely American girls, Asha and Kate, and we braved the wait together.


The cog train was booked until 6pm, and it was only 10:30am when we arrived, so had no recourse but to wait for a collectivo van, the lines for which stretched far up the street. After a full hour's wait, we finally boarded a van and ascended the mountain... only to disembark find another line of people snaking along the road for half a mile. We had neared the beginning before we discovered that the line for tickets was elsewhere, despite a complete lack of signage to that effect! Luckily, fate smiled and another person waiting got us the tickets so that we wouldn't have to stand in line again.

Then it was another bus ride to the very top, during which we noticed a cover of clouds had moved in over the formerly blue sky. When we first arrived, expecting to see a glorious view of the city, we were greeted only by clouds.


At intervals, the clouds would part, leaving only a mist, and allowing for at least a brief glimpse over Cidade Maravilhosa (the marvelous city)...


... and finally of the statue itself, crowned by the sun.


We each took the classic photo and several of the city, while standing on the main platform, where we encountered three people who sparked in me the biggest bout of tourist rage I had experienced so far. At the centermost point on the viewing platform, on the exact position with the best view available, they stood CHILLING OUT. I'm not kidding. Chilling out, with their backs to the view. For ten goddamn minutes. At the end of which they took three or four photos. And they completely ignored pleas to take their place. Tourists!!


Anyway, after getting our pictures, we headed back down the mountain, suffering through more lines to make the journey and agreed to split a cab back to the beaches. I had had a great time with them despite the number of frustrations throughout the day. And after spending so much time with Brits, I reveled in the chance to share stories with other Americans who actually got my sense of humor. I had begun to think myself mortifyingly unfunny and dull, but after leaving the girls giggling any number of times, I felt relieved. Not to say that I have ever been a great wit or comic, but I had always been able to tell a story, and I was relieved to find that my inability to entertain the Brits with a tale came mostly from cultural differences.

When I checked my Facebook that evening, I finally heard from Charlie, who had apparently sent previous messages that hadn't made it through. At this point, I regretted not having a phone because email and Facebook automatically come with the necessity of getting onto the computer, and my communication with Charlie that night was in starts and fits. We arranged to meet at Kade's hostel, but when I got there, Kade was nowhere to be found and Charlie and Daniel hadn't arrived. I waited for half an hour before returning to my own hostel, realizing that with the craziness of the evening, they might never make it. Instead, I partied with the other folks at the hostel.


The rain started just before we departed for the beach, me in the company of three American girls, a few Argentinians, my Aussie roommates, some Brazilians, and the rowdy but sweet Englishmen from the previous night. Despite being dressed all in white, we made the 3-mile journey sans umbrellas, singing at the top of our lungs as we went.


By the time we arrived on the beach where a samba band was playing on the huge second stage, we were soaked but joyous and just in time for the fireworks. Words and pictures absolutely cannot do justice to the awesome spectacle I beheld that night. I literally stood in awe, mouth agape and smiling, throughout the majority of the 18-minute, $15 million display.


We danced beneath the sparks, and the boys raised the girls onto their shoulders and danced some more. I got almost no useable photos because of the rain, but I hope to get some from the boys and I did get one of me soaked in my dress.


When the fireworks had finished, we decided to skip the ridiculous lines for the morbidly repugnant port-a-potties stationed several blocks away and waded into the ocean fully dressed instead. Definitely a first for me. And we were certainly not the only group with this idea.

Afterward, we made the hike to the main stage another mile down where we able to get quite close to the front of the stage for the show where DJ David Guetta began to play at 2am.


Guetta, as James had forewarned, proved a bit of a hack, not so much DJ-ing as merely playing his radio hits with an occasional, barely-noticeable alteration. But no amount of mediocre MC-ing could have taken away from the pulse and power of a group of nearly 2 million revelers dancing as one.


The set ran for over an hour, after which the beach emptied out with miraculous speed. The travel and the crowd had whittled our group down to 16 members, and together we made the return trip to Ipanema, our white clothes mud-stained and plastered to our bodies from the rain that still fell. At the bend between Copacabana and Ipanema, a few of us clambered into a cab for the last leg while others made for after-parties on the beach. By the time we reached the hostel at 5:30am, I had lost my ambition for further partying and fell into bed exhausted.

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Location:R. Paul Redfern,Rio de Janeiro,Brazil