Paraty (Pronounced, "Way more fun than the Academy")

“Oh.........so that’s......the price per person........ah ha.............” It was about 9:45 at night when we finally arrived at the pousada (the kind of place that occupies the universal real estate between a hotel and a hostel) we made reservations at. Os cadets Americanos had decided to drive off on our own for the weekend (sem cadets Brasileiros) and get a little experience rolling on our own. It was going famously (read: terribly. Google maps said Paraty, a small historical beach town was about an hour and a half by car away from Resende. 9 and a half bus hours later we rang the doorbell at Pousada Guarana) until we arrived at the pousada; a member of our group had stayed there before when the academy took a trip to Brasil in April and due to some misleading information on their website, it looked like we needed to pay about 3 times as much for our weekend stay. We explained that we really didn’t have it in our budget to stay there. They were extremely helpful in helping us find other accommodations and we were able to get through to a nearby hostel that had a triple room available for the weekend at what I can only describe as a fraction of the cost. Solid.

Open your eyes. Where are you? You’re on a sail boat. In the middle of the bay of Paraty. How did you get here? 20 Reals (or $14 U.S.) What are you doing there? Eating fresh pineapple. And drinking beer. Because they go together. Like pineapple and beer. How did you get here? You woke up at 8:37 after a glorious night of deep sleep and happy dreams on a king size bed. Better yet, you woke up on your own. No blaring alarm clock, no reveille, no other cadets furiously rubbing sleep from their eyes, blinking hard and forcing themselves out of stupor, carelessly shaving, and kicking shoes through their uniform trousers (side note, I asked why all the Brazilian cadets put their shoes on before their pants and one of the cadets who speaks better English than most responded. And I quote, “A man with shoes is never late. Because you cannot run and do your shoes. But you can run as you put on pants.” Yes. Please) Coming back to sweet sweet reality, you walk out your door to the patio. Because there is one. Outside your door. On that patio is a whole mess of chairs and tables, not to mention a great big pile of Wifi, and a large table full of breakfast, both covered in liberal amounts of free. Don’t mind if I do. 

After stuffing your face with fresh baked bread, banana cake (@Haters, it’s fruit, totally good for breakfast), and a whole mess of fruit (which Brazil is FULL of. Winning) you decide that it’s time to take a walk around the historic town and see what you can see. You and your buddies suit up (khaki shorts, t shirts, and sunglasses are the uniform of the day. As-for-not-at-class-at-West-Point-on-a-Friday) You nearly break your ankle on 17 separate occassions on the old cobblestone street, and dodge a horse drawn carriage as you jump into a bookstore, only to jump out after realizing you can’t speak OR read Portuguese. Good one. You continue further on your journey, using the random pattern of stones in the street as your map and the sun as your compass. Soon, the buildings begin to lean away from each other and your shoes scrape the smooth stones with sand as the sun peers down from the open sky above. You’ve discovered the beach.

The beach sand is thick and full of shells as you make your way over to what was clearly the dock from Pirates of the Carribean, full of sailboats and a number a wooden craft ranging from wildly painted row boats to double masted sea swans complete with ornately carved bows. Men waved their arms from the rear of the boats (aft? stern? Not even gonna try) beckoning you to board their vessel. Between all the rapid Portuguese, you gather that it’s only 20 reals to get on the boat for the afternoon. Ah ha. That sounds like a plan. Oh wait, it’s leaving now? But hang on, what about all that stuff I have to clear from my sched………oh…….right.

Blink. Where are you? Right, the bay. And the boat. And the live music. And the pineapple. And the beer. Now you remember. What’s that? Oh we’re stopping soon? That’s fine. This gigantic patch of sunny water we were drifting comfortably through was getting pretty boring anyway, we should find some sunny sand to hang out on for a bit. The boat pulls towards the shore and the anchor (gigantic, totally reminiscent of Pirates) is dropped. The deck hands/waiters begin lowering the small dinghy that can take you to shore but you notice that the boat is surrounded by crystal clear water and it’s only a short ways towards shore. You leap into the air, landing a perfect swan dive on the blue abyss and enjoying the thought that the entire boat is probably watching your scantily clad (read: sungas are awesome) rear end disappear into the water. It’s cool, but not cold. Because this is winter. Which means you might wear pants once or twice a week. And the water is always swimmable. Lovely. 

You emerge, dripping, on the secluded beach. Well, it was secluded. Now it’s yours. You settle into the sand to work on your tan. Because that’s what the sun and small bathing suits are for. You doze into a quiet slumber and 20 minutes later arise, completely on your own and entirely refreshed. Hooray. Oh, a giant foghorn. The boat is preparing to head to the next beach. Just as you woke up. Quite convenient. You paddle back to the boat and resist the urge to leap into the clear blue water again…….only for a moment, and cannonball back in. Because there’s always time for one more. You clamber back aboard the ship and curl up on what can only be described as a gigantic napping surface (envision a large rectangle raised off the deck covered with soft mats and pillows) with your towel and continue your nap as a man sings softly and strums the guitar. Everything swirls a bit and goes pleasantly and warmly dark.

You open your eyes. Your shoulder is being tapped ever so lightly. What’s that? Oh, it’s a big steaming plate of lunch. Turns out, you’re having stroganoff. Which in Portuguese is estroganofe. You’re having it because you ordered it when you got on the boat 2 hours ago and the small team working in the below deck kitchen whipped it up for you. And your in Brazil, so it comes with rice and beans. What’s good, Brazil. The boat idles in the water as you eat lunch on a glass plate with metal silverware. You hadn’t really noticed until now but the views on the water are absolutely spectacular. The clear water, the blue skies, the islands dotting the bay, the small houses and rural looking neighborhoods sprawled across the hills, the quiet beaches, the thick forests along the coast. If only you had a way to take all these visions and memories and share them with……..oh, perfect, a digital camera. Snap snap. Now you can load them up on Facebook. Winning.

The boat begins to move forward and you begin to take some sun out on the deck while the boat leisurely slides across the bay. You begin a pattern of alternating between tanning and napping (most doing large quantities of both simultaneously) as the boat rolls along. At some point someone comes around with a carafe and tiny plastic cups and offers you cafezinha (in order to facilitate their level of going hard in the paint all day every day, Brazilians recharge in the afternoon with a tiny cup or two of strong coffee) Not being much of a coffee drinker but being a big fan of cultural immersion, you pour yourself some and WOW that is some strong stuff right there. Opah (pronounced, “Oh-pah” occasionally with a drawn out, “paaaaaaah” and used in Brazil to denote something interesting or surprising. Similar to, “Wow”)

The afternoon has begun to fall and the sun starts to dip, retreating towards the hills as you sip strong coffee and smell the sea breeze. You’re standing at the bow and watching other boats retreat towards the coast, passing the small islands that inhabit the bay. Tranquility………….

On that note, it was a killer weekend away but we’re back to the grind (mellow Monday) Hope everyone had a blast this weekend and that my friends at West Point didn’t have to swim to class. Happy incoming Labor Day!

Tchau!

Espadim Ceremony/Banquet/Dance Party

I have learned things since entering the country of Brazil and spending time among its peoples. Among these things include the daunting realization that in many of the thigns they choose to do (to use an American expression) Brazilians go hard (strike that, I actually have a Portuguese phrase for this. It's slang or "giria" but, "os Brasileiros cavam." The verb, "cavar" is technically, "to dig" but in my many and varied cultural immersions (read: watching Jason Statham's Bankjob or "Efeito Domino" in Portuguese with Portuguese subtitles and a Portuguese-English dictionary by my side) have taught me much)

Getting off that thought train and back on track (relax, I've retained my extensive skill with puns in spite of my thorough study of Portuguese) when Brazilians set their mind to celebrating an occasion, it gets celebrated whether it likes it or not. So when we were told that of the two parties (festas) that AMAN has in a given year, not only was one of them the freshmen recognition ceremony (@West Point, A-Day) and the other being graduation (or as is said here, "Formatura") but that we were invited. Parabens para nos.......(congrats to us)

First and foremost, I will dispel any ideas my cadet friends may have had about drill being terrible. Drill is not terrible. Drill, when compared to say, other federally funded military academies, is actually not all that terrible. I witnessed, on no less than 5 occassions ("witnessed" because it felt like I was watching crimes against humanity and because there's lots of internet and floor to ceiling windows in the library and 5 because there's 5 days in a given work week) the entire freshmen class practicing for their espadim (short sword) ceremony. Upon finishing first semester and the first few weeks of second semester, the freshmen are recognized as cadets and are given their cadet short swords. These swords are models of the larger saber the Duke of Caixis (Duque do Caixis), the patron of the standing Army used back in the 1800s (who says I'm not learning anything down here?!?!) They trade these swords for officer sabers at the end of four years upon graduation.
So no joke, the freshmen had no class all last week. Because of drill. Like 0730 until noon. And then 1300 until 1700. Every. Day. So the next time you're feeling blue because you have drill for an hour and a half two times in one week, just remember; your life is amazing.

After a long week of training, Saturday finally arrived. The ceremony involved the freshmen being marched from the front gate all the way to the patio (Patio Tenente Moura is similar to Central Area), stopping and standing in a gigantic rectangular formation. From there, the Commandante do AMAN ("The Supt") shared some words with the newly recognized freshmen and afterwards, we were lucky to here the president of Brasil speak her part as well. If I can get away with comlimenting someone's drill and ceremony skills without sounding extremely brutal, I will say that the freshmen were amazingly well rehearsed (@40 hours of practice in one week, what's good) and after all the words were said, parents were able to walk through the formation and hand their sons their espadims (very cool, lots of military parents but many civilians as well. A very cool part of the ceremony) Very touching, indeed.

So after an afternoon with their families either at the Academy of off in Resende the cadets return that night for the banquet and dance party. AMAN has 2 mess halls with a small patio in between (One for freshmen/sophomores, one for juniors/seniors, and a small fountain on the patio that's jokingly refrerred to as, "o maior natacao" or "the biggest swim", making light of the difference in physical difficulty between the beginning years and the final years at the Academy. The patio was transformed into a long open bar, 3 tables full of desserts about 40 meters long each, and a large dancefloor in the middle. The two cafeterias each featured a different live band and various amounts of amazing food including but not limited to pao de queijo (roughly translated to mean cheese bread, pao de queijo is small puffs of soft bread with a little cheese baked inside. Amazing), lots of churrasca (barbecued meats), lots of pastas, and quite possibly the two most amazing things I've ever seen; the veritable wall of alternating chocolate and white chocolate fountains and then a gigantic (read: 8 feet tall and made of copper) fountain spewing cachaça (sugar cane rum that tastes like gasoline by itself and tastes like gasoline mixed with lime juice when mixed with lime juice)

We ate and drank until about midnight or so (this party started at 10 at night and we stuck out like giant white thumbs in our India Whites, drawing the attention of officers and cadetes alike) when the popularity of the live bands died down and the dance floor started to populate (I'm seeing a pattern here with military functions we attend..........we'll revisit this revelation) We made our way over the dance floor and proceeded to "share our culture" (read: embarass myself thoroughly) for about 5 hours. Quite suddenly the music stopped and everyone began packing up. I hadn't realized that it was almost 5 AM and that it was time to go. We walked past the desert table on our way up to the barracks, stopping just once......or twice, to grab some breakfast (turns out, if cake has fruit in it, you can eat it for breakfast. I thought that was just an American thing but my inebriated cadete friends informed me otherwise.

We dragged ourselves back to our beds as the light began to creep up on the horizon and finally called it a night. Speaking of which..........we're off to Paraty (pronounced, "Pah-Rah-Chee") for the weekend. I might not have computer access so feel free to remember all the good times we had until I return. Peace up, A-town down.

Portuguese for the night is, "fofo" which means "cute". Don't ask me how I learned that, and I won't have to lie to you.

Tchau!

Meus Ouvidos sao Sangrando

"WHAT!?!?!?!" I yelled into the face of my buddy while a thumping base and epic strobe light show in the background ran strong. "I....SAID.....WE'RE.......GONNA......HEAD......BACK!" This news washed over me and the receding semi sweet taste of Blue Lagoa (Lagoa Azul) on the back of my tongue affirmed that this was a good idea. I glanced at my watch; 5:00 AM. Oh.....good.....good.

As we stood on the street waiting for a taxi, I thought back on the whole day. We spent hours on the beach, afterwards, a bar, another bar, and finally the dance club that I was now standing in front of. We left the barracks at around 9 or so but wanted to get into the club at 12:30 since that was when things, "began to get started" as my friends here said. Interesting. +1 for Brazilian endurance. The club had played almost exclusively American dance music that the largely Brazilian (read: entirely) crowd sang along to with ease. I was not entirely a fan of the volume of said music (the title of this post is, "My ears are bleeding") but it was an exciting time nonetheless.

As much as I hate to leave a rather lukewarm post, I just found out that I got written up for having a messy bed.........more to follow on that as well as the freshmen recognition ceremony this past weekend. Best of luck with your monday. Here's a little KAP SLAP monday mix-up for those of you feeling the 11:24 blues right now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pTMM8aa4dg

Tchau!

Oh......this is THAT part of the beach.........roger

"Where are you guys?" The miniature phone beeped loudly into my ear and I scanned the beach. You'd think finding a gigantic pale red head on a beach of dark skinned, dark haired, scantily clad people wouldn't be terribly difficult. "Near the big flags, in front of Copacabana Palace. You can't miss us. We're really white and not wearing much." I was walking and talking, something entirely out of regulation when in uniform........good thing I was in my, "As-for-beachgoing-shenanigans". My tiny green bathing suit was at home among my South American neighbors but my ghostly skin was not. Something to work on. "Hang on, the rainbow flags?" My friend asked, somewhat confused. "Yeah," I responded, "There's like 4 of them, we're about 50 meters away from the big one all the way to the left if you're looking at the water. There's a bar next to it and if you continue on that line, past the circle of chairs and the eleven dudes and those two guys- OH MY GOD!"

So as it turns out, the rainbow flags denoted the unofficical, not exclusive, "purely-just-as-a-heads-up-so-you-know-what-you-might-not-be-able-to-un-see-later", gay-friendly part of the beach. I felt kinda sick. "WHY would you set up here?" My buddies had arrived. "Seriously. There's like 3 miles of beautiful beach. Filled with beautiful women. And open spaces. Why the 100 meters of gay-beach?" I was busy rubbing coarse sand in my eyes but to no avail. There was a memory burned into my eyeballs for good. Terrific. "Can we please just get some beer and make the pain go away?" I asked.

As if by magic (read: because we had money) a large bucket full partially with ice and mostly with beer appeared at our feet. Out came the cups and the drinking began. Soon enough we moved past the incidents of earlier in the day (emotionally. Physically we stayed in the same spot, 'cuz you know, it was a great spot) We ended up meeting 2 girls from Australia ("Austalianas" in Portuguese) who were traveling across South America for a few months (which I guess lots of Australians do. That's neat) From them, I learned 3 very important things about Australia;
1. First and foremost, they don't have Foster's Beer. I'm going to let that sink in for a bit. For those of you not familiar with Foster's, there's only two things you need to know. It tastes like it was brewed in the sink of a Texaco station (read: ok, it's not that terrible, but still. It's not good). Second, their ad campaign is pretty simple. Pictures of kangaroos and other Australian stuff followed by a big picture of the can and an Australian accent yelling, "Foster's! Australian for beer!" Which eveidently it's not. Because they don't have it. So it's got nothing going for it.
2. Kangaroos are not unique or special. They're like deer down there. Or rats. Wrap your mind around that. Kangaroos=Giant Rats.
3. And finally, all Koala bears have chlamydia. No, seriously. Take your image of the world's cutest and most cuddly animal. Now imagine you not touching it. Because that's what you're gonna do now. Because it has chlamydia.

Blown away. And on that note, this psychology homework is not going to do itself. I'm off. Adventures from the club next time. On the note of STD's, AIDS in Portuguese is SIDA. Best of luck figuring out how.

Tchau!

Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny..........Greeny with a Brazilian Flag

My eyes snapped open. I was just having a terrible nightmare that I was in another country, asleep in the sand on what is touted as one of the most beautiful beaches in the world surrounded by sunshine and gorgeous women, entirely organized and funded  by the United States Army when I awoke to the sound of.......oh wait, that's right. The sound of crashing waves and children playing. Because it wasn't a nightmare. It was in fact, a beautiful combination of two seperate worlds. Reality and paraiso (paradise for my English homies out there in the audience. 'merica)

Truthfully, I awoke to my cadet buddy nudging my shoulder asking if I wanted to go for a barefoot run along the water (PT is free, @Alex Cattley) and I obliged him. We ran for about 15 minutes, approximately reaching the end of the beach we were on. Running on soft sand us surprisingly difficult and our 1 minute sprint at the end of our jog completely gassed us. To cool off, we hopped in the water, getting beat up by South American waves and the under current (which by the way, is casually super dangerous down here. Like children gettin' dragged out to sea type dangerous) as we swam. We let the water drag us a good 200 meters down the beach before we started running back. Very relaxing. We hung around the beach a little more and then proceeded to walk into the city a bit to grab some food.

We ended up being so pooped from the night prior that  right after dinner (another Rodizio pizza place. For those of you just turning in, imagine a restaurant where waiters just walk around with trays of different pizza, with everything from 4 cheese, to ham, to tuna, to shrimp and eventually, dessert pizzas covered in chocolate. It's a beautiful thing) we ended up walking back to the engineering school and calling it an early night. Our host friends (who I'm convinced are robots due to how much partying they do with how little sleep they get) headed out for another night on the town. We planned on getting up early to work out (motivation is pretty easy to find when it's beach season all the time) and spending the whole day at the beach. Which I know was a fantastic plan because that's exactly how it happened.

After a glorious 9 hours of sleep (I literally thought I was dead on 2 seperate occassions. Not like, "they" thought I was dead. I did. That's how awesome my sleep was. I awoke with my running partner and we took off for Pao de Acucar. IME (Instituto de Militar Engenharia) sits at the base of the most recognizeable 2 lumps in South America and for those of you that remember my trip there, there's a bit of a nature trail walk (read: epic mountain climb) involved in getting up the first hill. In my semi hungover stupor from the day before, I agreed to "run" (there's a word. I wouldn't necessarily apply it to what I did that day, but hey, that's just me) up said trail. Ha! I would say we were laughing then but between hurdling gigantic roots, scrambling on hands and feet, and hurriedly aplogizing in terrible Portuguese to the people whose otherwise fine days we disturbed with our shirtless thundering through the otherwise serene wood, it was kind of difficult to breathe, let alone laugh.

After just half an hour, we had some difficulty walking all 300 feet back to IME. We eventually crawled our way back, showered up, and got ready to head out to the beach. We opted to walk to the beach this time, taking in the sights and sounds (read: overpowering smell and visual confirmation of food vendors on the sidewalks, or was we've dubbed all of their wares, "street meat" (carne da rua) regardless if it's grilled beef or peanuts) of Rio and arriving at beach in no time at all. Our buddies told us to set up in front of Copacabana Palace (probably the nicest hotel I've ever looked at) and we waited for them to arrive, taking in the entire scene in front of us.

At this point, it became rather apparent that beachwear extending within a foot or so of the kneecaps was highly unpopular. We decided it was time to go for walk and see what could be found in terms of proper swimwear. In Brazil, proper swimwear for men is a sunga, or in English, "really small bathing suit". Just check Google Images for "Sunga Brazil", that should tell you everything you need to know. We crossed the street to a small marketplace full of tents and began to explore them. Everything from tiny statues of Jesus to handbags shaped like Brazil were for sale and there were enough soccer (excuse me, futebol) jerseys to cover the beach. We circled the tents and saw only womens bathing suits. Damn. How was I going to look socially acceptable on the beach without a sunga?

Finally, we ended up asking one of the street vendors. While constantly trying to redirect the conversation back to the fact that no sunga outfit is complete without an authentic "Brasil" jersey from Nike, he pointed us towards one of the far tents. While it appeared at first that this tent only held bikinis, as it turns out, looking a little closer would have helped us realized that half of those bathing suits didn't come with tops. Because they were for men.........niiice.

"Aqui. Tire tudo." The women pulled the tent flap abruptly shut and informed me that this was an acceptable place to try on my sunga. I had chosen a small (ps, they're all small) green one with a Brazilian flag. Because nothing says you're a tourist more than pale white skin and a bathing suit with a flag on it. As soon as I pulled it on, I had 2 distinct and simultaneous thoughts, the first being, "Where's the rest of it?" and, "I don't think there's enough of it for me to even get a wedgie......awesome." I stepped out from the tent and whether he was holding back a sneeze or trying not to throw up from laughing so hard, my cadet buddy slightly nodded his approval. "It......uh........fits.......?....I guess....." I nodded, not sure if he was asking to telling. "All right smart ass," I said, "Your turn." He disappeared behind the tent flap with the largest sunga the woman had in her tent; GG (grande-grande). It was bright red with some white stripes and with his 6'4", 210 pound frame, I wasn't entirely sure it had enough grande in it.

He emerged......victorious. Well victorious for him. It fit. For me, not so much. To put it politely, there are just some things you can't un-see. We put our shorts back on over our newly purchased swimwear and headed back to the beach. Tanning time.

More stories from the beach and a little Rio night life next time. Beach in Portuguese is, "praia".

Tchau for now!

Into the Depths

Good. Evening.

So..........story time.

When we last left our heroes, they were standing at platform 15 at 1507 hours (3:07 PM Rio Time, 2:07pm EST for you nonmilitary folk out there) awaiting the 1515 (3:15 and 2:15, again) bus from Resende to Rio de Janeiro on a Thursday afternoon. They stood against the grimy wall of the bus station (rodoviaria) in White over Gray, their feet quietly tapping as the taller, whiter ones struggled to string words together in Portuguese while the shorter darker ones either conversed with eachother in rapid native toungues or in embarassingly clear and quite beautiful English. They dragged their flight bags over the bus, unceremoniously tossed them into the undercarriage, and climbed into their seats on the bus where, just like on the all trips to Rio de Janeiro, they could sleep easy knowing that their destination was a mere 20 minute drive (and a 2 hour nap) away.

We managed to convince our officers here at school that it was a good idea to allow us to take an early week and leave Thursday afternoon in order to attend the Festa de Uniforme (a party of uniform military men and their invited dates and all their invited dates really cute friends) at the nearby (read: 2.5 hour bus trip, 20 minute taxi, 9 minute walk) engineering school in Rio where 2 other West Point cadets have been studying. We made it there without incident (read: snoring the whole way) and eventually wound up in the room of the other West Point cadets. As with everything we've experienced so far, we were prepared to meet the time set for us but were just as ready to spend an hour and a half passed that simply relaxing because time is a loose concept south of the equator. "The party starts at 9" is roughly equivalent to, "Hey it's about 10:30, I'm gonna jump in the shower right after I finish scrolling through these pictures on Facebook." Relax. No need to rush. We're in Brazil. "People generally don't even leave their house until 11:30 anyway." We were fine.

We threw on on our India Whites (stacks on stacks of white) and ended up getting to the party around 10:30. We got in (read: dodged the whole ticket thing by not speaking much, nodding a lot, and saying, "Sim, senhor.") and made our way over to the bar. Not entirely difficult because the place was pretty empty. "Relax, my friends" one of our Brazilian cadet hosts told us, "Uma noite e uma crianca. The night is still very early and not everyone is here yet." Had I known the magnitude of the truth of his statement, (read: this entire room. And the patio outside. And the entire upstairs floor. And the patio up there. One gigantic, pulsing, dancing, hot, sticky, sweaty mess of uniforms and alcohol. In less than an hour) I would have been a little less skeptical. Nevertheless, the beer was cheap, and many people were interested in the goofy looking pale guys in all white. We obliged numerous officers with simple small talk about West Point and our purpose here in Brazil.

As the place began to fill up and the popularity of the live band died down a bit in favor of the DJ upstairs,  we sauntered (read: I saunter a little after I.......hydrate) upstairs to meet up with friends, friends of friends, and friends of friends of total strangers. We got to talking with everyone when suddenly I began to recognize some of the tracks. I looked up and realized that Flo Rida's "Club Can't Handle Me" was bumping. I excused myself from the group (Com licensa) and made my way to some other friends over on the dance floor. I started dancing pretty conservatively (India Whites don't lend themselves to much) but as the night went on (read: all of a sudden it was 2:10 AM) things got more interesting (I'm going to use some words in no specific order. Circle of 60 people. Michael Jackson. Break Dancing. Juggling Beer. Hand stands. Winking at strangers. Talking to strangers. In strange languages. Going for walks. Getting phone numbers. Passing out on my 3 story bunk bed)

I woke up around noon, dragged myself to the shower, and glanced up. My hair. Was. A. MESS! But that's fine. Because I don't have very much. And it was sunny. Which meant beach day. Which meant I didn't have to do my hair. We hopped a bus (for my long term followers............*cricket*..........) the bus system here is similar to the subway system. Clean. Quiet. Efficient. Effective. Cheap. And full of flat screen TV's. Awesome) and in 10 minutes I was barefoot and on my way to being asleep on the sand.

On that note, what a stellar idea. This will be continued. Portuguese word of the day is, "camera" which means, "camera" in English. Good luck with the pronunciation, she's a doozy.

Tchau for now.

Back At School (Do we even go here?)

Prior to the drive back to Resende following an amazing beach and party filled weekend, we stopped over at a U.S. Army Officers apartment for some traditional Brazilian cuisine; churrascaria (read: tons of meat. On that nonstop status) As the Army officer in Brazil, he is part our guide and our first link in the chain of command here in Brazil, should any trouble arise while we're here. He gave us some pointers about areas in Rio to definitely see and areas to avoid ("See there, on that map? All those green areas? Yeah, those aren't parks or woods or anything. They're favelas. They're green because you can't map them. They're stacks and stacks of buildings on top of eachother with alleys in between and a few streets that are constantly changing. Yeah, don't go there") We left, promising to let him know as soon as something went wrong and before we left, the West Point guys at IME (Instituto de Militar Engenharia) invited us to Festa de Uniforme, a party for military guys (and apparently all the women in Rio) that only happens every few years. It was on Thursday (read: school night) but they said we should try to get out there. We promised we would.

Back at school (yeah, I slept the whole way again. I'm never gonna know what Brazil looks like between Rio and Resende, just that it's 20 minutes of driving and a 2 hour nap every time), we had quite an interesting week while lobbying hard for the chance to make it back to Rio. Between a pistol range (This place ROCKS!), starting our Portuguese class (everyday is a portuguese class here!), and updating Facebook and making fun of people dealing with Reorgy week we had a super busy (read: not at all) but short week as we finally got permission to leave on Thursday afternoon (we found out about 10 minutes before we absolutely needed to leave that we were permitted to go. Talk about down to the wire!) and high tailed it to the bus station. Off to Rio for the weekend!

Time for some homework! Stories about this past weekends shenanigans to follow soon. Portuguese for the day is, "Talvez" which means, "Maybe". As in, "Eu ouvi que voce lutou um vagabundo" (I heard you fought a bum) to which you'd respond, "Talvez" (Maybe)

Tchau for now!

Pao de Acucar (Sugar Loaf)

What a weekend this was turning out to be! After two weeks of academy life, this well earned and much needed respite was turning into much more than we expected, and Pao de Acucar (Sugar Loaf) was no exception. It’s not every day we get to experience national icons up close and personal; however, it is some days.

We left the house around 2 o clock (the night before wasn’t quite so late this time so we actually got up after a nice amount of sleep. Fantastico), “we” being os tres americanos, our friend Moura, his twin brother, and his twin brother’s girlfriend (namorada) After a bus trip, a short foray into a nearby mall to find an ATM (caixa electronica), and a hop, skip, and shuffle, we were at the base of the hill. While I’m still trying to figure out how to get pictures up here, they are all on Facebook, or you can simply google search “Pao de Acucar” while I make an attempt at a poor explanation of its shape. It’s fairly simple: two hills. The first is large (as in surface area and base area), quite round, and very forested. There’s a tram at the bottom that will take you to the first hill, on top of which are small shops, a small tram museum and historical site, and a helicopter tour booth that will take you on aerial trips of Rio de Janeiro (From Pao de Acucar to Corcovado (read: gigantic statue of Jesus. No pictures yet, hopefully soon!) and back which is roughly a 6 minute flight, it costs 180 Reals ($120 USD) Not a fan) The second hill, is more of a graduated cliff, with a much smaller base, extremely steep sides, little forestation, and only 4 structures on the top; a tourist shop (75 Reals for a t-shirt, no thank you!), a bar (yes. just yes), the actual tram building itself, and a store that sold what I can only describe as statues of birds carved from precious stones (“gemmy material” said the sign in English but the universal language of money told me much more clearly  that for 25,000 Reals a pop, I had no business being in here) 

We lucked out with our timing because rather than take the tram we took what could only be described as a goat path up the back of the first hill which only took “10 minutes” as Moura said (read: 45 minutes. It was an endeavor. I almost died twice) and then experienced late afternoon on the first mountain (breathtaking views. Rio is a beautiful city and being higher up in the air with unprecedented views of Flamengo, Botafogo, Copacabana, Apoador, and Ipanema beaches doesn’t really change that) As we bought our tickets for the second lift, it began to get darker and by the time we got to the top, the sun had just dipped behind the mountains and the entire city (now, truly the Cidade Maravilhosa) was lit up. I took pictures but offer my deepest apologies to everyone that’s never been. Go. Just go.

Afterwards, we headed back to what we’ve deemed, “Casa de Moura” and prepped for the night out. Collared shirt, my “good butt” jeans, and some fly white kicks. Good times. Off to Lapa. Lapa is an area of Rio (pretty much an intersection of 4 streets where traffic is closed down, the stores close, and the bars open. Stands open up in the street and the whole neighborhood fills with people just trying to party. And this happens every Friday and Saturday. We headed out there, stopping to grab a caipirinha (essentially the national drink of Brazil, caipirinha’s contain sugar, lime, and either sugar cane rum called cachaca or vodka) and heading to the open street party. A orchestral street performance by an elite musical school was positioned next to what looked like an 11 year old girl dressed and performing (quite well if you ask me, pictures on Facebook for those of you wanting to see it for yourself) as a tiny Michael Jackson.

After watching little michael for a while, we ended up in a samba bar called Democraticos. Realizing that many of us hadn’t had quite enough to drink to actually try Samba, we ended up sitting around drinking beer out of a garrafa (In Brazil, people generally don’t get cans or bottles when drinking in groups. They’ll get a large bottle or “garrafa” (sometimes a few, generally in an ice bucket or koozie) and several small cups for the group. Once the person who has purchased the beer has filled his cup, the group joins in and everyone continues to fill their cup until the beer is gone or until the waiter brings more. A thoroughly enjoyable method of drinking, I believe) and eventually worked our way over to the next bar, Rio Scenarium. Rio Scenarium is a 3 floor bar split between two buildings (you might need a protractor for this explanation, hang tight) The first building was originally an antique store so many of the following descriptions generally include glass cases of old stuff all over the walls (to include clothing, cameras, paintings, home affects, and even a motorcycle mounted on the wall) The first floor contains the main bar (which has an old telephone booth with a working phone in it. Far out!), a stage for Forro bands, a large dance floor, and some stools near the walls. The second floor contained a few small tables, a bar with small kitchen (fries and the like. Brazilians love French fries) and a small dance club on the second floor of the second building, accessible only by hallway that was constructed between the two. The third floor had large benches, tables, and areas for relaxation. Good times. We spent from about 1230 to about 500 am walking around this bar, dancing and having a blast.

We eventually crawled our way back to Moura’s house and passed out. A good day and a fantastic night. Portuguese for today is “Real” (pronounced “hey-al”, @ Alex Cattley for finishing Beast) which means, “Real” in English. Nifty.

Tchau for now!

American Constitution

Ugh. What time is it?

8:00 am. In the morning. Before noon. Why are we awake? We got back to the house at 4:00 am. There’s no reason to be awake for at least another 5 hours. Maybe six. “E ai, Brian, Orlandoo! Café!” Moura called me and Orlando (Pronounced, “Or-Lan-doo” down here) down for breakfast. I rolled over on my mattress and looked at him across the room. “You know they warned us about this going hard in the paint on the weekends thing.” Orlando’s muffled response from under his blanket, “Yeah but this is crazy. I hope he doesn’t expect us to do the same thing tonight on this much sleep.” I made half an attempt to get up but then curled up again, giving up. “We got 4 hours of sleep. Not that that’s terrible. I can do 4 hours, I just can’t drink 7 or 8 beers, and then get 4 hours of sleep, and then repeat the whole process 3 more times in a row. I just don’t have the constitution. Maybe if John Hancock wrote my constitution, maybe, but he didn’t.”

We rolled downstairs to heaping plates of fresh fruit and bread and a wide smile from Mrs. Moura. Suddenly, we weren’t so tired anymore. We ate as if we hadn’t eaten since……oh right, dinner last night. Huh…Anyway, we ate a lot. Mr. and Mrs. Moura continued to ask us questions at slow speeds and with small words about how we were liking Brazil and about our lives in the states and we gladly answered and asked some of our own questions. We helped put the dishes away and then realized that is was only about 9:00 and we had the whole day ahead of us. What a nice feeling. We decided that in addition to venturing into an area known only as “Lapa” (He wouldn't tell us more and insisted we had to see it for ourselves) for some drinks and dancing later (rumors of a birthday party as well), today was a perfectly good day to put on our tourist hats and go check out a few fairly normal touristy activities, namely lots of walking in the proximity of the beach. But before the beach, there was some shopping that needed to be done; I needed a shirt that screamed, “I’m a tourist. Please take advantage of me.” Something to the tune of either a Brazilian flag, or just bright enough colors that one of the locals would realize I wasn’t from around there. Not too picky. We hopped a clean and reliable subway ride to a nearby mall.

Once at the mall (which had about 37 counter-sized electronics stores all selling the same stuff. I’ve seen this before), we strolled around a bit, bumping into watches for over 3,000 Reals and sweater vests (In Brazil. I was blown away) for over 400 Reals before we found exactly what we were looking for. A small, brightly lit corner shop with signs in English and covered in Brazilian flags. Ahhhh. The smell of impending rip offs. Bring it, Rio. I pointed to a green shirt with just a small picture of the Brazilian flag and asked the woman behind the counter how much it cost (In Portuguese. ‘Cuz I know stuff) Being well versed in dealing with travelers who think they’re smart because they can interact with locals in their language, she used a fairly simple yet highly effective marketing trick (@Jessie Cattley) If my choice is simply between A (buying this shirt) and B (Not buying this shirt) half of my possible options involve this particular endeavor involve this vendor not only making no money off me, but in terms of the difficult to quantify values of time and money, actually losing money on me. By pulling down 2 other shirts as she answered me in clear and succinct Portuguese (increasing my confidence in this whole endeavor and reducing the chance that I’ll want to end the conversation, even if it means buying an overpriced and somewhat gaudy shirt), she began a game of, “watch the bouncing ball” that became, “watch the bouncing balls” When I’m torn between 3 shirts, instead of being torn between separating myself from my hard converted Reals and walking out wearing the awful shirt I already had on, the vendor knows they’ve got me on the line. In order to land me, they simply need to change the variables again and spin the wheel a little harder before I’m thoroughly discombobulated. Before I know it, I’m trying to decide between 12 different shirts and have actually brought my friends in from outside to help me decide. The vendor tries to sell to them as well, but they see the ploy and tell me to hurry my ass up. I end up flipping a coin and deciding on a yellow one with a small Brazilian flag and the words Rio de Janeiro. Such a tourist. Moura reassured me, “No no, you look native. A real Carioca.” Carioca and Fluminense are words used to describe people from the state of Rio de Janeiro. Much like how New York only has “Long Island”, “The City”, and “Upstate” with Upstate representing roughly 90% of the New York State land mass, Cariocas are people from the city itself whereas Fluminense are people from everywhere else in the state. Fortunately, down here it’s a much closer ratio than in the US, which makes for some interesting interactions.

We decided that our next stop would be Copacabana beach and the famous Copacabana Palace Hotel. The Palace is famous for one reason or another (One reason being the Rolling Stones, another being the dancing duet of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers) and is literally across the beach from a street. Kidding of course, it’s across the street from the beach. But you can throw a coconut from the revolving door in the lobby and hit one of the vendors selling Brazilian flag towels on the beach. That kind of close (we checked. We can’t go back though) We walked up the beach a bit, just kind of taking in the sights (walking barefoot and shirtless, checking out the women, the water, the sand, the women, the crazy sand sculptures, the vendors, there might have been some women there, a beach volleyball game, a bar on the beach, I think we just passed a girl I want to take to the movies)

Towards the end of Copacabana beach, Moura asked the three of us if we had ever had coconut milk. A flashback to a Florida vacation when I was about 8 years old (@Mom and Dad) where there were plenty of coconut trees all over the place and I desperately wanted to try one. Long story short, something involving a hammer, a screwdriver, and coconut milk tasting nothing like milk led me to an extremely upset state that didn’t evaporate for hours. “No, is it good?” I said out loud. Moura smiled, and put his sandals back on. "You must. It’s one of those things.” Just like when I can’t explain a word in English or when someone can’t explain something in Portuguese and we use the phrase, “It’s slang” or “E giria” respectively, we’ve come to an agreement with Moura that whenever there’s something we have to do because it’s just one of those things that people do when they come to Rio, he tells us so and no further explanation is needed. Levels of trust, hooah.

We sat down and for 3 Reals a nut/fruit/whatever family the coconut falls into, a man with a machete cuts triangular holes in the top of our nuts purchases and inserts a straw (total bad ass, too; the guy holds the coconut in his hand, raises the machete well over his head and slams it down. 2 chops later and he hands it off. Kid’s good, that’s all I’m saying) We sipped coconuts like beach bums when a man with a large bucket (read: no, this one’s legit, it was a goddamn bucket) full of peanuts comes up to our small table, puts down a napkin and dumps a small pile of peanuts on it. “He is selling peanuts,” Moura explains. “This is a sample. If you want some, he’ll be back in a second and probably over charge you because you look like a tourist.” I was at first a little upset at being immediately dimed out as being a tourist but am partial to a delicious peanut (amendoim, by the way, in portuguese) and these were pretty good. For 2.50 Reals (“Ladrao!”-Moura) I bought a small bag to go with my coconut. Fantastish (German for “Fantastic” Thought I’d switch it up a bit) After emptying my coconut, I brought it back to the man with the jagnormous machete where he (without looking, you know, cuz he does this ish all the time and he’s that good) gives it another good chop, enabling me to get to the coconut meat inside (carne de coco) Using a technique perfected by the natives (read: Moura showed me) and taking a piece of the broken shell in my hand, I used it as a makeshift spoon (Jane Goodall would have flipped at my creative use of tools in a social environment) and scooped out the meat inside. Delicious.

We decided that the coconuts had been had and sans shirt and shoes, began walking again. As we continued to traverse the beach, we saw more of the beautiful waves, sand, and inhabitants of the beach. At one point, a member of our group decided that before we continued walking, we should “practice our Portuguese by asking to take a picture with those lovely ladies over there” This person, who absolutely was not me (read: no, seriously. I was perfectly content with walking down the beach) will remain nameless for the story gets rather good but a little awkward for the involved parties. As I resignedly handed over my camera, I looked up at the women he spoke of in particular. They were a good 50 or so meters off but seemed rather shaped like women so I thought nothing more of it. They began walking towards the water and the group continued (minus one member) to walk along the path we had set, in order to look inconspicuous, meanwhile glancing at our friend as he made his way over there. Something was buzzing in the back of my head but I couldn’t quite place it (turns out, it was the DoD Threat Assessment of Brazil and the Rio de Janeiro/ Sao Paulo region) so I brushed it off. Our friend shortly came trotting (Trot: a purposeful jog in order to increase speed from a walk without letting passerby know you’re trying to avoid something) up and while maintaining constant forward direction said hurriedly, “Go, go, go, go, don’t look, just go, we’re leaving.” We moved with him, all smiling and asking what happened. “I’d rather not talk about it,” he said, maintaining a determined look forward as we hurried along the beach.

We eventually got it out of him that when he approached and asked if he could take a picture of us with them (what a nice guy, playing photographer for his buddies), he heard what only could be described as the deepest and most enthusiastic, “Sim,” (Yes) he’s ever heard. Which is right about when certain details started coming into focus. The semi muscular back. The adams apple. The balls. He told us he mumbled something in a combination of Portuguese and English (which we’ve nick named Por-English) and turned tail and left. We’ve decided to never bring it up again. Except now. With all of you….

We ended up making it over to Ipanema, another famous beach (Apparently there’s some girl from Ipanema. She’s a big deal) and checked out the sights over there, which included in no particular order of awesomeness; Brazils version of muscle beach (1/4 the size and 4 times the jankiness. We’re talking weights made of concrete poured into buckets, pipes driven into the ground to make = dip and pull up bars, and swole tan dudes benching everywhere), a huge-tacular rock with benches and all sorts of paths(which we deemd Gringo point because it’s one of those large places any tourist would look at and think to themselves, “Man, I bet there’s like a whole mess of great pictures to take and other people’s views to obstruct up there. Let’s check it out.” We did), apartments of the rich and famous of Brazil and the world literally 15 feet from the sand, a whole mess of surfing (kinda wanna learn now) and finally, vendors selling everything from coconut ice cream confections the size of my hand (1 Real, well worth it) to Brazilian hot dogs (which are hot dogs covered in anything and everything from rice and beans to more hot dogs and potato chips)

On that note, I’m getting kinda hungry. Second dinner? Maybe after I work out. We ended up going out again that night, this time to Lapa (what’s that?), but we’ll have a much deeper explanation of that next time. Portuguese for the day is, “Treinando Fisico Militar”, or simply TFM, the Brazilian Military version of PT (Physical Training). 

Tchau for now!

Shenanigans (Seriously Though)

So FIAT, the Italian car manufacturer is not very popular in the U.S. Not anymore at least. Not since people wrote speeding tickets with hammers and chisels and people drove by running with their feet in gaping holes in the bottoms of their cars (@Mom and Dad). Generally speaking, FIATs are mostly hatchbacks or very small sedans. Not well suited to Americans. Also, I’m pretty sure FIAT is an acronym for, “Fix It Again, Tony” (@Lousy reliability) Also not well suited to 5 cadets with 5 flight bags and 5 backpacks, as we stood outside the base in Rio wondering how we were going to fit everyone and everything in the tiny car. Losing daylight and patience, we squeezed, pushed, and slammed and reslammed car doors until finally we began to roll away from our week of super high speed (read: emotionally traumatic) air transport training and towards the promise of Rio de Janeiro: Cidade Maravilhosa (Marvelous City)

We screeched out of the parking lot, the FIAT riding low and whipped down the highway like Akon, doing 90……km/h that is (over under like 55mph) But we were in an 80km/h zone. Totally bad ass. We pulled up to CAD Moura’s house where we were set to spend the weekend. As we pulled up, we reviewed a few simple phrases in the car (Nice to meet you, my name is so-and-so, this food is delicious, etc) for his parents. Best foot forward and all. We walked up to the gate and into the house, which, if I can say without embarrassing minha familia novo (my new family) too much, was absolutely beautiful. The complex they lived in was just off the street and apart from immaculately clean and filled with loads of delicious new Brazilian food that all needed to be eaten before we could leave the table, had everything you could ever want. Moura’s brother, a former cadet and now law student had 2 guitars and we traded some music (read: he played a lot, I showed him my embarrassingly small level of knowledge and ability). Further, up on the 3^rd floor, there was couches, comfy chairs, a small terrace with a charcoal fireplace for grilling, and what we deemed to be a “hammock on standby” for its tight bundle on one wall, various adjustable hooks on all the other walls, and proximity to the sliding glass door led us to believe it could be nothing else. My first thought upon seeing all this was how relaxing (tranquilo) and fun (divertido) this weekend was going to be and my second was wondering how much this house cost, only to realize that I still hadn’t gotten the conversions down quite right and it probably would have been more of a headache than anything trying to figure out the feasibility of such nice digs. Perhaps another day…..

Moura’s mother and father were easily some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. She had to temper her excitement of total strangers with small words and slow speaking but her voice was very clear and she made us feel very comfortable in her home. She works for a research firm in Rio and between all the delicious food and love she showed us, we joked that she had 3 extra sons (mais tres filhos) for the weekend, after which we jokingly called her “mai” (mom) and she refused to call us anything but “meus filhos” (my sons). Mr. Moura is retired now but was enlisted in the Navy and retired with the highest enlisted rank possible, Subtenente. He also, had to make an effort to use small words for his new guests but we could see that they were excited to have us which made us feel all the more welcome. We stuck around for a bit but when we were getting ready to head out into the night, we were sure to impress upon her that we would be always be careful (“Cuidado sempre, minha mai.”) and would return at the end of the night whenever we ventured into Rio. Which leads me to my next story…….

Our first night, free of military duty in the city of Rio de Janeiro. How did it go? Here take this, it’s a passport to my world. You’re going to need it. 

Where are you? Your at the mall. How did you get here? You walked. You almost got hit by 2 motorcycles and a car that you can fit in the palm of your hand, but nevertheless, you’re here. Malls are kinda small but sorta tall here so the food court is up on the 4^th floor. You take the escalator, stopping only to window shop. Because everything is crazy expensive. Except food and drink. Which is fine. You don’t need an iPad (2000 Reals, or like $1300. Not cool) or running shoes (899 Reals, about $560) You need pizza. You enter Rio Italia and are handed a slip of paper with various words and boxes on it. This is your bill. Anything to purchase will be annotate on this by the waiter. At the register, the cashier rings up your slip and you pay accordingly. She gives you the bottom piece after stamping it, marking that you paid, and after, you need this tiny slip in order to leave the restaurant. Simple. Efficient. Functional. Lots of bars and places do this. You’re a fan. Moving forward, you sit down to empty plates and a waiter comes and asks for your beverage order. Almost immediately after he leaves, another waiter walks up and asks if you want some Calabrese Pizza. Do not be alarmed. He is not confused nor did he bring you the wrong order. This type of restaurant is Rodizio, specifically, Rodizio Pizza e Massa (Loosely translated, “rotating pizza and pasta”) He gives you a small slice and moves on to the next table, offering his plate. This process is repeated roughly 20 times during the course of the meal, with things ranging from meat pizza, to fettuccine alfredo, all the way to dessert (chocolate pizza, banana pizza, straight up cake, and many more) You can choose as you please and there is no limit on how long you can sit and stuff your face but be warned; eating numerous small plates at a time gives lie to how much you’ve actually eaten. By around the 7^th go around, you suddenly realize that you’re kind of getting full and that when you add up everything you’ve eaten so far, it probably amounts to a full plate or almost 2. And then it’s time for dessert. And it all falls under the same price anyway. Awesome.

You leave Rio Italia, your pace somewhat slowed due to a bulging stomach and loosened belt, and begin walking to the next corner. You blink and you’re in downtown Rio. How did you get here? A van that you found down by the river (@Chris Farley and Ben Miller) No seriously. A system of 2 destination vans (For example, “Ilha” (residential island area of Rio) and “Centro” (central area of downtown), are just 1 example of these vans operational districts) traverse the city along somewhat predetermined paths, stopping at popular places on their route (Por ejemplo, Teatro Municipal, Teatro Odeon, McDonald’s) until their van is full (roughly 15 seats) at which point they speed to the next destination and proceed to empty and refill the vehicle throughout the course of the day. It’s 5 Reals per trip (about 3 bucks, which isn’t too terrible considering it’s quick, fairly comfortable, and generally gets you to within a 5 minute walk of where you’re going, or at least your next means on transportation. Which leads me to my next bit. Centro is a cool area. You blink again.

You’re in Ipanema. How did you get here? The subway. Which is clean. And safe. And Clean. And reliable. And really freakin’ clean. (@NYC) For 3 Reals (2 bucks) we hop on a train from Centro to Ipanema. It’s a little windy and cool by the water (it is technically winter here) so you walk around the beach but don’t stay long. You do window shop a little more and locate the store that holds you next purchase; a tiny swimsuit (Brazilian flag on black) and a number of other stores you plan to investigate during the day when they reopen. You continue walking and spy a large, faded green building, from which there’s a hint of familiar American music. Creedence Clearwater Revival pumps out from balcony and the faint white glow of pale Americans illuminates the sign above, “Shenanigans: Irish Pub” Perfect. You walk up to the bouncer outside, who informs you that it’s a 10 Real cover charge. You reach for your wallet and he hands you a gigantic slip of paper covered in names of beers and liquors. “Paga depois.” (He informs you that you will be paying the cover as well as your tab at the culmination of your stay) You traverse the steps upstairs and are greeted by a large peninsula bar with few American options. Your friends buy the first round of Devassa, which is Portuguese for, “What you’re drinking tonight” (Kidding. It’s actually a little rude, so good luck using Google trying to figure out what it means, ‘cuz my lips are sealed) The live band actually consists of a guy on guitar and a lone singer, who over the course of the night belts out not only some CCR, but Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, The Wonders, and splits his time between the crowd favorites of both Brazil and the U.S. After your third round, you actually wonder whether or not this guy is a Brazilian singer or an enthusiastic American as he’s speaking both in between songs. You ask him, and in crisp Portuguese he informs you he’s a Brazilian native but seems rather flattered that you even had to ask and thanks you for the compliment on his English.

You and your buddies stay from about 10:30 or so until about 3:00 AM, keeping the rounds rolling and chatting up Brazilians and Americans alike, to include someone you’ve dubbed, “Rainbow Girl” because of her colorful top who agreed to meet you with her friends at a samba bar and street party the next night, Nick Papacostas, an American exchange student studying in Rio, and some guy you didn’t actually talk to but secretly decided to hate because he talked about how hard Harvard was and how working for his father is really difficult because he’s constantly sending him to vacation destinations to research the local night life for his extremely successful travel agency for the extremely wealthy. Also, he was really good at pool, which made you hate him more, and was hitting on French chicks in English because he, “didn’t want to be bothered to learn Portuguese and money’s a universal language anyway, right?” He said that. Out loud. Prick.

Around 3:30 you finally make it back to the sidewalk (paying much in the same manner, at the register with the slip, and at the door with your ticket out) and decide it’s time to return home. Seeing that the nearest corner for vans is a good 15 minute walk (rather difficult for a few of your friends who may or may not have overenthusiastically ordered an extra round or 3 more than they needed), you decide to flag down a taxi (a simple whistle or hand wave from the sidewalk and a yellow vehicle appears at your side) and convince the driver that he definitely has room for 5 of you. He agrees and for a few extra Reals, you’re well on your way home. You make it back to the house, crawl upstairs, blink lazily as your watch ticks the minutes past 4 AM. Everything blurs. Sleep.

Overall a good night if I say so myself. Stories from the street samba of Friday, the tourist traps of Saturday, and crazy construction of Sunday next time. Portuguese for the day is, “Bastante” which means, “Enough.”

Bom. Tchau for now.