Back to the USA Via São Paulo

I have been through the airport in São Paulo many times but never got to see the enormous teeming city of 12 million or so people. I had much heard about the terrible traffic and violence so I was prepared mentally.

We had a 12 hour layover starting at 10am. Patrícia had a job interview at 2:30 so it seemed fine to run to the interview, see a few things and then return to the airport. We took the free TAM shuttle to the other airport (about 1 hour), which was much closer to her interview and then took a bus a bit further (45 minutes), grabbed some quick pizza, and jumped into a taxi for the rest of the way. The taxi driver didn't really know where he was going even with the Google maps we printed and she ended up being 15 minutes late to the interview. Unfortunately, I had to wait outside the complex on a bench because there was nothing anywhere near the place. The first hour of waiting was fine, the second hour tedious, and the third hour irritating. When she finally came out, she said the interview was only OK.

We no longer had time to see the city so we took a taxi to the train, made two transfers to get to the metro, and due to the bad directions we were given by a couple policemen, we made about six transfers on the metro to get to a bus to get to the airport. The metro was an experience during rush hour. I have been on 16 metro systems and have never seen so many people squeezing into the trains.

We arrived back at the airport right on time to check in for the flight to Miami. This is a surprise since we seem to have a bad habit of cutting it really close when we travel. Not surprisingly, the flight was delayed for two hours, now departing at 1am. So what to do for two hours before you leave for your marriage/honeymoon? We bought a bottle of wine in duty free, borrowed an opener from a bar, and celebrated. It was a good wait.

Day 307 Travel Marathon- Luxor to Vancouver

My stay in Luxor was brief. I arrived at noon and had to catch a flight to Cairo that night at midnight. I wouldn’t have time to see the Valley of the Kings, which was disappointing, but managed to see the Luxor Temple just outside of town. It has the largest ancient columned hall in the world, or so I was told. With 85 foot tall (26m) columns it was impressive. About a dozen different kings remodeled/added on to the temple making it both massive and diverse in styles. If it had not been oppressively hot and I had more time I would have enjoyed it more.

I bought a couple Anubis statues, t-shirts, and some food and then headed to the airport to start my long trip back to Vancouver, Washington. When I was in the middle of the line at the check-in counter, a woman with a cart full of odd shaped boxes pulled up close along side of me. I was suspicious. Just as I suspected, as I moved forward she kept edging it further in front of me trying to nonchalantly cut into line. No way this has happening lady. Just try it. I held my ground as best I could without actually pushing her cart. She wouldn't look at me and pretended to merely be standing there, but her game was not too subtle. She made her move just as I was to be the next person helped, she surged forward shoving her cart up to the counter to block me but her rash move came with an unexpected cost. Several of her boxes tumbled onto the floor and as she reached to save them I stretched my long arm over her and her pitiful cart to hand my passport to the clerk. Ha! I felt her angry glare bounce fruitlessly of my back as I walked away with my boarding pass in hand and a smug smile on my face. Of course, my plane was delayed, luckily only half an hour. As I killed time looking at displays in the terminal, I noticed that pushy cart-lady was having trouble checking in her boxes and it took her about 10 minutes to convince Alitalia to take them. I was really glad that I didn’t wait for her. Ha ha! Sweet victory.

A couple hours later I was in the Cairo airport parking negotiating a price for a taxi to my hostel. I was told there was a bus, but at 3am it wasn’t running. The guy at my hostel had arranged for a taxi to the airport so I knew what it should cost. The problem was that I was a tourist at the airport in the middle of the night and the taxi drivers knew that I was at a disadvantage. Fortunately, another passenger came to my aid to help convince a taxi driver to grudgingly take me for the local’s price. He was not thrilled about it. I was not thrilled about the ancient death trap he called a taxi, yet relieved to be going to get some sleep.

I was only at the hostel for 5 hours though, because I had to go back to the airport to wait for 2 hours to catch a flight to Rome. So back in a cab and back to the airport I went to wait some more. The flight to Rome was 4 hours with a 4 hour layover until my connection to Madrid where I had a 5.5 hour layover (attempting to sleeping in an uncomfortable chair) for a 2.5 hour flight to London with a 7 hour layover for a 9.5 hour flight to Seattle where I waited 6 hours for a 4 hour bus to Portland where I waited 2 hours to be picked up at 2am.

Doing the math from Luxor, I took five planes and 53.5 hours to get to my Mom’s house. This was the worst trip so far. In my sleep deprived and physically abused state, my bond with reality was wavering dangerously at that point. Thank God that I had a week to rest before taking Eric to Hawaii.

Day 304 Slow Boat to Luxor

The dreamy slowness of my cruise ship up the Nile gave a me a tangible sense of the word "languid." It seemed as if it drifted more than navigated, with only a quiet vibration giving evidence of mechanized propulsion. Additionally, the ship, built for 150 passengers was only carrying nine, many fewer than the crew, lending a stillness of motion and sound to the decks. There was no hurry for anything. It would take a day and a half to make our way to Luxor.

As I stared out from my luxurious wood paneled cabin at the water lilies and Nile birds drifting by or as I sat on the upper deck in the shade of a canopy, marveling at the beauty of Nile cutting a verdant green swath through the desert, I felt the hassles of travel blur into hazy distant memory. I chatted with some other Americans over afternoon tea, enjoyed sumptuous meals, and soaked up the tranquility.

We stopped at a two places, the better being the town of Edfu. I haggled with a cigarette smoking 14-year-old for a carriage ride to the temple, eventually settling on the equivalent of $3 USD for the 20 minute round trip including an hour of waiting time. I had the upper hand because he was desperate for a fare but I ended up giving him $5 because I felt bad for him. The tourism business is slow in Egypt.

The Edfu temple was spectacular at night. It was my favorite by far of all the temples. It was deserted too. The most interesting part was when I was leaving, a plain clothes guard called me over to show me a hieroglyphic of a god giving birth. He pointed out the fine details with the barrel of his snub-nosed machine gun. And then he asked for a little something. In the dark. In a deserted temple. With his machine gun pointed at my crotch. I found that I felt suddenly generous, and gave a few more coins to this man than I would normally give.

I didn't really feel threatened. It was business as usual in Egypt. The fact of the time, place, and presence of an automatic weapon were not relevant to his providing a service and expecting compensation. Still, it was interesting.

Another couple had a more exciting time as they were returning in their carriage. A 3-year-old wandering the street was nick-of-time saved by a passer-by from being crushed under their horse, causing them to swerve and almost crash. They were shaken by both the near death and the ensuing shouting match that erupted on the street. The police ended up hurrying them out of the situation because they were worried that something might happen to the tourists.

Back on the ship, it was time for a fine dinner, a peaceful slumber, and then awaking to the glory of sunrise on the Nile. I was almost reluctant to leave the ship when we reached Luxor.

Day 297 Ferry Beyond Belief

I took a bus to the Red Sea port of Aqaba to catch a ferry to Egypt. I had missed the daily ferry and took a cheap room at a hotel without air conditioning. I assumed that the extreme heat of the day (113 F or 45C) would turn into a delightfully cool night like everywhere else I have been. Wrong. It was so hot that I ended up sleeping under a wet towel under the ceiling fan. This was great as long as the towel stayed wet, requiring a number of re-wettings during the night. When I woke up in the morning, it was 93 degrees (34 C) in my room.

The tickets for the noon fast ferry would sell out very early so I went to the port at 7:30am. This was the start of the biggest clusterf@#k I have seen so far.

Getting the ticket was not such a problem, only expensive at $50 USD for a one hour ride. Next, I waited in another line right next to the ticket seller for an hour so the clerk could stamp my ticket without even looking at it. Why they didn’t do that when I bought it I do not know, maybe to increase employment? Then I had to go downstairs and find the mislabeled exit tax office and pay 7.50 USD for exit stamps. Then it was back upstairs to immigration to get my exit stamps and passport stamped. Then I waited for a few hours to get on the ferry. It was 11:30 and no one was moving. I went outside and looked around. There was not any obvious ferry embarkment point. There was no visible ferry either. I went to a covered area next to a big vehicle gate and was told I had to wait for a bus to get to the ferry. All was fine and not extraordinary so far. I am baffled by the disorganization of what happened next.

I waited with for only fifteen minutes before there was a huge commotion and everyone rushed the gate. Police kept people from going through the gate while silently listening to people waving tickets and yelling. I pushed my way in to the crowd and waited. Close to noon the police let a surge of people, including me through the gate. I could now see the ferry only 500m away and could easily have walked it if they would have let me, but no.

We waited for a few minutes and a bus finally showed up. Of course everyone rushed the bus as if it was the only one coming all day. It is a frickin’ shuttle. It fills up, drives for 60 seconds, empties, and comes back. Come on people.

Police held the would-be riders back with threatening batons and lots of yelling. A dozen or so women and children were escorted through the crowd and got on the bus and then door started to close. People were trying to hold the door open in desperation but it overpowered them, almost crushing one woman. The bus then moved ten feet forward and opened the door again. The same process of police, batons, waving tickets, pushing, and yelling was repeated as a few more women got on. Then again, people tried holding the door open and threw themselves inside as it closed on them. Then the bus moved backward twenty feet. Repeat clusterf@#k again. Finally, the bus moved fifty feet forward, stopped for ten minutes before driving to the ferry.What the F@#k?

Then the police pushed everyone back to the other side of the gate. Little by little we edged our way right back to where the bus had been parked and waited about ten minutes in the hot sun before it came back. Although, this time it parked across the parking lot next to a covered area. Nothing happened for about ten more minutes until the police started letting one or two people at a time go over to the shaded area by the bus. They would do this about once a minute, randomly picking people out of the crowd. These lowly policemen were showing that they were in control and had the power in this situation. Finally a policeman pointed at me and said to me in English, “You are a winner!” and waved his baton for me to cross and get out of the sun. We stood next to the bus, waiting for another ten minutes before the napping driver decided to open the door. We got on and waited another ten minutes for a ticket check and nothing in particular. When the bus actually started moving, it went barely faster than walking speed to the ferry. I was just thrilled to get to the stupid boat.

It was an entirely enclosed ferry, with no open decks. The seats were comfortable and I watched Tom and Jerry cartoons for the hour and half that it took to shuttle everyone that 500 meters. Obviously the noon departure time is not set in stone. I could have taken the slow ferry that was ten dollars cheaper, but it usually left five or six hours late. The travel time for the slow ferry is somewhere between three to eight hours, but apparently, it once took three days to get there. It only took an hour to reach Nuweiba, Egypt on the fast ferry. Unfortunately, it took an hour before the police would let anyone off because they were searching for some criminals.

Once again we were bused to the terminal, but this time the ride was smoother. The terminal on the other hand was complete chaos. There is no obvious flow or signage to indicate a process at Nuweiba. There are many scattered buildings and no official in sight to ask. The bags had been loaded into a giant flatbed trailer sized cart that was sitting in the center of a mass of people desperately digging for their things. I found my bag, bought visa stamps at the difficult to locate bank for 15 USD, they only take USD for some reason, and then went to the exchange office to get local currency, went through security, went back through security to find the immigration office, went through security again, was ignored by customs, and finally got out. It took about thirteen hours to take a one hour ferry. They do this every day. I am assuming merit is not involved in the promotion of port managers.

The first taxi guys I asked said that there were no “service” taxis, which are shared taxis, to across the Sinai Peninsula to Cairo and I would have to pay $150 USD to get there. They were lying of course. I easily found some. I bargained the price down to a little over seventeen USD for the five hour drive. My taxi was a newer minibus that would be comfortable. I waited for two hours while they found more passengers and loaded the top rack with what looked like a houseful of possessions. It was comic to see them load and reload and reload to get it all up there. It wasn’t funny when we were switched to an old Peugeot 504 because there were not enough people for the minibus. I waited another hour while they moved everything to the other vehicle. There were several problems with this decrepit taxi. First, it was so overloaded, we could not go that fast. Second, the ceiling was so low I could not sit up. In fact, if I had been able to sit up, the roof would have been at my chin level. I spent 8 sleepless hours hunched over or with my knees on the ceiling so I could rest my head on the seat. Not fun. And then it got better. I was dropped off at four in the morning at a highway crossroad outside of Cairo. I could not even see the city. Thankfully, I caught a passing minibus after only fifteen minutes. Then I had to take a taxi to my hostel. I went straight to bed.

Day 271 More (or Less) Bus Fun

When they said I could get a direct bus from Corfu to Athens, I said, “What?” How do you get a direct bus from and island with no bridges? The bus takes the ferry, that’s how. The bus left 30 minutes late, which is not unusual, drove two blocks, and we all got off, which is unusual. We got off to buy ferry tickets, got back on the bus, drove another block, and we got off again to board the ferry. On the other side we got on the bus again and were on our way. Why we didn’t just catch the bus on the other side I will never know.

It was an twelve hour overnight bus with too little leg room and too many people. I was not comfortable and slept fitfully. In the middle of the night, during one of the few times I was sleeping of course, one of the tires directly under my seat blew with a loud bang. We stopped at the next rest stop and all had to get off so the bus could go find somewhere to fix the tire. I was not feeling cheery at the time, sitting on a curb, wishing I could sleep, and having no idea when the bus was coming back. It was only a half hour, thank god.

We got into Athens and I found the center city bus that went to within a few blocks of the metro, took the metro, and walked to the few more blocks to the hostel. It was seven in the morning and too early to check-in and they were not sure there was a vacancy yet. I was thankful that it was a relaxed hostel; they said to have the free breakfast and crash on a couch until they could find me a room.

Day 193 Transit Limbo

I was impressed by TAM Airlines on my flight to São Paulo. In my economy class window seat I had on demand movies on the seat back screen, great service, good food, and a free travel kit with a toothbrush, toothpaste, eye mask, and comb in a nice reusable plastic case. It was even better than Lufthansa, which is hard to beat.

With the flight delay I got into São Paulo at about 12:30am, missing my connecting flight to Brasília by two and a half hours. After waiting in three lines, because I kept asking clueless people, I got a taxi, dinner, and hotel vouchers from TAM. It was a good hotel, but after waiting with all of the other weary travelers for another half hour at the reception desk, I was not interested in the free dinner, only sleep. It was 1:30am and I had to go back to the airport at 6:00am, which did not leave me much time. I had my free breakfast at 5:00am with a bunch of Japanese business men and headed back to the airport. The flight to Brasília was especially short because I slept the whole way.

The thing that bothered me most about the whole experience was not the inconvenience or lack of sleep or dragging extra bags all over. It was that we flew directly over Brasília on the way, continuing another hour and a half south so I could, wait for eight hours and then turn around and come back. I saw the illuminated shape of Brasìlia below us as we flew. The airplane shaped layout of the city is hard to miss and I could even see the neighborhood where I would be staying. I had tried convincing the gate desk clerk that since the flight was delayed they should drop me off on the way to São Paulo, but she would not budge. I told her that Patrícia was waiting for me and I had to get there soon. Still no luck.

In DC I had to apply for a new visa to Brasil because my last one was a tourist visa valid for only 90 days. A longer term visa, up to five years, is up to the discretion of the consular officer. I went to the embassy early, ready with my documents, and dressed well. I was second in line behind a cranky old guy that was only going to be transiting through Brasil on his way to a ship. Because his brother had gotten robbed in Rio he thought Brasil was a dreadful country and didn’t bother to hide his opinion, rather, he seemed to enjoy loudly sharing it. I was surprised that even though he was rude and demanding, the consular officer remained courteous and patient with him. He had no right to go to Brasil. He was asking permission. He is lucky that Brasilians are such nice people; most other countries would have refused the visa.

When old cranky pants finally left, I pleaded my case for a long-term visa. I had to have a compelling reason, so I was honest: I was traveling the world and the woman I loved lived in Brasil and it would be bad if I neglected her. I showed a picture of Patrícia and me and chatted a bit. She said that Patrícia was very beautiful and understood why I wanted the visa. She could not say if I would get the five year visa, but told me to come back the next afternoon to pick it up and not to bother waiting in line. The next day I was making my way through the lobby full of waiting people when the consular officer saw me and excitedly waved and yelled for me to come up to the window. I think she was as happy as I was to see the five year visa in my passport. It seems that love may not be able to redirect a plane but it is a compelling enough of a reason to get a visa.

Day 192 Dead in New York

The dead body in the hostel lobby might have struck me as a bad sign if I had not been so tired. I didn’t kill the guy so I really didn’t care—just as long as they changed the sheets. The only thing that did bother me was the disinfectant that the maintenance guy was spraying everywhere but especially on whatever was dripping from the body as they carried it out. It wasn’t blood and my curiosity didn’t go so far as to make me ask.

Then the clerk told me that they did not have any record of my online reservation or deposit. Even worse, they only had two beds available, both more expensive than the one I had booked. I pled my case and got a discount on the one that wasn’t recently occupied by a corpse.

It had been a long day of travel by bus and subway from DC and by the time I got into my dorm room I was ready for bed. The first thing I did was to sniff for disinfectant to see if I got the right bed. It was the only time I was ever reassured by the lack of disinfectant, usually the opposite is true. It was midnight and I hit the pillow hard. I had to get up at 4:30 in the morning to get to the airport for my flight to Brasil so I needed all the sleep I could get.

Needless to say that I was less than pleased when, at 1:30 am, the security guard woke me from a deep, peaceful sleep by yelling at me. He was under the impression that I was in the bed under false pretenses and demanded to see my receipt. I groggily and irritably dug it out and thrust it at him. After checking it, making a call to the reception, and saying only, “sorry,” he left. They had overbooked the room and someone had come up to find me where they were supposed to be. It only took about 5 minutes but I was so irritated by the whole thing, I almost did not go back to sleep. I was even less thrilled in the morning when I found that one of my roommates had left the door ajar; anyone could have come in while we were sleeping and taken our bags.

Sleep deprived, I stumbled out into the frigid morning air at 5:00 am. I did not have time to stop at my favorite bagel shop across the street. I was loaded down with an extra bag of clothes and my new Rollerblades and could not sit down to enjoy my usual NY breakfast of a coffee, bagel, eggs, and home fries ($5). It was snowing hard and the two blocks to the subway left me fluffy white. That is, until it melted and it left me unpleasantly damp. While it took almost an hour to get to the airport, I was happy that I did not have to take a taxi.

The check-in line was short, I was right on time, and security went smoothly. I should have known something was wrong. The plane had been delayed coming from Brasil and was going to be departing three and a half hours late. I was going to miss my connection in São Paulo and would have to stay in a hotel. On the positive side, I had plenty of time to get some overpriced breakfast to eat. I got coffee and a bagel and paid 8 bucks for a days worth of wi-fi (for which I found out later they double charged my card).

I was happy to finally get on the plane. Even the hour of de-icing time sitting on the tarmac did not bother me. I was on my way to what my mother aptly called my “happy place.”

Day 181 The Worm in the Apple

I strolled across the Brooklyn Bridge yesterday and enjoyed the good weather. I could not bring myself to go to any museums or visit any other sights. After Paris I only wanted to walk and relax. I walked about 70 or 80 blocks and only took the grungy subway twice.

I had the unfortunate need to ask for help with the bus to DC. It is a discount bus run by a Chinatown company and does not have a storefront. At only $20 for oneway, I had no complaints other than I could not find the stop. Everyone I asked was brusque and not helpful, even customer service people at the bus station. It was amazing to see people go from friendly to rude as soon as I asked them to think a little. I talked to maybe ten people and none of them were glad to help me, not that they were helpful anyway. I am glad I was not staying longer. I finally found another Chinatown bus and I made my way to DC for my Foreign Service Oral Assessment.

Day 174 An Undignified Exit

I wish I could say that my exit from Paris was consistent with the rest of my visit. It wasn’t.

My Easy Jet flight to Rome was leaving from the Orly airport at 7 am and I had to check-in no later than 6:40. I had been distracted during my time in Paris, (surprised?) and had forgotten to book an airport shuttle, leaving me with two options: taxi or public transportation. The taxi option would have been very expensive to go from my hostel in Montmarte all the way to the airport south of the city (more expensive than my flight), but the train to the airport stopped at 11:30 pm and did not start up again in time for me to make it in the morning. What to do? I decided to go to the airport on the last train and camp out. It would not have been the first time I had to sleep in an airport. I had talked to several people, including locals, and this seemed to be the best option. “Seemed to be” is the key phrase here because I was making one big incorrect assumption.

All went well until midnight, when, after I had just settled into an airport chair which was cleverly designed to prevent comfortable sleeping, I heard the announcement that the airport was closing shortly. I have been in many international airports at all hours of the night and had assumed that they all were open 24 hours. Orly closes for fours hours from 12:30 to 4:30. This would not have been as bad if the announcement hadn’t come after the train stopped running. My only option was to take a taxi. After almost not finding a cab, I took one to the nearest metro stop, 3 miles and $28 away. I then had the option of either paying for a hotel room ($100) for four hours or camping out on a bench. I walked around for a bit, my backpack and eyelids feeling heavier by the second, until I spotted a fellow backpacker sleeping peacefully with a blanket of cardboard under a building awning. It looked tempting. The rain drops tickling my face were the final impetus I needed. I helped myself to the plentiful supply of clean cardboard awaiting pickup outside the shops and fashioned my temporary nest. Two layers for a mattress, one over the top, and my backpack as a pillow. I set my alarm and tried to sleep.

Between the barking dogs, loud pedestrians, trucks, hard bed, and the cold breeze sneaking under my stiff blanket, I miraculously managed to get about an hour and a half of uncomfortable sleep. By this point, the cramped airplane seat was looking good. I still would not have made it to the airport in time by train and had to take another $28 taxi back. My flight was only $40.

After all that I can’t complain. I was not robbed, injured, or otherwise maligned. I accept being tired and uncomfortable and paying too much for some things as part of long-term travel. As the French say, “c’est la vie.” Fortunately, my undignified departure is only a comical footnote to the magical memory of being with the woman I love in the most romantic city in the world.

Day 159 Aix-en-Provence

I made a daytrip to Aix-en-Provence and found the city charming. It would be the perfect place for a romantic getaway. The streets are full of lovely, classic old world charm and the Sunday antiques market had the most interesting antiques I have ever seen. I even got the chance to go in a Chagall exposition for free. That was marvelous since I had been very disappointed that I was turned away from the Chagall museum in Nice because my backpack was too big for their checkroom boxes. No matter how I tried they wouldn't let me use one of the many group luggage bins that were plenty big enough. The French do like their rules.

The excitement highlight of the day was when our bus was cut-off in traffic by a subcompact car. Our driver yelled, honked, yelled, tailgated him, and yelled some more in fairly heavy traffic at 120kph, all the while talking away on his cell phone. If the guy ahead of us would have touched his brakes at all, the bus would have eaten his tiny little car.

I went back to Marseille and bought a ticket to Paris on the highspeed TGV train. It is amazing how fast the scenery goes by at 186mph/300kph. It is only a three hour trip instead of 8 or more hours on a regular train.

I am going to Paris to spend a wonderful week with my beautiful Patrícia in the city of light. Then I am off to Rome for a couple days to check out an apartment for my friend Chuck and then I will fly to New York to spend a few days. From there I head to Washington DC to take the Foreign Service Assessment.

Day 158 Marseille

Travel rule number one: Do not assume anything.

I bought a train ticket to Marseille from Nice. The ticket said the train number, Nice as the origin, and Marseille as the destination. Easy and straight forward right? No comment from the clerk about any transfer... I was on the train for about an hour reading when I realized that the train had been at one stop for a long time. Looking around gave me the unpleasant surprise that I was the only person on train. I found the ticket office and inquired within. I was in Grasse, substantially inland from the south coast where I should have been, because I needed to transfer in Cannes. The clerk was very good about giving me new tickets, back to Cannes and then on to Marseille. Luckily I only lost about two hours on the mistake. Note to self: read rule number one again.

Travel rule number two: Don’t second guess yourself; your first reaction is usually right.

The reputation of Marseille being the rough and tumble, drug and crime center of France was reinforced for me when I walked off the train at 10:30 at night, wandered down to the Metro, and in only those 50 meters I saw way too many malevolent looking attitudes for my comfort. Forgetting the metro, I went back up and checked into the hotel next to the station. I had planned on finding a hostel down in the old port area if I arrived earlier but that is reputed to be the worst area for crime. I am very willing to spend a little more money for personal safety.

The next day brought a whole new Marseille. The sun was shining and the city was jumping. I took a room at the Hotel Alize (seen facing you at the far right) on the Marina of the old port. I wandered through the colorful and fragrant flower market, explored the side streets filled with medina-like shops, ate half a pizza rolled up to go, and roamed the fortifications. It was a good day. I loved the city. Prices were great, street food was plentiful, and people were amazingly nice. As the second largest city in France I expected the brusque attitudes and busy demeanors that go with huge cities. Strangely, people were kind and overtly friendly everywhere I went. Maybe it is because the city is not overrun with tourists (they are all scared off by the city’s reputation).

That night I went out to grab some dinner. Everything was fine until I left the main boulevards. The under lit side streets were not friendly. I wasn’t more than fifty feet before someone tried to sell me drugs. I went around the block to the kebab shop by my hotel and ate in my room. I am really glad I did not wander around with my backpack the previous night.

A funny thing happened the next day. I was browsing in a plaza full of people peddling fake watches, belts, purses, and miscellaneous junk. I was standing in the middle of about fifty merchandise laden blankets when a yell went out among the vendors and within thirty seconds everything was gone. A policeman wandered through shortly afterward. He wasn’t interested in chasing anyone, just scaring them off.

Travel rule number three: Eat the best of the world

I had to have bouillabaisse in Marseille, the home of bouillabaisse. I had the best tomato based bouillabaisse of my life at Julia Child’s ninetieth birthday party so I wanted to try something different so as not to spoil the memory. My order came as a tray full of roasted fish and mussels, deboned and tastefully arranged on a large shallow bowl in front of me. The soup stock was added and I was given a bowl of garlic aioli to add as I ate. It was marvelous. God, I love food! It was pair with a delicious white wine too.

Day 97 Leaving Brasil

Heading back to the USA, I am sitting aisle side on a flight headed south from Brasilia to Sao Paulo. Sure it is the wrong direction I want to go, yet somehow it seems appropriate that I go the opposite direction for a couple hours and then turn around and go back. From Sao Paulo I go to Dallas and then Portland to get Eric and go to Italy. I will only be in Portland two days, brief enough that the time change of six hours from Brasil won’t screw me up before we head nine time zones to Italy.

Leaving Brasil is hard for me. Even though I have only seen one other identifiable gringo during my month and a half here, making me feel like I really stand out, and almost no one speaks English, I have felt very welcome to be in the country. People have been very considerate, and thankfully, tolerant of my pitiful Portuguese. And it is always hard for me to leave a place with good food.

Patricia’s family treated me as one of their own, looking out for me, and really going out of their way to make me feel at home. The cohesiveness of her family was remarkable to experience. Their weekly family gatherings were chaotic, lively, frequently loud, and fun.



Hardest of all, is of course leaving Patricia. It will be a long five months until I see her again. Thank God for Skype.

On the positive side of leaving Brasil, I haven’t seen Eric for ninety-seven days and I miss him very much. I can’t wait to explore Italy with him.

Day 78 Clubbing and Travel Update

The other night we went out to a nightclub and saw a local band with Patricia’s sister Priscila and her husband Dede. Can tell by the picture that I had the best view of the stage? The large Brasilian woman leading the band started off by doing a surprisingly uncanny imitation of Michael Jackson singing Billie Jean. I was impressed…at first antway. Later, intermixed with the capably done Brasilian top 40, they attempted to do a few other American songs, most notably was the worst rendition that I have ever heard of Owner of a Lonely Heart by Yes. It was painful. Of course a good part of that pain was due to our position directly in front of the speakers at the front of the stage. At times it was so loud I almost felt as if someone was scrambling my brains.

An interesting bit about clubs here is that they record your ID and give you a card on your way in. They mark the card as you buy drinks and then you pay on your way out. Some all you can eat restaurants do the same. Whatever you do, don’t lose the card or you are in for a hassle. Particularly if your Portuguese is as bad as mine.

Travel update:

I am staying in Brasil until 12 December and heading back to Portland to pick up my son Eric and then we are off to Rome, Italy and then Venice for Christmas. After that I take Eric back home and go back to Madrid to continue my exploration of Spain, Morocco, France, and Italy, until I head back to Washington DC in March for the Foreign Service Assessment. Eric will be flying out to spend spring break with me in DC and then I will be off to Brasil again for a month to see Patricia again. From there I head back to Rome to finish going around the Mediterranean.

I had not planned to fly much on this trip, but life happens. To put this deviation in perspective, here is a summary of my air travel from the beginning of the trip through my return to Rome in May:

Portland-JFK-Baltimore-JFK-Dublin-London-Faro-Porto-Madeira-Porto-Madrid-Miami-Sao Paulo-Brasilia—Sao Paulo-Dallas-Portland-Newark-Rome-Newark-Portland-Chicago-Madrid-Rome-Munich-JFK-Sao Paulo-Brasilia-Sao Paulo-JFK-Vienna-Rome.

That is a total of 27 planes, 61,500 miles and over 6 days of actual flight time. Whew! And yes I did sign up for frequent flier miles.

I have also been on 5 different metro systems, 7 long distance buses, and 5 trains.
If I calculated how much time I have spent waiting in line to buy tickets, waiting on metro platforms, and waiting for buses and trains to arrive/leave, I think I would be scared. Patience is definitely a virtue for travel.

Day 23 Stuck in Dublin Airport

I took the bus to New York City bus terminal and then another to JFK. Traffic was awful, several people on the bus missed their flights. I barely made it in time to sit on the plane for two hours before finally taking off. My first view of Ireland was of the misty and jagged hills that crash suddenly into the ocean outside Dublin. I couldn't have asked for a better first glimpse.

Now I am in Dublin without enough time to run into the city and grab a pint. It just isn't the same at the airport. Of course it is 5 am my time so maybe that is for the best.

The British Airways queue leads to a temporarily different airline (TAP) I found out after waiting in line for half an hour. Even better, it doesn't switch over to the BA desk for another hour. Oh well, it gives me time to blog for 30 minutes at $7.

Add-on:

Ran out of internet time so I went and had an "Irish breakfast" of sausage, ham, egg, and black and white pudding(it was good, not sure I want to know what it was) and then rounded it out with a pint to balance out all the animal fat. Surprised? Probably not.

I paid another $7 for internet access while I wait. It is only money, right?