Well, I’m having a completely touristy experience in Lima today by sitting on the top of the cliff overlooking the ocean in Larco Mar (a shopping area in Miraflores) at the fancy Vivaldino. I’m about to eat ceviche, and I’m drinking a Cuzquena cerveza. “One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever learn,” is the chorus of the song playing now, and it’s fitting, because I can relate at this moment. Woke up on the lonely side of bed today, feeling the weight of my solitude on this trip for some reason. It’s all good, though; I’m still smiling. We have our up days, and we have our down days. Of course, I turn to good food and beer for a little more comfort.
Just bought a pair of new glasses on Larco, as I lost my others right before my trip down south. They only cost ~$94 here, as compared to the $300 in the US, with the eye exam and all. Not bad. I decided to use my credit card a little more to a get a fancy snack. I really could do this for the rest of my life. Too bad we have to work and earn money. Vivaldino is upper class…the ceviche is 30 soles and the beer is probably 10. The ceviche is fantastic, fish and octopus, onions, lime juice, a hint of ahi, choclo and sweet potato accompaniment–exactly what I was looking for.
I have been very pensive for the last handful of days or so. Culture shock in varying degrees has finally sunk in, especiallly after having my camera stolen. Needless to say, I’ve learned a great big huge lesson: I need to practice using my observations skills. They are crap and must be improved. The fact that someone else was a dick and took my camera is really my opportunity to see how I am in this world. My idealism is great–couldn’t lose it if I tried. But a friend recently said that to change the world I have to first change myself, which, for me, means tempering my idealism by peppering it with more common sense. I thought I had a great deal of common sense, but you should never be too cocky. And my thirst for trusting other people and only wanting to see the best in them definitely made me cocky.
Perhaps I was feeling a bit superior back in my annoying hostel. Perhaps I was the ugly American, at least internally and hopefully not externally–thinking I was so great with my Spanish skills and not wanting to deal with English-only speaking tourists. Hubris got to me and I was blinded by it? Chewed off my own foot? I’m reaching for some mythological analogy for my loss here that I can’t seem to find. These recent events and my current self analysis make me want to either slow down completely or self-destructively indulge. Finding the in-between in these last few weeks in Peru is my latest goal. I am going to the northern beach town of Peru called Mancora on Thursday. I hope that two weeks of doing nothing–no touring, no museums, just sun, maybe some surfing, and relaxing–will help me reflect on all that has happened in these last two months or so and will help me understand myself and the world a bit better.
November 25th, 2007
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I have stayed in two hostels in Buenos Aires, Sudamerika and Milhouse. They are right next to each other, and when Milhouse is booked, they point you to Sudamerika. Milhouse was recommended to me by a Brazilian friend who was traveling through Lima. He said, if you like to party that’s where it’s at. I stayed at first in Sudamerika, while waiting for my reservation at Milhouse to start, and I was struck so much by the differences in my experiences with the two hostels, good and bad, that I felt I should write about them.
Sudamerika is like an old apartment building in New York, with its outdated elevator, dreary walls, and high ceilings. The people who worked there were nice enough when I arrived late at night and homeless, and after a couple more days of staying there, they were downright cool. When I spoke Castellano, and sometimes stumbled over my words, they were patient with me and helped me with whatever I needed. The place is not flashy, the bathrooms are shared and not in the best shape, the free breakfast was the standard bread and coffee variation, but the people that stayed there is really what did it for me. All of them were from other Spanish-speaking countries for the most part, and they were communicating in the language I was trying to learn. Also, they were, at least my roommates were, pretty open people who tried to get to know you a bit. On the whole, I had the better experience here because of the people.
Milhouse is a bit much. It’s not the partying aspect I didn’t like…in fact, I loved that they had a bar open until 5 am, that they had DJs and dance instructors in for parties, and that you could theoretically meet people hanging out down there at any time. The staff for the most part were cool—had a few bitchy moments with some of the chicks, but perhaps that’s just a girl thing. I found that at first the staff preferred to try to speak English with me, I think for my comfort. But I explained a couple times that I wanted to practice my castellano, so please speak to me in that language. Then they would speak as fast as they could to fuck with me a bit, I think, after which I would say, just a little slower please. Find, no problem. But the reason they usually chose to speak to me in English is because pretty much everyone who stayed there only spoke English. Some of them were not even trying to learn Spanish. This pissed me off, and actually tainted Milhouse for me.
Now, I haven’t totally rejected my heritage, language, country, or anything like that, but when you’re in a country and the main language is not English, you should learn the frickin’ language! And the guests were not warm and open. Perhaps because I was an American, but that is not always so obvious, I don’t think. Perhaps it’s because I was traveling alone and all of them seemed to be in groups, more or less, but I did meet some who were traveling alone too. Perhaps I was being elitist with my slightly higher level of Spanish and put up and invisible wall between us, not sure…can’t rule out my own fault here, right? But, despite the better bathrooms, comfier beds, better breakfast, slightly nicer building structure, and better parties, the clientele just pissed me off. I did meet some nice individuals, but en masse my fellow travelers at Milhouse were like their own sovereign entity that seemed to just follow all the tour plans of Milhouse and not strike out on their own.
Another thought just occurred to me. Perhaps I was so different from them because of my age. I seem to be the oldest person in some of these types of traveling circles (“no, you’re 30? I thought you were 25-26 just like me”); and maybe I was antsy there, because they all needed the helping, comforting, hand-holding environment of Milhouse, and I didn’t really want that. I also think I’m going through a backlash of sorts. Tired of always being the foreign tourist, I am trying to assimilate more with the locals and reject my nationality a bit in order to feel like I belong somewhere and stick out less. It is not always easy to be an American in the world these days. I did hear the words “fucking gringos” fly from the mouths of some of those English-speaking tourists at Milhouse, but this was even before I judged them. And that’s exactly what I did…I judged them before I got to know them, because I wanted to have a more Argentinian experience so badly. And it’s not like I’ve never heard a South American say “fuck the gringos.” I think I gotta check my hubris a bit in this analysis.
I have a month to go before I return home to the States, and I am already feeling a little misty-eyed about leaving. I want to get to know these places down here more. I think by understanding the cultures more I will better understand my place, and the places of other foreigners, among these cultures and in the world. I need more time in all the cities I visit to be able to make a fair assessment of things, and perhaps the same is true of Milhouse.
November 20th, 2007
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On Saturday, at the last minute, I decided to go to the futbol match. Argentina was playing Bolivia, and when I arrived there were no more tickets left. It was a gamble to go anyway. At 3:15, when I arrived back in my hostel after having a tea at the oldest café in Buenos Aires, Tortoni (dating back to 1858), the staff at my hostel said I was pretty much screwed if I tried to make it to the game by 4 pm, especially since I didn’t even have a ticket. How do I get there?—I asked. The bus left over an hour ago…it’s far…a taxi may not get you close enough…streets will be too crowded—they said. It only takes a half hour to get there by car, but they were worried about traffic making it take longer. I had roughly 45 minutes to get there, find a ticket, and not get lost in the crowd—challenge!
I found a fellow last-minute fan on the corner and guessed right by thinking he was a tourist too. We shared a cab to River Plate stadium and chatted the whole way—he in his Brazilian Portuguese and me in my ever-improving Spanish. The taxi got us within a five-minute walk of the game and only cost 10 pesos (~$3) each. The scene outside was not as hectic as I expected, and I was able to find a ticket from someone on the sidewalk—safe, real, out in the open, in front of the cops. I paid 20 pesos more than the value, but only spent 50 pesos, which was good compared to the 100 my Brazilian buddy spent. And it was a pretty good seat! First level, just off to the side behind a goal, and, most importantly, in the shade.
The day was hot and I would have fainted if my luck had been bad with the seat location. I sat between two Argentinians, one who was in his 60s and at the stadium for the first time in his life. He and I chatted more than I chatted with the younger guy on my right, but after each goal the younger guy and I high-fived. As soon as I sat down he had asked who I was rooting for…my response—Argentina, of course!
In the air you could feel the weight of thousands of people being there (stadium capacity is over 65,000). Shouting, singing, and high-pitched whistling were thunderously amplified even in the open-air stadium, and the sounds rolled in waves throughout the crowd. My claps and whistling seemed to drown in the noise, but I know I added to it all the same. In the second half of the game, firemen whipped out the water cannons and sprayed the sunny sections. They were lovin’ it. Kinda wish I got showered too, because after over an hour of sitting in even the shadows of a packed stadium I started to feel a little light headed (I happened to be hungry too). A burger, coke, and slow breathing helped that. I thought it was odd, but was thankful, that they didn’t sell beer there. If people were to drink at these games, they’d be crazy. And the passion for futbol is enough to pump up the fans. Seems that everyone loves and even plays futbol down here. This is why I just had to see a game in South America. And Argentina won, 3-0.
November 19th, 2007
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La Recoleta is a cemetery that was created in 1922 next to the Virgen de Pilar Iglesia. It is the location of mausoleums of the rich, including the remains of the famous Eva Peron, and covers four city blocks. Each mausoleum is unique, though some do look repetitively the same, but, in general, they have slight difference in colors, age, style, ornamentation, and size. I think I spent at least an hour and a half walking around the cemetary. It was very peaceful, but I felt a bit odd being a tourist in a cemetary. There was a funeral that day, and I was surprised to see that this historic site is still being used. But 1922 wasn’t so long ago, so these houses for the dead will have some action for generations.
I’m now eating great Mexican food at a place in Palermo. Palermo Viejo is like the Soho of Buenos Aires. I just came from sharing a beer or two with some people from Panama and the US (my first real US-born traveling friend, I think), after an afternoon of walking through this hip little barrio and window shopping. BA is know for its shopping, as the peso took a major dive in 2001 and is still trying to recover. It is said to be the most European city in South America, and its fashion is one of the major reasons why. It is cheaper to buy here than in the US, for sure, but, as a friend noted tonight, you get a false sense of spending when the value is less—yes, things are cheaper, but you end up spending more than you planned exactly because of that.
Tonight I kind of feel like taking it easy and not going out. But we’ll see how long that lasts. When you only have six or seven nights in a place, it seems a shame not to go out on every one. At the very least I can try not to make my buenas noches a buenos dias. Famous last words, though, right?
November 16th, 2007
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A good lesson to remember—always confirm your hostel reservation. Yes, yes. I know I should have known better…it just didn’t occur to me in the few days in Lima before my trip. I almost think it was deliberate. Like I wanted to challenge myself by arriving at 11 pm in Buenos Aires and having to scramble for a place to sleep. And, honestly, I prepared for these seven nights here the least out of all my trips. It’s all good, though. I found a room in the place next to where I was supposed to stay, and so far I have two nice roommates, Eddie and Santiago. I’ll make the switch to the original one on Sunday. The Sudamerika Hostel is just fine for now.
I’ve already had one of Argentina’s most famous attractions: a steak. Probably the third best steak of my life, and that list includes Morton’s. I ate at a little restaurant, Danila, near my hostel downtown. Had a little bottle of Argentinian wine with it. The steak is so…tender is not even the word for it…it’s like you’re biting into sinew-less meat. Like there was never any tension on all those fibers in that cow’s body. It’s soft and juicy and definitely worth all the hype. I read that Argentinians eat more than their weight in beef each year. A little gross to think about, but now I understand why.
Downtown is pretty with its flowering trees, fountains, parks, staues, and monuments. It boasts the world’s widest street, Avenida 9 de Julio. The traffic is not beautiful, but if you can deal with New York’s traffic and still like that city, it’s the same here. And it’s better in the neighborhood side streets. I’m taking a long walk today and am headed to the famous cemetery La Recoleta. The sun is shining, weather is sweet. Makes me want to move my walking feet.
November 15th, 2007
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I´m in the airport waiting for my flight to Buenos Aires. I´m siked. Last night was awesome. I saw Bjork in concert at the Vertice, a permanent large tent concert venue, at El Museo de la Ncaion (the national museum). Holy crap, it was awesome. She is amazing live. Her voice was perfect, and she didn´t have to use those little earphones that many stars use when in concert. Her new stuff is pretty good–definitely going to buy it at one of those cheap CD markets in Lima. But it was her older stuff from Debut, Post, and Vesperine that lit up the crowd. I love being at a live show and feeling the excited emotional energy that rushes forth from the stage like a wave from the band all the way to the last person standing in the back, especially when everyone knows the music. I was one of those people in the back who could see Bjork better on the LCD screen right in front of me than I could see the stage. The venue was not huge, but the stage was a bit lower than the last section and, of course, all the tall people got to the concert venue first. No matter. She was fantastic, and her band was as well. She had three guys on computers and drums and an eight-piece horn section, all women and they wore red robe-like dresses and had flags attached to them with the narrow pole standing stright up above their heads. Bjork wore a similar type dress, but with more colors–yellow, red, green, purple. She´s beautiful, and I don´t know her age, but she still looks like a girl. She does a funny little thing often while pausing between verses or words: she twitches her nose and mouth a bit. Hard to explain, but you can ask for a demonstration someday.
I went to the concert alone. Saw a poster for it one day and thought it was worth the 155 soles (about $51), because her concerts would probably be $155 in the States. I stepped of the taxi and saw the general scene you see outside a concert venue: people hanging out and taking their time before hopping in line; ticket scalpers and food, beer, and cigarette vendors; and security and maintenance people. I was surprised to see people drinking cans of beer (if this was Rio, I wouldn´t be surprised), but the rules of drinking on the street are different for this venue–the cops just walked right by without saying a word. I asked two people drinking a beer how much a can costs. They said 3 soles. Great, I thought, because that´s all the coins I have in my pocket (I wanted to save the cash for inside). The beer vendor refused to charge me less than 4 soles, probably because I´m a gringa, so I didn´t buy one. I went back to the two people and asked where they bought theirs for 3 soles. The actually brought theirs and then offered me one. I kindly accepted, and with that beginning, I now have two new friends from Lima, Angela and Paul. They had general section tickets too, and we ended up hanging out the entire time. Both long time fans of Bjork as well. We had a great time singing, dancing, and drinking beers. Angela snuck in her camera and I hope will email me the pictures, so I´ll be able to add them here. Even better than seeing Bjork last night was making new friends.
And it´s as simple as that. This is how it´s been happening on my trip. I´m traveling alone, so I never know who I´m going to meet or how. I´ve generally had good luck and feel that my dad or someone is watching out for me somewhere. You can´t always be totally open, but it´s amazing to think of how many people in this world are totally closed. Perhaps it´s to feel safe and secure that people don´t open themselves up to new experiences more often. But the less you know about others, the world, and yourself, the more probable it is that you´ll stumble into danger. I have had luck, yes, yet it seems there is some cosmic vibe dancing through my journey. I think it is akin to the wave I felt while seeing Bjork last night that ran through me and out my mouth as I sang as loud as I could her words with her and back to her at the same time. “I live by the ocean. And during the night. I dive into it. Down to the bottom. Underneath all currents, and drop my anchor. And this is where I´m staying. This is my home.”
November 14th, 2007
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On a corner of Rua Barro de Torre just four doors down from Karisma Hostel in Ipanema, Rio, is a little outdoor bar. It probably offers juices and sodas, but when I went there the only thing to drink on the menu for me and my friends was beer. These little oudoor bars are everywhere in Rio and are a large part of what makes the night life unique. The one near my hostel was wild. During the day there was usually a bunch of guys hanging out who would undress you with their eyes, or, moreso, rip your clothes off with their eyes, when you walked by. The night crowd was a little more diverse and curiously less cat-cally than the day crowd. I was tempted to stop and stay a while every night, but I limited myself to only one.
I wanted to “take it easy” on my last night, so I hung out at this corner bar closer to home. Met some great guys and gals from Brazil, England, Malaysia, and the US. Brazilians love their meat (in more ways than one), and the guys that always hang at the bar, and I think work there, whip out a little grill on the sidewalk and cook up package after package of meat. That night I had chicken, different types of sausage, and steak. Mmm, bloody steak. Being the carnivore that I am, I was loving the midnight BBQ. The beer was just an added plus. I went back to Lima fat and happy the next day. And, remember that whole “maybe I’ll lose a few pounds from all the healthy food” comment when I first arrived in Lima? Well, Rio wrecked that. Ha ha.
November 9th, 2007
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As usual, in Rio I took in more of the night life sights than doing all the touristy things, of which there are so many that it would be tough to do in all in seven days, let alone the three days I really had due to my cash problems–buses and taxis don’t take credit cards. (Oh, by the way, someone recommended on my fourth day, Sunday, that I put scotch tape over my ATM card magnetic strip and it would work. And you know what? If fucking did work! Good thing the beach–on my only two sunny days, Friday and Saturday–is free.) But in my night and day wanderings, of course without my camera, I saw a lot of the city and its neighborhoods. The few times I had my camera was at Pão de Açúcar (Sugar Loaf), Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer), and Jardim Botanico (the Botanical Gardens).
Pão de Açúcar gives you a beautiful view of the city looking west. It is two mounatins jutting up between the sea and neighborhoods, and you ride to the top of the first peak and then to the second higher peak in a hanging aerial cable car–slightly scary but exhilerating when you look down, floating above cliffsides and trees. The day was a bit cloudy, but we rose higher than one of the passing clouds and were able to see fairly well. I learned the Costa Rican way of saying “cool” while up there: “tuanes.” And you can say it at least two ways in Portugues: “legal” and “manera.” Along with Peru’s “chevre,” I had many ways of saying how cool the view was from every side of Pão de Açúcar.
The view from Cristo Redentor was less cool, due to a cloudy day. It was very neat, though, and definitely holy. Cristo Redentor is a giant statue of Christ spreading his arms open, facing east, and looking over the city. It stands higher than Pão de Açúcar, and it was the biggest statue in the world at the time of its creation and, therefore, is considered a wonder of the world. These tourists spots all have gift shops and little cafes, so I had a fresh mango smoothie and toasted Christ and Rio while chatting with other tourists from around the world. After that, I went to Jardim Botanico where I walked around for a couple hours and could see over 5,000 different types of plants, flowers, and trees. You get a good view of Cristo Redentor from afar between the trees. My favorite part was the orchid greenhouse. I had a peaceful walk and nice break from the bustling city outside the garden walls, which was surprisingly hard to hear after entering the grounds.
None of the days I was in Rio had that crystal-clear-sky weather you hope to have when visiting such beautiful sights. I fell in love with the city, nonetheless. It would be perfect for a honeymoon. Although, now more than ever, I have strong doubts that I’ll ever get married. Life is just too fun like this. Viva mi vida loca.
November 7th, 2007
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Every Sunday in Ipanema in Osorio Park (your park, Gus!), the “hippies” sell their crafts. Now, when I pictured this hippie fair, which is a must-see for shopping, I pictured walking from a block away, already able to smell the pot as I approached and seeing a park with a sheen of smoke hovering above a crowd; then there would be drum circles, jugglers, fire twirlers, stoned people dancing, people selling their crafts, food, and what-not, and general Dead-/Phish-show merry mayhem. But, yet again in my life, I was reminded that any time you try to picture anything you haven’t seen yet, your vision will be wrong. This is okay by me…the hippie fair did not disappoint.
The hippie fair is just a bunch of artists who have stands and sell their wares. A couple rows of booths line the outside border of the square park and painters hang their canvasses in the center. Sure, the feeling in the air is light and fairly festive, and maybe I went too late in the day and missed the jugglers, but, other than the long-hairs and occasional pipe sellers, I didn’t feel it was overly hippie. I guess it has its name because the neighborhood was the center of bohemian life back in the hippie heyday of the 60s and 70s. So in Brazil, if you sell paintings, jewelry, ceramics, dresses, instruments, ornate knives, statues, woodwork, keychains, handbags, leather shoes, stuffed animals, decorative coasters, leather briefcases, bathing suits, skirts, belts, leather anything, shirts, pants, hats, etc….you’re a hippie.
November 6th, 2007
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Well, it seems I fall in love with every new city I visit. Rio de Janeiro, Brazil certainly is a paradise. And, although I am not a big beach person, I want to move here, learn Portuguese, buy a fio dentao (string bikini), work on my body and tan a whole hell of a lot more, and work, learn, live, and play. The night life is great. (Of course, the bars and clubs were my first stops.) Actually, there was reason for hitting the night life first…a couple reasons: 1) I arrived on a Thursday, the official start of any weekend; 2) Friday was a holiday, Brazil´s version of dia de muerto, or all saints day, I believe; and the big reason 3) my cash card did not work for the first three days I was here, and I spent most of my cash before I realized this. But bars, clubs, and restaurants take Visa. So I walked around with only 5 brazilian realis (about $8) for most of the weekend, plus the 12 realis I won in a game of poker on Thursday night. That´s right, Justin and Sully, I actually won a game of poker! What luck, cuz I really needed the cash.
So this is what I´ve done so far. I live in a hostel that is one of about six in a little alleyway in Ipanema. I was exhausted from my 1 am flight from Lima and time change, so I didn´t want to go too crazy on my first night. I was told that people hang out at the hostel next door, so I stop by and ended up staying until 2 am. I met people from Brazil, Switzerland, Germany, England, and Austria. I learned how to make the national drink and one of my favorite drinks in the world, the caipirinha, and made about 12 for all the people who were hanging out. Then someone whipped out the cards and luck was on my side.
Friday night I hung out in Lapa at a huge club called Rio Scenario. Huge. At least 2,000 people can fit in there. The line starts at 9 pm and is already a half hour wait. Vendors sell you beer and snacks as you wait. Street parties are the thing in Rio. You could walk around Lapa hopping from bar to bar and never see the interior of one. Lapa has the added beauty of centuries-old aqueducts that no longer function but are a series of white, stone, double-stacked archways that are still strong enough to hold a train track on top. These lit up a night are gorgeous as you pass under them on your way to get lit up yourself. Anyhoo, Rio Scenario is a must-see with two floor, tall ceilings, walls covered in art and antiques, different parts that are like a restaurant then like a bar then like a club then like a concert venue. A samba 8-person band plays earlier in the night, then you can go up to the more night-clubby part to dance to DJs. The beer is also great here…a bit more light and refreshing than the average beer in the States. I´m actually drinking it, which I rarely do. If you´re at the Brickskeller in DC, see if they have Devassa and try it to see what I mean.
Saturday night, I decided to check out the scene in Ipanema, which is not the same vibe as other parts of Rio and is a bit more expensive. I went to 69, a club two blocks from my hostel and above a bar where my friend works. There is an interesting system of payment here at many clubs/bars. You get a card when you enter and pay the entrance fee, which was expensive, 40 realis, at this club. And there are different levels of payment, you could pay just to enter and not drink, for example. Then, throughout the night, your card, which could be an actual card like a hotel key card or a piece of paper, is your tally of drinks, and you pay at the end at the cashier. It´s actually pretty efficient, in a way, but a bit of a waste of paper and plastic. 69 played hip hop and house music, and I danced the night away, even saw some friends I met on the beach.
I spent the only sunny parts of my time here on Friday and Saturday during the day at the beach. It´s been raining pretty much most of the rest of the time and will continue to rain until I leave on Thursday. No matter. The temperature is in the 70s and dips down to the 60s at night. The rain makes it a bit harder to see, but does not take away from the beauty of this place. I will probably not get to see the blue-green sea, as it is obscured by muddy water from rain drainage. I will try to do the mountain top beautiful sites in the rain in the mornings to get some sort of clarity, but my photos will be rainy/foggy. Cristo Redentor, or the big white Christ statue with open arms on a mountain top, is lit up at night and mysterious with the surrounding clouds. I told a friend that I thought it was ironic to have a giant Christ looking over this city of debauchery, and he was confused as to why I thought it was ironic, and even seemed a little offended. It´s not that I don´t think this city can be holy, I simply thought it was ironic. I find my cultural differences with people are the most distinct when touching on the subject of religion. My politics, on the other hand, seem to be similar to the view points of the majority of people I meet.
So here´s what I´m thinking. I could get my Spanish and Russian up to full working speed, learn Portuguese and French, study a bit about the hotel industry, and find a job down here in tourism. Huh? Yeah? What do you think? I´m a likeable gal. Now who will hire me to travel and have a cushy job in a hotel? “Public relations and diplomatic liaison” sounds like a good title. I could advise people on where to stay, hang out, and eat for the price that is affordable for that person. See? I´m thinking down here…haven´t killed all those brain cells yet.
Speaking of that, what are my plans for tonight?…
November 5th, 2007
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We all go through slumps in our lives, and I had been in one for a long time in the States before this trip. When talking to a friend recently who’s in a similar predicament, I didn’t want to say that the solution is to take off, leave the country, and radically change your environment, because that’s not fair—we don’t all have the same means or objectives in our lives. But today, this morning, I arrived in sunny Brazil, and one song came to mind when I did. When I realized the lyrics of the song that was in my head, I thought of that conversation with my friend:
“See the morning sun
See the morning sun
(ah ah ah ah ah)
On the hillside
(ooo ooo ooo)
If you’re not living good
I beg ya
Travel wide
Travel wide
Said I’m a
Said I’m a
Said I’m a
Living man
(ah ah ah ah ah)
I’ve got work to do
(ooo ooo ooo)
If you’re not happy
Then you must be blue
You must be blue
You must be blue-oo-ooo
I’m a rebel
Soul rebel
I’m a capturer
Soul adventurer”
I haven’t even gotten to my final destination in Brazil, Rio de Janeiro. I’m a on a bus in Sao Paolo, going from one airport to another to catch another hour flight to Rio. I’m already wishing I’d planned more than a week in Brazil, but it’s more expensive than Peru, and at least I’ll get a glimpse. On this highway, just cruisin’ along with the morning rush hour, buildings, and tropical plants spread out all around, I can tell I already like Brazil. I even like the hard to understand Portuguese. Rio, here I come!
November 1st, 2007
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Answer: Eight years and too many vanilla toffees…
That´s right. I just had to find out. I laughed when it happened, and it didn´t hurt. I was sitting in one of Sao Paolo´s airports waiting for my connection to Rio de Janeiro and was exhausted from the late night flight. I was just chewing on a toffee, and then I noticed that something was a bit off with the toffee and one side of my mouth. Strong chewy candy took the cap off my root-canaled old tooth stump. Mmm, yummy. Let´s see if I can have something happen to me in every new city I visit, shall we? Hopefully a little glue doesn´t cost an arm and a leg–woops, better not jinx myself!
p.s. I didn´t swallow the cap; it´s in my secret under-the-shirt money/id pouch next to my passport.
Fuckin´ toffees.
November 1st, 2007
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Jessica |
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