Who doesn't love a boat ride?!?

Beach during the day, dancing at night

There is more to do in Salvador, I'm sure, but this is basically all we've been doing since we've arrived.  There's a free breakfast at the hotel of coffee, fresh fruit (papaya, pineapple, melon, the same every day), an assortment of coconut-flecked baked goods (a steamed, not too sweet white one, a cornmeal one, and a tapioca one), some bread and pão de queijo, a bread made chewy by the cheese baked in it.  We wake up as late as possible to still catch the free breakfast at about 9:30, and linger over as much coffee as the girl will bring out for us.  Brazilian coffee is strong, with no hint of bitterness.  

We decide that the only thing on our to-to list today is a nice bowl of açaí. 

We take our sweet time getting ready to go out.  A shower, some Internet time, a little shopping, and then the beach.

It's pouring rain again, so we take a really long time to eat breakfast, and we're hanging out with two gorgeous couples: an Irish guy with a Russian girl; the other a Hungarian girl and a Chilean guy.  We're talking about traveling and laughing like crazy.  

We decide to go to itaparica, a little beach on the island of Barra grande.  There are a whole lot of beaches in Salvador, and the further you go from Pelourinho, the nicer they are.  We had already been to Barra, the closest beach that we didn't like (too crowded, black-ish sand) and Ondina, the next closest.  We really liked Ondina, and had been twice.

I know many travelers like to go and get the best possible beach experience, even if it means traveling an hour or two to get there.  I can't be bothered.  If a beach is clean enough, I can go in the water, it is well-serviced by vendors, AND I can get home easily, that's good enough for me.  But we were already still a little red from yesterday, and we hadn't even expected to see any beach today because of the rain, so why not go on a little adventure?

Besides, it's always fun being on a boat for a while.

We walk down to the dock after finally accessing some of my money that Chase had tried to keep for itself.  The boat to Barra grande was set to leave right away, so we get on the boat,

This is when Lysia informs me that she usually gets a little seasick, but, don't worry, it's usually worse at the dock than it is at sea.  I asked her why we were on a boat if she gets seasick.  "Oh, it doesn't stop me from going," she says.

The boat hasn't taken off yet, and I remember that the girl at the hotel says that there is a ferry and there is a boat, and one is faster than the other.  Or at least, that's what I remember her saying.  I have a momentary panic when I see that we are the only Americans on the ferry, and maybe the trip will take 2'hours. I ask the guy next to me how long the trip is, and he assures me it's about 40 minutes.  We take a seat on the periphery.  It's standing room only on the boat.

It must have been about 15 minutes into the ride before Lysia starts groaning.  20 before she starts repeating "oh god, oh god," not too loudly by loud enough for the guy next to her to start to look concerned.  The boat is really rocking, and I notice the man in front of me get pale, and his wife feeds him a sucking candy.  It is not helping, and the man puts his head in his hands.  I tell Lysia she's doing much better than that guy, and she says, "oh no, I don't think so."

Lysias hands go numb and I think she's having a panic attack.  She's not, but the "oh god"s are closer together, like contractions.  I can't figure out whether it's better to put my hand on her back to comfort her or not, so I ask.  She grunts, "IT'S BETTER."  I'm now trying to talk to her to distrct her, counting down the time left on the trip.  Just 10 minutes, Lysia.  Try to look at the ground, try to take deep breaths, I say.

Then a young teen girl walks right over to the side of the boat and throws up.  I am so happy,  "Lysia!  A girl just threw up!  You're not going to be the first!  It's totally ok!"   No one seemed the least bit worried or concerned for this young girl.  Neither did she.  She just threw up.  Her family calmly talked to her and asked her if she was ok.  The people who were sitting right next to her didn't even move over.  If we were in New York, Everyone would have made disgusted faces and moved the hell out of the way.

Not brazilians.  They're tough stock,

Lysia takes this as a cue and takes the position, hurled over the side of the boat to puke.  The man immediately to her left is nonplussed.  No one is offended or bothered, but three people tell me I'd better hold on to her so she didn't fall over the side.  I did, and start mopping her down with a wet cloth.

The poor man across from us held his ground, and we felt badly for him because Lysia instantly felt better.

5 minutes later, we're on the island.  Almost made it Lysia, but you didn't puke on anyone and you didn't fall off the boat.  I call that a win.

We're greeted by a hell of a lot of taxis, vans, and motorcycles ready to take us to a different part of the island.  The lady at the hotel gave us a list of her favorite places on the island, and we were originally going to go to a different part of the island but chose itaparica because neither of us could take another form of transportation.  

It's super pretty from far away, but when we get to the beach that was right next to the dock, it's kind of nasty.  It's got some run down beach front shacks, and we just want to lie down at this point, but we notice we're surrounded by garbage, only a few people, and the water is full of seaweed and is murky.  We figured out we weren't on itaparica beach at all, but After an hour, I really just want to get the hell out of there, and chalk it all up to one poor choice.  Lysia was feeling a little better, and thought we could now take a van and find this pretty beach, but then i remembered something about there being a "last ferry" and there was no way I was going to get stranded on this fucking island.  Lysia, on the other hand, starts thinking about the prices of these cheap pousadas so as to not have to withstand the trip back quite so soon.

I give her a pep talk, and we wait until the last possible minute to board the ferry.

Lysia takes a seat on the interior this time, and I sit across from her on the periphery again.  If she needed to barf, we could just trade places.  

Lysia closes her eyes, and sits in silence,  I think she's meditating or something, and she seems ok.  I start my knitting.  

I notice that a man is standing by the bathroom, a couple of feet away from me, gawking at me knit.  this happens a lot when i knit in public, actually.  Some guy once told me I reminded him of his grandmother, which I'm sure he meant in the most complimentary of ways.  I ignore him.

It's not long before the guy sits right next to me, and says he's really interested, and he hopes I don't mind if he watches, because he's very interested in my knitting.  What was I making?  "Um chapeu," I reply, surprised that I remembered the correct word for "hat" in Portuguese.  

I'm also surprised that I did NOT remember that I need to stop speaking Portuguese to random men who approach me.  I could smell the alcohol on his breath.  Not because he was an alcoholic, necessarily, but it was probably a combination of the fact that (a) he positioned his face about 6 inches from my face to watch and (b) it seems that any hour of the day is a good time to drink beer in Bahia.  I let him stare at me until he starts repeating "toca o chapeu," over and over, which I think means "play the hat," for some reason.  I excuse myself by saying that I have to take care of my sick friend, a lie, and he says "oh, of course," and promptly and kindly disappears.  They're aggressive, but not too persistent.

Lysia doesn't look sick at all.  I say "how are you doing?" and she calmly and firmly replies, "oh! not so good.  I'm not gonna make it!"  She offers to throw up on my new stalker boyfriend, an offer i appreciated but declined.  She calmly walks over to the side of the boat, assumes the position, and I tell the people flanking her, in Spanish on the her left, in Portuguese on her right, that they might want to move over.  Neither of them do, or seem to care.  Lysia starts to wrench, and i start mopping her again with a wet cloth.  I figure the fear and embarrassment of having to vomit is probably worse than vomiting itself, because Lysia is a total pro at this point.  She's talking to me while she's puking, commenting on what contents are coming out of her and how this must happen a lot because there's already a lot of other people's old vomit on the side next to hers.  

There's an old man sitting next to us, just looking at us is a non-judgmental way.  He hasn't moved out of the way at all.  I tell him it's the second time today.  He shrugs, "it happens."  I take my camera out, snap a couple of photos of Lysia bent over the side of the boat without her knowing.  I say to the man, "this will be funny later."  He shrugs again and agrees.  "Divertido mais trade, sim."

We walk off the boat, and Lysia feels a little loopy but otherwise ok.  She starts smoking a cigarette because she thinks it might help.  We walk on the right of the square, to avoid the annoying, pushy gypsies, and walk past a couple of kids, in front of the mercado.

A young boy calls Lysia "moça" and asks her for a cigarette.  She fishes in her bag to give him one. "Don't give a kid a cigarette!" Teacher Cindy scolds.  "I don't give a FUCK," Lysia retorts, "I was smoking at 13."  We're both laughing until we walk past another kid 5 seconds later who also bums a cigarette. "oh fuck no I just gave one to your friend."  This English he seemed to understand.  

I now notice that this small path we've chosen is full of dirty children and men, and I tell her to start walking faster.  Salvador is like the forest in the Princess Bride.  It's not so bad once you figure out where and what to avoid; fire swamp on the left, rodents of unusual size on the right.

Lysia wants to go to sleep.  I remind her that neither of us has eaten anything since breakfast, and that a big bowl of açaí would probably be very refreshing right now.

It was the first and only thing on our to-do list that day, and although it took a shitty boat ride, a shitty beach, a lot of vomiting, we finally crossed that off the list.  A young man in a hair net took a long time and really great care making our açaí, slicing a banana into very thin slices, and placing them in a decorative ring on top of 500 ml of açaí in a bowl for me.  500 ml is the Brazilian measure of a "fuckload" of açaí.  He must have known what kind of day we had.  

We make an attempt to go to the party and show at the top of our block, but it's Brazilian pop, and neither of us gives a shit.  We settle on dinner at Ulysses (the restaurant and not the man,) repay our $12 debt to Flavio (he kisses my hand in thanks,) share a passionfruit mousse, and go to sleep so we can be refreshed for our last day in Salvador.

Bushwick in Bahia

Lysia and I spent a lot of the day looking for an ATM machine for me to take money out.  Lysia had about $70 left, and I had exactly zero.  My card wasn't working.  

By the end of the day, Lysia had about $2.  I finally got Chase to fix my card situation, but the ATM is a 20 minute walk uphill.  We decided we'd go to Rio Vermelho, a neighborhood outside of the historic district with bars and clubs.  We'd hail a taxi, have him drive us to an ATM, and then to dinner.

And then it starts pouring rain.  Torrential.  We try to wait it out.  It's still pouring 40 minutes later.  We ask the woman at the hotel for a recommendation close by, but it MUST take cards.  She has a recommendation... Ulysses.  The same name as the guy who tried to make out with me the night before.  it was destiny.  After we'd been waiting 40 minutes, and ther a in didn't lighten up, we asked how far away this restaurant is.

In broken English, she says "a minute and a half walking."

Why didn't we ask 40 minutes ago?

Ulysses is a non-descript restaurant, but the food was very nice.  I ordered a moqueca de peixe, a Bahian coconut-palm oil-vinegar stew.  It costs about USD20. The waiter tells me it is meant for two people, it's too much food.  Meh, how often do i get to eat moqueca?  I'll bring the extra to the hotel room.  There was SO much food.  I barely made a dent.  

This couple we recognized from the hotel walked by and asked us what we were eating.  They only arrived that day and didn't know anything about Brazilian food.  I implored them to try it.  The girl said "this is so strange, eating off a stranger's plate."  Offering a stranger some food off my plate is something I wouldn't normally do at home, either, but when you're traveling it seems like the perfect thing to do.

Bellies full, it's about 11 at night.  We're in a bit of a food coma, but it's too early to go to sleep.  There's a bar that opened across the street from the hotel that hadn't been open the rest of the week.  It looked very bohemian and cute.  We figured if they took cards, we would have one more drink, and if not, we'd turn in.  Lysia is convinced that if we tell them that we are at the hotel across the street, they'll extend us a little line of credit.

I ask the girl at the bar, and she doesn't take cards, but she tells me to go to the "black guy outside with the beard," and ask him if they're open every day.  I guess it's some kind of private joke between them.  His name is Flavio.  I ask Flavio if they're open every day, and he gives me a song and a dance about how they're usually open this day and that (it's normal for bars and restaurants to be closed on a number of days of the week.)  I tell Flavio we really like his bar, and we'll come back tomorrow, because our cards didn't work.  Flavio says "no problem! I'll make you a drink!"  Between Lysias balls and my shitty Portuguese, we now have a line of credit at the bar.

We walk through the crowd, a hip-looking 20-30 something group of brazilians.  One is playing a ukelele.  That's the price of a free drink.  I have to listen to a fucking ukelele all night.  

We look around... It's bushwick.  We're totally in bushwick.  There's some graffiti on the walls, the drinks are really cheap, most people are drinking Skol beer, which Lysia likens to PBR.  There's an old bicycle on the wall for decorative purposes, and the tables are vintage sewing machine tables.  Bushwick.

A crowd slowly builds around ukelele guy, but he's very unassuming and not playing too loudly or drawing attention to himself.  People just seem to like him, and soon there's a crowd of about 6 people in a circle singing Brazilian songs. If he played the Beatles, I would've walked out, but it wasn't terrible at all.

At some point, a guy sitting by himself on the couch starts talking to us in English.  He's probably about 40, and it turns out he was sitting next to us at the restaurant.  He's very nice, and not being aggressive.  Turns out he's actually Argentinian, so that makes sense.  We start talking about dancing, and he says he does a lot of tango.  We all start talking about why tango is hard, about the counterbalance that is required, and how you have to be chest-to-chest.  So to show Lysia what he means, he stands up and takes my hand, and we do a couple of steps of tango at the bar.  Our friend is facing the doorway, and I am facing the bar, where Flavio is, and he looks right at me, shakes his head "no," and gives me the thumbs-down, as to say "oh, no, Cindy, you don't want to be with this guy."   Flavio was really taking care of us that night.

I see this as a sign to go home, as I already had 2 Caipirinhas in me and didn't want to take advantage of flavio's good nature, so I go to the bar and gave Flavio a hug and tell him we'll come by tomorrow.  Flavio now whispers something in my ear that I don't understand, and I'm mildly afraid I've just given an impression I didn't intend.

Maybe he wanted me to go to his habitation. 

You can take an escalator to Big Jesus

The last time I came to Rio, I didn't go to the Big Jesus.

I generally derive no pleasure from seeing super-touristy stuff when I travel.  I was tricked into seeing the Eiffel Tower, I've never been to the Statue of Liberty.   But the Christ the Redeemer statue that looks over all of Rio has always appealed to me.  The idea of a Big Jesus just wanting to give Rio a hug seemed like a nice Jesus.  And, he looks so kind and friendly, almost like the cartoon Jesus in South Park.

Lysia and I, on day 3 of this adventure, still didn't have a proper beach day.  It's been sufficiently hot, but overcast since we arrived, and we had a choice as to whether we wanted to do Big Jesus first or after the beach.  We figured if we didn't see Big Jesus first, it might not happen, and I didn't want to leave Rio twice without seeing Him.  

Our friends at the B&b gave us a couple of options.  One was to take the metro to a bus to a tram, and they told us some price which we promptly forgot.  All we heard was that we HAD to get a combination metro ticket, which was special and different from the declining balance card we had been using,

So we get to the metro, and I ask the woman for the ticket to Corcovado, the mountain where Big Jesus lives.  She confirms that we need this special ticket, and it costs $8.70.

The fare for the metro normally is 3.20.  We take it two stops.  There is no special exit for Corcovado.  We get to the street and get on the bus labeled Corcovado.  There seems nothing special about this bus, and not everyone who is on the bus is going to Big Jesus.  The bus normally is 3.00.  So we bought a combination ticket for 8.70, and we cannot figure out what that extra 2.70 was for and who took notice that we were going to see Big Jesus.

Immediately after getting off the bus, there's a tour tout who is trying to sell us a ticket for a bus that costs $50 that goes quickly up to Big Jesus, and also makes a couple of stops with a good view up the way.  We, the New Yorkers that we are, are all "ain't nobody got time for three stops" and felt like $50 was more than we were quoted.  We say no, and the guy wasn't pushy and gave us a look that we, in retrospect, determined meant "ok, your funeral."

We cross the street to the tram.  Also $50.  Oh well.  We like trams.  

I've heard a number of people tell me that going to see Big Jesus is usually a big let down.  You usually buy tickets online, for a certain times slot, and you get there and have to wait in a long line, and then you get up there and it's so high up and overcast that you don't see anything, anyway.   We get there and the girl tells us that  there is no visibility, and we cannot get our money back, and to make sure we understood, they stamp our ticket in red, in three languages "NO VISIBILITY."  We, like everyone else, go anyway.

The line for the tram is empty, and we're really excited.  It's a 20 minute tram ride up the mountain, and there is nothing to see except foliage and jackfruit.  Lysia swears she sees one bird of prey.  Whatever.  Still fun to be on a tram going up the side of a mountain, even though i realize I am planning my escape route in case the tram crashes like the one in Santa Teresa.  Lysia laughs at me, but I tell her my escape route involves me saving her anyway.

We get up to the top.  We have to pee.  Turns out the toilets don't work because there is no water.  There is a very pretty, sweet, interesting looking Brazilian/Australian girl who is giving us advice on what we should do in Rio while the same time complaining loudly in Australian-accented English that it was very uncool for the woman leaving the toilet to have "dropped a giant poo" in a non-working toilet.  I didn't look, but evidently it was really offensive, because the three women in front of me walked in, and walked back out.

I trusted their instinct, and wondered if it would be ok to pop a squat right next to Big Jesus.  I mean, He sees all, anyway.

We take an elevator up, thinking it is going to be this big ride.  It takes less than 30 seconds.  Then there's a set of escalators.  Lysia is tickled that you can take an escalator to Big Jesus.  In Spain, there is a whole pilgrimage people take walking across the country.  Here, it's an escalator straight to Jesus.

The statue itself is pretty, but looks so much smaller up close than it does from all of the photographs.  Kind of unremarkable.  It's so foggy that He seemed to appear and disappear right in front of us.  It's a little strange.  We read that he's about 98 feet tall and his arms stretch out about the same width, and for a moment i think about that his proportions aren't even close to the Golden Ratio, and that had to be on purpose, and that there had to be a significant part of the construction... Maybe his disproportionate wingspan is meant to give a feeling that his arms were so huge that his welcome seemed more insistent and obvious.  Maybe it's not disproportionate....What the hell was MY wingspan to height ratio?  Maybe it's not off at all.

That's about as religious as I got up in front of Big Jesus.  I was thinking about math.

The BrazilAussie told us she waited two hours to see the clouds clear for the view of the city.  Lysia and I lasted about 15 minutes before i turned to her and and said, "can we go now?" 

Back down the elevator, and there's a working bathroom with WAY TOO MANY PEOPLE for the tram back down.  NOW we understand what the tour operator gives that the tram doesn't.  An expedient exodus from Big Jesus.  We are behind a tour group of 37 Canadian retirees, very worried that they are not going to make it back to their cruise ship in time.  Not more worried than their  Brazilian tour guide carrying the Canadian flag and screaming at tram operator to get moving.  He's sweating through his shirt.  We make friends with a couple of older ladies, who are super sweet, although one tells us how much she hated New York City so much you know, because of the people.  We try to defend New Yorkers, that we're very nice, except, yeah, if we're on the way to work and you're in the way, you should,really get the fuck out of the way.  She remained unconvinced.   We told them we would pray for them, getting back on the cruise ship in time.

Maybe Big Jesus got to us after all.

This is the point in the trip where Lysia becomes completely obsessed with the amount of coins she's amassing and can't seem to get rid of.  We're waiting in line at the metro station to refill our card.  We've got $2.20 on it, and we need a total of $6.40 for our last metro trip in rio.  She excitedly counts out the $4.20, in a large stack of coins, that she's going to give the man at the counter.  Success!  I now feel like that old lady at the grocery store carefully counting every penny, and I get a scary look into our future.   The man tells us that he has to put a minimum of $5 on the card when he reloads.

We're sure he means that the card has to HAVE a minimum of $5, and now we're telling him (patiently) that there's already some money on the card, and there will be a total of more than $5 when we're done.  He (very patiently) tells us that HE must put a minimum of $5 on the card.

Foiled, Lysia now (impatiently) tells him that there will be more than $5 on the card, and that the system is a little ridiculous.  The man is so sweet, never losing his cool.  There's a large line behind us.  No one cares.  I guess brazilians are used to bullshit rules and following them anyway, and the man is just nonplussed at the bullshit and our frustration and large stack of coins.  I plop down a $1 coin, tell Lysia it's not worth it, and the man gives her a little bit of change back.  Lysia just starts laughing.  More fucking coins.

We get some food and make it back to the B&b much later than we thought, about 6 pm.  Daniel and Reana, a couple who works at the B&b, told us they would take us to a "bloco," another rehearsal/party that is up in the Santa Teresa hills, in the favela called "prazerela," or "pleasure."  A favela is a poor or working class community (usually translated as "slum," although I refuse) that is usually run by drug lords.  You cannot enter a favela without being accompanied by someone who lives there, or some kind of organization.  I've never been to one, but I know it's a big deal, so I'm very cautious at first,  it wasn't actually in the favela, just on the outside, and there were plenty of people there from outside the favela.   It was in a roofed recreation center, and, as most favelas are built high into the mountains, had an amazing view of Rio.   Don't know why we needed to go to Big Jesus for the view...we should have just gone straight to the favela.

In fact, the only thing that made it Stand out as something a little... Dangerous.... Was the women's bathroom.  Lysia and I walk in and there's three women, separated by walls and no doors, squatting with long hair draped over the front of their faces.  They were like jail toilets.  Lysia and I say "what the fuck" and squat right down next to them.  I did ok, but Lysia is convinced she peed all over herself and was covered in everyone else's pee, too.  

Another great night of dancing, in front of a good 50 musicians, but in a much more local, block party fashion.  I didn't think I would make it, being that I once again didn't really eat anything of substance since lunch, but a couple of guaraná sodas (energy drinks) and I was good to go.  We narrowly escaped another spell of pouring, soaking, rain, and at this point Lysia and I are convinced we are good luck charms to alleviate the Rio drought.  

We got such amazing treatment at this B&b...everyone who worked there was so sweet and went out of their way to show us a good time, and share in that time with us.  Sad to leave Rio, but very excited to go to Salvador da  Bahia for some beach time, some African-origin Brazilian food, and a lot more samba.

Pre-carnaval, better than carnaval

The 9.5 hour flight to rio took off without a hitch.  This was shocking.  There was a big snowstorm the day before, that continued into the morning, and so many people's flights had been canceled and delayed that the line to get through security was, longer than I'd ever seen it.  It took an hour just to get through.

Our flight left on time, despite my mom telling me there a a 2.5 hour delay.

Our bed and breakfast is in Santa Teresa, a bohemian, artsy neighborhood on a hill a bit away from the beach.  I had fallen in love with this part of rio on my first trip here, and even though it's a little way from the beach, I knew Lysia would love it.  The B&b has local art all over it, and murals painted by friends of the owner, and soda-bottle terrariums all over the place.

And, strangely, a lot of Jesus.  Our little room looks a little like what a convent might, with small, separate twin beds, an old dresser with a cracked mirror, "fixed" with two clear stickers that say "Jesus."  We also discovered a random Jesus head on a wood panel above the entrance.  

In rio, Jesus is, almost literally, everywhere.

Our first day involved an unceremonious amount of walking, lysia's introduction to Brazilian things: açaí, pão de queijo, coxinha, aipim, the ubiquitous fruit juice stands.  Waiting for buses that never arrive.  Looking for the tram that Santa Teresa is famous for, only to discover that three years ago, there was a a horrible brake failure that resulted in a crash, a number of deaths, many injured, and a lasting distaste and distrust of Brazilian government.  

Lysia is beyond impressed with my shitty Portuguese, mostly because I think she is confusing my stammering mmmmmmm and uhhhhhhhhs as actual Portuguese words, but it was enough to allow this wonderful woman to negotiate five of us sharing a cab up the hill to the B&b when the bus never came.

We get back to the B&b, and I am pretty freaked out that I look at my iPad and realize that the time on my watch doesn't match.  Did I really spend the entire day an hour off?  I'm on vacation, so it doesn't matter, really, but I couldn't stop thinking about how I must have spent the whole day being wrong about this time.   Lysia was trying to tell me she read that daylight savings time had started in rio, but I didn't understand it until the morning.  Daylight saving started that evening.  Never underestimate the power of jet lag.

One of the staff of the B&b, Marco, tells us he is taking a whole group of people to a carnival practice the next day, and asks us if we'd like to go.  This is why I always prefer to stay in hostels or small B&bs, because if you find a good one, they show you a lot more than you would ever find on your own.  So Lysia and I, a couple from Italy, a couple from LA, a mom and daughter from Germany, and a 6-pack of gorgeous, young, Canadian lesbians venture out to see some carnival practice.

Carnival in brazil is big business.  To be in the stands costs hundreds of dollars, so only tourists and the rich go.  Everyone else, according to Marco, goes to the weekly practices that are free to attend.  The new stadium holds about 60,000 people, and it was expected that about 40,000 people would attend that night.  

Rio was seeing its first rain in a month, and it stopped no one, including us.  Pouring rain.  For hours.  We get to the stands and momentarily decide we'd be ok without the ponchos everyone else was buying.  The second we gave in, it starts pouring.  FOR HOURS.  We're dancing, and the movement renders the ponchos useless, and it just doesn't matter.  People of all ages, sizes, many wearing teeny-tiny amounts of clothing and 4-inch hooker heels are dancing samba in the pouring rain, singing the songs they've committed to memory, over and over again.  Old people, newborn babies, out in the pouring rain.  Brazilians are tough motherfuckers.

There's a woman next to us who has not stopped dancing... She's got to be 55 years old wearing short-shorts and high heels, singing, smiling... Once the first set of drums go by I start dancing, but I quickly run out of steam.  I hadn't eaten anything of substance, and I was sure I was dehydrated.  She says to me, in Portuguese slow and clear enough so I could understand her, "you are DONE.  Me, they call me 'the battery', because I keep going."  We are hysterical.  I tell her, hoping my Portuguese, was correct, "vôce é minha heroina."  She laughs heartily and hugs me and I figure I got it about right.  Another girl in front of us dancing calls me over to dance with her.  It's magical.

We take a break in a shelters area, and the group of people next to us bust out a HUGE chocolate cake topped with truffles or profiteroles or something, and had a firecracker for a candle.  They're singing happy birthday in Portuguese, and we're humming and clapping along next to them, and they start slicing some cake for us on napkins, imploring us to take some.  I have my Invisalign in, and nowhere to stow it, so I politely decline.  The birthday girl rubs her belly, tells me I'm too thin and I need to eat some cake.  Invisalign be damned... I hug and Kiss her wish her a happy birthday, and devour that cake.

We danced and stood in the rain for hours, and Marco, who speaks 7 languages and seems to know everyone in rio, takes us to an area roped off so that we can enter the samba school and dance behind them.  He is intensely negotiating, and it doesn't happen as quickly as he wants, but at some point they let us in.  We are now dancing in the actual path that the schools will take during the actual carnival.  We're exhausted, soaked to the bone, and beyond thrilled at the experience.

We go to a cafe for a midnight snack, and without Marco's consultation, in Portuguese, I order a caipirinha and a large order of fried yuca to share.  Marco gives me the thumbs up and a wink.  

 A tiny bit of Portuguese, a love of dance and music, and passion for yuca is all it takes to fit in, it seems.  Lysia and I did right by the brazilians, I think, even though I don't think I can handle any more fried yuca for a while.  

Jazz in Rio

I was feeling a little grumpy last night. The weather had been uncooperative for a good number of days at this point, rainy, chilly, overcast. I am getting tired of being underdressed (I forgot to bring even one pair of long pants) and everything I had to wear that is the least bit appropriate for a night out has no sleeves. I buck up, because it's at least not POURING as it was all last night, and it's our last saturday night in Brazil.

Justin dresses me up in his jeans and we run off to Leblon.

We discovered Leblon just the night before. Rio's zona sul is comprised of three connected beach areas: Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon. Copacabana is where our apartment is, and is the most lowbrow. At night, the street we're on and Avenida Atlantica (the beach road) is full of beggars and prostitutes. Ipanema is a little more luxurious, and Leblon even more so.

We walked around Leblon and quickly found a street that was the site of a jazz festival earlier in the day. I told Justin that it would have been disappointing. He was unconvinced, and probably a bit perturbed. He's wanted to hear good jazz for a bit now, and we've found samba, bossa nova, salsa, rock, axe, but not jazz.

A couple of more steps and I see a beautiful bar with a bassist beginning to unzip his bag.

Esch cafe is a beautiful, classy, cigar bar. The place was packed, tables of wealthy-looking older people smoking away, drinking champagne and whisky. Justin walks into the humidor at the front of the cafe and selects a cuban cigar.

They're terrific, but Justin is disappointed that he can't speak enough portuguese to talk to the singer, Pery Ribeiro about how great he was. Only briefly though, as he passes by and speakks to a couple of women in perfect English.

As Justin's talking to Pery, a handsome older gentleman named Mario starts chatting with me, also in perfect English. This was the first time anyone had spoken to any of us in more than a couple of words in English. He's funny, warm, opinionated. "I hate New York," he says, "New York is broken. The United States is broken. The states voted for George Bush." We toast to Obama, and continue taking through the next couple of sets.

Sometimes you gotta be your own bossa

Not understanding Portuguese is a pain in the ass.

I don't know what it is, whether it's that they speak fast here, or they're using a sick amount of contractions, or I just can't seem to figure out what anyone is saying to me, but unless people speak VERY slowly, I have no friggin' idea what anyone is saying.

It seems we're doing better figuring everything out. Trial and error is your friend.

The most complicated aspect to me seems to be the bus system. There are a ton of buses, and many of them go in the same general direction, but take different routes. Buses run frequently all day and night.

We tried to take a bus to see the "city of samba," a museum dedicated to samba. We asked the bus driver if the bus was going to the street on which it was located. He says yes. After about 1/2 hour, we ask the attendant if the "city of samba" was up ahead. He says yes, and tells us to get off. Turns out we were nowhere near it, and we had gone about 20 minutes past where it was.

We took a bus to Porcao, which is a well-known restaurant. I asked the bus attendant, and he had no idea. We got off too late, and had to walk along the water at night, beautiful but desolate. It must have been about 1/2 mile off.

We got on one bus and completely missed copacabana. Wound up in Leblon.

On a positive note, Justin figured out that the Cinelandia metro stop is just a couple of blocks from Lapa, our favorite neighbohood for nightlife.

And just when we thought we had it all figured out, we take the minivan that follows the general direction of the buses, and we get off way too early and wind up where the hookers and trannies hang out.

The most elusive to me is the cafeteria down the block. I went in to order a cafezinho and a donut. She gives it to me, and nicely informs me that the next time, I needed to get a ticket and pay first. Was I supposed to get a ticket from her, pay the cashier, then go back to her with the receipt? I still really have no clue.

I've come to the conclusion that much like New Yorkers, people in Rio are really happy to give their opinions on the matter, even if they have no idea what the hell they are talking about.

Also, I should use the phrase "slower, please" (mais devagar) a hell of a lot more often.

Justin and I went to Lapa last night (again... we love it there) to hear some music and have a mellow night out.

Lapa, on a Friday night, is insane. There's no other way to put it. Right under the Arcos de Lapa (the aqueduct) there is a street party. It's very casual, just hordes of people getting drunk and hanging out. There's food stalls and one beverage cart after the next. It's a meat market, and three tries tried to grab or talk to me, even though I was holding Justin's hand. There's a park full of drunk people, bar after bar, lots of music venues.

But this was Saturday, and with the line to the Scenarium, a gorgeous multi-level restaurant and club, about 200 people long, we wound up at Hotel Livradio, a little restaurant with a guitarist and drummer playing samba.

We order a pizza, and he asks me if I want it cut (I think) and it arrives cut into teeny bite-size squares. Really wouldn't have figured that one out.

It must have been near the end of their night when we arrived, because soon after he started taking requests. All american songs, starting off with, of course, Michael Jackson. He doens't know the words, so he's laughing, and I'm mumbling some of them, Justin and I cracking up. This blonde woman, sitting at the front, starts pointing and yelling at me "she knows!! go!" gesturing for me to sing. Hell no.

This goes on for a while, the guy trying to sing american songs, her turning around at me, us laughing (partly due to a combination of whisky and cachaca) and now the guy is totally pointing at us and teasing us, because he knows we don't understand anything he's saying (except when he said "and now, they're saying 'fuck you, man!!'". This I understood.)

So, he's done, and he walks over to try to sell us a CD, and Justin says one of the 10 complete sentences he's picked up in his short week and a half here.

"Eu toco a violao."

The guy drags Justin by the hand to the stage, puts a mike in his face, and demands he plays AND sings.

Justin protests a bit, plays one of the few songs he knows the words to, and then plays three bossa nova standards. Beautifully. Everyone in the place is turning to me and saying "He plays bossa?!?!"

I've guess I've also figured out that if you say "I play the guitar" to someone with a guitar in your hand, you'd damn well better expect to play that thing.

I cannot figure this place out.

I am disappointed in myself.

I speak Spanish, I took a class in Portuguese, I went to Brasil a couple of years ago.

I should have this place figured out by now. Mais, nao.

I cannot understand a thing anyone says to me.

I can barely figure out how shit works here.

I've got a couple of things figured out. At the kilo restaurants, before you enter, you tell the person at the door whether you want the all-inclusive thing (rodizio) or just the buffet. They give you a different ticket depending on which you ask for. If you're getting the buffet, you get your food, go to the weighing station (balancar) with your ticket, and they write down what the buffet costs.

You sit down, a waiter comes by and asks you if you want a drink, or dessert, and if you order any of these things, they mark it off on your ticket. At the end of your meal, you pay at the cashier (caixa), and let the doorperson have it so they let you you.

It took two tries to get this figured out. I would say I had it figured out after the first place we went to, but at the second restaurant I accidentally stole a passionfruit mousse. Oops.

All the buffet places work this way. A lot of the music places work this way, too. We went out for a night of samba at chopperia brazooka last week, and the system was almost the same. There's a cover... they give you a ticket with your name on it, and whatever drinks and snacks you order, they just mark off the tag. hopefully your drunken ass doesn't lost the thing, or they charge you the equivalent of USD100 instead of what you owe.

This is about ALL I've got figured out.

We wento to Porcao last night. Porcao is one of the most expensive, if not the most expensive rodizios in Rio. There are three or so, and the guide book recommends that we go to the one in Flamengo because it has great views. I also happen to live three blocks from a branch of the restaurant at home.

All was well and good until Justin orders a whisky off the booze cart. He orders Johnny Walker Red (hoping that Red was less pricey than the black). Instead of the guy pouring Justin a drink, he comes back with a fresh new unopened bottle and a whole bucket of ice. Of course, I panic, thinking the guy is giving us a whole bottle of Johnny Walker, so I say "Uma botelha- nao!" The guy, sensing my panic, basically tells me to calm down and shows that there is a strip of ruler taped onto the side of the bottle. We could drink as much as we wanted, and he would count the number of doses we took. I was in the moment unconvinced, and tell him to just take it away. He and Justin laugh at me, as I'm sure he's now thinking I'm the overbearing girlfriend who won't let her boyfriend drink. (Turns out that Johnny walker red, even at this expensive place, only costs about $8 a glass.)

Porcao is a great place. The meat was incredible. My favorite resaurant in NYC is Churrascaria Plataforma, but at $60 a person, I only go about once a year. There were a bunch of different cuts of meat at the Rio porcao that they don't have at home, but all of it amazing. There was a server named Rui who, even though we had the little tag up that said "NAO OBRIGADO" meaning "STOP WITH THE FUCKING CARNAGE ALREADY" kept coming by and joking with us about eating more meat. Maybe it was the untoppable giggling from the meat coma I was in, maybe it was because we clearly were from somewhere else. He spoke English in a broken, announcer style with a portuguese accent. He was hilarious. And Justin just couldn't say no to whatever he brought by. Ostrich, chicken hearts, whatever, and even though it was clear we wanted only a little, if anything at all, Rui kept dumping it on our plate. It was 10:30 and the place was starting to clear out. He then says "OK, so you want to see the kitchen??" He brings us into the kitchen, and the next thing we know we've got skewers of meat in out hands and they're holding my purse and taking pictures of us. Amazing place.

By the way, if you go, ignore your guide book. You just DO NOT walk here. There is no clear sign to get there, there is no walking path. The valet and taxi drivers are waiting outside, and they looked at us like we were nuts when we started walking away.

There's so much I can't figure out. There's a billion busses, and even though I've tried asking the bus driver and the attendant where we get off, we (or, more likely, they) are always wrong. We tried to go to the "city of samba" museum, and even though we asked a guy where to get off, and listened, we wound up, literally, outside of Rio. We took a wrong bus from Porcao last night, and even though it said "Copacabana," we missed it and wound up at the terminal stop at the end of Ipanema. Completely confused, we got off the bus and the next bus says it's going to "Cidade da Deus" which is the dangerous favela documented in the Brazilian film that became popular all over. We didn't take that bus, and eventually found our way back.

Even though it seems that I can't get a handle on how anything is done, the people here are really patient and understanding. No one has yelled, or rolled their eyes, or told us to hurry up, or get out of their way. It would be a lot more helpful if they spoke Portuguese a hell of a lot slower, but they speak really fast and don't speak too much English.

We've got two more weeks. It just might take us that long.

Don't even get me started on the busses.

A gem of a day

Today is my last full day in Salvador. I'm feeling a throat infection coming on, so I decided to meet Sinead for a lovely lunch at a kilo place that has a nice patio down the block.

She says, "My pousada owner recommended this secret place just across the way from your hostel. I want to look at some at the imperial topaz that are only mined in Brasil."

We ring a bell. We have to pass through three different locked doors. We are met by this lovely woman who speaks perfect English. She brings us through this very exclusive looking showroom and says, "Do you have some time, or would you like to just see the stones?"

It's Brasil. Of course we have time.

She orders one of the workers in the store to bring us cafezinhos. Proper espressos. They brought it to us on a tray.

She goes through a half-hour presentation of the history of mining of emeralds in Brasil. She shows us pictures, on her ginormous flat-screen computer monitor, of their particular mine and their workers, searching for emeralds. The shows us rocks that have emeralds in it. Rocks that don't. She explains that you need very specific conditions to produce an emerald. The black volcanic rock and the white quartz must press together to form the emerald. It was like "the miracle of birth." The birth of an emerald.

She then rings for Francois. He is the gem expert.

Sinead says something about not being sure if she is actually going to buy something. I said I was only there to accompany her. He says something about not being a salesperson, really. The gems sell themselves. Sometimes you have a stone that's been in your family for 17 generations, and one day the owner walks in. Most people come in not having any intent to buy anything. Usually they walk out with something. Or maybe they don't. No bother.

He brings out a tray of quartz, organized in a grid. He turns on his electronic scale, which is attached to the computer, and the weight and conversion chart to dollars and euros appears. The quartz is, well, quartz. Practically glass. Unremarkable.

Followed by topaz. Blue topaz, the only stone they carry that's not mined in Brazil, and whose color is not natural.

Then a tray of tourmalines.

Amethysts.

Followed by aquamarines.

Traysandtraysandtrays.

He has a tray with nothing on it save a piece of white butcher paper that lines the tray. From each tray of stones that emerge, he takes a stone that elicite an "ooh," weighs it, places it on the blank tray and writes the price next to it. By the time we're done, we have a tray in front of us of the prices and varieties of all the stones we really liked.

He works his way through the trays, from the basic quartz to the ultimate... the emerald. He showed us emeralds that costs 1700 dollars a carat. He showed us topaz that cost $5 a carat. He put some of the more expensive varieties next to less expensive. Sometimes there seemed to be a difference. Sometimes there did not. He emphasized that if you cannot tell the difference, get the cheaper one. He says that for most people, the sentiment of the gift is much more valuable than the cost of the stone.

He is the anti-salesman.

He is witty, funny, charming. He knows his shit. In a tray full of stones, if one gets out of place, he can look at it and just know where it belongs. He doesn't pressure us in the least. He speaks 6 languages. He has been doing this his whole life. I can't imagine EVER BUYING JEWELRY IN ANY OTHER FASHION.

I needed a bathroom break and a second espresso.

Sinead couldn't decide. She had an appointment, leaving me there alone, enchanted, poorer than I was yesterday. She's be back, though, ad I know she's at her dance class, dreaming of pink kunzite.

Oh, did I mention that they can make the setting of your choice, in silver or gold, in less than a day?

I must have something.

This kind of personal attention, in New York, is unheard of. Not that I have ever BEEN in a store in New York like this, but I imagine if the owner spent TWO AND A HALF hours of his time educating you, browsing with you, letting you go back and forth... Once you've picked a stone type, he calls his worker in the back to bring packages of the stone in the same shape, different sizes and qualities... We saw millions of dollars worth of jewels. I would imagine that if you didn't buy something, they would be quite annoyed.

I'll never know if Francois would get annoyed, as I did not walk out empty handed.

In the end, I practically apologized for not being able to afford more. I fell in love with a bicolor green/pink tourmaline that I could just not justify for myself. It's ridiculous that my last day in Salvador I spent shopping for jewels indoors, but it was one of the most fun days I've had here.

D.Klay Gems and Arts
Largo da Cruz do Pascoal #27
St. Antonio alem do Carmo
0055-71 32428188 or 3241-2320
Salvador - Bahia - Brazil CEP 40301-405
www.brazilgems.com.br
dklay@terra.com.br

Awesome Things to Eat in Bahia

And yes, I have eaten all of these things. The food is very rich, very delicious, usually very affordable. I've eaten Bahian food every day, for every meal, just about, and I am not remotely sick of it and do not have a hankering for ANYTHING from back home.

Acai na tigela: acai is a huge amazonian blueberry-like fruit that they serve freezing cold, in a bowl, with granola and bananas. I ate it for breakfast, but they eat it all day long. Very refreshing and nutritious (although they load it with sugar, so who knows?)

Empada: I love anything in a crust. Uma empada is anything in a crust. They are a bit dry, but I like them that way. Besides, the brazilians seem to like slathering it with ketchup and/or mayo, which is just gross in any country.

Coxinha: A fist-sized teardrop-shaped fried thing stuffed with (dry) chicken.

Acaraje and abara: Black-eyed pea mash, fried (acaraje, the better of the two) or boiled (abara), served by a Baian women in traditional white dress and turban. They split it up the middle, and fill it with vatapa, a shrimp and dende-oil paste. They cost anywhere from 1 to 4 reals, depending on the neighborhood and if you want it com or sem shrimp. Order it spicy (picante) or not. note: The shrimp are heads-off but shells-on, which horrified the young brit at the hostel. He couldn't imagine why anyone would eat shells, as pulling the shells off the shrimp was the whole point of it all. Silly boy.

Sorvete: Brazilian ice cream. My personal opinion: the hierarchy of ice cream goes something like this: Italian gelato is the big winner, with Spanish gelado coming in a close second. Brazilian ice cream is a tie with Argentine, depending on whether you prefer exotic fruits (Brazil) or crazy dulce de leche flavors (argentina.) American ice cream lags far behind, unless you consider Chinatown ice cream factory ice cream. Flavors I've had: milho verde (sweet corn. It's buttery!), coco, graviola (also known as soursop or guanabana), maracuja (passionfruit, the brazilian passion), banana carmelada, amendoim crocante (chunky peanut butter,) the ubiquitous tiramisu. My favorite to try was cupuacu, some Brazilian fruit Sean didn't like, but told me I had to try it. I asked for it at the ice-cream place, and the asked "Are you sure? You should try it first." He was right. It was odd.

Comida a kilo: You know those buffets they have by the pound in Korean delis? Same thing, except in a restaurant. And all the food is Brazilian. Costs anywhere from 1.30 per 100 grams and up, depending on the day and the neighborhood. My favorite way to eat here. Fast, cheap, and you can have a little of this, a little of that... Perfect for the harried or the indecisive. Oh, you weigh it first, then you eat (don't lose the ticket!!) then you pay. Weird. There's one called O Quilombo on Avenide Sete de Setembro that's pretty good and one called "Komida a Kilo" on Largo de Carmo (right around the corner from my hostel) that is good, cheap, and has a couple of tables overlooking the bay.

Stuff from the corn cart: All over, there are guys selling corn (milho) from a cart. They sell ears of corn, sweet and delicious I've heard, except that I can't eat corn on the cob because of my fake tooth. Also from the cart, there are two types of corn product. One looks like a tamale, it's a sweet corn pudding wrapped in a corn husk. The other is some corn-flavored tapicoa (?) thing, chewier in texture, wrapped in a banana leaf. Both are delicious. I have no idea what they're called. They'll ask you if you want it for now (agora), in which case they'll slice it open for you.

Dessert: Eat it. Whatever it is, it is bound to be good. Budim (flan) made wither from milk or from sweet corn. Moist cakes made from tapioca, covered with sweetened condensed milk. Casadinhos are balls made of two kinds of sweetened condensed milk, condensed further, rolled in sugar. Get the smallest one possible. They're tooth-rotting sweet. Sonhos (Donuts) the size of sandwiches. Share with a friend. Or make one.

This may be the proudest day of my life

I never really studied in high school. That is, until the AP BC Calc exam senior year. We got to the part about shells and discs, if anyone remembers what thats about, and I found it very difficult. Every problem, I would say "I can't find the length and the width." The teacher, Mr. Skouras, would calmly tell me how each time, but I just didn't get it. Finally, one of the other kids in my class said "oh my god, STILL? What's wrong with you?"

It was that moment I vowed I was going to kick his and every other kid's ass in that class on that exam.

I studied day and night. I would be in math class, working on whatever Mr. Skouras assigned, and at the same time, would be working from my Kaplan review book. Mr. Skouras walked over to my desk one day, to peer over at the mountain of papers I was furiously working on (probably thinking I was writing more notes to pass to my friends), to find that it was math. All math. He gave a somewhat surprised and pleased look and walked away.

I got a 5, the best possible score. It may have been the proudest day in my life.

Until today.

I went to Escola de danca, the most professional operation in Pelo, to take an afro-brasilian dance class. I took Ulrika, the Swedish girl I've been hanging with, and this Danish girl tagged along. The class next door was just finishing, and the music and dancing was so fast, we were totally intimidated. We told ourselves that maybe it was the progressive class for real dancers.

The class we took was what I would consider very basic level, but it was very physically demanding. We were sweating like crazy after just 10 minutes. The dance steps he chose were simple to follow, but the strength training portion was really painful. There were brazilians and foreigners in the class.

Many African-based dance styles have a posture that is completely opposite to much traditional dance. In ballet, for example, the hips are tucked under and the stomach is pulled in. In African dance, the butt is thrust out, the knees are slightly bent, and the shoulders are back.

I'm in the back of the class, the appropriate place to be in a dance class that's new to you, or if it's a level that's too difficult. Otherwise, the instructor will often MOVE YOU to the back, and that's very embarrassing. So I'm the last one to move across the floor, and the teacher looks at me with a sideways glance as I move to the back of the room again.

He calls me forward.

He tells me to do it again.

He says, in portuguese, "THIS! THIS is what your bunda (ass) is supposed to look like when you do it! Do it again!"

I'm an American in Brasil, and he uses MY ASS as as an exemplar.

This definitely beats the 5 on the AP calc exam.

I get back to the hostel, read my email. I got an email from the editor of the National Council of Teachers of Mathematics magazine that I subscribe to. My alternate solution to a problem I had submitted to the editor a while back is going to be published in the magazine.

Math and booty, coming full circle.

The best night dancing of my life

I went to the Sunday practice session of Olodum, the favorite Bloco Afro (carnival dance group) of Salvador. They gained international notoriety playing with Paul Simon some years back. The practice is FOUR HOURS OF NONSTOP DRUMMING, although some of the drummers substitute out throughout the practice. It costs $10.

Not only is the drumming amazing, deafening and completely overwhelming, there are the same group of dancers that show up at all these dance events in Pelo, leading people in the carnival dances. It's the same afro-brasilian type dancing that I do in New York, so I was very excited.

I was dancing next to these guys, and (although I took it with the same grain of salt I have learned to accept all Brazilian compliments with) one of them told me I danced like a Brazilian. And he didn't even try to get into my pants, so it may have been close to the truth!! One of them will lead a step, and the rest of us follow, and so on, for hours. I stood right next to them and danced for HOURS. I was completely drenched with sweat, entranced.

It was the best night of dancing in my life.

"My heart is yours": dancing disappointent in Pelo

Sometimes, when traveling, I have these grandiose plans of doing everything there is on offer... and then I kick myself when I look back and have only done a fraction.

I had planned to dancedancedance. I had this idea that I was going to take dance classes all day, and go out dancing at night. I was going to finally learn that samba thing that americans can't seem to pick up.

It's been just over a week since I arrived, and I have hardly done any of it.

With Sinead's help, I found two dance schools. One is Escola da Danca, located off the Rua de Oracao near the Terreiro de Jesus. This is the dance school with the most classes. There are two types of classes: ones you have to sign up for the month (or longer, I'm not sure) and "cursos livres" which you can join on any particular day. Unfortunately, there are at most two classes per day. One is at 6:30 and the other is at 7:30. They have classes in Blocos afros, afro-brasileiro, samba, and a couple of others I wasn't terribly interested in. It's expensive (by Brasilian standards) at 20 Reals per hour of class. Classes are only Monday - Thursday.

Sinead told me there was a samba class there at 4 yesterday, but it wasn't listed on the posted schedule. So between my lack of great portuguese and the guard's not giving two shits about me or making the studio money, I thought it didn't exist and went home. Sinead said it was brand new.

Another school is the Diaspora Center, located around the corner. The classes are an hour and a half, for 15 reals, although by the time the teacher started, it was really an hour an 10 minutes. Better for me, really, cause I can never commit to 1 1/2 hours of class (he said he was waiting for others to show up... only two of us had showed up that day.) I took a class in Orixa dance. In a candomble ceremony, each orixa has a certain dance that is reflects its attributes. The dances are not terribly energetic, and this class hadn't kicked my ass in quite the manner I was hoping. Not that I was any good at what I was doing, it just wasn't very high-energy. They have one, maybe two classes a night, at the same time as the other school! Also only monday - thursday.

The third is the Obispo center for dance, located at Rua do obispo, just off Praca da se. It has dance classes at night, although I was more interested in the african dance class they have on Monday and Wednesday at 11 am! I'll try to get my butt over there on Monday.

This is also the place when I went dancing last week and last night. Every saturday, they have some live band and dancing in their studio space. Last night was samba. My samba is improving, although it looks nothing like the dancing of the girls here, who seem to float on the floor while moving their tiny, compact asses in every possible direction. It really is a sight.

Pelorinho, often called Pelo, is not Salvador. Salvador is a big city, almost none of which I have truly experienced. I just don't want to leave Pelo. There are clubs on the beach, but that is quite a distance away, and getting there is not too much of a problem, but I'm worried about returning late at night. Also, there is free amazing music here in Pelo all night, every night, right on my backyard. I am happy here. People take day or weekend trips to islands where the beaches are more tranquil, more nature-filled. I have no interest in traveling to a remote place to enjoy nature. Pelo's a small town, but it's vibrant, and I'm a city girl at heart. "Getting away from it all" to me, is going to a smaller city.

I recognize so many of the men here already. When you go to these dance events, there's the same group of amazing male (and female, but mostly male) dancers showing off amazing dance moves in groups, or pairs. Imagine the recurring dancers from "Soul Train," my dad's favorite show in the 80's. At some point, each of them goes off to dance with a different tourist. The guy who came to dance with me was the best dancer I had ever seen. I must have danced 5 different stlyes of dance with him by the time all was said and done. A salsa song came on and he said "I really don't know how to dance salsa" and his salsa was better than mine could ever be. I really wanted to see what he could do, but he kept letting me dance in a certain way, and he would imitate it, probably to be flattering. I'm a good dancer, but he was AMAZING.

We must have gotten through about 5 songs before he said to me, in portuguese "My heart is yours."

Oh, now, why'd you have to go ruin it??

Another dance later, and I snuck out of the club to go home. Then the guy from last week sees me and says "I'm arriving, and you're going home??" Argh.

I have about 5 1/2 more days here before I'm off to Buenos Aires, for tango and meat, and I hope it's enough to feel like I've gotten the full Bahis experience.

Although the full Pelo experience seems to involve waking up next to a guy in a favela, which another girl here did the other night. Ack.

Candomble... the ceremony that ends with a big fucking donut.

I went to a candomble ritual today with Sinead and a bunch of others from the hostel. Candomble is an african-based polytheistic religion where the gods are called orixas. Practitioners often are dressed all in white. This particular group was from the yoruba nation, originally from Nigeria. We had a guide who picked us up, drove us there and back, and gave us whatever explanation we needed, for $20.

There was lots of drumming, a lot of old women dressed in big white lace dresses, further wrapped in colorful cloth. The cloth is wrapped tight to hold in the spirits. They walked in and out of the house backwards. They danced with their eyes closed. There was random screaming. Singing. Hugging. The drumming was less energetic than it was trans-like... repetitive beats, accompanied by singing in yoruba. This went on for about an hour and a half, and then they passed out plates of food if you wanted to eat (I had a rather bad meat pastry already outside the house of worship.) Then there was a clothes change, followed by more of the same. Except they were danced dressed as certain orixas that they have "received." The initiated members have all "received" a particular deity, and dress in that fashion. That's about all I picked up from this journey... there was so much going on that I didn't understand, but it was very interesting. Odd. Good. But long, and I had to stand which I hate.

They had some fine looking Brazilian desserts, which are only sold in gargantuan proportions. I ask the lady for a Sonho (donut) filled with Doce de Leite (Dulce de leche). This donut was, no exaggeration, 2 pounds. Dense and doughy, rolled in cinnamon sugar. $1.

The candomble was fine, but it was a glorious donut.

Samba and Forro

I spent a long day of finding a "nice beach" outside of town called Itapua, only to turn right back around and come back. By the time I got there (about an hour's bus ride,) the weather had gone south. I had an abara (the same as an acaraje, only the bean mash is boiled in a banana leaf) and took the bus right back.

Jenny managed to drag me off my ass, having been tired from nothing, to take a "free samba dance class" at the School of Angola Capoeira. It was a very basic class, but it was exactly what I needed to finally learn that crazy move that defines samba and differentiates it from the other african style dances I have learned. The one where their little asses are moving in a thousand different directions, but you're not really sure how because their upper body is completely still and relaxed. At the end of the lesson (which turned out not to be free at all, but a very cheap $5.50, something I expected but seemed to piss off the english girls on a tight budget) I think I had a pretty good grasp of it. Very exciting, considering that I had planned to spend my days taking dance classes, and I hadn't yet done it in the 6 days since my arrival. There's just so much to see and so much going on...

I met Sinead, an Irish girl who just came from Buenos Aires (which just saw its first snowfall since 1918. Fuck!), who is essentially doing the same trip I am, in reverse. She spent 2 weeks in BA learning tango, and is spending the next 3 in Salvador to learn tango! She is also traveling sozinha (the delightful portuguese terms for being alone, but not ALONE) so we made plans to start going to classes together! She's done some research and has also been a bit put off that the classes are not so organized or easy to find.

Tuesday night is THE night to go out in Salvador. Every Tuesday there is some kind of free music performance at a large set of stairs in the center of town (which we were just a bit late for), followed by a percussion disply. Olodum, very famous percussion group (they re eived international notoriety after performing with Paul Simon on some tour) owns this town. They played in the street while a group of locals and tourists followed three amazing dancers in some routine that they put together. It was awesome.

After that, off to the main square to hear some live forro. Forro is a partner dance that is very similar to cumbia, which is close to west-coast swing... lots of one and two-handed turns. Then they mix in a little lambada, where the legs were the bodies are very close, and the legs sandwich each other, and there is a small grinding motion. Lastly, there is an "aerial" move which I can't really describe with words.

We met up at the square, where this one brazilian guy was sitting with a group of the english girls and some American guy with a real gift for accents. The guy kept trying to teach the english girls Forro, whoch they did not like so much, so they shoved him in my direction, telling him I was an excellent dancer. (They whispered "sorry!" and giggled..)

This guy was an excellent dancer. I picked it up right away, including the little aerial bit. I danced a couple of songs before the intense headache I woke up to returned.

The best part about dancing in Brazil is it seems to be the only thing that, ironically, stops the Brazilian men from trying to get in your pants.

This guy could not have been older than 17, yet had this way of asking everyone how old they were before inventing an age he wanted to be.

Walking in town at night bring on a lot of touching. Not even flirting, which would be fine. It goes from touching to making out. If you're lucky, there may be a few words of conversation or a dance.

I am now pretending I speak and understand no portuguese.

One guy came up to me, told me I was beautiful, and I looked at him like I didn't understand him, and Jenny took over. She said I had a boyfriend, that she had a boyfriend, and the third girl we were with had one as well. He literally said "Do you know anyone who doesn't have one??"

Then Alex approached me, and he didn't speak any english, but he spoke very good spanish. He said he liked me because I danced with such "happiness and spirit." There was no touching, so I talked a bit longer. He works on a boat, and told me he'd take me on a boat ride to Morro de Sao Paulo, a popular island that's a ways away from Salvador. Free, he said.

Uh-huh.

We spoke for a couple of minutes, and he said he'd really like to take me out. I said I had a boyfriend. He said he had a girlfriend. Then he asked me for a kiss. Just one. Hmmph.

The crazy thing about it is they really don't need to act this way. They are all gorgeous, with terrific bodies. Perhaps if the foreigners would stop screwing them...

There was some really good salsa playing at a local club, but I decided I had enough touching for one evening. Jenny and Naomi got a meat on a stick, grilled up by some woman on the street and we made our way back.

The worst tattoo ever.

I have been hanging out with the gaggle of young English girls, and I've become pretty fond of Jenny, perhaps the coolest 19-year old I've known since I was 19. They're all part of some English program called "gap year" or something like that, where they fly off to some country to do a volunteer program of some form of another. Jenny taught English in Parana.

Jenny got a tattoo on her ankle and a particularly gruesome tongue piercing in Sao Paolo. The guy gave her something to numb her tongue, except it didn't work, and then he used a needle instead of a gun. Ick. Being 19 , a number of them got a tattoo as well.

And being 19, some of them are making poor choices.

One chose a tattoo that was just words, no art.

It said, "Woo-Hoo!"

Woo-hoo indeed.

"So I wake up next to this guy at the favela..."

Dancing
There was a "flamenco and rumba" concert at one of the cultural centers the other night. It was a fusion band that was mostly flamenco, and I don't know how much rumba, but it was really amazing. I went with about 10 people from the hostel: a gaggle of British girls (average age 20) a pair of swedish girls, and one guy named Sean who lives on Bleecker street in NYC.

Finally. Some dancing.

I danced my little heart out. Quite effectively, from what the brits told me. I danced with some guys, a little too close for my liking, but that seems to be how it's done here. There was none of that gross stuff from the night before...they really like the ladies, but evidently they like the dancing just a touch more. I left at about 2 in the morning, which was about the time that the brazilians were choosing their foreign make-out partners for the evening.

The next morning, one of the the Swedish girls had the best opening line for a story:

"So I'm waking up to the guy in the favela...."

(A favela is a pretty dangerous shanty-town, often run by drug lords, fyi)

The favela room had no wall, so she was getting rained on in the middle of the night. Then it took him two hours to take her home (you can't just walk around a favela unaccompnaied by a favela-dweller because it's too dangous) because it was raining so he didn't feel like working...

Ah, Brazil.

Bargaining at the beach
I had my first day at the beach. The closest beach is in Barra, a part of town along the coast about 20 minutes away by bus. It's a very narrow strip of sand, but clean with a consistency of brown sugar. A dream to walk on. The ocean floor is the same. Gorgeous. Sean accompanied me, which was great because as much as I like to do things alone, it's safer to have a companion, and I thought I'd be harassed less with a man around. no one bothered us at all... there were mostly families there that day.

The water was a perfect lukewarm temperature despite being winter. The sun was warm but not too strong. There was a man who walked by selling fried cheese on a stick for one real, about 50 cents. He walks down th beach with a tupperware container of pre-cut cheese and a small grill. Delicious.

I haggled with a sarong vendor. I liked this giant sarong of the brazilian flag. He sits onth the beach, smooths out the sand, and writes "25" with his finger.

I tell him I understand portuguese. But no thanks.

He erases "25," and writes "20," determined to conduct this transaction without words.

"No thank you, I say."

"17," he writes.

I say "two for 17."

"2 for 25" he says.

I hate haggling. Now I have two brazilian flag sarongs.

Was that a red light?
Sean and I went to Yemanja, a restaurant about halfway between the hostel and the airport, recommended for its baian cuisine. Sean, despite being 22 and a recent Columbia grad, has developed the same love of trying new foods, and despite being a poor college student, doesn't mind spending some money on good food (unlike most of the hostel residents). Both of have wanted to try "moqueca de camarao," a traditional stew of shrimp, dende, coriander, manioc... but in Bahia, the dish is usually made for two. It was delicious, and definitely could've fed three. A couple of strange desserts, a couple of caipirinhas later and we staggered out and waited for a bus for an hour before I opted for an expensive taxi ride.

At some point, I notice that Sean is looking behind him. The taxi passed through a red light. Full speed. then another. And another. I counted a total of 6. It turns out that it is too dangerous to stop at red lights here at night (carjacking), so after 11 pm it is legal to speed through lights.

Nice.

Random initial thoughts on Salvador da Bahia

I went out last night at about 1 am with a bunch of girls from the hostel (and I mean girls. I am by far the oldest person at this hostel.) "Going out" time in Brazil is notoriously late (although not as late as in Buenos Aires, where people go out on a Tuesday at 2 in the morning...) so were were surprised to find that almost everything was closed in Pelourinho except for one gross bar.

Pelhourinho, where I am staying, is the historic center of town. "Pelourinho" means "whipping post," and it was here that the enslaved Africans were beaten, tied down, and whipped. It is very hilly, all cobblestone. It has rained a bit every day so far, making the cobblestones very slippery and hard to negotiate. The people here are accustomed, and everyone: kids, the corpulent, the old, seem to have no trouble, even in their worn flip-flops, which are standard attire. It is "very touristy," which is actually not terribly so, but there are tourist shops and people trying to sell you something in the main squares.

Almost everyone is some shade of black. Except for the tourists, who are white. The English girls I was with, who were all tall and blonde.

Making us quite a spectacle.

I have heard that Salvador is less dangerous than other parts of Brazil, but that I should be wary of being robbed. In theory, there is safety in numbers, but I'm starting to wonder if it's not so safe to travel with a bunch of really white people. And I mean WHITE.

We went to the only happening spot, basically a cobblestoned intersection outside this bar, where people were drinking beer and dancing to loud Brazilian music. I could've gotten into the dancing, except the ratio of men to women was about, conservatively, 40:1. There was no mistaking us for Brazilians, much less Baians, and they swarmed upon us like killer bees, speaking whatever little English they knew, pick up lines and quotes from Borat, trying to get us to dance.

Persistent motherfuckers. And the TOUCHING!! So much touching. Not "bad touches," but lots of touching the shoulder, lower back, and especially elbow. So it could be worse. But it's annoying. And they didn't let up. I grew tired of it in about 5 minutes. Some of the more adventurous girls opted to dance. I was not having it. I turned around and went back to the hostel.

On the other hand, I walked alone this afternoon, took a bus to the mall (amusingly enough, called "O Shopping" in Brazil), had lunch, went shopping, came back, and no one bothered me at all.

By the way, the trip to the mall was to find a battery and charger for my camera because I stupidly left it at home. Probably in my couch. Fuck. There will probably be no pics of Salvador unless I invest in some disposables. Cameras are impossibly expensive, and my Canon ELPH, pretty reasonable and common in the US isn't even sold in any of the stores I went into today.

I am looking forward to many things I haven't seen yet... I have to go the couple of recommended cultural centers for dance classes. This is really what I want to do when I'm here. Tuesday night is the "big night" to go out, which means live music and percussion groups in the streets. Wednesday I'm going to go to a candomble ritual. Candomble is a spiritual, polytheistic religion prevalent here. There are a coulple of folkloric shows that are supposed to be amazing. They're all at about 8 at night or later, leaving me the rest of the day to spend at the beach.

If it ever stops raining. It's a comfortable temperature, much more pleasant that in New York. There are hammocks and a very bohemian bed-sized cushion with pillows in a nook that's on an open patio at the hostel. I'm really just satisfied hanging out here during the rainy parts of the day and the evening, as the music plays and I share travel stories with the others from the hostel.

Oh, and despite the warm weather, it's winter, which means it gets dark at about 5 pm. Weird!

I am not in love with Bahia, but I do like it. The food is amazing (heavy as it is) and it's easy enough to navigate if you speak some basic portuguese. (My portuguese is basic, and I'm afraid it's not getting better any time soon.) It's beautiful in that run-down old historic sort of way. More to come.

The airport in Salvador is quite lovely this time of year

Last night, Camilo from the hostel, called the airport about 6 times looking for someone who knew something about the whereabouts of my luggage. He would get one person on the phone, they would call someone else, get six more numbers... someone somewhere said that my luggage was at Salvador airport, but it was too late to go.

I went to the airport 10 am (only an hour bus trip this time!) to find that, as predicted, my luggage was NOT there. I waited a bit, and was told that my luggage was still in Sao Paulo and would be arriving at 4 pm. I decided to take a bus back to the center of town and do a little window shopping in case I needed to replace the contents of my bag...

I went to a "kilo restaurant" somewhere in the middle of town. It's a buffet that charges per 100 grams (today, about $.70). I don't really know what I was eating... some chicken, some fish, some unidentified mash of starch, dried shrimp and dende oil... about $3. Delicious, easy, and fast. Run by Chinese people.

I get back to the airport (another hour trip) and the 4:00 flight arrival becomes a 5:00 arrival (even though a woman told me that it was delayed an hour, but it wasn't.) Waiting, waiting, waiting. And some more waiting.

Israel beckons me to come inside. There is my bag! I hug him, and tell him I love him. He gets giddy and hugs me some more. Then he asks me out. All in portuguese! "Nao posso," I say, and go on my way.

I got back to the hostel about 7:00 pm... just happy to be wearing a new set of clothes in this gorgeous city.

I'm now at the hostel, sitting on a floor cushion with an American and two Englishmen talking about travel and food. Yum.

Going to Bahia

Perhaps I have some Latin America jinx.

I knew going in that it was going to be a difficult trip down, as I had to go from NYC to Miami (3 hrs) to Sao Paulo (8 hours) to Salvaldor (3 hours, with 2 hours in between). It wasn't until I got to Laguardia that I found out my miami flight was delayed 2 hours (and mom checked!) Then my Sao Paolo flight was delayed an hour and a half.

The flight was not a bad 8 hours, although it would have been much better had I been one of the lucky few who got a pair of seats to themselves. I would've slept like a baby. July 4 is a good day to fly. And flying out of Laguardia was great... it took me 5 minutes to check in, instead of waiting on line for 2 hours which I've grown accustomed to.

Then I missed my Salvador flight, but they were good enough to have re-booked me for a flight an hour later before I even got off the plane. That was very efficient and considerate, I thought.

I was very confused in Sao Paolo... tired, equipped with only a few phrases in Portuguese (although I seem to understand when spoken to). The girl told me some gate, some number, but figured out about a half an hour later that I had to 'disembark,' which meant not only to clear customs, but I had to leave the airport, and essentially check in again at the domestic wing.

It wasn't until I reached Salvador that I learned that I HAD TO TAKE MY OWN BAGGAGE WITH ME.

Fuck.

I'm neither upset nor surprised for some reason. The guy filled out a report, told me that they'd get the luggage to Salvador, probably that day, and gave me his extension.

The people in Salvador are SO NICE. Every time I've told people I need some kind of help today, they've put their hand on my shoulder, and either told me where I need to go, or even in the case of the flight attentant, walked me to where I needed to be.

I get to the bus stop at the airport, which you'd miss even if you're looking for it. The sign posted said that there wasn't a bus for another hour and a half. So I stagger back into the airport and wait.

I think waiting is what I'm going to have to get used to around here very soon.

I get back to the bus stop 20 minutes early to discover that there's a bunch of local buses that make the trip from the airport to the center or town, circling around the whole city. A very scenic view, air conditioned (freezing, actually), but another hour and a half. For the $2.

Somehow, without a decent map (did I mention I forgot to print the hostel directions?), I get to the hostel. This was after staggering around for 25 minutes, lost. I finally was going to take a taxi, and the taxi driver told me it wasn't worth it. Too many turns. I should just walk, and he told me how to get there.

The hostel is clean, but basic. Perfect for what I need... Wifi (which will be great if I can charge Rik's laptop... converter in the suitcase...) a clean shower (clean clothes also in suitcase)... free breakfast and coffee ALL DAY, and I can cook and leave leftovers in the fridge.

I am glad I chose the private room, which was only $30 a night. I can (and will) be doing the dorm room thing for a bit while I'm here, but it was really great to come to the hostel exhausted and not have to deal with anyone else.

Oh, except one of the cats who lives at the hostel, who climbed into bed with me a couple of times during the night, through the open window. So cute!

Salvador is beautiful. And not a Paris kind of beautiful, but the kind of beautiful that Cuba should have been. Old colonial buildings and churches, painted in garish shades. Bahian women dressed all in white, serving up acaraje, bean patties fried in fiery dende oil, stuffed with shrimp (haven't had one yet.) Cobblestone streets at gradients my calves and thighs are already cursing me over. Music pouring through the streets.

I realized at about 7.30 last night that I hadn't eaten more than a couple of power bars that day, so I went to the corner bar for something. I ordered a plate of fried fish (don't know what kind) with a side of dressed tomatoes (that's salad, evidently) with pirao, a mash of manioc, dende oil, and spices. My first caipirinha.

The pirao was (other than a touch oversalted) out of this world. Savory, salty, hot, stick-to-your ribs. Better than any mashed potato I've ever had. I was definitely drunk off one caipirinha on the empty stomach I was working with.

I was exhauted, drunk, wearing clothes I have worn for what I felt was days. Luggage only possibly waiting for me at the airport, a 4-hour excursion in the near future, I bet. And yet, I feel completely at ease.