The End.

I landed in Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay. It looks like every other mid-sized South American city I've visited. There's some nice classical buildings; there are lots of decaying buildings. McDonald's is popular. The airport is modern. I got a good exchange rate for my dollars from a woman who spoke no English but was excellent with hand signals. I saw the city in half a day.

There are supposed to be nice beaches further east. The rain had other ideas. Rain. What a stupid concept. Water falling from the sky? What's it doing in the sky? And why it is falling down on every damn beach I want to go to? I don't believe in signs, but I take it as a sign. No more beaches for me. And that means... no more South America. I guess there are other things to do here. What they are, I have no idea. But my last few days were meant to be spent on sand.

So that's it. The unceremonious end. I've moved my flight up a few days. I'm outta here. I reached that point where I just don't have it in me anymore. My passport needs a rest. The final tally was 14 countries, 7.5 months outside the U.S., and more hours in buses, boats, planes, taxis, subways, and bikes than I care to remember. For now, the rest of the world can suck it. I want to sit on a nice toilet that flushes properly while reading the Sports section. I'm not leaving the U.S. for a while.

Back to California. Back to the grind. Well, not exactly. No job, no apartment, and no real prospects. I'm just another bum. Man, that sounds really good.

A giant thank you is in order to everyone who has stayed with me these last eight months. You've withstood boring stories, profanity, typos, formatting errors, and, all too frequently, a gross distortion of the English language. My English teachers disavow all knowledge of ever having taught me basic rules of grammar. (Actually, any blame should fall squarely on Ms. Hamilton, my tenth grade English teacher. She sucked. I really hated her. She kept nagging me about my writing style. Some bullshit about 'not being aware of my writer's voice.' I actually remember her saying that. What the hell does that even mean? Plus, she destroyed "All The Kings Men." I despised it so much I couldn't even bear to read the Cliff's Notes version of the book. She just killed it with over-analysis. Bitch. OK - that's my last random rant on this blog.)

The author (just once I had to use the third person) is now back in L.A. I've got lots of stories I never published that are worth hearing, so invite me to lunch or drinks and I'll regale you with grand stories of my life and times. You buy, of course. I'm unemployed...

Carnaval in Rio de Janeiro

One minute it was there, the next minute it was gone. Gone forever in the backstreets and alleyways of Rio de Janeiro. No use trying to find it. No use calling the police. I kept telling myself that I shouldn't have felt too bad - it was merely a thing, an object, a device. Something replaceable. But we had shared so many good times together. It had been there with me when no one else had. It was my job to keep it safe, to protect it from others... Yes, you can add me to the sad, long, and ever-growing list of victims of the truest tourist experience in Rio: being pick-pocketed. Everyone told me to keep my camera at home, but how could? "I'm in Rio for Carnaval," I kept telling people. "How can you possibly expect me to not take pictures of this madness?!" It was early in the morning, the parties were still raging, and I wanted to document my experiences. I thought I had secured it in my special little pocket where no one could get at it. Well, crap in my bed. Lesson learned -- the truly dedicated pick-pocketer can get to any pocket, no matter how small, hidden, and 'secured.' I should have listened. I should have known better. I couldn't resist, and I paid the price. The only saving grace is that I backed up all my pictures that I had taken before I arrived in Rio. Still, I can't help but think, "Fuck me."

Yes, I'd love to show you pictures of the Carnaval I experienced. Of me in the midst of a million people cramped into the streets on the first night of partying, where everyone was drunk and dancing and screaming until their lungs gave out. Of a city that refused to stop celebrating for even a moment during the six days that I was there. Of men dressed as women, women dressed as men - and men and women dressed in nothing at all. Of people doing all sorts of obscene things to one another, and liking it. Of the outrageous costumes worn by thousands of dancers during the parade at the Sambodromo. Yes, I'd love to show you those pictures. But I can't. You'll just have to settle for my pithy little comments...

What I expected from Carnaval before I arrived in Rio came to life: millions of people partying all the time, drinking until 8am, falling asleep for a few hours, and then waking up for another round of parties. Other than a few 'formal' events (like the parade at the Sambodromo where people in crazy costumes dance in procession alongside elaborate floats), it's six days of partying in the streets. The parties are usually centered on a band or music blasting from a truck that's ever so slowly rolling down the street. As the band/truck goes, so go 10,000 or more people. Sometimes the crowds are so thick that you can't move. Literally, cannot move. I once got stuck in a crowd while trying to go the opposite direction. Big mistake. Against my will, I was pushed about 500 yards the wrong way before I reached a point where I could escape the masses in an alleyway. By then, I was drenched in sweat and beer and glitter and lots of other fluids that I couldn't recognize, nor did I want to. The word that kept coming back to me during the six days I was there: clusterfuck. This video, taken by someone in my hostel, sort of captures what a typical block party is like. Keep in mind there are hundreds of these throughout Carnaval.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=371IFZhfx9g&feature=related

The only real downside to Carnaval this year was the weather. It's normally in early or mid February, when - so I was told - it's always sunny and hot. Due to some fluke in the calendar, this year it was March 5-8 officially (unofficially, the partying began March 1). I guess those few weeks made a difference because it was overcast the whole time and it rained three of the six days I was there. A few locals said that it was the first time in 20 years it rained during Carnaval. Just my luck. It didn't really change anything major - people still drank and partied. But no one was on the beach laying out. I mean, what's the point of going to the beaches at Copacabana and Ipanema if you can't see incredibly bronzed, beautiful people frolicking in the water?! I hate rain.

Did I mention that people drink a lot during Carnaval? Holy shit, I've never seen drinking like that in my life. You could randomly select just about any person on the streets in Rio and put him against the biggest drunks you've ever known - frat boys, anyone Irish, that friend of a friend who's been to A.A. six times - and the contest wouldn't even be close. Disorderly conduct is not only permissible, it's encouraged. It might be one of the few times when people who aren't shitfaced are looked down on; they get treated like smokers or obese people in the U.S. I was one of the few - if not the only one - who kept the drinking to a limited amount. Why? Several reasons. First, I'm really not a hardcore boozer. Really, I swear. I like to drink a little and get a nice buzz every now and then - who doesn't? - but getting completely blacked out drunk just ain't my thing. Whenever possible, I try to avoid praying to the porcelain god. (The same could not be said for my dorm mates. More on this in a bit.) Second, I wanted to remember this, so blacking out was not a viable option. Third, despite what I just said, I had a rough go of it on the first night with too many caipirinhas. (That's the oh-so easy to drink Brazilian cocktail of fermented sugarcane, sugar, and lime.) Whatever that place is called between drunk and wasted, I was there. The next morning, there was more than a bit of a discordance throughout my body. At first I assumed it was the textbook hangover. Only later did I realize that my liver and the rest of my body had a heart-to-heart chat that did not end well. I think it went something like this:

Liver: Hey body, how you doin'?
Body: Eh, not too good. You?
Liver: I've been better, as you know. [Pause.] Hey, you gotta second?
Body: Sure... What's up?
Liver: Why don't we sit down.
Body: Uh, ok... What's this all about.
Liver: Look, I know this probably isn't a good time. I'm not sure there's ever really a good time for this. I... I just... God, why is this so hard?! [Holding back tears.] We've had some great times together. Some really epic times, right? Remember that weekend in college after Duke won the national championship? And Spring Break in Myrtle Beach? Or how about those times we went wine tasting in Santa Barbara? It's been a great 29 years and --
Body: I don't understand all this? What are you saying?... Are you - are you leaving me?
Liver: Look, babe, it's not you. It's me. It's time for me to move on. I thought we had an understanding that your days of punishing me were over. I thought we agreed that we'd take it easy. But then you go to Rio for Carnaval and the next thing I know, I'm being pumped with all sorts of crazy Brazilian booze that's been very unkind to me. That's not fair to me. I can't do this anymore.
Body: It's another guy, isn't it. You little bitch. Who is he? What does he have that I don't? A bigger abdominal cavity? Higher white blood cell count?... Oh god, I can change... Just gimme another chance!
Liver: It's not another guy, dammit. Don't make this harder than it has to be. I just need someone who I can trust will love me the way I need to be loved. It's not that I don't love you. I do. It's just that I'm not IN love with you anymore. I'm so sorry. But I have to do what's right for me. If I don't, I'll end up just like all the other cirrhotic livers out there stuck in a dead-end relationship. I can't let myself do that. Goodbye, body. I know you'll find another liver that's right for you.

Something like that. So I toned it down after the first night. Way down. A few beers and the occasional shot of rum. The problem, of course, is that drunk people can be really annoying if you're not also drunk. Like most of my dorm mates. I stayed at a hostel just two blocks away from the beach at Ipanema. As hostels go, it was average except for its excellent location. The hostel - no surprise here - was filled with people who wanted nothing more than to drink, party, and hopefully get laid. I have no beef with that. But in my room of twelve were seven assholes - all British, interestingly enough - who's behavior included the following: vomiting in the bathroom but not in the toilet, stealing other people's towels and bringing them to the beach, laying naked in other people's beds, playing the guitar as a way to get people to wake up, and so on. The room smelled like wet dog, vomit, beach, and dirty laundry. If murder were legal, I would have killed all seven of them. (They all had that shitty British accent, too, not the good one. After a while it's like nails on the chalkboard.) Of course, the hostel didn't care, so it was worthless to complain to them. They were all too happy to rake in the money. The normal charge for a room at this hostel is $21 a night. During the six night stay for Carnaval the room rate jumps to $110 a night. I can't believe I paid $660 for a room that I shared with 11 other people and had no maid service for a week. The only time I got fucked in Rio is when I handed over my credit card to pay for the bill.

Since I didn't have to sleep all day, every day in order to shake of a hangover, I had time to do some of the touristy stuff in Rio. I made the requisite visits to Christ the Redeemer, the old part of the city, and so on. But without pictures, I just don't have the inclination to detail them. Whatever.

My overall impression of Carnaval was a positive one despite the camera being stolen, the crappy weather, and the terrible dorm mates. However, this is one of those times when having friends would have made it much better. Partying with 'hostel friends' - people you've known for a few hours or a few days - just ain't the same as partying with people you've known for a few years or even a few decades. You live, you learn.

March 9 Postscript:

I had planned on this post being only about Carnaval. My original plan was travel to points south or Rio to enjoy the beaches in Brazil for a week of relaxation, which would get its own separate post. Due to a forecast of crappy weather - which has seemingly reached epidemic proportions along the Brazilian coast - I headed inland to Iguaçu Falls. I still don't have a camera, which is a real damn shame, because Iguaçu rates as 'holy f$%king shit' amazing. Your first thought when hearing someone talk about a major waterfall might go to Niagara. Sorry for the pun, but Iguaçu blows Niagara out of the water. It's not a single massive waterfall. It's miles of massive waterfalls all linked together along the Brazil/Argentina border. Both countries have set up catwalks that take people on top of, in front of, and next to the falls. They not only provide for great views but also allow you to feel the power of the water and the wind as it whips around you. And there's a boat ride in Argentina that takes people right underneath one of the falls. It's awesome. Look it up online and get yourself there next time you're in South America. After more than seven months on the road, I can say, without a doubt, it's one of the most spectacular natural sights I've ever seen in my life.

March 11 Postscript:

Damn you, rain. It's still raining at all the Brazilian beaches I want to visit. So now it's time for another audible. I'm heading to Uruguay. I have no idea what to expect. It wasn't even on my radar until a few days ago... If it's raining there, I'll kill someone, I swear...