December 27, 2006 – The Long Road to Catalao

The flight finally landed in Rio. It was morning. It was sunny. Is it possible for your spine to form a right angle? In the words of Chevy Chase, I felt like a hundred dollars (or was it 200 Reals?). Anyway, we had a 4 hour layover until our connecting flight left for Brasilia. After customs and check-in, I was guessing we’d have at least 3 and a half hours to lie down on the blankets we just stole from Delta and take a nap. I couldn’t wait.

But wait we did. Why wasn’t the line moving off the plane? Why wasn’t the airport air conditioned? What was the hold-up? I was hot. I felt poopy. Unfortunately, the 2 boxes of Imodium I’d consumed in the past 15 hours prevented me from doing anything about that last feeling. We waited for over an hour in the customs line. It was very, oh, international. I think I saw a chicken walk by. Since it was going so slowly, I assumed the immigration people must really be grilling you when you got up there. I started to panic that I would crack under the pressure, suffer from a 24-hour variety of Turret’s Syndrome, and blurt out something that would end up landing me in a Brazilian jail. I wondered if Brazilian jail cells were air-conditioned. I mean, what the hell, my ass was already numb.

What a joke. The immigration guy didn’t even talk to us. He just stamped our passports, and we moved past. Either we didn’t look as internationally threatening as my morning breath smelled, or stamping passports is deceptively time consuming. But it was OK. All we had to do was check in to our next flight, and I could still get a few hours of sleepy-time in on the terminal floor. We went looking for the check-in. On the way, we bumped into our luggage. It was good to see it. We hugged. However, I thought it was already supposed to be checked onto the next plane automatically. That’s what the Delta lady in Atlanta told me. She was obviously a big fat liar.

Our entire group, now individually reunited with our respective suitcases, caravanned blindly through the Rio airport like the Joad family leaving Oklahoma. With the possible exception that Jerry was wearing a smart looking travel blazer, and I don’t ever remember Steinbeck referring to anyone wearing a smart looking travel blazer. Ray tipped a seedy looking character, and we got directions to our terminal. It occurred to me that we may have been getting directions to another seedy looking character who would extort us for more tips. We didn’t know. No one spoke Rio-ese. Eventually we got to our terminal. I don’t know how. I just really wanted to sleep on my Delta blankie.

I thought “Rio” was the Portuguese word for “river.” I think I heard that on the Discovery channel. The discovery channel lied. (I guess that’s not too surprising since the Discovery channel is produced in Atlanta, and I suspect they draw their employees from the same group of big fat liars as the Atlanta Delta ticket counter does). Anyway, it’s apparent to me now that “Rio” is Portuguese for “line,” as in, standing “in line” (or “on line,” if you are from East of Pittsburgh). To wit, when we got to our terminal, there was another line. It was about 7 miles long (or 11 kilometers if the Discovery channel can be trusted at all).

There was quite a bit of question and concern on whether or not we were standing in the correct line/rio. Since it was pretty much the only line/rio, statistically the concerns were probably unfounded. However, we still decided to send out an exploratory committee to find out for sure. Our little Americano probes, Jill and Patty, went to the Delta help desk and asked. The Delta help desk was apparently aptly named, as they a) told us we were indeed in the right line/rio, and b) spoke English. However, in a moment of travel induced hysteria, Jill exclaimed to them that she didn’t speak English. Of course she said this in English, which confused the Delta lady. It confused all of us moments later when she recounted the event. And it actually makes my head hurt as I try to write this paragraph. It’s truly a gift that keeps on giving.

Eventually we got through the line/rio. The three and a half hours of quality sleep time I was expecting had been reduced to less than 10 minutes. Obviously, it wasn’t gonna’ happen. I went looking for a bar. I got a shot of something called Pinga. Since the name sounded like a Japenese anime character, I assumed it would be friendly and harmless like Hello Kitty. It was more like Goodbye Liver, as it tasted like kerosene but without the fruity aftertaste. I bought a Portuguese Diet Pepsi to chase it, which, incidentally, is called Pepsi Light in Brazil. I think they do this because “Diet” is close to the Portuguese word for God, and God-Pepsi just doesn’t make any sense. I think there’s already a word for God-Pepsi. It’s manna. But I digress.

We boarded the little plane to Brasilia on an airline that I had never heard of before. I don’t remember the name; it was just some random initials. I think it was a Portuguese acronym for “avoid the in-flight meal.” Regardless, the plane was clean, empty, and they served free, ice-cold beer. We partook in the beer. We smelled the in-flight meal. We had more beer. We stretched out across seats and slept. Relatively speaking, the trip was taking a turn for the better.

We arrived in Brasilia. The airport was smaller, cleaner and cooler. We were once again reunited with our luggage. Again, we hugged. I scraped the scum off my teeth and counted the rings. By my calculations, we’d been traveling for 24 hours. Todd met us. He introduced us to his soon to be father-in-law, Cassiano. He seemed like a helluva guy and kinda’ looked like Marlon Brando when he played Jor-El in the original Superman movie. Todd said we had about a two and half hour bus ride ahead of us to our hotel. Cassiano said it was more like 4. Maybe Cassiano was not as nice as I originally thought.

Todd proved to be a liar. Perhaps he can find work in Atlanta in the future. Cassiano, not so much. As promised, the bus ride was every bit of 4 hours, and that’s not including the break we took at a road side restaurant. We traveled through a lot of farm land. And, literally, it felt like we traveled through the farmland, as the bus driver had an apparent disdain for pavement and drove mostly on the shoulder. The terrain was quite beautiful if you are into pastoral green settings. I’m from metro-Detroit, and it was December. My eyes were still trying to adjust from the infinite shades of suburban gray.

The restaurant we stopped at was a peculiar little place that seemed to miraculously appear out of nowhere. The owners were incredibly gracious and beautiful. This would prove to be a trend. Gracious and beautiful Brazilians, I mean, not magically appearing restaurants. Before I was even completely in the door, I saw Max was already inside drinking a beer. I made a mental note to shadow Max more closely in the future.

The last time I had eaten was about a hemisphere ago. Patty and I ordered something unpronounceable based upon Cassiano’s recommendation. It turned out to be pork sausage and fried goat cheese. It was incredible, and unlike Bill Clinton, we inhaled it. Good recommendation. Cassiano is definitely back on our Christmas card list.

We got back on the bus and split our remaining time between nodding off and annoying Cassiano with questions about Brazil…all kinds of questions…questions the Brazilian consulate wouldn’t know the answers to...questions the Discovery channel would have to make up the answers to. Fortunately Cassiano is a bright guy and answered damn near everything we threw at him. I hope he never comes to the US and takes a bus ride with me. I do not possess a similar breadth of knowledge about the US. I do not possess a similar breadth of knowledge about Michigan. I do not possess a similar breadth of knowledge about my living room. It will be a very quiet bus ride.

We finally got to Carolina’s home town, Catalao (which I think rhymes with Not a Ho), and it was much bigger than I was originally lead to believe (probably by Todd or some liar in Atlanta). I was expecting Mayberry, but with 70,000 residents, it turned out to be more like Kalamazoo. That is if Kalamazoo was inches from the sun and predominantly inhabited by impossibly good looking people. We got to the hotel. We were greeted by yet another friendly Brazilian named either Bill, Pedro, or Excuse Me. He answered to all three. Patty and I were the first to check in, and we raced up to our rooms. We cranked the air-conditioner and seriously considered diving into the full-size bed for the next 20 or so hours. However, it occurred to me that everyone else was probably contemplating the very same thing at the very same moment, and this was nothing more than a defining moment to weed out the wimps. I suggested we go back down to the bar and have a drink. Whatever like-minded individuals ended up in the bar with us would undoubtedly be people we’d want to stay close to during the trip.

We were not disappointed. We immediately met Todd’s cousin, Jan, and her boyfriend, Nolly. Not only did they want a drink, but they wanted to drink the Brazilian version of Mohitos, called caipirinha. Our little experiment in party Darwinism had definitely introduced us to kindred spirits. Within moments, Max appeared with a beer in his hand. He’s like a superhero that way. We were amongst our own, and it was good.

Incidentally, caipirinha is a native drink made by taking a clear alcohol derived from local sugarcane or plutonium, throwing in a few limes, and then adding enough sugar to kill a roomful of diabetics. You kind of mash it more than mix it, and then you serve it over ice. They are not particularly tasty, so I only had about a dozen of them while in Brazil. However, the base alcohol is reminiscent of Tequila (although, oddly, for as many times as I have drunk Tequila, I have a hard time remembering the taste completely.) Anyway, caipirinhas are a wonderful starter drink, after dinner drink, and/or jewelry cleaner.

From there the night got a little blurry. Caipirinhas aside, 30 some odd hours of traveling and Brazilian heat have an intoxicating effect all unto themselves. I do remember drinking the largest, coldest beers I have ever tasted. I remember Pedro/Bill/ExcuseMe refilling my glass without ever having to ask. I remember rejoining with the group and eating what was quite possibly the best pasta dinner I have ever had. The secret was bacon. There were also French fries and some type of beef appetizer. Sadly, there were no leftovers.

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