the perfect days don't stop

Today was just lovely! Woke up feeling fit and raring to go. Raring (http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=raring&searchmode=none). Maybe not that intense. I’m not super bright in the morning. Kind-of dumb, really. But once I had my coffee, I was alert enough to be excited for our morning at the Salt River Market. It is in a nearby suburb called Woodstock, and runs each Saturday in the summer. Ryan and Stasha go every week, and were excited for Chris and me to experience it. They are all so sweet in their excitement to find things that they think I’ll like (which they don’t know is almost anything, including a mall or a post office). We arrived to find many vendors with handmade clothing and crafts, and two huge semi-outdoor rooms with dozens of food vendors selling fresh baked goods, omelets and crepes, tuna burgers, wine, tapenades, biltong (dried kudu and beef)… standard lovely Saturday market fare! I had a make-it-yourself yogurt, fruit and granola bowl which was just perfect. We sat at long communal tables as French/Middle Eastern inspired music played from the large speakers, sort-of successfully creating the ethnic marketplace vibe the organizers were going for (though Ryan didn’t buy it: “What’s with this music, ay? Derelicte…”). We walked around the clothing and jewelry shops, and the boys were very patient with Stasha and my gazing and re-gazing.

We walked back to the little dirt lot on a side street where we had parked our car (Chris had to go the wrong way on a one-way to get there), and the attendant told us that if we waited for a minute, we could see the Coon Carnival. I wasn’t sure what that meant, though I could hear some band music in the distance. (Just looked this up and found the most poorly written, least informative Wikipedia article ever: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaapse_Klopse. Here’s another take: http://www.rebirth.co.za/cape_town_coon_carnival.htm) I told everyone that we could go if they didn’t want the car blocked in, but they agreed that, no, it would be something I would likely enjoy. So we walked up this little one-way past some brightly colored, newly painted houses (though the roofs and brick fences were looking a little beat-up) and could see people waiting in the streets, and a group of people in glittering blue, silver, yellow and green in the distance. We parked ourselves inconspicuously under a tree, and waited for the band to approach and pass. The music sounded awesome: there were mostly brass horns and some hide-skin hand drums, playing complex counterpoints really tightly. We could see two cute kids in little glittery suits leading the way, and then older children in white band uniforms following. But they all appeared to be turning off the street and into a house about 15 meters ahead of where we were. So I left the gang to walk a little closer and take some pictures. I wound up getting wedged in between the band itself, a parked car, and two elderly people, as the band played their last song before taking a break for croissants, samosas, and fresh fruit. The man to my right told me to take as many pictures as I wanted, that they would even pose with me! “They” were men and women in shimmering band-type suits, whose entire faces and heads were painted with Carnivalesque patterns in silver, green, blue, and yellow glitter paint. They were so intricate! And those who weren’t playing music were dancing with vehemence. I looked around at all of these happy people, enjoying music and smiling, and I realized the tenuousness with which I found myself in this exact place at this exact time. Leslie’s friends, the market, the one-way street, the decision to go back and try another piece of biltong… and it all led to this gift, this bright shiny music surrounded by these bright shiny heads on a small street on a sunny day in Cape Town. And they were taking a lunch break, just like all the bands I marched in did. Their actions looked so familiar in this way, despite the fact that little else resembled my experiences in the marching band. Once the band stopped for their break, I asked my photo-friendly friend of the band was from this neighborhood, and he said no, they were from Bonteheuwel (thanks for the spelling, Chris!), but that they sometimes marched here. I asked if he lived nearby, and he was proud to tell me that his was the big pink house on the corner. There were people of all ages hanging out, and it felt like such a nice neighborhood, though Chris and Ryan didn’t seem to think it would be incredibly safe at other times of day. I’m not sure.

After this euphoric experience, Ryan and Stasha turned in for a nap, and Chris and I headed to the beach. Since I’ve gotten here, the temperature has been a little cool (low 70s) and with VERY strong winds, winds that you would expect to feel at the Cape of Good Hope. They have blown my bag off my shoulder, have impeded my ability to walk with ease. So the beach hasn’t been the best option for most days. Indeed, our time at Fish Hoek was characterized by a wind so strong, we left the beach because we weren’t dressed warmly enough to endure it for more than half an hour. But today felt a lot warmer and stiller, so to the Atlantic beaches it was! After briefly getting lost (and learning that South Africans call traffic lights “robots”), we drove over the mountain to the beaches. The water was the most vivid turquoise blue imaginable close to the sand, and the richest azure farther out. The afternoon sun made dancing diamonds across the whole sea. It was so beautiful. Cliffs line the beaches, and huge, soft rock formations make little coves along the coast, where people can enjoy the wildly soft, white sand sheltered from the wind. We parked on a cliffside at Clifton, and walked down to the sand. We set up camp, but realized we weren’t as sheltered as we had hoped. Every five minutes or so, warm winds would blow sand pellets at us. But it was worth it to be in the warm sun. I even went for a swim in the 12 degree water (55) (The Atlantic is clear, clean, calm and frigid. The Indian is cloudy, shark-infested, with big swells, and beautifully warm). I lost my breath from the cold, but stayed in long enough for a nice little swim. Chris and I walked along the beaches north for a bit, then went back up to the road to walk to Camps Bay, the next beach. It reminded me a bit of Sydney, with chi-chi cafes along the ocean-front street, and beautiful people basking in the sun under mountains rising out of the clear sea. But the mountains here are a big more majestic, though the cliffs themselves are less dramatic. We split a perfect pizza, with pancetta, avocado, and peppadew (semi-hot, semi-sweet little peppers that are so nice…), and headed back to the flat. I took a huge shower, and decided to go see Avatar 3D at the local movie theater solo while Chris watched Chelsea win the football game. He dropped me off, but it was sold out, and so was every single other movie. Luckily, the security guard I asked for directions to the theater mentioned that there was another theater, which, I correctly suspected, was an arthouse theater. So I bought a ticket for $3 for “An Education,” and a popcorn for $1.50. I was the only person under 60 in the theater, which, I guess, made sense for a Saturday night in hip Cape Town. As well, every single person in my row informed me that I was late as I excused myself past them. Every one! Funny, no? I was like, “Sorry…sorry…ok…I know…” I’m going to bed early to be at the meeting place at 7am. I am going on a highly recommended wine tasting tour on bikes tomorrow (21km!) in Stellenbosch, and I want to feel fit and rearing to go!

From Rio to Cape Town

Up bright and early, we had pressed sandwiches, coffee and caju juice, plus a lovely photo session. As we packed, Alessandro and I realized that, upon paying the bill, we would be left with only R$20 with which to get back to Rio. We had pre-paid our boat ride, but were unsure of how much the various busses we needed to get back would cost. Since there are no ATMs on Islha Grande, we hoped to find one in the town on the other side. Otherwise, we thought we might scrape it together after all! Or else be stuck in a random, dusty town on the outskirts of the city. We walked down to the dock, and waited until our boat’s name was called. We were brought to the schooners, which were all tied to each other side by side, and the dockhand pointed in to the 5^th or 6^th boat. We climbed—I with my big old pack on—over the decks and sides of 5 boats until we reached our green and white one. The ride felt significantly slower than when we had been on the catamaran, but we got there none the less.

We docked in the small town, and walked to find the bus stop. We passed a really nice looking acai place, whose product I longed for greatly (even after our big breakfast!). But our financial situation precluded the purchasing of the finer things, like plastic cups of sweet berries and ice mixed with granola. We asked a gentleman in a sandwich shop (which was playing the catchiest Brazilian pop music on full blast), and he told us that not only were we a block away from the bus stop, there was an ATM at the gas station! This seems to be a rarity in Brazil. ATMs are pretty much only in banks, and occasionally at a designated kiosk. None of this ATM-in-the-convenience-store stuff. It’s like the Louis CK sketch where he reminisces about “the old days,” when running out of cash meant just not being able to buy anything else (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UN0MpBQG3-E thanks, A!). We headed to this random ATM, and found a long line, plus a plaque on the wall that commemorated the presence of this, the first ATM in town. The mayor’s and town council members’ names were all inscribed with the date and a statement of town pride. It was a pretty remarkable thing to see! They finally felt they were on the map, it seemed. And, miraculously, my card worked. This had been an ongoing problem of mine in Brazil. Only special ATMs liked my card and would give me money from it. So we took out money and walked back to the bus stop (but not before getting that delicious acai I wanted!).

The first bus ride was just lovely. The day felt cooler, the windows were all down, the sun looked bright against the green hills and blue sea, and we were the only passengers on the bus. It dropped us off in a dusty town. I believe the word “hell” entered our discussion of it. It wasn’t that bad, really, just not a lot of energy. All of the buildings and businesses were old and fairly run-down, though there were a lot of people walking and standing about. We went to a covered area behind the bus depot, where we sat in the back row of a grid of plastic chairs which were sat, by row, on a first come basis. Everyone in front of us sat still and silent, as the faint sound of Latin pop music floated in from the attached restaurant. It felt very cinematic. In just the right amount of time for a situation to become awkward in a movie, the kombi into the city arrived. Alessandro saved a seat next to him in the close quarters as I loaded my mega-pack into the back. The ride was incredibly surreal. 97.5FM was playing, the “soft listening” station in Rio. “It Must Have Been Love,” “Ebony and Ivory,” “Three Little Birds,” and “Halo” played, as we drove past the small towns, industrial buildings, and fields of semi-permanent housing surrounding Rio (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZtiJN6yiik). When we got close to the city, it was neat to see artwork on the highway pillars by the legendary Rio artist, Profeta Gentileza, whose motto, “Gentileza Gera Gentileza” (Kindness Begets Kindness), became something like a motto for people in the city (http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_JRHeC17m3j0/SsgxJmybWGI/AAAAAAAAAEo/uwxE-2bG_ug/s320/Profeta+Gentileza.jpg).

We arrived a subway ride away from downtown Rio, where I wanted to go to look for a DVD (and to hopefully catch that elusive Bonde!), despite the 40 degree heat (over 100) and my mega-pack. The DVD quest was a bust, and, natch, the line for the Bonde was super long, so Alessandro took me to an amazingly opulent 19^th century chocolate and coffee house before heading home. Man, did we look like bums in there! All sweaty with a huge backpack and t-shirts on… But the coffee was lovely. We got back to Alessandro’s neighborhood, and briefly headed over to Morrinho, as we had heard there were “lots of gringos” there. We chatted with a tour of elderly people from Denver, who would have barely make it down the dirt paths through the little buildings were it not for the help offered by the kids. It was nice to see it in daylight, though the football game had started so no one was really around.

We decided that a night out in Rio was in order, so Alessandro called a friend and we decided to meet in Lapa—the hip, bustling, young area—for drinks and maybe some dancing. I put on the black dress I mistakenly wore to the Lavagem festa in Salvador, and out we went to meet up with Simon and his friend Michael. Simon is a grad student at Berkeley, and Michael is a 20 year old from Hawaii who was studying abroad in Rio. It was interesting to see Michael’s perspective on things. He was eager to learn more about other cultures, to meet “locals” and attempt to witness/understand poverty. And to party, of course. We started with beer at a restaurant, then headed out to the rapidly filling streets for the good stuff. Drinking on the streets is legal in Brazil, and seems to be encouraged, judging by the numerous alcohol vendors that were out and about. Brightly lit carts bearing very visible permits were selling rather large, rather strong caipirinhas for R$5. We set ourselves up, and walked around outside the small bars, each playing a distinct type of music. The party, though, seemed to be on the street. The patrons and music overflowed from each bar, making a mess of people and sounds on the sidewalks. One didn’t even need to go inside to dance and feel very social. The four of us talked and people watched between a baile funky bar and a hip-hop/pop music bar, before heading to another area of Lapa to do the same thing outside a samba bar. The people dancing there were so good, I barely attempted to dance. Before we knew it, it was 3:30am, so we jumped on a bus and headed back to the neighborhood.

The next day was slightly rough given the previous evening’s cachaca intake. We had a big breakfast with three different juices, yogurt and granola, and the most glorious latke on the planet. The mission for the day was to go to the local airport and buy me a plane ticket from Rio to Sao Paolo so I could make my flight to Johannesburg on Tuesday. The internet wouldn’t let me buy it, so I had to, for the first time ever, buy a plane ticket at an airport. Seems weird, no? That we don’t buy plane tickets at the place we redeem them? We bussed it to Santos Dumont and got it. Then we walked past the huge, concrete, trapezoidal modern art museum, where we visited the gift shop, as well as another artsy store nearby. A walk along the waterfront promenade brought us to a bike trail, which led to the beach that the people in Alessandro’s neighborhood go to. It is along the bay, so though it’s not as “pristine” as, say, Ipanema, it had a very comfortable family vibe that was lacking at the flashier beaches.

The clouds and gusty winds started to roll in, so we went back to the apartment. That night, we got geared up in our rain clothes so we could witness the rehearsal of the samba schools. Every year for Carnaval, the various neighborhoods around Rio spend exorbitant amounts of time, money, and effort to coordinate their samba parade. Each one involves thousands of people dancing in unison in coordinated outfits to a song written just for this day. There are huge floats, bands of musicians, plus women in tiny, shimmering outfits and high heels leading each group of people in the dancing. The neighborhoods compete for the top prize, and have fan followings just like sports teams. When they march, one must purchase tickets to see the event, which occurs in the Sambadrome. But before Carnaval, the schools must hold a rehearsal, and these are free to the public. On this Sunday, three schools were rehearsing, including the much-beloved Mangueira. We missed the first, but arrived just in time to pack in with thousands of people in the rain to witness Mangueira’s crazy party. They played last year’s song on continual repeat as the people jumped and danced and sang below. The fans around us were going crazy, dancing and singing just as vehemently as those in the procession(though with a bit less talent!). Vendors in the stands were making bank, selling beer, soda, candy, pork rinds, and popcorn (which goes stale pretty quickly on a rainy night.). We stayed for most of the next school—Unidos da Tijuca—which was significantly smaller, but left to beat the rush to the busses.

My last day in Brazil. I spent the morning writing postcards (they’re coming!), after my favorite Brazilian breakfast treat: pao de queijo. Crusty gooey cheese bread. Mmm! We went to the post office, and I spent a small fortune on stamps. After popping into a few shops, Alessandro and I were off to the Jardim Botanico for some strolling through the gardens. We visited the sensorial garden, the succulents, the orchids, the carnivorous plants, and the rose gardens. I got crazy about smelling every orchid in the greenhouse! They are mostly all bred with specific smells, which I find so interesting. It looked like rain just as the gardens were closing, so we walked to the bus to go downtown. We were going to ride that Bonde once and for all! Fourth time’s a charm? We had a lovely coffee and cake break, and finally made it onto the empty Bonde. Rain was leaking in through the roof, but it was charming and thrilling none the less. We got out on the main street in Santa Theresa, the neighborhood that borders Alessandro’s neighborhood on the back side. We rushed into an eclectic looking seafood place to escape the chilly rain. There was interesting art on all of the dark-wood walls, and a table right by the window was open, waiting for us. I had a delicious “ginger batida,” which was simply ginger flavoring in a shot of cachaca. And we had fish mocqueca for dinner, which was pretty good. It was also nice to hear the jazz/samba quartet the restaurant had hired for the evening. Clarinet, upright bass, and two guitars. Plus the rain. Quite lovely! Afterwards, we walked a block to the small old cinema, and got there just in time for the 21:20 showing of “New York, I Love You.” We gave it a mixed review, though it certainly was entertaining, and funny to watch lots of footage of NYC, where we both lived, while in Rio. We met some of Alessandro’s friends on the walk home, and I began to gather my things to pack the next morning.

I woke up early, and packed my things without much stress (there really isn’t much to pack!). I said goodbye to my home-for-ten-days, and we walked down the long hill until we got a cab. A quick lunch in the airport, a big thank you and good bye to Alessandro, and I was waiting for the plane to Sao Paolo. I was bummed to be leaving Brazil, to be sure. I had had a really magical time there. But I was also excited to see South Africa, to meet Leslie’s friends and wander around Cape Town for a few days…

The flight from Sao Paolo to Johannesburg was one of the hairiest I’ve been on in a long time. We left in the dark in a rain storm. There was turbulence on the entire ascent, and it didn’t let up the whole flight. I kid you not: in the first 15 minutes of this 9 hour flight, I watched and listened as the wing of the plane was struck by lightning. Just like that! It lit up blue and sounded like the tearing crack of a whip. Great, I thought. Nine hours across the Atlantic Ocean in a storm with a bum wing. And I’m supposed to sleep?

I hardly got any rest at all, and arrived in Joburg grateful for my life, but exhausted. As well, I still had the feeling that I was in a foreign speaking place, and was avoiding talking to people. When I finally did ask a woman where the water fountain was, she looked at me crooked and said, “wah-da what? What do you want?” I said, “water fountain, like a drinking fountain…” She said, “I can’t understand. A water something?” I gave up and had to ask three other people before someone told me there were none (probably just to shut me up!). On the plane, I sat next to a college freshman who was going to study in Cape Town. He had never been on a plane before, so I told him (and myself) not to be scared, that all would go smoothly. I slept like a rock for that 2 hours, and arrived in Cape Town. I grabbed my bag, and walked out to the greeting area. As I dreamily reflected upon how I had never been picked up at an airport by someone I didn’t know, I heard my name being called. It was Chris, Leslie’s friend whom she had met on her summer trip to SA last year. He had generously offered to put me up during my stay, and to pick me up from the airport. We headed out to his car (of course, I went to get in the driver’s seat. They drive on the right side of the car here…), and he took me past the townships near the airport (townships refer to the underdeveloped urban living areas where black people were forced to live under Apartheid, and where many still do), and straight into the beautifully manicured Waterfront shopping district. It is a bright, shiny, affluent collection of upscale mall stores, quaint shops, and nice restaurants. I was mildly shocked by the pristine look of the Burberry store, the boutique style African art shops, and the roped walkways after being in Brazil. We ate at an outdoor sushi restaurant and enjoyed some lovely mojitos. It was then I realized how inexpensive South Africa is. For a sashimi tuna and arugula salad, plus two mojitos at this white tablecloth restaurant, I paid the equivalent of $19. I can’t think of anywhere in the States where this would be possible.

Chris and I went back to his apartment to meet his roommates. The apartment is really, really nice, 9^th floor, all clean and white with an open layout, and a balcony with the most unbelievable view of Table Mountain possible (Cape Town is surrounded by big, beautiful mountain chains, the most striking of which is Table Mountain, which is flat on top and offers magnificent views of the whole city and its surroundings). His roommates, Ryan and Jason, are very funny, and very accommodating. They made chicken for dinner, and we had a chill night in, drinking beers and getting to know one another. As well, they taught me a great deal about South African history and politics. At one point, we were talking about various countries’ policies towards indigenous people. I said, aiming to impress them, that aboriginal people in Australia weren’t granted the right to vote until 1964. Wasn’t that amazing, how recently they had been enfranchised? They were quiet for a moment, and soberly informed me that people of color didn’t get the right to vote until 1994 in South Africa, when they held their first democratic election and elected Nelson Mandela president. Somehow, this staggering fact escaped me. Sixteen years ago, Apartheid ended, and people no longer had to carry cards with their race on them in order to travel to different parts of the city, for fear of being detained indefinitely by the police. Chris and Ryan vaguely remember the transition, and have interesting feelings about it, considering that their parents were born during and raised in Apartheid, and, because of how they were educated, kind of miss it. Now, of course, in schools they teach that Apartheid was a very bad thing, that all people deserve the same rights. Which, of course, Chris and Ryan believe. But it is hard for people here to separate the current situation from the historical situations that led to them. Still, segregation exists, if for no other reason than that people believe “blacks live in townships, coloreds live in the Flats, and whites live in the suburbs. We really don’t have much reason to go to any other place than where we are.” Integration, it seems, is hard, especially when the government is trying to make non-racially based laws while at the same time giving added opportunities to people who have never had the right to attend university, apply for certain jobs, indeed, live in and move through different parts of the city. And changing people’s minds about the only reality they have ever known can be a hard thing to do, even when the rest of the world sees the situation as so cut and dry: racial segregation is not a good thing. This is not a universally held sentiment here in South Africa. Sixteen years is just not that long.

The next day, I asked Chris to drive me into the downtown area so I could visit the District Six Museum, which Alessandro had recommended I check out. Chris dropped me off nearby, on a busy street with a bookshop, inexpensive clothing shops, and DE Jones style crap stores (lots of cheaply made, mostly useless junk in bins and on shelves, which I love to explore) but I couldn’t find the address that had been indicated on the website. I went into the police station and asked, and a young man said he would walk me there. Patrick was very chatty, and made me play a guessing game as to where he was from, what languages he spoke, and what he was doing in Cape Town. I failed the game (DRC; French, English, and a little Portuguese; studying investment and computers), and he failed to bring me to the right place! He brought me to the actual District Six nearby. I finally called him out on his lack of knowledge about the museum’s whereabouts, so he walked me back and made sure I found it alright. Once inside, I was amazed. The museum was an old building, just one room with a wrap-around balcony as a second floor. The walls were covered with an eclectic mixture of text, maps, photographs, drawings. From the floor in the center of the room up to the ceiling was a large colored cloth, as well as a structure made of old street name signs. On the floor was an enormous map of District Six. The museum was wonderful to explore, and everything the curators included revealed more and more about the history of this place. District Six was a part of Cape Town centrally located near the busy docks. A wide mixture of people settled there, and a vibrant community developed. In the 20^th century, whites began moving into the prime real estate surrounding District Six, and by the 1960s, with Apartheid in full swing, the people who were living happy (though lower-income) lives there were evicted, and the mildly rundown buildings in which they lived were razed to make way for new homes and businesses for whites only. The people were dispersed to different parts of Cape Town based on their race (black; colored; Asiatic; white), and the most culturally rich place in CT was destroyed. A campaign began, however, to urge businesses not to build in District Six because of the atrocity committed. Apart from a whites-only university and a few houses, nothing was developed there, and much of the land is grassy lots with not development. In the early 90s, as Apartheid ended, organizations began campaigning for the repatriation of District Six to its former residents. The residents won, and were granted either ownership of the land there or monetary compensation, though little has been done to initiate building there. In the mean time, the museum serves as a community center for these former residents. The tapestry that hangs there is actually over 1km long, and bears memories of people who once lived there, embroidered onto the cloth by women in a local prison. The map on the floor has handwritten names at many of the addresses in District Six,a way for people to feel they are reclaiming their former homes and remember who their neighbors were, what it was like to move through the streets there. The pictures of the interiors of homes was amazing to see: they were well appointed, small but tidy, nice spaces. Not the “slum” the government portrayed it as. But even if it were a slum, it was a place where people lived important lives... (http://www.districtsix.co.za/frames.htm) I spent a long time at the museum, and jumped onto a few tours being led by former District Six residents who became museum educators. After leaving, I went back to District Six itself, where Patrick had taken me, and marveled at the empty fields in the heart of downtown (this downtown, though, was really small, with few shops, no tall buildings, a good amount of people though… the “city” part of Cape Town is just not that big, despite the sprawling surroundings.).

Walking back toward the main street, I saw a brightly colored building, with “Charly’s Bakery” painted on the side. I went in, and found a wonderland of neon cookies, rainbow painted cupcakes, and gold, pink, blue, and green cakes in all crazy shapes and textures. There were 5 women behind the counters, mixing and molding batters and doughs, talking on phones taking and placing orders. There was a mural on the wall telling the story. A young boy was hired to sweep the floors of a German baker’s business. He gradually passed on his knowledge, and Charly and his wife opened their unusual bakery, which instantly gained fame for the caliber of their product. It was very neat. (http://www.charlysbakery.co.za/photo-gallery/) After a heart-shaped cookie with neon green, blue, and pink stripes, I went into one of the crap stores, and decided on some bronze nail polish ($.80). Then, into a cheap clothing store to purchase an adorable flowered dress ($7. Crazy.). And into the bookstore for postcards. Chris picked me up, and we went for a drive through amazing mountain passes that recalled the desert vegetation of Arizona and the water-side cliffs of southern California. They winded through towns and around cliff faces, with the late-day light making the peaks and valleys and the plants they held glow orange. We made it down into the seaside town of Fish Hoek, on the Indian ocean, where a surfers had been eaten by a Great White a few days prior. The waves were blown out, but the light blue, 20 degree (68) ocean felt amazing on my feet. The Indian ocean! I’ve been there! It is so neat to think that I’ve been in three oceans. We walked along the beach, admiring the massive strands of kelp, the univalves crawling around in the sand, and the poisonous, vibrant Blue Bottles blobbing it up. The sun set behind the surrounding mountains, and we headed into town, to a, as Chris described it, “dodgy looking place” for some of the best fish and chips I’ve ever had! Surely the hake was caught that day. We drove back to the apartment through some lavish hillside neighborhoods, reminiscent of Beverly Hills. The views from the mountain roads, though, are just amazing. Higher and higher we climbed, and more stunning did the vistas become. We could see three mountain chains, two oceans, countless towns, farms, businesses…even a nuclear cooling station.

We got back to the flat and began to get ready for a big night out in Cape Town. Tiger Tiger, the boys’ favorite night club, was having a “Malibu” themed night. I asked what that meant, and they just said beachy. So I wore a typical Nicole beach outfit—skirts and tank with bikini underneath—and the pair of heels I thought would be necessary on my trip around the world. We arrived, but the line was at least an hour long. On it were a hundred people wearing either board shorts and dirty tank tops or mini denim skirts with flowered tops and flowers in hair. Some girls were wearing leis, which I couldn’t help but think seemed very un-Malibu. Regardless, Chris said I looked fine to go into the more “posh” club upstairs, called 91. Many of the clubs and restaurants here, it seems, can be found in malls or mall-type settings. Interesting… Like the line for Tiger was in a white tiled area at the top of an escalator outside closed shops. Chris took me on a dodgy route through some parking garages before we went through an unmarked green door and arrived at 91. It was very modern, black with mirrors and chandeliers. A DJ was spinning housey pop, and since everything—including drinks—is so inexpensive here, we wasted no time in ordering a round. After a few minutes, Jason and his friend Jason arrived, and the Café Patron began flowing! I danced with the 19-22 year old set non-stop, until after 2am, when the next DJ was coming on. They allow smoking in the club, which was rather shocking, but it was well-ventilated, so it wasn’t too obnoxious. The music got a bit repetitive as the DJ seemed to run out of tricks, but everyone was so happy to be dancing, they didn’t appear to mind. I was wishing for some hip-hop in there, but apparently it doesn’t go over well in clubs here. At 2:30, the old lady (me) made the call to call it a night. Requisite burgers were acquired at the light-night food place, which was a mob scene. We barely got our order what with the pushing and fighting at the counter! The whole crowd was, as Ryan would say, “derelicte.”

The next morning was not an easy one, despite the fact that I have taken to heart the advice to drink a glass of water after each gin and tonic. Not my head, so much, but my stomach. Not happy. Chris had a doctor’s appointment, which gave me time to recover. By 1pm, I was feeling fine. We decided that the nice day called for a nice outdoor activity, so we drove over to Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. They are a huge tract of land at the foot of Table Mountain, with giant gardens of different kinds. The Braille Trail was lovely, with a rope all along the path and informative signs in English and Braille. We decided to keep heading higher in elevation in order to obtain the best possible views. Up through the Protea Garden we went (national flower….they even wear it on sports teams’ uniforms!), until we discovered a little set of stone stairs. We climbed them, and they soon turned into a dirt trail with wooden slats for stair-like traction. Up and up they went, until it was clear that we weren’t in the Gardens anymore. The vegetation looked indigenous, dryer and more appropriate to a desert climate. Chris warned me of the very dangerous snakes along the way. We turned around after many minutes of climbing, and realized that we were on a serious hike up the mountain! The terrain was changing, getting more rocky as we increased our elevation. Soon we were walking along a ridge along the mountain, which eventually took us around to the other side, where we could see the vineyards and small towns to the south. It was so beautiful! We walked almost to the top of the stairs, and were inspired to have a rather heady conversation about the origins of the universe. It was definitely an unexpected turn considering our sorry states a few hours before!

We took a short cut back to Kirstenbosch, then back to the flat. Ryan, his lovely girlfriend Stasha, Chris and I decided on burgers for dinner. We went to their favorite place, which had an amazing selection of very gourmet burgers and Lindt chocolate milkshakes. And so inexpensive! Getting here might cost a bit, but once here, the cost of living is significantly cheaper than the US, cheaper than Brazil. They were laughing, making fun of each other, having fun… On the radio came “Love Generation” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0NSeysrDYw). At first I started singing along in my head. And then I remembered the last time I heard that song. I was in Leslie’s car, driving back from NYC having just retrieved my Brazilian visa and changed my plane ticket from Calcutta to Cape Town. The air was warm, the sun was setting over the city and NJ, and there was a streak of rainbow in the clouds above the industrial buildings along the Turnpike. I rolled down the window and felt so free! Excited to be finally going, and doing this thing that I had wanted to do for so long… and here I was, in Cape Town, part of the way along, having an amazing time, hearing that same song ,with friends, laughing, moving through places and receiving so much love and kindness and generosity. I feel so humbled by the universe to be given this opportunity.

I went home after that and worked like mad on this blog posting. I needed to catch up, so it wouldn’t weigh on me anymore, so I could let go of thoughts I was holding in order to be able to write them down. It feels really good.

Tomorrow we are going to the Salt River Market, and then hopefully the beach! I need to get my tan on a bit more…

more of rio...

Phew! It’s been a while, but I’m back on the plane, this time from Rio de Janeiro to Sao Paolo, where I will catch the red-eye to Johannesburg. South Africa bound!

On Wednesday, Alessandro and I did catch the ferry to Niteroi, the town across the bay from Rio. There were many tankers in the water, attesting to the magnitude of global shipping. I was brought back to living in Staten Island, where seeing ships with 5000 containers on the top was an everyday occurrence. And here those same ships were, thousands of miles away, coming and going with different goods, but contributing to the same system of global capital, cultural, and material exchange, nonetheless. Niteroi was a testament to this world of commerce, with a hundred little stalls selling very cheap clothes, dried meats, shoes, house goods, toys, groceries, chatchkies, coconuts, fruit, and snacks. We even discovered a place called “Texas House,” which specialized in dried and frozen meats (you could smell it from a block away! I asked Alessandro—who was born and raised in Houston—if it reminded him of home, and he said not at all!). The consumer in me was tempted by some very cheap and semi-cute dresses, but I resisted when I pictured myself walking on the beach in Belmar or down 6^th Ave. and the swirling-colors-in-polyester look not quite translating.

Much of the city of Niteroi was designed by Alfred Neidermeyer, a famous architect who constructed many significant buildings and spaces around Rio (and elsewhere). The most famous is the art museum in Niteroi, which the locals refer to as “the Space Ship.” It is round, positioned on top of a podium, and its black window-lined exterior walls slope up and outwards, at once looking pretentious and welcoming, as much as a concrete structure from the 1970s can. It is perched on top of a hill, so Alessandro and I caught the bus up. We walked up a red carpeted spiral walkway, into the cool air-conditioned respite the Star Trek building offered. Inside, we learned that Neidermeyer claimed to be frequently inspired by female forms. We passed on the views from the window, and headed back into the 40 degree heat (about 100 degrees Farenheit). We noticed that a lot of people seemed to be sensually inspired by the architecture: couples making out, girls posing unnecessarily provocatively for photos, etc. Oh, Neidermeyer! We began to walk back down the hill to Niteroi proper. As we walked, we passed a beautiful private island, connected to the mainland by a lovely concrete bridge. There were old fishing houses speckling the sides of the island, and a weathered villa on top, with perfect views of Niteroi, the museum, Cristo Redentor (the enourmous statue of Jesus that can be seen from almost everywhere in Rio), and even, I think, Sugar Loaf, the amazing mountain that Alessandro has in the postcard view from him window. We also saw a number of charmingly dilapidated fishing boats, the kind which seem to pervade none-too-self-conscious photo sections of various anthropological texts. We decided that we might collaborate on a book, with the requisite gerund in the title: “Casting Seines: Power and Displacement in a Brazilian Fishing Community,” or perhaps “Reeling Our Lines: The Meaning of History in a Local Brazilian Economy.”He said I could have first billing, but his name comes first alphabetically, so…

The sun was setting, so we decided to jump back on the ferry to catch the colors on the water. Alessandro asked a family the best way to get into town, and they kindly offered us a ride. In the course of conversation, we learned that the family was planning a trip to Disney World, which had been their dream for years. Alessandro then cleverly pointed out that it was Disney that brought me to Brazil: the Three Caballeros’ captivation of my imagination had long ago inspired my trip to Brazil, to experience the people, music, dancing, colors, clothes… That image had subsequently changed, but it certainly was true that a Disney product had first planted my idea of a Magical Brazil! And now this family was living their dream to travel to the US, to visit the version of that place that Disney has produced. We were crossing paths in a Disney-created (at least partially) world of travel. Lovely connections exist everywhere if you look for them.

The sunset was, of course, lovely. We headed back to the Bonde (BON-gee) trolley car to hopefully take it back to the apartment, but it was closed because of St Sebastian day. Natch. Instead we walked to Alessandro’s old neighborhood—Lapa—to grab some dinner. Lapa is the Bohemian part of town, and also the center of the weekend partied. It was fairly quiet for a rainy Wednesday night, but some good beer, cod balls (a local favorite, they are lovely herbed codfish croquettes with an unfortunate name), pork, rice, beans, and escarole helped us outlast the rain and head home early to prep for our big day Thursday: a three day trip to Islha Grande (IL-ya GRAN-gee). A small, verdant island a few hours south of Rio, Islha Grande is a favorite tourist destination just outside the city. It is known for its wildlife in the sea and on land, for its tourist bars, restaurants, hotels, and hostels, and for a prison that was imploded in 1994, but that once was the home to political prisons from the 1930s onward. Alessandro was very interested in visiting the prison for his project: the government believed that by mixing political prisoners with common prisoners, the politicos would be subdued and have their ideals taken from them. But, as you can imagine, quite the opposite happened. The political prisoners taught the criminals their tricks of unification and ideals, and from this was born the drug trafficking groups that took over the favelas in the 1980s and 1990s. They still exist today, as counter-law enforcement groups to the several different kinds of police that monitor these lower income neighborhoods. Seeing the ruins of the prison was a top priority for Alessandro, though swimming in clear blue water was pretty high on my list.

I woke up in a piss-poor mood on Thursday, for some reason. We didn’t make coffee, though Alessandro did wake up early to go to the local bakery to get bread for breakfast. I packed up my trusty backpack with our stuff, and we made the 20 minute journey through the paths of the morro, and down the long hill to the main road. It was already 35 degrees at 10am. Another scorcher! This did not improve my mood. Though a coffee, fresh pineapple juice, and ham and cheese pastry did the trick. With all of the walking Alessandro and I had been doing, it felt like we would work out for several hours, stop to refuel, and then do it all over again. A city bus to the central bus terminal, and we were on the Costa Verde bus to Angra Dois Reis. The bus was like a Greyhound, and though it was full, we got seats together. A battle of War with my trusty playing cards from the Allenwood General Store (he was king), and a very scenic drive through the dusty outlying towns on the periphery of Rio, then through winding mountain passes along the sea, and finally, two hours later, into the port town of Angra. A tragedy had occurred there on New Year’s Eve: heavy rainfalls caused several landslides on the hills surrounding the towns. At least one favela was affected, as well as a hotel, where 18 teenagers were killed. The scarred landscape was very visible, with huge dirt tracts slicing through the dense, brightly colored housing on either side.

The boat that we took across the bay to Islha Grande was a catamaran, which, though less alluring than the old, brightly painted schooners that surrounded it, got us across the water in about half the time (and for the same price). We sat on the top deck, enjoying the refreshing breeze and admiring the rich foliage on the islands we passed. Various “salespeople” were on the boat in attempts to capitalize on the undivided attention of the tourists who rode it. We received a business card from a man who told us that the hotel he worked for was a 4 minute walk from the beach, and had rooms for R$100 (about US$60), though we thought we wanted something on or closer to the water. When we arrived at the island, we were greeted by a cruise ship kind of town. A few small streets, lined with tour companies, restaurants, and bathing suit/gift shops. We saw that there were a number of hotels along the beach, so, with my 15 pound pack on my back, we set off in the sand to find out where we could get a good deal. The humidity had increased, and I could feel the sweat accumulating through my dress and onto the waist band and shoulder straps of the pack. Every place, we realized, was the same: $R230 per night. This seemed exorbitant considering the deal we had been offered on the boat. We walked the entire length of the beach, and at several points I almost threw myself—pack and all—into the ocean.

Finally, after climbing dozens of sets of stairs, we located the hotel our gentleman on the boat had promoted. And it was beautiful! Perhaps he mentioned it to Alessandro in Portuguese, but I was unaware that it was an artist’s hotel, with unusual colors, artifacts, furniture, hand-hewn stairs and balustrades, plants, fishponds, and artwork throughout (pics describe it better, please check the Picasa album!). And our two-bed, air-conditioned room was, indeed, only R$100 a night! It felt like a miracle after all of the walking we did. About ten minutes after we were given our key, we began to unpack and turned on the AC. And then….thunk. The power went out. We stepped outside to look, and saw that not only had the hotel lost power, it seemed the entire street had. A drop in pressure signaled a pending thunderstorm, but it had yet to arrive. We were left with little else to do but take a nap, and wake up in the dark, hungry and ready for dinner (the headlamp was super useful! I was so glad I brought it…).

The island is known for fresh seafood, and Brazil is known for a wonderful stew-like dish called mocqueca. It is fresh tomatoes, onions, and herbs, with either fish or shrimp in a coconut broth, served with rice, beans, and a special rich fish sauce. The power in the whole town was still out, and the rain and lightning had begun. We put on our rain gear and sloshed through the sand and mud streets to a restaurant on the beach. Each table was lit with several candles, and since the gas kitchen doesn’t require electricity, we knew we were in luck (plus the bartender looked competent! I was ready for my caipirinha after all of the journeying we had done…). We sat, ordered caipirinhas with marajuca (passion fruit), and waited eagerly for out shrimp mocqueca. The lightning on the beach created an incredibly beautiful show, illuminating the trees, boats, mountains, and water with bursts of blue that we never could have seen had there been electricity and no storm. We practically inhaled it, and took turns holding up the candle so the other one could go back for seconds, for thirds… Just as we finished, the lights in the restaurant came back on, and we headed out on a search for dessert. We found a sweet little place, full of local kids hanging out, where you serve your own ice cream. What a great idea! We mixes and matched, and they weighed it at the counter. It was a very cool system. After the sweets, we headed back to rest up for a busy day of remote prisons and beaches.

The Hotel Bromelias, like most hotels and hostels in Brazil, includes breakfast. My hostel in Salvador did, and it consisted of rolls, 2 pieces of cheese, a slice of watermelon, coffee and juice, which was simple and sufficient. Hotel Bromelias, however, made that breakfast look like food they would have served at the penal colony! Four different kinds of breads and rolls; still hot, fresh baked cake; papaya, watermelon, and honeydew; ham and cheese; warm paninis; two changing kinds of fresh squeezed juices; coffee… And in the most beautiful setting! The rising sun shining onto the covered patio, overlooking plants, the koi pond, interesting art. We were quite full, and ready to find our tour boat. One near the beach offered three stops: snorkeling off a nearby island, the prison, and another popular beach on Islha Grande. We rented snorkeling gear and jumped onto the catamaran, which, once again, I was glad to be taking. After about 30 minutes on the cat, I started to feel a little woosy. But then, just as I began to indulge my sea sickness and feel bad for myself, a woman screamed. Everyone jumped up and looked, and she was pointing over the side of the boat: “Dolfin! Dolfin!” and sure enough, right off the side of the boat, were maybe 6 dolphins, jumping through the wake of the cat, smiling and loving the attention from the boatful of happy people. They stuck with us for a good 5 minutes until our steady clip outran theirs. It was really beautiful! And unexpected.

We arrived at the rocky cove where we were to snorkel. Everyone jumped off the boat, and Alessandro and I began to explore the different rocky regions below. We were immediately over a large school of shimmering blue-green fish, swimming together like a ribbon of metal around the algae-covered rocks. Soon we noticed urchins spotting the rocks, and little yellow and black fish swimming around them. Then bigger, less bright fish became apparent a bit deeper. I began to dive down to get a better look at them, though I think one dive was deeper than I thought, and I didn’t equalize the pressure in the my ears. This, I think, gave me a low-level headache the whole next day or two. But swimming with the creatures was wonderful.

Then we were onto the prison. The boat dropped anchor about 100 meters away from a long, white sand beach. The deckhand then told us that we could either pay R$5 to have a boat bring us to shore, or we could swim in for free. I put Alessandro’s camera in the waterproof case Lel’s gave, plus a few bucks for lunch. On went our snorkeling fins, and in we swam! There was a lot of mucky seaweed, but it didn’t bother me too much. We walked barefoot and in bathing suits up the dusty path to the ruins of the prison. Though the prison itself had been imploded in 1994, the guards’ tower, mess hall, and some other buildings still stood, in addition to the small community of houses that served as accommodations for officers and workers (we guessed). As we walked past the lightless, concrete structures, scorching in the 40 degree heat, we wondered what kinds of practices distinguished the prisoners’ lives from the guards’ lives. Both were stranded—isolated—on this remote island, with nowhere to go, no one to see, imprisoned by the brush, the mountains, the water, the heat, the concrete, the guns. It would be an interesting studying to find the ways that these kinds of penal colonies attempt to maintain normalcy in these extraordinary circumstances for guards, as they simultaneously keep prisoners in exceptional states of underprivilege. I’m hoping to avoid Agamben here. But I think I’m failing.

Regardless of which theorists I was subconsciously referecing, it was an unusual experience to walk around a museum in only a bathing suit and a trucker’s hat, carrying nothing but neon pink diving fins. After checking out the photos, ovens, dough mixers, and colonial-style desks in the old mess hall, we wandered around the rows of houses nearby to find one of the two restaurants in the compound for lunch. We found it, and it was a house, with a woman in the kitchen cooking your choice of one of three meal choices. I bussed a table, as Alessandro ordered and brought out the food. We each had frango (chicken) with rice and beans, as ordering beef would have required Alessandro to jump behind the line and help the woman cook portions of the meal, as the patron before him had been forced to do. We enjoyed the chicken in the shade with ice cold guaranas (a very popular energy/soft drink in Brazil), and then laid on the white sand until it was time to swim back to the boat.

As we waited for the rest of our boatload to return, it started to drizzle, then to rain. I wasn’t feeling great, and the chill in the precipitation didn’t help. The last spot was a combo, with the option to swim to a white sand beach or chill near the rocks where we anchored to snorkel. Alessandro convinced me to don my mask and fins one last time, though the water was murkier, and felt more chilly than refreshing in the rain. The group, it seemed, agreed, and we only stayed about a half hour before heading back to the main town. The rain stopped long enough for us to share ten minutes on the painfully slow connection they had at the internet café, figure out our boat home the next day, and to walk home. Alessandro worked on his proposal, and I read about Johnny Appleseed as Dionysus, the current theory being purported in the Michael Pollen book I’ve been lazily paging through.

It seemed as though only two choices of restaurant were available in the town: nice, expensive seafood restaurant, or mid-priced pizza/crepe place. Weird, no? Considering that pizza is not wildly common in Brazil? We thought so. When in Rome… So we asked our hotel guy which was the best pizza place, and (we thought) he recommended this pizza crepe place. When we showed up, we were surprised to find a DVD of a Madonna concert playing loudly in the background. We were amused all meal by her antics. Though they were out of pizza crepes (?). So we had regular cheese, ham, and veggie ones, which were great, and a banana honey one for dessert. Back to Bromelias we headed to fall asleep to the rain, and wake up for another lovely breakfast in the morning sunshine.

Rio, so far

The last few days have been unbelievable! I somehow got lucky enough to have the ultimate tourguide in a city with so many unusual, interesting, and beautiful things to see.

My last few hours in Salvador were spent wandering around a bit. I made a point to visit O Cravinho, a small shop in which the man behind the counter specializes in flavored cachaca (like Brazilian rum). It seemed like a unique cultural experience of Bahia, so I buckled down and had my shot of canela cachaca (cinnamon) around noon. It was very sweet and delicious! I went back to the hostel, packed up, and headed for the busses with plenty of time to spare. But as I walked, a rainstorm blew in, and none of the infrequent busses that rolled into the stop seemed to be bound for the airport. I asked some transit officials which bus would take me, and they pointed to a random one that did not say “aeroporto,” but assured me it would go. I got on, hoping for the best. While on the ride, I heard a German man answer a phone call in English, so I asked if he could help me figure out where the bus went before he got off. He told me I had to do a crazy switch to another bus to a taxi, that the bus would go for a half hour straight along the ocean, then turn, then I should get off, take the airport shuttle, and then a cab from the shuttle station at the airport. Shit! I didn’t have time for all of that, what with all the waiting I had to do for the first bus, and the hard rain storm making driving much slower on the coastal road. I could hardly enjoy the fresh rainfall, the smell of wet grasses, muddy cobble stones, and a fishy ocean. When the bus turned left, I started to panic, and the irritated bus driver told me to wait for the airport, wait for the airport. I waited for what felt like too long, and started asking passengers whether we had gone past the airport. But a simple question like that takes a long time to formulate and then remember when the language is so new! They smiled and basically told me to chill, and so the sight of low flying planes and then signs for the airport were much welcomed. It turned out that the bus drove me right to the departures door. I'm not sure if the driver was being kind or if the German was wrong, but I was so happy either way! I made it to my gate on time, but there was a flight delay because of the weather. I had a two hour layover in Sao Paolo, so I started to get nervous when the delay went for more than an hour. By the time we took off, it was a full two hours late. And I knew that these were the last flights of the day, and that if I missed the connection to Rio in Sao Paolo I would be sleeping in the airport, which is not a fun, exciting option. Plus I had no way to get in touch with Alessandro! The wireless just wouldn’t work. When I arrived in Sao Paolo at 9.30 for a 9.40 flight, I could only hope that they would hold the plane for a few minutes so stragglers like me would make it. I ran through the airport, through the pilots’ and attendants’ security check, and down to the gate, where, luckily, this flight was delayed, too, at least an hour. The plan was to take a shuttle from the main Rio airport to another smaller Rio airport, where Alessandro would meet me. But, again, I couldn’t call him, and couldn’t get an internet connection, so I was hoping that he wasn’t irritated, waiting til after midnight for a friend that he is generously putting up. I got into Rio so late, grabbed my bag, and found a payphone on which to call Alessandro. Miraculously, he told me he was outside waiting! He said that the shuttle stopped running two hours ago, and that he didn’t want me to have to navigate Rio on a Saturday night. `

We grabbed a cab and went back to his neighborhood. The cab dropped us off at the top of a cobble stoned hill, where there was a concrete staircase leading up. We climbed the staircase and were put into a maze of paved footpaths, inclines, stairs, and slopes. We were in the favela, for sure. The houses were all made of brick with thick mortar coming out from between them. The roofs were sometimes concrete slabs, sometimes, tin, sometimes plastic tarp. And they all seem piled on top of and into each other. Up and up the hillside we went, until we reached his place. Which is one of the sweetest apartments imaginable! It is clean, with neat lines, and a completely surreal view of Sugar Loaf mountain, one of the iconic sights in Rio. We had a beer, and Alessandro began to tell me about the project he is working on here (Alessandro is an anthropology graduate student at CUNY, with whom I took a class at the New School). The group that he is studying is a collective of young artists from this neighborhood, who years ago began constructing a miniature version of a series of favelas on an open plot of land near where they live. It is called Morrihnos (mo-HAY-nios), which means little neighborhoods (the word “favela” is like “ghetto” in the US. You would never be in the Stapleton projects and ask, “so, do you feel safe in your ghetto? What other ghettos have you been to recently?” you would use the word “community” or “neighborhood.” And so from here on out, a “morro” is what we refer to as a favela.). He began describing all of the character (there are hundreds), which are made from Lego blocks stacked, painted, and decorated. They move about this miniature world through the carved, painted, and positioned bricks that constitute the different morros they have made. Alessandro informed me that he was recently given a character/avatar in the game. He moves him around the city through a very specific set of rules of transit, money, police, drug traffickers, and families. They refer to the avatars in the third person, and speak in falsetto voices while playing. “Alex,” Alessandro’s avatar, had recently had an altercation with the police, though a trafficker stepped in to right the situation. He asked me if I wanted to see it, as he had full rights to go and visit it as a member of the game. I was tired, and at first declined, but reconsidered the offer when he said that there was electricity there, and that it wasn’t far.

And it was one of the most unbelievable things I have ever, ever seen. It is a sprawling collection of thousands of delicately carved bricks, all different colors, with hand painted signs for the bars, the hospitals, the gas stations, the restaurants. There is graffiti for the girlfriends of the guys who play. There are cars, motorcycles, roads. All women have long hair on their Lego characters. Police all have grotesquely huge machine guns glued to their avatars. Alessandro showed me a number of avatars, and told me about how sometimes they just hang out and eat, sometimes they go to all night dance parties sponsored by the traffickers, sometimes they steal cars, sometimes they have fights, sometimes they chase girls… all within a strict set of rules, just like the ones they must really live by in the morro. It is a magical, fantastical world, and I was blown away. We went back, I pulled out the sleeper sofa and made the bed, and I had the most normal dreams ever. I have found that the intensity and absurdity of my dreams has an inverse relationship to the intensity of the reality I am perceiving. Normal days yield weird or scary or crazy dreams, but on days like this, I literally dream that I am sitting and watching Leslie eat the mango sorbet we served at the kosher restaurant.

The next day, Alessandro told me that he had to put in at least a small appearance at the birthday party of a friend of his in the morro. He had become super close to his neighbors. They really cared about and accepted him, and he was very obliged to visit with Marcia on her special day. What was meant to be an hour visit turned into five. We had much fun! All of his friends were there, drinking beers, grilling, eating delicious soups, rice, beans, potato salad, and friend cheeses and meats. Alex translated everything for me. I learned all about the bailles, which are the huge rave-like hip-hop partied the traffickers sponsor on some weekends. The girls tried to teach me to dance like they do, which was pretty damn hard for me to do. The girls here learn to gyrate and twist their hips and bodies from a very young age. Like, the 4 and 5 year old girls there were getting dance lessons. It looked mildly obscene, but it was a family party, after all. They couldn’t have been more generous. The music was blasting from a DVD player hooked up to a huge amp, in the front room of Marcia’s house. Despite the precarious, uneven, handmade look the house had on the outside, inside, it all looked pretty darn normal, with a TV in an entertainment stand, a stereo, pics of her kids on the walls, area rugs, bird cages (standard here), a dining room table, a little kitchen with linoleum and an untidy but clean hutch. Out back, the guys were making crazy batida concoctions. Batidas, as I knew them from the Brazilian restaurant i worked at in NYC, were delicious fruit smoothies with cachaca (rum) in them. But here, they were vodka, condensed milk, and fruit juice. Alex and I did our best to get through the coconut one (not bad) and the raspberry one (pretty bad). The hardest to drink was the most unusual: I took a sip, tried not to let my face betray how repulsive it tasted, and said, “Mmmm! Grape?” Turned out it was a Paola Coxa, which is condensed milk and wine. Like, grape juice cheap red wine. I still can’t believe I drank that. but the food and hospitality couldn’t have been better. It really was a neat experience to hang out and party with Alex’s friends here.

We tried to leave in time to make it to Ipanema beach for sunset, but got too late of a start. We went anyway, and enjoyed watching all of the people on the sceney, urban beach. There are huge stadium lights that illuminate stretches of the beach, so we walked from the gay beach to the family beach to the hippie beach to the surfer beach to the fishing beach at the end. It was very cool to see everyone enjoying the sand and water. We got some gelato and had to decide what to do with the evening: try to make it to one of the free rehearsals of the samba schools in the stadium as they prepare for Carnaval, or go to a very cool club called Casa Rosa, which was once the most happening brothel in Rio but had been converted to a bar. It was getting late, so we forwent the samba, hoping to catch it next weekend. Casa Rosa was, indeed, a super cool club. All of the walls were painted pink, and there were probably 10 different spaces, all with different music and vibes. There was the baille hip-hop dance room (sweat fest), the chill bar, the outside meat market space, and, my favorite, the live music space, with this completely awesome Brazilian band playing rock/samba/funk, with horns and all. They decided, instead of taking a set break, to give the crowd their interpretation of the history of Brazilian hip hop, which was hilarious, fun, and sounded totally great.

On Monday, Alessandro realized he really had to get some work done for a grant he was applying for. So we had lunch at a Lebanese place, spent a bit of time in a really nice park that had an exhibit for kids on insects in Brazilian culture. Then we went down to Ipanema so I could get some beach time in while he worked. I got a chair and a coconut from one of the beach vendors. The water was so beautiful, I stayed in and swam for almost an hour. Nice little waves, light current, not crowded, and so warm. A little reading, a little nap, another dip, and Alessandro was back so we could meet some grad student friends of his for pizza and beer. They were lovely people, with lively conversation, awesome artinesal pizza, and ice cold beers (so nice on the hot nights they have here. There’s no respite from the heat except maybe the air-conditioned supermarkets.).

Tuesday was laundry day. I did a whole big load of laundry all by hand in Alessandro’s laundry sink, and hung it to dry in the sun out the window. He made a delicious Italian/Brazilian lunch: eggplant mango curry pasta. And we were off to see Rio’s downtown. It was an interesting mixture of very old, rundown buildings, high-art state buildings, and “ugly” modern structures that I think of as creating that 1940s-60s Latin capital city look (Rio was the capital until 1960). We saw these truly amazing stairs that a local artist has covered in brilliant tiles from around the world. And he was there, working on a new section! So neat. Then we waited on line for an hour to take the only still-operating electric trolley car in Latin America. But, as we waited on the ancient trolley for it to move (playing with the heavy gears, cranks, and dials; the greasy ropes; crusty, crunchy window shades; and the now-soft movable wooden windows), a cinematically huge, apocalyptic style thunderstorm rolled in from the south, with cool strong winds that felt like they could blow you away, and gigantic bolts of lightning between mountains and buildings. As we debated the safety of traveling on the rickety metal electric street car up a mountain in a lightning storm, the trolley station lost power, making the decision of whether to take a bus much easier. We moved through downtown in the radically decreasing pressure, hoping to beat the downpour, which we did! Most of the streets didn’t have power, so the bus drove slowly through the steep, cobble stoned, hillside roads, affording wonderful views of Rio in the early evening rain. The smells were wonderful, too, with grasses, bus grease, stones, dirt, and pumpkin (not sure why, but that was the smell! Earthy and sweet…) creating a fragrant portrait of a summer storm on the urban periphery. We were rushing back to save the computers that had been left near an open window, and so grab the clean laundry hanging on the line before it blew away. we trotted through the slippery, winding paths of the morro back to the apartment, and battened down the hatches. But by then, the big bad storm had crapped out, more hype than anything else. We decided to try to go see Avatar 3D, both because it has gotten interesting media attention and because Alessandro works with avatars of a different kind on his project. So I got to experience a shiny, white mall in Rio, where, like in the US, the middle class hangs out, eats quick food, gets herded around between clothing, sunglasses, and handbag shops, and sees movies. I love to going to malls and supermarkets and K-Marts when I travel. The regional differences always remind me that the idea of a hegemonic, globalized monoculture is not a completely accurate portrayal of life in a postmodern world. The similarities, too, remind me that “the real Rio” or “the real Tucson” or “the real New York City” don’t just involve favelas, desert artists’ studios, or chic dark cafes, but rely deeply on the experience of the mall or the megastore, where people really go to live the kinds of lives they want to live.But it was sold out. All of the other movies showing were in Portuguese, so we decided to have a caipirinha near another beach and call it a day.

Today, we are going to take the trolley down the mountain, and getting off to the boat that goes across the bay (think Staten Island Ferry…). It’s a public holiday (St Sebastian Day?) so museums etc are closed. This evening, we might go the Muay Thai classes that a group in the morro offers every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, which Alessandro said will kick your ass, but which I’m sure are fun, nonetheless (if I can understand the instructions!). Off for another day of seeing the different sides of Rio that only a “local” like Alessandro could offer…

A few photos...

http://picasaweb.google.com/n.labruto/ArgentinaAndBrazilI?authkey=Gv1sRgCJ6_ueayiofAPA&feat=directlink

Lavagem do Bonfim

So remember all of that stuff I said about attending the ultimate dance party and not drinking before 11am? Yeah, well, scratch all of it. Because the Lavagem do Bonfim festa, which I was at all day yesterday, is actually the ultimate dance party, and drinking beers before 11 is kind-of a must. At the time, I had no idea what the festival was celebrating. No one who knew could speak English, and the people who knew only spoke Portuguese. But I definitely understood that it was a celebration where millions (I think!) of people gathered at one church in the old city, and walked parade-like for 8km to another church, following the Bahianas and their offerings, with drums, horns, singing, dancing, costumes, and drinking. I found out that the march commenced at 9am, so the Aussies and I planned to head out around 8:45 to participate. I was advised not to bring anything valuable, so I stuffed some money into my shirt and went out with a bathing suit and dress on. Luckily, Meredith has an ancient 4megapixel camera that she is convinced a thief would reject, so she brought that. The line for the elevator that connects the Pelourihna and the Cidade Baixa was over a hundred people long when we got there, but they really cram folks in, so it moved quickly. When we got down there, it was mayhem. Everyone was dressed in white, the color that honors the head-honcho Orisha (Candomble spirit [syncretic African/Catholic religion of Salvador]), Oxala, who is also the Bonfim (young Jesus) (thanks Wikipedia. The “Ritual and Festivity in Brazil” course I took in undergrad had been consistently failing me since I got here). The drums were already sounding like mad, and the parade was moving at a pretty good clip. We jumped on board behind a lively band, and started marching! The parade was very, very different than parades in the States. No security, no barricades, no straight lines formed by band members, no spectators on the sidewalks. Yes alcohol, yes masses of musicians and vendors and people dancing together, yes riotous participation. Mitch realized that we would need a beer to be able to process the craziness, and he was right. We started dancing right away, and took some pictures with the Bahianas. But the day was quite hot, the hottest day since I’ve been here. Marching in the sun with tons of people through relatively narrow, breezeless streets exacerbated the situation. Meredith, Mitch and I were smart, though, maximizing shaded areas and taking breaks to cool down. After about 2km, I began to realize that I was one of the only people wearing black. Every Orisha has a color, and white is the color that does not offend any Orisha. I had no idea what black meant, I just saw that I was the lone black-wearer. So I bought a crazy white polyester tank top with a goddess standing in the ocean under the moonlight, and felt way more comfortable. Where else would that shirt make you fit in more than a light black sundress? Crazy. We walked and walked and danced through parts of town that we knew we most likely would never have ventured into had it not been a Carnaval-like day, with everyone off work and ready to smile and have a good time (indeed, the post offices were closed, all shops were closed, and the busses in the whole city weren’t running! Lavagem really is a big deal…). Right around noon, when the sun felt like it couldn’t get any hotter, we made it to the other Church (for all of you researchers: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Church_of_Nosso_Senhor_do_Bonfim,_Salvador). The party was getter louder and louder, and the women were singing on the steps of the church. We found a weird little zone under some trees in a plaza at the church and chilled for about an hour, letting the heat pass and working up an appetite. When we got up, we had tons of energy and decided to venture off onto some of the side streets, which were buzzing with block parties. Huge sound systems were set up anywhere where a live band wasn’t! The sense of fun and camaraderie was so palpable: no one was paid to perform; everyone playing truly wanted to be there. We met and danced with lots of crazy characters, taking us deeper and deeper into the neighborhoods of this part of town. Then Mitch spotted some water at the end of a road. A swim! Perfect idea. We walked down to the water, where we could see lots of people swimming along the banks, which were lined with make-shift “restaurants” (orange plastic tables and chairs) under shady trees. Meredith didn’t have a suit, so Mitch and I swam for close to half an hour, cooling off, splashing with kids, and waving to the men on the old wooden boats that drifted by. Soon we noticed groups of men on horses cantering along the water-side road, causing the motorcyclists and bicyclists to have to swerve to get out of their way. It was such a beautiful scene. The sun was lower and more golden, and had lost the power of its heat. We strolled along the water, observing this very local slice of life, with families and friends having bbqs, swimming and listening to music and laughing. We found a little pier that all of the young boys were jumping off of, so Mitch and I had a go. It was great fun. We turned around and began the 10 km walk home, feeling like we had experienced something really extraordinary. The people were drunker now, and as the sunlight waned their inhibitions increased. Lots of men started making very overt passes at we gringas, and we were glad Mitch was there to accompany us. We watched the sunset over the water, and made it home after nightfall, tired and ready for some food and some sleep. We had hamburgers and acai for dessert, and called it quits.

Today was tough after all of the excitement yesterday! I felt a bit sluggish all day. After breakfast with the crew, I went out to visit some of the shops in the Pelourihno, and wound up on a long, exhausting walk that included a lot of hassling by local vendors pushing their wares way too hard on a smiling tourist. By noon I was over it, so I took a nap in the hammock back at the hostel to escape the heat and the t-shirts, sarongs, purses, postcards, and local art on the streets. By 2 or 3, I was ready for a swim. A bus to the beach, where a fresh coconut and cool water were waiting, was uneventful but lovely. I watched the sunset over the water, took a shower, and got some grub. Now I’m out to follow the bands of drummers again, who are out and making much noise! Tomorrow I leave Salvador and head to Rio d Janeiro, where my friend is meeting me. The last of my alone time, for now!

praias and prawns

Today was much more chill. I woke up too late for the breakfast the hostel provides (it was the first bed I had slept in since my bed in nj on Saturday night!) so I ventured out around 11 to hit the beach. I grabbed a coffee (all the locals were drinking beers. The beer here is very light and refreshing, though 11 is early even by cliché’s standards), and headed to the bus stop. I got on a random bus, which was heading near the Porto da Barra, the most popular beach here, and the Farol da Barra, an old lighthouse on a point in the south of the city. I found my way after not long. It’s fairly easy to navigate here, especially when you have an internal compass that somehow always leads you to the nearest large body of water. The beach was, well, not super clean, and there were lots of people trying to sell you food and drinks and jewelry… The pretty orange and yellow umbrellas I saw from the bus are really “owned” by local vendors with coolers and make-shift bars, and to sit under them you pay them for services. I haven’t used an umbrella at the beach (with the exception of working under one at SummerTime Surf) since I was a kid, so no worries there. I walked along the water until I saw some people reading books in English. I asked if I could leave my bag with them while I went for a swim, and they were very obliging. The water was about as clean as Pier Beach on a good day, which isn’t saying much for it except that it was swimmable. But hey! I got to swim in the Atlantic in a bathing suit for as long as I wanted without risking hypothermia. So nice! After the swim, I laid out for a while (spf 30), and walked up towards the lighthouse, below which is an very crowded beach, with a full-on bar. I sat on a rocky outcropping nearby and watched all of the people lounging and drinking and laughing, and then had a fresh coconut for lunch. The energy from the coconut carried me the whole 10 kms back to the Pelourihno, through the old city, the shopping district, and other liminal zones along the way. I went to the Bahia Art Museum, which was small but neat, and managed to escape the temptation of the cheap dresses and chatchkies (sp?) of the insanely crowded shopping area. Back to the hostel for a shower, and an appearance on a Brazilian tv show they were filming about “the alternative life,” or at least I think that’s what it was about. They were speaking a mile a minute in Portuguese. I had a light bite from a Bahiana, who are women who dress in hoop skirts with white dresses and bright fabrics wrapped around them. They sell a traditional dish called acaraje, which is a deep fried bun-thing filled with veggies, hot sauce, and whole mini-shrimp, heads and all! I buckled down and ate (almost) the whole thing. The streets were very quiet tonight because last night was such a rager (turns out they go all out every Tuesday night), so I stayed in the hostel and had a beer with a lovely Aussie couple. We’ll be going to the Lavagem do Bomfin tomorrow. It’s a huge festival I’ve been waiting for weeks to see! Second biggest festival in Salvador after Carnaval, which is the biggest Carnaval celebration in the world. At 9am, the Bahianas walk from one church to another 8 kms away, where they present the Candomble spirits they worship with gifts. They are followed by thousands of revelers, in costumes, playing drums, dancing, singing… I am so excited! This is a rare opportunity that I am so excited to experience. Off to sleep! Cool breeze, and quiet streets.

Oh, Bahia!

12 january, 9.25 pm

I’m all sweaty because I’ve just come back from the dance party that is the Pelourinho section of Salvador da Bahia, in the north of Brazil. To all of my friends who dance (this better be all of you!): this is the ultimate!

The plane rides were long, turbulent, and dizzying. Three layovers in three countries over two days to get to one place now feels like way too many. Buenos Aires experienced a late-night thunderstorm, which leaked into the airport in many, many places. Buckets did nothing! But at least the sound of the torrent and the flashes of lightening kept me alert enough not to get on a 3:20am flight to Rome accidently (I was close!). Sao Paolo layover was fully uneventful, and then I finally arrived in Salvador. Lush palms, low, green mountains, verdant fields, and no one who speaks English! Fala ingles? Fala ingles? Finally someone did, and explained how to take a bus from the airport to the city. Cab would have been $99 reals, the bus was $4. And it was air-conditioned and smooth, if not a little slow. But it was a great introduction to this place. At first, it looked like other Latin American places, with dirt-covered car repair stations, chincy clothing stores, and, predictably, Havainas ads everywhere. And then I saw a McDonald’s with a Brazilian flag over it! Somehow this change to the familiar is what triggered the notion that I really was in Brazil. Other details started to emerge, like intricate but modern tile work on facades, hand-inlaid stones on the walkways, and the ubiquitously precarious urban architecture that characterizes Brazilian cities. Driving along Avenida Oceanica was wonderful. People on beaches…always a different take on how to live the good life by the ocean! There is a stone walkway along much of it here in the city, and every half mile or mile is a set of thatch-roofed huts that sell “refreshments,” behind dozens and dozens of yellow or orange umbrellas, which look available for public use. Where there were waves, they were small and gentle, and young boys were paddling for them (I saw two make it). The bus then drove through the historic part of town, which consists of a million street vendors selling clothes, shoes, sarongs, fabric, street food, phone cards, hair cuts… all below a canopy of old, old trees whose branches meet in the middle. It never seemed to end, and looking at all the colors and Portuguese words in flashy colors started to make me dizzy! The last stop on the bus was in Pelourinho, the colonial part of town, where my hostel is. I got out onto a town square with brightly colored colonial buildings with iron-work balconies, and rounded church-like rooftops with crosses on top (Jules, Three Caballeros is completely accurate). I somehow walked right to my hostel with the conspicuous pack on my back, which I was completely sick of after being with it in airports and busses for three days straight. Luckily, the receptionists speak at least a little English. That has been fairly challenging so far. Turns out the little Spanish I know is close to fluency compared to my Portuguese skills! But my pronunciation isn’t too bad, and I can feel some of that New School Portuguese summer class I took coming back to me already. I remembered how to count to 100, say the A-B-Cs, and say “excuse me” and “I'm sorry” (which I'm saying a little more frequently than the alphabet!). I got to my dorm (females only, 15 beds but only 3 in use), and spent a long time unpacking and making my bed. The room is kind-of old, but there is a tiny balcony that looks out over many buildings, and picks up a really nice breeze that’s about 6 degrees cooler than the 90 degree heat. Even now, at 10pm, its 80. I took a little nap listening to the distant sounds of drums and horns floating into my window, and then met up with a lovely woman from Spain, who is going around the world solo in one year. We decided to check out a capoeira/drumming show I heard about, and headed out together. We walked to the main square, where there was an impromptu capoeira session taking place. We grabbed unbelievably delicious $5 real kebob and vegetable platter and watched the dancers. We walked to find the show I had read about, but found it to be a small ensemble of capoeristas drumming on a side street. So we walked. And then I heard it. Soft at first, but like a siren it gave no choice but to seek it out. It sounded like a low, driving drum beat, a few blocks away. I was headed there so fast I think I almost pulled Marieta’s arm off! Louder and louder it got, more and more complex the rhythms became, and fuller and fuller with bodies were the streets. We soon realized we were following the sound, and soon we saw that it was about 20 girls, all dancing and playing drums of varying shapes, sizes, and tones. There were arranged in some kind of hierarchy, with girls playing big drums one beat at a time in the back, driving snares in the middle, and women playing whatever they wanted on hand drums in the front. There was a leader telling them what to play, and they did not stop for over an hour. They danced, marching up and down the narrow, cobble-stoned streets of Pelourinho, gathering followers—observers, dancers, and beer vendors alike—of all shapes and colors. Some dancers emerged as leaders, and organized evolved-Macarena style dances for anyone to partake it (of course I did!). At one point, they were stopped in a little square on top of a hill, and fireworks started going off in the sky behind them, silhouetted by colored colonial buildings stacked on top of each other. Magic! When they stopped, others started. And actually, a huge troupe just walked by the hostel. There are prolly two hundred people dancing behind the drums! I thought I was in for the night but I guess I was wrong…. Best dance party ever!

Quick stop in Argentina...

11 jan, 9.45pm

And I’m off! Just me, a backpack, and the tote bag I got from Jeopardy. Argentina for a night, then Salvador and Rio for 2 weeks, off to Johannesburg and into Cape Town, then to Bangkok, and finally Sydney, from where I’ll be making excursions to NZ, Fiji, who knows where? and ending the whole party in Hawaii in May. Packing for this trip was really fun to think about, and the ultimate situation is a good one. Since everywhere I’m going is down-right hot, in the full swing of the southern hemisphere’s summer, light packing seemed like the way to go. Minimal clothes (2 pants, 2 skirts, 2 shorts, 7 shirts, 2 bathing suits, one long sleeve shirt and a rain jacket), a sham-wow/towel, a very light sleeping bag, some essential tools (headlamp, padlocks, clothespins, alarm clock, power converters, camera, goggles…), basic toiletries, a little computer and a book… My whole pack weighs 10 kgs (22 lbs), which renders it light enough to be a carry-on piece of luggage. Four months worth of essentials in the overhead compartment! Fellow travelers have been impressed. It feels so good to know that if it came down to it, I could live a very happy life with very few things.

Leaving Mom and Leslie at the airport was no fun. I started to get that flippy feeling in my stomach that makes you wonder what you’re getting yourself into. More than fearing danger or “bad people,” I fear the unknown elements of travel. Living in Sydney and NYC taught me that no matter where you are, there are potential threatening situations, and you always, always, always have to be on your toes. Hell, I’ve felt threatened in Belmar! When traveling, being “nice” and being trusting are two very different things: one will render you normal and inconspicuous and safe, and the other, well, could be bad! So I’ve been psyching myself up to be hyper-vigilant, confident, and chill. Hence, my actual fear is not the dangerous encounter. It is the moment when you walk out of the airport door, with no travelling companion, not speaking the language, not knowing where to go or how to get there… But these moments conclude with a nice, clean bed in a hostel that the bus brought you to, with nice roommates and helpful employees who can recommend a great restaurant to get a steak or a nice promenade for an evening stroll. What was exciting and scary becomes a pleasant experience, and ultimately a simple memory devoid of the frightening anticipation that preempted and resulted in it. Funny how fear and courage transform into each other after all is said and done.

Let the fun begin! I’ve arrived in Buenos Aires, en route to Salvador da Bahia, and received a predictably Latin welcome. All flights were lovely, with chatty co-sitters and endless movie selections (Dumb and Dumber is still really funny…). Disembarking in Lima at 6am for 40 minutes seems like a dream. My only real recollection is of seeing the potholder Leslie got there a few hours before I was there! There was a heavy cloud cover over Peru, so I couldn’t see the Andes from above. But as we approached Argentina, the skies brightened and the clouds rolled away. January at 2pm in Buenos Aires is hot, I found out, but luckily a 60 year old female backpacker from Edgewater, NJ, and I found a (mildly) air conditioned bus to take us into the city. The vegetation was interesting, part deciduous/conifer but with eucalypts mixed in. What made it more interesting were the people enjoying it. Imagine driving on the Parkway and seeing dozens of cars pulled over, parked in the shade beneath a young tree, with couples laying on picnic blankets nearby. It was an unusual use of public land, for sure. As the city approached and buildings began to pop up, it was clear that this place is not impoverished by any means. Yes, some buildings were old and dirty, but clean laundry and potted plants dotted the rooftops, conjuring images of tidy people living tidy lives.

I arrived at the hostel in the center of town. My pack was starting to feel heavy, and I began to sweat as soon as I got into the building. I could hear them mentioning the air conditioners in Spanish to all of the people in line in front of me, which I deduced meant they were broken, or the power was out, or something. When it came to be my turn, Diego gave me $10 less change than I was owed (he apologized), handed me the keys to a room on the ninth floor, and then casually mentioned that the elevator was broken for right now, but that it would be fixed shortly, along with the air conditioners. So up I went the ten flights to my room, only to find that the locker assigned to me had a little padlock on it, so I couldn’t gain access. Four repair men, three trips up and down the stairs, two languages, and a lock cutter later, I got my belongings tucked away, jumped in the shower (it was freezing!), and headed out to see a bit of the city. I walked around the river Puerto Madero, and watched the sunset with the company of a beautiful golden retriever and her owner. A solo big, meaty dinner followed, and now I am killing time in my hostel room, waiting until 11pm to catch a cab to the bus station, so I can get the last bus (midnight) to the airport, so I can make my 4am flight to Salvador via Rio. Phew! I’ll be glad to be settled in one place after all of this jumping around. One thing that has bolstered my confidence is that people speak to me in Spanish, and seem surprised when I tell them I don’t speak much, and ask them to speak slowly. My plan of blending in has worked so far, which is just what I want. I am craving being low-key, going on solo missions to different cities and beaches and museums, walking countless miles past all sorts of scenes and scenarios, exhausting myself during the days and sleeping early and well each night. Partying is nowhere on my radar right now (I’m not just saying that to make you happy, Mom!), but being serene in unfamiliar places is. Brasil it is!

It took me a long time...

At several people's request, I am writing here--in a generally non-narrative way, aside from the narrative form that biographical life tends to take when we talk about it--to chronicle this great trip I'm about to take. It took a long time to plan, underwent countless morphs in itinerary (right up until this week!), and truth be told, I still don't feel like I'm packed and ready to go. That feeling will arrive on the car ride to the airport, when there's no grabbing just one more thing to pack, no deliberating on whether it will be better to bring this thing versus that one. When I packed for Sydney the first time, it was 3am before a 9am flight, and I was mildly tipsy. And it all worked out just fine.