Finally having taken all week to unpack, restock the refrigerator and done most of the laundry, I have a moment to write the blow-by-blow.
Sadly, my trip began with being negged by American Airlines. First class on our flight was packed, mostly because everyone was going to the conference that was the reason for our trip as well. I still think if H had listened to me and I had been checked in by the guy wearing the ascot I could've gotten him to bump someone. Instead, I flew in steerage where I proceeded to get into a turf war over my overhead storage which I ended by telling the guy across the aisle from me since it was over my seat my bag was going in it, PERIOD. And I have to ask, when did it become appropriate to remove your shoes AND SOCKS and place your feet on the seat in front of you? Apparently, when it became appropriate to take twenty minutes in one of the two bathrooms and leave the place festooned with toilet paper upon your exit. And airline food is food in only the broadest sense in that it would serve as fuel for your body to sustain itself. A long journey with terrible provisions and poor sanitary conditions, was I aboard the Mayflower?
The horrors of the flight were quickly erased from my mind upon checking into the impressively modern Hotel Fasano. "Modern" no longer means the metal and white plastic of the 90's, but eco-friendly woods, odd light fixtures, furniture-as-art and porn mirrors. What are porn mirrors, you ask? Well, after noticing several small and oddly placed mirrors around our room, there really was no other explanation. Sure, the one in the shower could be a shaving mirror, but the one on the ceiling over the bed really had no otehr impossible explanation. Odd, because it was only about a foot square and toward the foot of the bed, It was as if they wanted to be avant garde about it, or couldn't fully commit to the idea, resulting in a decor fixture that was both creepy and useless. The staff was mostly perky, young Brazilian women (more on those in a minute) and dapper gays. Michelle from Gilmore Girls escorted us to our room, helpfully pointing out that Madonna, herself, had stayed in the next room. I was suitably impressed. H blinked impassively.
Dildo lamp
You can't even see your FACE in this tiny thing
Poor H had to leave for a full day of meetings and I bolted for the roof-top infinity pool, sweet justice for every night he's "had" to go out to Nobu with "clients" while I ate fishsticks at home with the kids. The problem with staying at a hotel of this ilk is the pool is inhabited by the greasy, Speedo-clad, nouveau riche douche bags who, for some reason, do not have to work to maintain their wealth, and their aspiring model girlfriends, wearing mere strips of bathing suit to cover the most private parts of their sylph-like bodies. I, myself, fulfilled a childhood fantasy, sitting on a chaise wearing my big-ass hat, an impractical bathing suit with hardware, while waiters brought me drinks and arranged my umbrella to keep the sun off my lily whiteness. I was a complicated child.
Now let's discuss Brazilian women. My stepmother is Brazilian (and was in a joyful rapture over the fact I was finally going to her home country) and is, indeed beautiful, as are most Brazilian women. No, they don't all look like Giselle, they just think and act like they do. That is what makes them gorgeous. Coincidentally, it was Rio Fashion Week, which did up the quotient of truly alarmingly tall and thin fifteen year-olds (and gays) in the area, but even the average woman on the beach was strutting her stuff. There was no apologetic picking of wedgies, or tugging of hems. Dimpled ass cheeks hung out, shirts were rolled up to expose flabby midriffs and it was wonderful. I think we could use a dose of their "Yeah, I ain't perfect, I'm just gorgeous" philosophy.
After I whiled away the afternoon reading poolside, I had to go get ready for a work event with H. I felt very Betty Draper, getting dressed to go schmooze clients, with H coming for me with the car and driver. Unlike Betty, I was uncomfortable with having a chauffeur, since I am usually the one in that role. So as H answered some pressing work emails en route, I couldn't sit in silence with Phillip, our adorable twenty-something driver. No, I have to touch him on his arm to get his attention. Why, WHY am I always touching people? It's like being a mother has erased all my boundaries. I swear I would have licked my thumb and wiped dirt off of his cheek if I noticed any. Then I proceed to ask him about the ads I saw for American television and our conversation degraded into comparing the assets of various Bachelorette contestants. I am super classy and reserved, no? Happily, the work event went well and my mortification over my grabbiness with the driver went away as I was mugged repeatedly by complete strangers, being kissed on both cheeks upon our introduction.
The next day dawned brightly and I had coffee with H on the rooftop before he took off for the day again. I went for a really long run, during which I was hit by Little Man's stomach bug. I think we all saw this one coming. No, I didn't pull a Charlotte, and crap my pants, but the smell of the fried shrimp and garlic the beach vendors start preparing at nine in the morning that was merely unpleasant the day before, now made me almost double over and wretch. Sadly, I was five miles from the hotel. Listening to Beyonce and breathing through my mouth got me back safely. Some water and a nap seemed to set things right, but I cancelled my massage anyway. I have already pooped on a table in front of witnesses one time. I was not anxious for a repeat performance. Pulling myself out of bed in the afternoon, like a later-day Judy Garland, I was pretty much well enough to not throw up on H's business associates at drinks that night. I don't think any amount of double cheek kissing would make me feel better about that.
Pre-nausea
Days Three and Four were the vacation portion of the trip, with H being done with work obligations. So now I would actually see some of the country I had been in for two days already. Yes, the stomach bug had prevented my having Phillip drive me around sight-seeing and probably ranking our favorite Housewives of New Jersey all the while, but to be honest, I was kind of glad since I was a little intimidated by the language barrier. I really, truly, had meant to brush up on my Portuguese phrases before we left, but I had to buy bathing suits. Yes, I am ashamed at my cultural self-centeredness, but it did produce an unexpectedly pleasant side-effect. H was completely in charge. I'm sure you have visions of my control-freak self with smoke coming out of my ears as I was unable to orchestrate everything, but honestly, it was incredibly freeing. I was like a three year-old. I would make my needs known, "I need a soda", and wander away to look at a display of "I heart Rio" t-shirts while H made it happen. Dinner reservations, hailing cabs, sending back the wrong coffee, I was unable to do any of it. It was glorious! It was also kind of hot hearing my husband actually speak the language he's been shouting at the computer screen during Rosetta Stone lessons for the last year. My own vocabulary, small and effective, included "yes" ,"no", good morning", "thank you" and our room number for ordering drinks at the pool.
A word on Brazilian tourist attractions. They know how to do it right. H and I took the all-glass cable car up to the top of Sugarloaf Mountain which had beautiful views of the surrounding area, but also had gorgeous teak chaises to relax on and enjoy the view while drinking your wine. That's right, they have nice furniture and booze at a major tourist destination. Same scenario at Corcovado, you know, the big Jesus statue. They had lovely stone picnic tables and a stand that sold wine and beer.
Perhaps this is not just Rio, but the rest of the world, except for the US. My trips abroad with my family including my father, aka, Clark W. Griswold, probably would have been enhanced by drinking, but it wasn't on the itinerary, so I don't know for sure. Can you imagine this scenario at, say, The Empire State Building? That teak furniture would be covered with the urban hieroglyphics of "Mike wuz here" and "Josephina is a skank" and people would be vomiting from the 102nd floor. We just cant handle that kind of awesomeness and it stinks. A friend commented that it's not Americans at our tourist sites. I asked her if she'd ever been in Manhattan the day after Thanksgiving. I digress...
Of course I have to write, at length, about the food. It was wonderful, but then again, so is most food I don't have to prepare myself. Two of the meals we truly memorable/comical. The first was our trip to a traditional churrascaria, which is basically a festival of meat. They have a huge salad bar, which has all kinds of rices, breads and veggies, but the main attraction are the waiters that wander around with huge skewers of prime rib, strip steak, rump roast, pork shoulder, several different kinds of sausages and organ meats, slicing you off a serving upon demand. You are given a coin with "Sim" (yes) and "Nao" (no) on each side. The waiters will keep coming, and coming, and coming, until you flip it to "Nao". Wanting to try everything, I would be putting a bite in my mouth, then simultaneously have to stop and pick up my little pair of tongs to catch whatever flesh was being sawed off near my plate. It didn't help the I'm-in-some-kind-of-eating-contest feeling that they had a ragtime band playing such soothing ditties as "When the Saints Come Marching In". I felt like I was a part of Audrey's overeating nightmare in National Lampoon's European Vacation. Aside from that, the food was wonderful. Although I discovered I do NOT like chicken hearts. Or eating them to ragtime.
Post meat-fest
Ten minutes later....
The second meal was during our last few hours before our flight home. We decided to fill our bellies with feijoada - a beef, pork and bean stew that is the national dish of Brazil. We found the name of a local joint and hot-footed it over there before the car came to take us to the airport. We thought it was going to be straight forward, "Two bowls please." Then they start plunking dishes down. This teeny-tiny crock of what appeared to be black bean soup. Is it for the bread or do we drink it since there were no spoons? I had visions of the waiters laughing at us from the service station as the stupid Americans drank the dip. Then they give us bowls of olives and a plate of cheeses. For the stew or an appetizer? We were beyond the early bird special since Brazilians don't even think about dinner until eight o'clock, so all eyes were upon us. Apparently, this stuff was an appetizer as they took it away and brought even more plates. Rice, shredded kale, fried yuca, and a whole platter of fried pig skin. H was apoplectic with delight. Then, the main event. Two, steaming cauldrons, one of meat, and sausage and the other of black beans with what I'm pretty sure were pigs ears.
H and I ate until we thought we would burst. And then we thought about the fact we had each just eaten roughly five pounds of meat and beans before sitting in close proximity to strangers in an enclosed tube for nine hours. Perhaps, not our best decision.
(notice H's great posture in the mirror above)
We finished the meal and made our sad way to the hotel, burping and farting all the way. While I had missed the kids, I felt like an entirely different person in Brazil. I was relaxed, body confident and had even managed to relinquish control. Who was this Brazilian Mary? I kind of liked her.
Upon landing stateside, I tried my best to hang onto this feeling. I didn't turn on my Blackberry right away. To be fair, I was distracted by H's bitching, since we once again, did not get a first class upgrade, and this time he flew with the unwashed masses. He was so crippled one would think someone folded him up and put him in the overhead compartment. Sissy. First class was heavenly though. I enjoyed my champagne and personal entertainment device while fully reclining in my seat.
After over a week, I have been forced back in to some of my old ways. I am back at the wheel of this family and I am the one fulfilling everyone's needs. But I am going to frame that picture of me in the hat to inspire me to get back to that mental state.
Either that or add more meat to my diet.
*My children insisted I put this song from the movie Rio on my iPod. I internally rolled my eyes, but it was pretty rad to listen to it while actually there.
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