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We arrived in Seattle on Wednesday after a relatively ungrueling flight home. Good to see friends again, good to speak to people who understand my words, good to sleep in my own bed. Today is Saturday, so we’ve been home three nights–three nights of blissful comfort, three mornings of popping awake at 6:30 or 7:00 am thanks to my internal clock being drastically off. Three days of being pretty sleepy, and three more days of rain (apparently, if it rains tomorrow, Seattle breaks some kind of record for consecutive rainy days. Stepping from summer straight into winter was a little bit of a shock, and I keep wearing tank tops under my jacket.) Our last few days in Brazil were lovely; I got to see my Aunt Bridget, Uncle Steve, and cousins Roseanna and Mandy, who showed us a good time at their lovely home, took us out to pizza, and supplied us with enough books in English to last on the plane ride home, since we’d consumed all we brought with us.

There are all sorts of things that I didn’t get around to recording in the blog, and I want to write a few of them down just so I remember them later. Stop reading now if lists bore you; I know they bore me; this is for archiving purposes and in no particular order.

The rain that fell on the crowd after midnight on new year’s, all the thousands of people in white streaming up off the beach and back into the city. It fell like a blessing, like holy water anointing the ground of the new year. Gentle, warm rain. And when we went up to the rooftop terrace of our hotel before going back the room, the happy, drunken laughter of the party of Russians in their white clothes, waving bottles of champagne, and all of them standing in the pool, laughing so hard they could barely drink. When we emerged on the rooftop, one man waved to us to join them, but I was too shy and Sean disinclined. We cheered the new year with them and went back to our room to drink our own champagne. The hilariousness of seeing two of them in sopping wet clothes join the dry and worried-looking people in the small elevator.

The girl from Seattle that we met at the hotel Simon in Itatiaia, who was there with her dad and who pantomimed the banana toucans for us and showed us how to get to the trailhead.

The church in Parati that we stumbled across at night that we could not find the next day to take pictures of.

The restaurant on Ilhabela where we waited for two hours on Christmas eve to get our terrible meals, and the family with two little girls, the father of whom went into hysterical screaming at the waiters when he and his kids had been waiting for an hour and a half. We couldn’t understand what he said, but it seemed to be very emotional, and finally his wife persuaded him to leave the restaurant with her and the confused kids. There was an uncomfortable silence over the dining room when we left, and I was very frustrated to not be able to say something sympathetic to the obviously beleaguered staff.

Bodysurfing near Parati, catching a wave accidentally and just flying into the shore–

All the fish that were clustered near the bridge over the lake at the sculpture park–the water creepily full of them, hanging out nearthe surface–did I write about this already?–you couldn’t see the bottom for the fish, and the water on the other side of the bridge was deserted.

Hunting all over the botanical gardens in Sao Paulo forthe advertised “cave” that was finally correctly translated on a sign as a “grotto” and we realized we’d walked past it a dozen times

Did I already write about how straight and deadly toucans look when they fly?

The afternoon we spent after a hike in Itatiaia–we showered the mud off, then alternated for a while between the sauna and the pool of natural water at the hotel. Eventually they brought us drinks, and Sean went off to play volleyball with some other guests while I went back to the room. When he returned, we ordered our second round of drinks, and I found out that with no food, two caipirinhas are deadly. I was totally drunk going in to dinner and embarrassed about it, and giggled outside for a long time before I gathered enough composure to enter and eat.

The couple sharing our table at the Bossa Nova bar; the man knew all the words and sang them, to the minor embarrassment of his girlfriend

The difficulty of walking on the cobblestoned streets of the ‘historic district’in Parati, where our hotel was

Did I write about the museum of Naive Art in Rio? I liked it…

the turtles eating lettuce at the botanical garden

There’s tons more. I’ll add to this list as I think of things. Be well, intrepid readers-to-the-end! I am home and re-ensconced. Life is good.

We had a lovely hike today. For the first three days we had here in the Itatiaia rain forest we took little jaunts–partly because of the whole rental car fiasco, which ended up taking three days to sort out–like two-four hour total hikes, off into the wilderness and back. The first day, we got up in the morning and went with another couple at the hotel and the resident guide, who speaks a tiny bit of English and is as flamboyant a character as you’ll find anywhere (tonight he paraded through the dinner hall in drag with a girl who also works at the hotel–his girlfriend?) and that was fun and we were out all morning and back in time for a late lunch. The second day we hung out in the hotel during the morning (car things, again) and in the afternoon went on a walk over a trail that we stumbled on that leads directly off the hotel’s recreation grounds–it was lovely, and we were out for a handfull of hours, tired when we returned but not wiped out. The third day we got up early, intending to pack a lunch and take a day-long hike, but were prevented by the promised arrivel of our replacement rental car, which came a few hours late. We ended up just taking an afternoon’s hike to a nearby waterfall, which was actually really lovely and I’m glad we ended up going there. All three of those days, it rained steadily. Not storming or anything, but enough for us to be wet whenever we returned, and there was no sunning ourselves as we walked or swimming at our destinations.

Today, though. Today we woke up and the car thing was totally resolved already, and there was SUN coming in the window. Real sunshine! Sun in the rain forest during the rainy season is sort of like snow in LA. We leapt out of bed, ate breakfast and packed sandwiches, and headed out to a real day-hike–to Tres Picos (three peaks, I’m sure I’m spelling the portuguese wrong, again) which is about 7.5 kilometers’ hike. The trailhead is at a nearby hotel. It was gorgeous. I hiked in my bikini top, trying to make up for the lost tanning opportunities (no luck though; I didn’t even wear sunscreen! But it’s shady in the jungle). In the first kilometer, we spotted several more big frogs and some more of the awkward turkey-birds (called guan? I think) that are everywhere around here–they’re like small turkeys and the last word you’d use to describe them is graceful–they sort of crash through the brush in a panic all the time. In the second kilometer–monkeys! In the wild! They were small and black and furry and totally unconcerned about us–we saw a mama carrying a baby on her back and another baby trailing behind, and then the whole cavalcade of adults crashing through the brush behind us–it was awesome. We tried and failed to get some pictures–the film was out–silly old-fashioned film cameras. But it was great fun to see them.

Then it got steep. We were scambling over boulders and climbing up exposed roots of trees–very cool to see palm trees in the jungle, it doesn’t seem like thye ought to belong there at all, but they looked just right–giving the rest of the green texture, as it were. We passed a few small waterfalls, some of them just trickles, some of them bounding into clear, calm pools below us, some of them cascading down mossy boulders in multiple paths fantasy-illustration style. It was lovely and exhausting. We lost the trail at one point over a gigantic boulder and found it again–stopped for lunch on said boulder–scrambled up hundreds more feet of elevation through scratchy bushes (and the scrathes on my legs will outlast all of whatever sun color I picked up, you can count on that) and after four hours of exhausting, sweaty, sunny, muddy scrambling, emerged at the peak, which was suitably awe-inspiring. There was another group–about eight Brazilian tourists and a guide–who were finishing up their lunch at the peak there, and we exchanged our mutual ten words of each others’ language, and they took a picture with everyone including us and promised to mail us a copy, and they were very nice. And then they started back down, and Sean and I lingered for a few minutes to have the peak to ourselves and ate some cookies, and then we headed down the path again.

And this is where the adventure started. The fog was rolling in–by the time we left the peak, the view had disappeared. It must have been 2:00 or 3:00 by then. We heard thunder as we started down. We were faster than the other group and soon caught up to them and were stuck behind them for a while–one of the girls with them balked and giggled every time she had to climb down a boulder, and there were many–but when the rain started, we threw manners to hell and pushed past the other group as they paused to put on their raincoats. I hadn’t brought a raincoat (the one I brought to Brazil had proved worse than useless in a downpour anyway). This was real rain, not the drizzle we’ve been seeing for the past three days–in under a minute, we were as wet as if we’d gone swimming with our clothes on. Our only thought was for the already steep and muddy path, and how much muddier and more treacherous it was becoming every minute. It actually got to be fun–we were soaking, hurtling down the path balancing caution with the urgent need to get to the bottom before it was impassable–soaked to the skin, covered in mud, laughing at the sudden difference in the day. It was both fun and sodden. By the time we reached the bottom of the mountain (in easily less than half the time it had taken us to climb up) the rain had lightened–by the time we returned to our hotel, the sun was out again. A gentle breeze was blowing. Remember being so tired and dirty that a hot shower and clean, dry clothes are really the two best things in the universe? That was us, before dinner tonight. I am happy and tired tonight.

Tomorrow we leave the rain forest, and that will be sad, but we leave it for Bridget & Steve’s, which will be lovely! We’ll be home on Wednesday, and wednesday draws near too quickly–but i feel well-vacationed. It’s finally gotten to the point where it sounds nice to sleep in our own bed again.

Love!
Alissa

Hello from the Brazilian rain forest! For the last few nights (and until the 8th) we´re staying at the Hotel Donati in the Itatiaia National Park, between Rio and Sao Paulo. It’s beautiful here. I’m wiped out and heading out to my room in a minute (the internet here is very slow and for some reason none of my email accounts will load; sigh) but I wanted to let y’all know that the rain forest in Brazil is, as advertised, rainy and foresty, and lovely. Our rental car broke down in town and when we called the rental company reached no one who spoke English; it looked like trouble, but fortunately we had the good sense to break down in front of the police station, and a very nice fellow named Fabiano whose wife is canadian and who therefore spoke impeccable English called the company for us and acted as our translator. Then, when it was clear that the replacement car would not be coming until the morning, he gave us a ride into the park and to our hotel. Hurrah for nice policemen! We’ve been going on hikes in the forest in the meantime; a few waterfalls, a whole world of lush greenery. Our hotel is stunning; it’s a faux-Swiss chalet and we have our own cabin on the extensive and manicured grounds. Before we left Rio, we went to the botanical gardens and saw a horde of little monkeys lunching above us, and a toucan! No monkeys here yet, but enough birds to keep us awake at night with constant twittering. The people are all very nice. The next stop will be at my Aunt Bridget & Uncle Steve’s place in Campinas–hurrah! Then Rio, one more night at Cristiane’s and the long air trip home. I’m a little worried that I won’t come home with the tan I had hoped; despite all our time on the coast, Sean and I spent little time on the beach itself, and now it’s all rainy! But I will valiantly endeavor to fix that, if we ever get a sunny day again. Life is good, we are living now in the lap of luxury, only slightly homesick for people we can talk to. Dad, you’d love the forest here; it’s full of bamboo, most of it as thick as my arm and some of it as thick as my leg! We saw some ENORMOUS frogs yesterday, too, bigger than my fist. Plus a little tiny neon-orange one that hid under the gigantic, camoflaged (parent?) otherfrog. It’s gorgeous here. Sparky, while we were waiting for the car thing to get resolved I had a 130k Nethack game–have you beat my high score yet? I’ll be disappointed if no.

Goodnight, friends! I’m too sleepy for more, but I am thinking of you–

–Alissa

Porcão, as promised, was a glutton’s paradise. The place was big; there was an extensive and well-stocked salad bar that was the centerpiece of the room. We were sat, given drinks and plates, and more or less pointed at the salad. I shouldn’t have even bothered, had I understood what was coming, but I went and had a mysterious and yummy appetizer. I’d list the ingredients for you except that I honestly didn’t recognize a single one of them, but it was colorful and crunchy and satisfying and covered with creamy dressing. But that’s all really just a warmup. The waiter brings a list of side dishes to accompany our main course, and we choose two–fried banana and something with black beans. And then the madness starts. See, they give you each a little coaster that’s red on one side and green on the other. The idea is that if your coaster is green-side up, that means you want food, and the waiters that are roving the restaurant with sizzling cuts of meat will slice some off for you when they spot your green coaster. The red side up is supposed to mean ‘please don’t bring me any more’. In practice, though, the red side seemed only to slow rather than stop the constant tide of meat-bringing. We intended to take it slow, finish our salads at least, before turning the coasters over to green. Some of the waiters passed us by, but the one with the rump roast marched up immediately and insisted we take some, and really he was right–Sean claims it’s the best beef he’s ever had. It was hot and fell apart in our mouths and the fat was utterly creamy and crispy on the outside. But I think a few other waiters noticed that we had accepted something despite our forbidding coasters, and every so often one would cruise up to our table to offer us something else–the prime rib, sliced off the haunch thinly, before our eyes, and to our taste, was the second best, and then there was sausage and some chicken breasts that were only okay and a medallion of pork and on and on and on. I did turn my coaster to green, once, just to see if it made a difference, and I had to turn it back over in about four minutes when I feared that I would lose my plate under the pile of flesh that descended upon it. Our side dishes remained relatively undimished, due in no small part to the fact that the minute one of us served ourselves from one of the family-style dishes on our table, it would immediately be replaced by a full plate of the same thing, even if the old plate was still nearly half-full. It was endless eating. I had to stop well before trying everything. But fun, it was–like a disneyland for meat. I liked it. I’ll never go back.

After giving up, we paid our bill and waddled down the street in search of something to distract us from our painfully distended bellies. We were lucky! We saw a nice bar on the street and went in the wrong door and ended up going up some stairs and into a packed and intimate little club where a woman was singing beautiful bossa nova backed by an excellent guitarist. We stayed and were rewarded by another band–the main event; we had wandered in during the opening act, apparently. These guys were clearly at least somewhat famous–the place went wild when they took the stage, and about half the crowd sang along every word to about half the songs. It was great. The finale came when two dancers in barely-there, glittering bikinis and a guy with a hand drum came up the stairs; the girls got everyone on their feet, there was much dancing and revelry, and I’m not even sure anyone really noticed when the band left the stage. At least, I didn’t–but I was three caipirinhas in by that point, which may make an exception out of me.

We were rewarded for our indulgence the next morning, unfortunately, with twin cases of diarrhea. Bleah. Something we ate at Porcão? Probably. But all our plans for the day were canned when we realized that we pretty much had to spend most of it confined to our hotel room and the proximity of the toilet. It didn’t make for a super fun new year’s eve day, but fortunately the pains were gone by early evening, so we could don our new white finery and join the throngs headed toward the beach.

And throngs they were. Vinicius had told me that the city of Rio was preparing for somewhere on the order of 2 MILLION extra people to descend on the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema for the occasion. I’m sure I only saw, oh…I don’t know. If there are people in every direction for as far as you can see in a flat, open space with little elbow room, how many people is that? A few thousand? A hundred thousand? But I’ll believe any high number you give me for the number of people celebrating the new year in Rio last night. (Happy new year, everybody, by the way!) Most were dressed in white. We got there (where? we had no idea where to go for any particular festivity, so we just walked the few blocks to the beach we were nearest) before the real crowds arrived, jaunting down at 9 or so. We ordered drinks from a tent on the beach, which apparently entitled us to a couple of beach chairs, which we set up halfway between the ocean and the bar. And so we passed the last few hours of 2005–reclined on the sand, sipping piña coladas, watching the parade of pretty people in white as they trickled in to join us. There were families with their kids and couples like us and older people and grinning teenagers, and the street behind us was packed with street vendors selling ears of corn and churros and flashing things to wear around your neck, and flowers; everywhere these long-stemmed flowers were being purchased. I had vaguely remembered that there was something about the tradition of throwing flowers into the ocean at midnight on this day, and intended to get one when my hands weren’t so full of yummy hot dog (they put crispy, tiny french fries on them! what a brilliant idea!) and then later when I thought about it, there was still plenty of time, I was comfortable in my chair, happy watching a happy crowd. There was a dj playing great beats behind me, and I got up and danced with strangers for a few minutes, though I couldn’t get Sean to join me. Eventually, the beach was well and truly packed. I caught sight of people holding their flowers high and marching down to the ocean, and realized I had never gotten a flower for myself, though I still didn’t know, exactly, what I was supposed to do with it; but it seemed like a lovely ritual and one that I wanted to participate in so I left Sean with our chairs and dodged my way back up the beach to the street to find myself a flower. But the street was far more crowded than the last time I had visited it; I walked past a place I was sure I had seen flowers sold earlier, but there was no one there now; I ducked and weaved my way through the ever-more-dense crowd in a search that, at the time, felt oddly frantic. I did feel more or less like time was running out, and my fear was confirmed when I caught sight of the giant countdown clock on the towering Mariott above me; there were only eleven minutes and some-odd seconds left in the year, and here I was running about in a panic far away from my love! I gave up on the flower and set myself to getting back to Sean and our stakeout before the year ended without me. This is a harder task than it sounds when everybody is dressed in the same color and the beach looks the same everywhere and the people are so thick that to see a particular person (who is sitting down) through them is quite impossible. But fortunately I recognized the tent that had lent us the chairs, and blundered about until I found our spot, and was reunited with Sean with barely eight minutes left in the year. There was a helicopter going back and forth and shining a spotlight down on the beach and people screamed cheerfully and waved whenever it passed and everybody was on their feet and the countdown was at hand, and people didn’t count together or anything, it was more of a rising cheer that broke like a wave at the critical second and I kissed Sean and was happy and then the fireworks started.

This was the thing that inspired the title of this post; in a way, the fireworks display that we saw reminded me a little of the gluttony of Porcão. I don’t mean that to sound like a bad thing; it was absolutely luxurious, it was being rich. There were three barges out at sea that the fireworks were coming from, and when the hour started, they just let go. For those of you reading this who have seen, say, the Seattle fireworks on the 4th of July, which are nicely choreographed to music and build to a crescendo and then a finale and then it’s over–this was a completely different event. The START of this show looked like the Seattle finale. The air was immediately thick with all kinds, all colors, all sorts of fireworks, one after another, overlapping each other, running into each other, illuminating each other’s smoke, and it went on for longer than any firework show could possibly go on, and the entire sky was filled with them from the three different barges. The crowd w0uld cheer evey good one, and there was a lot of them. And then, finally, there came a time when, impossibly, the fireworks came even thicker and faster, and there were some particularly glorious good ones, and the people went crazy with appreciation, and then no more fireworks, and everyone applauded together on the beach, which felt unifying and very good. But before the applause had died down, the fireworks had started up again–maybe the fuse-lighters just needed to catch their breath, or something–and the willy-nilly lighting of the sky went on. At one point, a giant fire on one of the barges was visible from the shore, and it continued to burn throughout the rest of the show–whatever they were dealing with out there, it seemed not to impede the output of that ship. When the show ended, it just petered out, no finale–how could they possibly top what had been going on for nearly an hour?–just a few less in the sky, and a few less, and a pause, and then one or two more as if somebody had found some that had rolled off into a corner and wanted to make sure they got used, and then no more. And everybody clapped again and then there was one more. And everybody clapped again and this time it was really over, and the parade of white started again in the other direction.

When the fireworks began, I was really feeling a little helpless and unprepared. I felt like I had come into the new year without being ready–it’s like those dreams actors have sometimes about being about to go onstage but not knowing any of their lines or having the right costume or knowing where their props are. We didn’t particularly know where the party was going to be (which turned out all right; the party was everywhere) and I had forgotten to buy white shoes so I was wearing these dark green sandals that didn’t go at all with my white dress, and my hunt for the flower at the last minute had been fruitless and aborted, and I hadn’t even THOUGHT about resolutions or anything like that, and really this whole trip to Brazil had been last-minute and seat-of-the-pants planned and I was still feeling like I hadn’t caught my breath or settled in or knew what I was about and as the clock ticked down I was thinking, “already?”. But the moment the fireworks started, it was…okay. It was like I was facing the new year totally naked, sans preparation, sans any kind of expectation. It caught me by surprise, and I felt rather like the whole year is going to be like that–like plunging into a vast cold ocean without knowing if I’m going to encounter jellyfish or dolphins, having left my snorkel on the boat and having forgotten to check my position on the chart, with nothing left to do but swim and try to stay afloat. But it’s terribly freeing, this feeling that all I’ve got to do is the next thing, the only thing, the only possible response to whatever is in front of me. All I’ve got to do this year is move forward. I feel pretty good about that.