No Regrets!

Brazilians are a unique bunch, with a unique look, sense of style, attitude, and language that sets them apart from the rest of South American.

Brazilians come in all shapes and sizes and colors: tall and short, skinny and fat, light and dark. Some look Mexican, some look Indian, some look African, some look German. But everyone seems to accept everyone else with very little racism or segregation.

From the moment we landed, Gog and I noticed that all Brazilian women had big breasts, without the usual consequence of soft bodies. It really is quite amazing. Whether we were walking on the street or laying on the beach or eating in a churrascaria or sitting in an airport, we would always be surrounded by big boobs. Tati had mentioned that plastic surgery is quite prevalent in Brazil, so that might account for some of it.

And they flirt. I can’t count the number of times a girl made and SUSTAINED eye contact with me in a restaurant or walking down the street. And it doesn’t matter if the girl has a boyfriend, she’ll still sustain the eye contact and give you a little smile for as long as they can. Back at home, sustained eye contact with random girls rarely occurs because guys consider it an invitation for further interaction, something that girls simply don’t need. Here, there are flirts everywhere.

Why is it that way? How have Brazilian women not suffered the same fate as American women, ruined by self-consciousness and low self-esteem and eating disorders? Is it because they are have not been objectified as sexual objects since birth in Brazil? Is it because the guys are not aggressive enough? Are Brazilian girls open and friendly and making an effort to invite that kind of interaction because they have to in order to meet guys?

Not everyone is a stunner, but in general, I’d have to say that Brazil has the most beautiful and exciting women of any country I’ve been to.

Guys physiques are similarly impressive. Walking Ipanema Beach, Gog and I felt like we needed to spend the next six months in the gym. These guys are jacked, especially on Ipanema’s gay beach #8. Either they somehow avoid eating meat and have cut all fat from their diet, or they are fitness fanatics, or they are all on steroids, or there is something genetic going on here. It’s ridiculous.

And even the young ones… Girls and guys alike seem to bloom at a young age. Young girls with inappropriately large boobs and young boys with chiseled bodies are everywhere.

As far as fashion goes, the men wear colors and cuts that are out of style or gay at home. Teal and pink sleeveless t-shirts and capris are everywhere. Girls can get away with anything, just like they do at home.

Portuguese has a lot in common with Spanish but is in fact a different language with different grammar, spelling, and accents. When spoken by the locals, it seems to have the same airy, romantic swings that Italian has. People from the south roll their R’s and use lots of S’s, so it sounds even more Italian, while the people in Rio use more guttural sounds that almost make it sound like Hebrew. Like in Israel, a lot of young girls seem to have raspy voices.

Everyone we’ve encountered seems tolerant of our English, even almost happy to engage in conversation with us. We picked up a few Portuguese words and expressions that made interactions with the locals easy and fun:

tah-BON : General expression that means “How are you?” or “Things are good.”

OY-to-the-BON (that’s just how it sounds) : “Hi, how are you?”

oh-bree-GAH-doh : “Thank you.”

bree-GAH-doh : “Thank you.” (How it really sounds when a local says it.)

mwee-toh bree-GAH-doh : “Thank you very much.”

jis-COOP-uh : sorry

hee-ya-TAR-day : retarded

mwee-toh goos-TAW-zah : very delicious

Gog and I enjoyed the language, becoming especially fond of the handy -eria or -aria suffix. Like in Spanish, a X-aria or X-eria denotes a place where there is a lot of X or where X happens. A churrascaria is where there is lots of BBQ meat, a borracharia is where drunkenness happens. There are sandwicherias, perfumerias, hostelerias, cervecerias, mueblerias, confiterias. Menus occasionally have some humorous translations and spellings, but not nearly as much as we saw in southeast Asia. I still don’t quite understand why the locals call their local currency “reais” while English speakers call it “reals.”

Brazilians love the “thumbs up” gesture. Used by young and old, male and female, the gesture is used as if to ask “Are you OK?” or to answer “I am OK!” or for acknowledgment or as a sign of general approval.

I like Brazilians.

While waiting to check our bags at Salvador’s Deputado Luís Eduardo Magalhães International Airport, a young guy walked up to his luggage cart by the door, looked up, and screamed at the top of his lungs. The bustling airport went silent. He then held up his right arm and flipped off the entire airport, turning 360 degrees to make sure he didn’t miss anyone. After swinging his luggage cart around, one of his bags flew off, so he started kicking it to teach it a lesson. What’s his deal?

We had a quick layover in Curitiba. Our landing would have been a bit smoother if our pilot had used the landing gear. Brazilians were up out of their seats and collecting their bags before the plane even stopped. People crowd and push to get off the plane first. If you hesitate to post yourself in the aisle, everybody behind you will rush past. Annoying. Gog and I can’t comprehend this basic selfishness that seems to be the standard here.

Right now, we’re on the plane to the Iguazu airport on the Brazilian side of the falls. This one-way ticket was really expensive, almost half the price of our round-trip flight to and from South America, but the Iguazu Falls package I booked online with a guy named Pablo seems like a really good deal, so I guess it all evens out.

The woman sitting next to me hasn’t taken her eyes of my screen for the whole flight. Not sure if she understands English. I looked up at her a moment ago, and she pulled the move where she pretended she was looking out the window the whole time.

The catamaran trip over to Morro de São Paulo ended up taking almost three hours, more than an hour over the advertised time. Upon arrival, everyone (mostly South American tourists) crowded the doors to be the first ones off. I just don’t understand this. Everyone on the boat knows that everyone on the boat wants to get off the boat. Why push and shove? The dock wasn’t much better. Filled with pushy backpackers and tourists, the dock simply didn’t have enough room for everyone. Kids hauled luggage everywhere with their wheelbarrow “taxis,” making creative horn sounds with their mouths to make their way through the crowds. What a cluster.

The island of Morro de São Paulo turned out to be pretty nice. From the moment I got off the boat, it reminded me a lot of Thailand’s Koh Phangan, with its backpackers and little shops and beaches lined with bars and restaurants. Turns out they have Full Moon parties as well, although they don’t seem to bother lining them up with actual full moons.

The first beach was pretty amazing. Exposed coral created a lagoon with lots of tiny pools for people to lie in.

Walking in, the water was uncomfortably hot by the shore but cooled off as it got deeper. We waded through the lagoon and climbed the coral for some views back to the beach. Walking over slippery coral in waist-deep water with my laptop and all of my photo gear was probably the dumbest thing I’ve done on this trip.

After walking around a bit, we stopped for a delicious lunch of shrimp, really awesome fried potatoes, and piña coladas. As we ate, the tide came in, replacing the lagoon with more normal-looking ocean.

Heading back to Salvador, the catamaran was much quicker. We got back to our room, cleaned up, and headed out for some souvenir-shopping, dinner, and live music in Pelourinho. We happened to catch a performance from an apparently famous local percussion band called Olodum (oh-loh-DOOM) and had a meal of meat and French fries.

After that show, we headed to J&K Restaurant for some more music. The girl next to me was so impressed with the R$2 bill that I folded into a t-shirt for the waitress that I made one for her, too.

Sticking to the touristy areas with police on every corner, we felt safe. In fact, a boy (whose name sounded like “Allison”) walked over to us while we were listening to music and pointed to Gog’s camera, motioning for him to put it into his pocket. I rewarded the boy’s selflessness (or was it?) with some change. Except for that issue with the guy who wanted a sandwich and a few sketchy looking locals scoping things out, we didn’t have any safety issues in Brazil at all.

Tonight is our last night in Brazil. We’re sad to be leaving, but we know that we will be seeing and doing some amazing things in Argentina. Tomorrow, we head to Iguazu Falls!

Had a great night’s sleep in our very well air-conditioned room. Breakfast was served right on schedule. The tomato and basil omelet was delicious, but the strawberry yogurt tasted like Pepto Bismol.

Ronaldo picked us up for our Salvador city tour. He was young and friendly, and his English was adequate. We got into his car and he took us for a drive through the city and to Barra (which I think is pronounced by the locals as “bah”), where an old lighthouse fort sits on the tip of the peninsula.

We drove around the city a bit more, past the local fútbol stadium and some poor neighborhoods. The graffiti here is (and in Rio, too) is pretty impressive. It’s a shame that the rest of the city doesn’t have the charm of Pelourinho, but at the same time, there is a beautiful simplicity to poverty that is interesting in its own way. I’d love to hop around some of these neighborhoods and take photos, but that’s just not possible for the average tourist.

Then back into Pelourinho for a walking tour. It was very warm and humid, so we were sweating lots. Ronaldo knew EVERYONE. He’d stop on the street to say hello to friends and pop into every other shop to have a quick conversation.

We went inside the rather plain-looking Igreja de Sa?o Francisco and found the inside to be magnificent, with ornate, gold-covered trim everywhere and high, painted ceilings. Definitely a hidden gem.

After saying goodbye to Ronaldo, we stopped for yet another all-you can-eat meat feast for lunch, and I had a refreshing truly delicious caipirinha de kiwi.

For the rest of the afternoon, Gog and I explored Pelourinho and the immediate area ourselves.

We took Salvador’s famous elevator from Pelourinho down to the “Lower Town” and visited the Mercado Modelo, a huge structure built to house locals selling the same crappy canvas paintings, t-shirts, and hats.

At the marina, kids dove into the water, each trying to outdo the last, stopping for a moment to ask us for money.

The sun was setting, so we stuck around for a few minutes but then got the fuck out of there and returned to the safety of Pelourinho before it got dark.

Seeking dinner and nightlife, we followed Marco’s recommendation and went to an area in the city called Jardim Brasil. The one place that seemed to be hopping was Bohemia Club. Music was blaring, but the windows were tinted so we couldn’t really see inside.

In swimsuits, stinky t-shirts, and sandals, Gog and I went inside. There were no other tourists in there, just locals who were pretty dressed up. We got some looks of curiosity, but Gog and I did our best to blend in and enjoyed a beer.

From there, we took a taxi to Barra and explored the area on our own. The busiest bars were gay bars, so we kept walking (we are not gay) and didn’t find many other places with people in them. The crowd thinned out even more when it started to rain. Overall, I’m a little disappointed with the nightlife in a city this big.

Right now, we’re on our way to Morro de São Paulo, an island paradise near Salvador recommended to us by all of our drivers and guides. We’re in a high-speed catamaran, bouncing over the body of water between Salvador and Morro, the Bay of All Saints. We’re just going for the day.

The tomato and basil omelet in my stomach is considering a revolt, so it’s time to put away the laptop.

Lazaro, a huge and imposing black man, was holding a sign with my name at the airport in Salvador. As part of the package I booked, he was our airport transfer to our hotel in Pelourinho, the historical and touristy center of Salvador.

His English was excellent, his voice smooth like the host of a late night jazz radio show. He told us all about the Salvador, about how the rich and the poor coexist in close proximity, about the African slave history, about how the city now has a population of over three million. Salvador might be the biggest city I’d never heard of.

As we approached Pelourinho, we drove through the scariest area I have ever seen. Dimly lit cobblestone alleys were almost completely empty, except for a few who were obviously on drugs, should be on drugs, or selling drugs. Every window had bars, every door was locked, every driveway had its metal door closed and padlocked. This, according to Lazaro, was the unrestored part of Pelourinho, and it wasn’t safe for us. No shit.

The car stopped in what seemed to be a slightly more friendly and touristed square. Lazaro led us into our hotel, called Solar dos Deuses. Marco, a toothy and friendly (are toothy people ever not friendly?) Swedish guy, welcomed us at the front desk and led us to our room. Wooden floors, two fluffy and heavily pillowed beds, flat-screen TV, wifi Internet, beautiful antique furniture, air conditioning that really kicks, and fresh fruit juice and cookies waiting for us on the table. One of the nicest rooms I’ve ever stayed in. And the location is perfect, right in the middle of Pelourinho, with live music just outside. When you open the windows, music fills the room.

We asked Marco about walking around and finding dinner, and he said that the immediate area is reasonably safe, as long as we don’t venture off into the nearby unrestored area. Sure enough, we found heavily armed police everywhere. Plopping down at a nearby restaurant called Odoyá, our dinner of coconut shrimp was delicious.

We wandered around a bit, paying close attention to our map. The restored area of Pelourinho is undeniably charming, with well-lit cobblestone alleys and old-looking, colorful buildings. Police officers with big guns are everywhere. Live music fills the air, spilling out of bars and restaurants on every other corner. Locals sell miniature paintings on canvas. One of the artisans came over to talk to us. I introduced myself, but he had trouble with Doug’s name. “Dog? Hahahah. Woof, woof.” Once again, Doug felt humiliated.

Pelourinho is not perfect. If you turn the wrong corner, you’ll run into portable toilets that smell like rancid ass. Gog estimates that they have not been cleaned in six months. Stray dogs and cats with large nipples scavenge for food, while beggars with normal-sized nipples ask for money. As much as I wanted to take my camera for some night shots of Pelourinho, I decided that it wasn’t a good idea and left it at the hotel.

A fidgety, nervous-looking beggar approached Gog and me as we walked. He asked us to stop, shook our hands, and tried to persuade us that he was NOT dangerous just because he was speaking to us in English. He said he had AIDS and that he was very hungry. He desperately wanted R$6 for a sandwich, pointing to a nearby food cart while pleading his case, but Gog and I wouldn’t budge. He was persistent, though. I finally offered him a R$1 coin hoping it would get him to stop pestering us, but it didn’t. He gave the coin back to me and said he needed the full R$6 for a sandwich.

Gog and I were not carrying much of value, so I wasn’t too worried that he would become a threat. But then he looked around, leaned in, lifted up his shirt, and mumbled something like “I have knife.” I turned to face him, angrily and loudly questioning what he had just said. Probably not the appropriate response, but he backed away.

I’m not sure what he was trying to do. Maybe he was trying to work the pity angle by telling us that he had been stabbed, or maybe he was telling me that he would use his knife to split his sandwich with me. In any case, we never saw a knife, and I don’t think he was truly threatening us. He turned his attention to other tourists who were walking by and disappeared into the night.

In terms of safety, when approached by a sketchy character in a sketchy area, is it safer to give them a little change in the hopes that it will prevent a potential mugging? Or is it safer to avoid showing evidence of any money at all and hope that you don’t get mugged for the money he knows you are hiding from him?

Gog and I found a live band playing at J&K Restaurant right by our hotel, so we sat down at a table right in front and chilled out with a cheap beer. Good stuff.

Tomorrow we have a Salvador city tour and walking tour around Pelourinho booked with a guy named Ronald. I’m a bit scared about dragging my photo gear around Salvador, but we’ll be with a guide, so I’m going to give it a shot.

When I first told people about this trip down to Brazil, people who had been here recommended that we go to Salvador (pronounced sal-vah-DOR). Even Tati and other locals in Brazil say it’s amazing. Now we’re on our way, and I’m pretty excited about it.

But my research suggests that the poverty of Salvador makes it even more dangerous than Rio, and that the local government isn’t doing anything to help:

The city has become a huge and ugly slum, with a homicide rate that has more than tripled in the last 3 years, mainly due to corrupt local politicians and an almost useless civil police force.

…

The local police will never release any statistics showing how many foreign tourists are victimized; moreover, they claim that their role is NOT to fight crime nor to provide you with safety. Forget about seeking help from the local police, unless you have the bad luck to get involved in a homicide (although only 1 out of 10 homicides get investigated/solved), or need a police report for insurance purposes; you will waste hours waiting in line and they will either mock at you, or make you feel guilty for being a victim and won’t take any action. For instance, a teenager girl who was raped in Barra neighborhood by 5 men during carnival was told by the police that she was guilty for her rape incident because she was urinating in the grass.

…

As you may have already guessed, even if there’s a police officer standing less than 3 meters away from a thief who is caught in the act, the officer will do nothing to arrest him, let alone to discourage a beggar from begging.

Even the supposedly honest and objective Lonely Planet claims crime is worse than in Rio, and Tati and the other locals we’ve met have been saying the same thing. We’ll be careful.

On this flight, I have a window seat next to two older but youthful Brazilian woman who talk loudly, laugh loudly, cough loudly, listen to their iPod loudly, and dance in their seats loudly. We just started our descent into Salvador. It’s dark out, and a huge full (or almost full) moon is hovering over the city lights.

As the last light of 2009 faded on Ipanema Beach, Gog and I braced ourselves for another walk to Copacabana. Everyone says that we’re likely to get mugged or pickpocketed there, so we’ve stripped down the bare essentials: white shirts, a bit of cash, and Gog’s small camera.

The rain finally stopped, and the crowd at the beach was starting to thicken. Gog and I sipped on coconuts and walked around a bit.

Copacabana Beach is about four times larger than the beach in Thailand where we celebrated New Year’s last year. And there were definitely more people here. More families and old people and kids, and police were everywhere. The only thing there weren’t enough of were portable toilets. It didn’t take long for guys to start peeing onto the BACKS of the portable toilets and into the ocean.

As it got darker, the bands got louder, the DJs cranked it up, and lasers lit up the crowd. But at midnight, the bands stopped playing, and right in front of us, the biggest fireworks show I have ever seen lit up the sky. Gog even got some video.

People all around us started singing songs in Portuguese, and champagne sprayed everywhere.

After the show ended, I jumped my seven waves and made my wish. Won’t tell you what it is, but I will tell you that I’ve never made this wish before.

People slowly began to disperse, leaving behind a beach littered with trampled flowers, beer cans, and empty champagne bottles. One by one, the drink stands started to run out of beer. While waiting in line, a fat and friendly Brazilian girl struck up a conversation with us. Her English was pretty good, good enough to explain that it is a Brazilian tradition to kiss a girl for New Year’s. She asked us if we’d kissed a girl yet, and I said no, so she kissed us both. I was first.

We walked by Help, the local nightclub famous for its hookers. I was tempted to go inside, but they had a R$70 cover charge for New Year’s. Presumably, sex would cost more on top of that, so I decided it was a bit out of my range.

Surrounded by police and tourists all night, Gog and I felt reasonably safe. No sketchy characters, and we didn’t witness any muggings or thefts. People were comfortably walking around with big-ass cameras and videocameras. I’m beginning to think that the reputation that Rio has for being dangerous is crap.

On the way back to the apartment, we stopped for some caramel-filled churros. Finally went to bed at about 4am.

This morning, we had brunch with Tati and took a last walk around Ipanema Beach. Local papers confirmed that there were two million people on the beach last night, likely making it the largest New Year’s party in the world. I’m glad we were there.

We’re off to the airport in a few minutes. Next stop: Salvador!

In the pouring rain, Gog and I braced ourselves for a walk to Copacabana. Copacabana was supposed to be a little sketchy, especially on New Year’s Eve. And since it’s next to but not connected to Ipanema Beach, you have to walk a short stretch of road off the beach to get there.

Along the way, police, security lighting, and other tourists made us feel safe. Eventually making our way over to Copacabana to check out the pre-party scene. We are hearing stories that the beach is going to fill up with up to two million people, so we thought it would already be getting crowded. But it wasn’t. Maybe the rain is discouraging people from coming out. The beach is pretty long, so I can see how millions of people could fit on it.

As we walked around, we kept whistling “The Girl from Ipanema” and Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana,” two songs which have gotten stuck in our heads for a few days now. “Copacabana” isn’t even about Rio’s Copacabana Beach, but it’s got a Jimmy Buffett beach-like feel to it, and it’s so damn catchy.

People are standing at the water’s edge throwing flowers and candy and wedding veils into the ocean. It would be a lot more romantic if the current swept it all away, but the waves just wash everything up onto the beach like litter.

We sat down for some ultra-strong caipirinhas at a bar called Meia Pataca and watched the crowd slowly increase in density. Local workers assembled stages and lighting structures in front of us for the DJs and live bands.

By all accounts, tonight should be a spectacle. Everyone wears white, and Gog and I have our outfits ready to go. Tati told us that there is a local New Year’s tradition of standing in the ocean, jumping over seven waves, and making a wish. I’ll have to think of a good one.

Tati also warned us that the restaurants all book up on New Year’s Eve, so in what I thought was a stroke of planning genius, we decided to go back to Carretão Churrascaria for a large dinner. By filling up at 4pm, I figure we should be able to go the rest of the night without eating.

Sitting in the apartment right now. It’s not dark yet, but already I’m starting to hear firecrackers popping outside. So weird that it’s actually going to be 2010. Have we really made much progress since 2000? Are we anywhere close to having a Space Odyssey?

Happy New Year everyone!

Still no bags when we woke up this morning. We had a tour or Rio to catch, so we didn’t have time to make any calls.

The bus was late. When we finally got on, we jammed into seats too small for normal human beings. Lucielmo (I think that was his name) was our guide. He spoke in bits and pieces of Portuguese, Italian, and English, never using a complete sentence in any of them, sometimes using the microphone and sometimes not. Instead of practical information, Lucielmo filled the time with double-talk, a stupid grin, and goofy comments, including one borderline offensive one about a Lebanese tourist who married a Mexican woman and how their relationship, wedding, and babies were probably “explosive.”

Our “city tour” of Rio, one of the included items in the package, consisted of us zooming through the city and listening to Lucielmo trying to figure out what he saw ten seconds after we passed it. I would have liked to stop at the beautiful building that I think was the Theatro Municipal. We did stop at the strange-looking Rio de Janeiro Cathedral.

Next, we went to Sugarloaf Mountain, a place that offers scenic viewpoints of Rio. By this time, it had started raining, and by the time we took two cable cars to the top, it was fogging over.

After walking around a bit, we headed back down and then started looking for everyone else. Lucielmo hadn’t given us any times or places to meet up, so we hung out in the parking lot for a while and waited. By the mid-morning, pretty much everyone was fed up with him.

The lunch included with the tour was much like the other meals we’ve had here, a meat and sides buffet. With the quantity of red meat consumed in this country, I wonder two things:

a) Where and how big are the farms for all these animals?

b) What’s the rate of cardiac disease in this country?

After lunch and without notice, Lucielmo was replaced by a woman who wasn’t much better. Like Lucielmo, Regina talked a lot but didn’t really tell us anything. What she was good at was abandoning on the bus for almost thirty minutes on Corcovado while she went to go scream at some other Portuguese bus drivers.

Corcovado is the site of Christ the Redeemer, a giant statue of Jesus with outstretched arms at the top of the mountain and one of the highlights of any trip to Rio. When we arrived, it was raining and foggy. Regina finally got her shit together and found a driver to take us up the windy roads to viewpoints and the statue, but visibility was near zero. After taking an escalator and some stairs to get up to the viewing platform, you could not see the city below nd could barely see the enormous statue right in front of us.

All in all, everyone associated with running the tour acted like they had never done it before. We arrived back at our apartment two hours later than scheduled, tired and soaked and annoyed.

Still no bags. By this point, the web site was useless. We had spoken on the phone with five airline reps of questionable commitment and intelligence. And in a move of stupefying incoordination, the latest was that American Airlines had sent our bags out for delivery to different addresses at different times by two different delivery companies, but they could not give us any more details. Fed up, Gog got the number of one of the local deliver companies and called. The guy who answered said that he actually had both bags, tracked them down, and told us that they were out for delivery, confirming with a driver on the other line that he had the address correct.

A little more confident that Gog would have fresh underwear in a few hours, we went out for dinner at Garota de Ipanema, the restaurant where “The Girl from Ipanema” was written. We took a break from red meat and had some scrumptious pizza and a side of potato salad with tuna. We washed it all down with caipirissimas, caipirinhas that replace cachaça with rum and taste a whole lot like mojitos.

When we got back to the apartment, the doorman smiled and told us that OUR BAGS HAD ARRIVED. Gog was like Tiger Woods winning the Masters, dropping down to one knee and pumping his fist into the air so violently that a normal person would have dislocated his shoulder. We rushed to our room and dug out some fresh clothes. Gog’s four-day-old underwear belongs in a museum.

We tracked down Tati and met up with her at a bar in Ipanema. She brought along Marinha, an old friend of hers. Together, we drank and played games, including 3-5-7 (ask me and I’ll show you sometime), a connect-the-dots-to-make-squares game I used to play with my Dad when I was younger, and a fun test where we each took turns drawing the other’s home country on a napkin. Tati’s USA was priceless. Looked like a rectangle with a penis.

Tomorrow, we wake up with clean clothes and will do our best to enjoy the last day of the decade.

Had a very productive morning, adding Skype credits to my account so that we could use my laptop to affordably call Tati and American Airlines and Doug’s bank at home. Skype’s amazingly cheap for international calls, and it’s a must for any traveler with a laptop.

Craving bacon and eggs, we searched for a decent place for breakfast but couldn’t find anything. Traditional breakfast is hard to find in this area. Everyone wants to feed you meat. We had to settle for turkey wraps at Rota 66, a Tex-Mex restaurant in Ipanema.

Then we had some errands to run. Walking the streets of Ipanema are tourists who seem to be from Brazil or other parts of South America. There don’t seem to be a whole lot of American or European types walking around. The locals come in all shapes and sizes: tall and short, fat and skinny, light and dark, hairy and bare. In general, people look happy and seem friendly, and we haven’t really been scared about being mugged or pickpocketed. False sense of security? Or is it really not that bad around here?

Walking around in the warm humidity with my jeans and thick shirt was getting uncomfortable, so I used the rest of my US$25 American Airlines credit to buy some sweet purple shorts and a sweet black sleeveless t-shirt. I feel a hundred times better and, according to Tati, I ALMOST look like a carioca (a native of Rio).

We stopped at a travel agency to book a tour of Rio for tomorrow. Seems like a pretty good way to efficiently see all of Rio’s main attractions, including the city center, Sugarloaf Mountain, and Christ the Redeemer. We stopped for an açaí (ah-SIGH-ee) smoothie, which was awesome, and then headed to Ipanema Beach to meet Tati and her friends.

Surrounding Ipanema Beach are magnificent, jagged mountains that look like they’ve been rendered with 3D computer software. It actually looks like the mountains of Milford Sound, New Zealand quite a bit.

The sand is light brown and warm and squeaks with each step. Apparently:

Squeaking sand can be found on beaches on every continent in the world (except maybe Antarctica). Not all beaches squeak though, it only occurs when a certain types of sand (silicates, carbonate of lime, etc.), with grains at a certain size (around 300 micrometers), create layers from the wind and moisture. The sand also has to be well weathered, smooth, and fairly spherical.

The strange squeaking noise is caused from the friction of the layers rubbing against each other.

Also, polluted sand will not squeak. So if a beach stops squeaking, it’s because foreign matter has mixed in with the sand and taken away its voice. So if your beach squeaks, you know it’s clean.

Ipanema Beach is roughly divided by numbered lifeguard stands. Tati told us to meet us at #9, which is apparently where the coolest and best-looking people tend to go. Every girl wears a bikini, with bubble butts and large boobs everywhere. All the guys wear Speedos, and most (especially on gay Beach #8) are pretty jacked.

Doug and I felt a little small and pale, so we took off our shirts, slapped on some lotion and got to work. The blazing sun and humidity made things borderline uncomfortable, so we rented a giant beach umbrella and sipped coconut water and beer.

The ocean was chocolaty brown. Not sure if it’s pollution or natural, but it didn’t stop young couples and families and me from frolicking in it. The waves were coming in pretty good, throwing people all over the place. I’m not normally an ocean person, but it felt so nice.

Before heading back, Doug and I walked down to Arpoador, at the east end of Ipanema Beach, for a magnificent view. Walking the beach, Doug and I felt very safe. No suspicious looking characters anywhere.

After showering and getting back into our dirty clothes, we met up with Tati and her cousin at a churrascaria (restaurant with all-you-can-eat meat) near our apartment called Carretão. DELICIOUS, and amazingly cheap. Our bill was R$269, which works out to US$39/person for filet mignon, sushi, sides, dessert, and wine.

Back at the apartment, we checked the American Airlines site and saw that the bags should have been delivered, but we still haven’t gotten them. So we fired up Skype and called them. The lady said that we should expect them tomorrow morning, and to call them back if they don’t come in.

So we headed out, in the same clothes we’ve now been wearing for three days. I have some new clothes so I get to mix it up a little bit, but Doug has been bravely roughing it with his gray t-shirt and khaki Transformer pants.

We cabbed over to Tati’s house (nice place!) and met her family and friends. They had no problem with my name but much difficulty with Doug’s. “Dug? Dog? Ahahah. Hot Dog!” We all had a few drinks and then took a bus into the city center for music and dancing. We had gotten a late start, so most of the bars around Lapa were very busy with long lines to get in. We finally settled on one, Carioca da Gema, and went inside. It was uncomfortably crowded. I’m normally not into being pushed around, but I was willing to deal with it since we are in Rio and the live samba band was great.

Now a moment to discuss the seemingly idiotic payment system used in bars and clubs and some of the restaurants in Rio. When you try to go inside, you are held up at the door by a girl or guy who figures out how many people there are in your party. Then, if they have room for you, they will give each person in the party a piece of paper with their name (they put “Gog” on Doug’s) and a list of all possible items for purchase with checkboxes. If there is a cover charge to go in, this is marked on the paper before you go inside. Then you drink. Each time you order something, you hand them your paper and they mark off one of the checkboxes next to the item you ordered. At the end of the night, you have to see the cashier to pay your bill. And if you don’t time it right, you’ll find yourself waiting in an enormous line for up to an hour, losing your buzz and killing your momentum. You cannot leave the building unless you give the person at the door your receipt showing payment.

Although the Lapa area seems like it could be a little sketchy, Doug and I felt safe again tonight. I’m sure it helps that we were hanging out with a large group of locals, and that Tati is keeping a close eye on us. Tati, by the way, rhymes with “scratchy.” That’s how she and her friends say it.

Tati has been amazing to us. She’s always available to hang out, get a drink, or grab a meal. She picks us up and takes us places, gives written instructions to our taxi drivers, and makes sure we don’t get run over when we cross the street. We are surely seeing things and going places we never would have without her. With Tati, everything in Rio has been almost too easy. Muito obrigado, Tati!

Still no bags back at the apartment. The web site no longer displayed our bag information, so we fired up Skype and called American Airlines again, asking WTF the deal was and whether or not we could get additional credit to buy new clothes since our bags have been lost for three days. No, but maybe they will give us a credit if they don’t show up tomorrow. I can’t believe American Airlines expects its customers to stay in the same clothes for three days when losing their baggage. By tomorrow, Gog will be going on his 4th day of wearing the same clothes, and he is, understandably, getting a bit irritated.

We need to be up at 7:30am tomorrow for our Rio tour. Boy, am I tired.