Posted by: Mo | April 28, 2011

Feeling the embrace of Christo

I’ve made it to Brazil and despite my constant attempts to compose another email, I seem to keep being foiled. Sitting under the air conditioner, thus giving myself hypothermia, putting too much wasabi on my chicken breast and then inhaling it and proceeding to suffer a massive coughing attack right across from some unlucky Brazilian woman who made the mistake of sitting by me at the cafeteria style tables; so many things occupy my time. The Brazilian woman was so nice before I did that. I’m not doing a very good job of making friends. That’s a lie. No one can resist the charm of a woman drinking vodka on ice through a straw. No one. The charm abounds.

It’s mostly that I keep being distracted by the desire to watch R& B videos. It can’t be helped, I’m surrounded by gyrating pelvises and quivering butt cheeks everywhere I turn. How the fuck am I supposed to resist jams that bootys like to groove to? Damn, Brazil.

Brazil is magical place. The butts might be full of silicone, but the dreams are real. Just this morning I watched a taxi driver drop a plastic bag full of piss out the door. No time to piss when there is action to find. This was only to be topped by the man riding a bike with a parrot on his shoulder.

The hostel has been a mix of good and really fucking annoying people. A French woman who “lives in Ireland” just checked in today. She begins this morning by coming downstairs, “Excuse me!” literally yelling. Just now she yelled from her chair because she couldn’t be fucked to get up, “Excuse me! Mr. Reception man!” Huh? I thought French people were refined Europeans. She just walked up to me after I’d been on the computer for maybe 5 minutes and was like, “Excuse me, are you going to be on here long?” I’m sorry miss, you were on the computer for literally 2 1/2 hours last night. It’s my time now, bitch. Anyone who talks that loudly in the morning is on my shit list. Yo, people are trying to get used to being alive for another day. Check yo self.

But, the alternative to this is that there was a group of a (good example) of Americans trying to book a hotel room on Easter Weekend. Everything was booked so there were trying to book this love motel (of which there are dozens in Rio). There were 4 of them, so they used Google translator to translate into Portugese so night security could ask the hotel operator how many people were allowed in a room. Four people was not going to be allowed. Only two. Some love motel.

Easter weekend was eventful. I had to stay out in Lapa, which is the nightclub/pickpocket district. Because it’s so full of nightclubs (I’m sure you could assume this from the previous description), the hostel was full of Brazilians. Full, like waiting in line to take a shower (like I need any obstacle beyond myself to get here). I had to wait in line to get my cocoa puffs (!!!!!). But, I guess it was good the supply wasn’t limitless because my only ability to say “No” came when the box was done. Jacked up on sugar only leads to me crashing and getting grumpy around 12 PM. This is what happens when Mom isn’t here to save me from myself.

But staying in Lapa left me easily able to get to the Lapa street party. This “party” consists of dozens of Caipirihinia stands, grilling meats, and entrepreneurial spirits who mill about with whatever bottle of alcohol they have bought for the day and tiny plastic shot glasses. Take your pick. I want this guy to come home. Legal street shot drinking? Yes, thank you. It is of course better that this isn’t allowed back home. While it’s glamorous to puke out the window of taxi vans here where I’ll never see anyone again, I think back home it’s called embarassing. The street party was fun, aside from making the mistake of thinking a group of girls drinking Smirnoff was going to be fun. Questions like, “Don’t all Americans talk loud?” as two Americans are sitting there talking quietly. Don’t only fucking idiot girls drink Smirnoff Ice? How old are you anyway? Anyway, this group decided a pool hall was going to be a fun idea. ALWAYS a terrible idea. Great, let’s stand around and watch people a group of people who don’t really know how to play pool hit the ball around. I never realized prior to this how annoying it is to watch shitty pool. Fuck. An hour of coitus interruptus. So, I stopped smiling and unfortunately my green eyes have a default dead expression and non smiling face looks like a pissed Russian. So, I really brought the party down. Sorry. This isn’t fun though, I’m not going to pretend I like watching shitty pool. Bye. No robbery there though, so I’m psyched.

And, anyway, I needed to make it back so I could be well rested to wake up to a giant Brazilian lesbian sleeping naked. When she’s not coughing out Portugese and trying to set me up with Brazilians named, “Gabriel” she’s snoring with a ferocity I could only expect from a notoriously passionate people. Fortunately she didn’t completely drown out the speakers blasting classic rock jams at 8 in the morning. If I hadn’t been jacked up on Cocoa puffs, I could have feigned some anger. Instead I got on the bus and got thrown around a bit. Oh, Brazilian bus drivers. I could swear that your wage depends on how much time it takes you to get from one end of the route to the next. Otherwise, I can’t think of why you’re in such a hurry all the time. Like, do we need to be going so fast that we Ferris Bueller style fly over the hills? I don’t mind, ultimately, but I also don’t mind that I only wash my hair once a week, so I don’t know what my opinion means. Safety, schmafety. If you’re not smacked in the face by a beach chair, then you’re not in Rio. You’re also not on public transportation if a night ride doesn’t include a wasted man singing in Portugese with a beer in each hand. Somehow he didn’t get thrown out of his chair, a miracle I can attribute only to Christ the Redeemer’s embrace over the city.

These frequent bus rides left me fully prepared to find my way back from the Favela the other day. Left the club early, despite being completely impressed by the funk beats. I managed to hold my dancing for a moment, but then….

There’s a weiner dog distracting me right now. It’s doing the leg shake. Can’t stop petting when that’s going on.

…. That final caipirhinia I didn’t need kicked in. So, I left and found the taxi vans going to Lapa. My drunken confidence was astounding. And apparently irresistible to the Brazilian sitting next to me as he continually tried to make out with me. He soon left and despite an invitation I remained in the van. After occupying a few minutes puking out the window of the van, I started to become worried that I’d missed my stop. But, soon I came upon this building lit up by a rainbow of lights I remembered from my previous bus rides. I soon knew where I was, much to the surprise of the guy taking the fare in the van. Frequent questions of where I was going was met with me finally saying, “Pare, alli” and getting out to walk a block to my hostel. Did I make good choices that night?

Probably not. I blame the fact that I was laughing instead of “realizing how drunk I was and would soon reach a limit.” And that I don’t know much Portugese and ended up ordering a glass of vodka with ice in it and a straw. This led to bad ends. (!!!!!) The waiter was shocked as I was ordering. I had no idea why. I just wanted a shot. Is that so crazy? But, how do you drink a caipirhinia slowly. I’m drunk! I forgot how to do this responsibly. Wooooooooooo.

My brain is losing steam and I need to wash my armpits. Today I’m feeling like I’m finally less sick (fingers crossed). Drugs all night, alcohol, and not sleeping in Bolivia apparently lowered my immune system. The phlegm of my bad decisions continues to haunt me and clog my life.

More soon, Brazil hates it when I’m on the computer and my snot hates it when I think, so emails are more complicated.



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