Washed Out

Florianopolis has about the best vacation setup possible. It's a little (couple hours longways across) island with a big lake in the middle, and the north is dominated by tourists, the east by young people, nightlife, and popular beaches, and the south by unspoilt nature. There's a map in the hostel I stayed at with little cartoons of people having different kinds of fun around the island; all the women are wading or sunbathing, and the men do all other activities. For some of the beaches, the women aren't wearing bathing suits.

Alas, this paradise is not for me to enjoy this year. I came to relax on the beaches and even out my tan (which is currently concentrated on my nose), and it didn't stop raining the whole time I was there. The second day, it achieved torrential-downpour-levels, and the hostel started to flood: one of the room's ceilings ceased to function (except as a kind of permeable membrane); a storm drain overflowed in the main hallway; the streets outside became rivers. I went to the south before the rain got bad looking for a nice walk. I found my isolated fishing village, but didn't find the trail before the rain washed out my enthusiasm for the venture. *shrug*-- rain happens.

An extraverted Canadian almost convinced me that the best place to experience Carnaval was right in Florianopolis. Hostels around Rio de Janeiro are essentially booked, and room rates are excessive. I went through a ton of couchsurfing profiles and sent off a pile of requests, all of which were coming back negative. Until, that is, a cool, very liberal dude in Niteroi with a tiny flat, said that if I could squeeze in, he'd let me. So I'm off to Rio!

(Well, was off to Rio-- I'm now there and gone, and soon to return to the states!)

Riot of February

The bus I got for the 19 hours to Rio from Florianopolis was the cheapest one available. I sat next to a nice Spanish journalist, who's totally obsessed with Brazil and Florianopolis and told me about everything I missed. The rivers on the way all run brown from the flooding, which was suggestive with all the many-buttocked hills along the way.

Rio de Janeiro is an incredible city, but I can't decide if I love it or hate it. It's actually several interesting cities in one: the few I saw were Ipanema, a hip beach resort/gay area; the Centro, with wide avenues, big squares, a few museums and many big businesses; and Santa Teresa, a village on a hill, with twisty streets, craft shops, and a bohemian vibe. The sudden hills, the bay, and the beaches are occasionally awe-inspiring, occasionally gross. The Favelas, the ghettos, grow up every hill, and the ubiquitous graffiti looks a lot like big hacking sign-ins. The bus system is a mess (which is to say, there are a zillion buses and no maps), and most everything was shut down for Carnaval.

Carnaval was mostly uninspiring. The parts that I had access to without expensive tickets, lead time, or connections amounted to vast drunken debauchery (which I have no trouble finding at home, though not on such a scale). Several main streets in the center became solid blocks of humanity, plus roving drum bands, and endless vendors each selling one of the same three items (meat-on-a-stick, corn, and beer).

My feet hurt from a triple assault of sleeping in wet socks, wading in (slightly) toxic water, and walking with sand in my shoes all day (I got in my beach though!). I also got in some decent clubbing with a band of Brazilians, friends of Fred, my helpful communist host.