Liveblogarama jamma 3

Oi from Rio.

Flights were smooth. I was very mindful of every bump and rapid descent, but stayed calm and really enjoyed the ride.

Rio is dirty and it stinks so good and it's absolutely beautiful. Reminds me of my first time in NYC. Just getting off the plane, you could smell how much fun it was going to be just from how much the air fused together the following:

a.) Food (particularly of the ethnic varieties)
b.) High-end perfumes
c.) Garbage
d.) Sweat.

Zeke and Beeze walked me down to an ATM vestibule thing, where I got R$ currency. This ain't Canada. There is no English (or in Canaydia's case, FRENCH) cheat-sheet below anything. It is ALL in Portuguese. I appreciate the challenge.

I met massively cool woman on the plane between Dallas and Sao Paulo. She was my BFF from the minute she sat down. She was touchy and petite and pretty and Filipino. I have no bubble/boundary issues (unless you're a man who has not yet earned my trust by being a long time friend or being married to one of my girlfriends). She was a samba dancer who had come to Rio a few years back to audition for one of the Samba schools. The attire they gave her for her audition was an elaborate headdress and some body paint. Nothing else. She warned me not to be too trusting with my stuff. She got carried away with all the Brazilian-ness of everything last time, went for a run on the beach in her thong and bikini top, and came back with her sandals, sarong, and H20 stolen. Nobody spoke English, so she had to traipse around these dirty streets looking for someone to take her to her apartment, but barefoot and be-thonged. I made note of this, and reconsidered my rock-solid plans to do things that are SO ME...like running, and wearing thongs (I do not do thongs).

I am in love with this place already. We walked to a supermarket and got bread with my new Brajillan dollarz. I'm starving and ate a miniloaf already. We are going to go gorge ourselves on a traditional Brazilian glut-fest of meat tonight, so I should save room. Wish me luck in my bikini tomorrow. This is the plastic surgery capital of the world. I'm neither brown nor augmented, nor butt-flossing.

Despite my lack of appeal, I did step off a plane after 20 hours of jet-setting, to leering men saying "WELLcome to RIIIIoooooo" as if to say hubba hubba. I looked down at my faded black yoga pants, brown shoes to clash with them, stained hoodie and My Original Barzee. Huh?

But I'm technically "exotic" here. They have blonde haired blue eyed girls around, maybe one in every other crowd. But not much more. It's so weird to be this Nordic looking, *French stuttering, ethnic minority.

The apartment is bitchin and so is the company. Zeke and Anaga introduced me to their ubercool Australian imports, John and Gabi. I like eating bread in Rio. I like John and Gabi's accents and the looks people give Zeke as he towers over them at 6+ feet holding his milky white, tow-headed, blue eyed baby boy, Beeze.

And I like hearing Portuguese spoken all around me. I haven't heard it spoken so much since the times Rbf would ONLY tell me his true feelings for me in Portuges, in the early stages of our Round 1 dating era. Blah blah te amo, blah blah esposa, etc. I love, I so love, the sound of this bittersweet language.

And the Tucker Max book is, of course, appallingly entertaining. Oh and I'm not editing. I did not annihilate my net worth to sit around in the apartment on my laptop, no sirree. I'm clicking publish and not looking back. Sorry if this makes no sense whatsoever.

No, I will not return home "accidentally" slipping and saying obligada to everyone because I was SO IMMERSED in A CULTURE YOU WEREN'T PART OF, when really I mean to say thanks.

Ciao...OOPS, sorry, I meant Lates.



Beeze hamming for me.



The sophistication of traveling with kids. What. We're the Jolie-Pitts, except nobody here has to be called Pitt. Instead we are the Dumke-Montagues. Serious. Anaga said this trip was my sister-wife audition.



Aside from the tictax, the street noise outside my room will be humming me to sleep. That and the yelling and honking. Will feel just like home. Except not at all like home.



Seriously Beeze.



Father son wipeout, featuring Zeke and Beeze. The best vacation is the one where you play so hard, then lounge and graze, then konk out with your 1 year old frat style.

*My cute little BFF on the plane told me that Portuguese is similar to Spanish, but shares a lot of its nasal qualities and Latin roots with French, and occasionally you can speak French to people and they'll get it. I think this depends on your neighborhood. I tried talking to some men in the airport here (ATM?) and they shook their heads regretfully...asking "English?" Because they weren't sure what language I'd even need them to speak. I said yes, or French. No dice. While my Samba girlfriend was very intelligent, I think she has been to some more upmarket corners of this city. (Which, for the most part, we're actually in right now, but not so much in the aeropuerto). At any rate, my six years of geekish French study have yet to pay off in some traveling capacity. Next year. Next year it's gonna.