I wake up as the plane is circling in over the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. It's in this moment where it really hits me what I've gotten myself into. I'm touching down in South America. This is my first time below the equator. I don't speak the language. I have no idea where I'm going, I just have the name of the hotel which lies somewhere in the premises of this city. I don't know how to get there.
I find my bag and exchange a one hundred dollar bill at the currency exchange, where I find that the Brazilian currency, the Reai (or Real) is basically 2 - 1 for every dollar. So I've got 2 hundred Reais and no idea how to get anywhere.
My Spanish works with speaking to a few taxi drivers in order to gauge how much it costs to get from the airport to Ipanema where my hotel is; all are around 100 Reales. I was told from someone at the tourist kiosk inside the airport that there's a bus that goes to Ipanema for 7 real, or 3.50 US. From talking to a few guys outside, I find the bus stop, and soon enough the driver pulls up. In typical Latin American fashion, there is no rush to this bus driver's intentions of getting back on that bus. I ask him if he's going to Ipanema to which he nods, but keeps pushing with his hands in an 'easy tiger' fashion. I realize this might be a while.
40 minutes later I walk up the steps and find a seat. The drive to Ipanema takes about as long as I sat waiting to board, and it's a great mini tour of parts of the city. We drive over a long bridge that connects the Airport to another part of the city. It's a great view of some cool parts of Rio. I see favela's that stretch up the hills in the distance, which are the entire reason I'm here in the first place. We pass a random castle-like structure on our way to exiting the highway right at one of the major football stadiums. It is a Sunday and there appears to be some event happening inside that is not a football game but some kind of open air market of sorts. The bus drives in a circle around the stadium down the exit ramp from the highway and makes a temporary stop at one of the markets surrounding the Stadium. Here, the father of an American family speaks broken Portuguese with the bus driver asking him some question about a "feira"- market-, to which the bus driver continues nodding in a yes-like fashion. I ponder whether he is just nodding to get the gringos off of his bus or if this is in fact the market which they seek. The gringos exit the bus and we pull off again. The bus winds through the streets of Rio, which appear to shrink as we get closer and closer to what I believe will be my destination, though at this point nothing is certain.
I look out the window of the bus and the streets begin to resemble images I have stored in the backlogs of my brain to what Rio de Janeiro would look like. I think of where these possible images might have been formulated. The only possible explanations I conjur up are from 1960's musicals, with tap dancing, singing characters who, for some Hollywood obsession with this tropical paradise, have once again found themselves in some kind of nightclub swooning over the mysticism of the exotic locale. Images manifest of palm trees, illuminated beaches at night, random overturned boats, sleazy jazz singers, businessmen in white suits smoking cigars, beautiful Brazilian women waltzing around in skirts handing out flowers. Where do these images come from? The obsurdities in my mind are rapidly dissipating from my mind as the true views of the city unfold before my eyes.
A fellow traveler from the airport is questioning the bus driver about 'Ipanema? Ipanema?', to which he gives his signature nod of approval, and at this I'm pleased and feel I actually might be able to make this work. Despite the rapid departure of this journey, the lack of assistance in planning and the rushed production schedule, I feel that the pieces are already in motion, nothing can stop this train now, so I come to a decision.
Somehow, through a miraculous meticulous myriad of emails and phone calls, I managed to assemble a production schedule that allowed 3 days of travel to each of the four countries required by the video to tell the story of which I thought could tell the bank's history. My contacts in each of these countries had one way or another managed to fit in our filming needs to the exact dates that allowed myself and my cameraman to
simply hop, skip, and jump our way around the western hemisphere from one location to the next, right in a row, in an orderly fashion beginning in the Southern most point, Brazil, and working our way North through each of the countries back toward the USA. The board is set, the pieces were already moving. In the words of Hunter S. Thompson, "Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride". The journey was underway.
As my bus enters a tunnel, I overhear from fellow riders that we just left Copacobana and are entering Ipanema. After momentarily recalling a certain Barry Manilow song, I focus my thoughts on finding out just where the hell this hotel is that I'm staying at.
The bus driver turns the wheel as we exit the tunnel, turn a corner, and enter a strip of straight road that runs parallel to one of the most beautiful beach areas in existence. To my left is a quarter mile of white sand, swimsuits, volleyball, runners, green cocunuts, beachside bars and tiki huts. To my left is a strip Las Vegas might be envious of, with hotels, restaurants, and clubs that spans the entire beachfront. I grab my bag and ask the driver in Spanish where the Caeser Park Hotel is , to which he instantly turns the wheel, pulls over the bus, and lets me off. Ask and ye shall receive, I'd finally arrived.
The entrance to the Caesar Park Hotel consists of a stone fitted parkway frequented by taxis and micro buses. Suits and tourists alike create a bustle of activity making this area of the hotel, much like any hotel, the best place for good people watching. Well dressed concierge men with suits, rimmed hats, and white gloves open the door and offer to carry your luggage. I decline the offer from the doorman to carry my large duffel bag I’m dragging behind me on its two frail wheels. The main lobby has a very chic, modern traveler feel to it. To the left is a small, simple sitting area with tight, dark brown leather chairs, cool glass coffee tables illuminated by greenish ambient lights. To the right is the entrance to one part of the hotel lounge bar, littered with preset table settings, white cloths, full silverware, plates, glasses, and centerpieces. The first bar is a small, wooden edifice with just a few bottles set on display behind it on a dark glass counter top. Straight ahead along the left side lies the reception desk, where three welcoming, attractive Brazilian receptionists greet me with cheek-to-cheek smiles. One of them speaks to me in English.
“Welcome to the Caesar Park Hotel senhor, do you have a reservation?”
“Good Morning." I pull out my documents. "Yes, it’s under Jeffrey Allen.”
“Obrigado, Mr. Allen”
Moments later, I’m riding the elevator to the fifth floor, exit to the left, walk past paintings, statues, and oddly placed desks and bureaus, until I arrive at my room. The key card grants me access to a habitation fit for any business traveler worth his salt. The large wooden closet to the left contains white, pressed cotton robes, the king sized bed in front of me fills only part of the corner of the room also occupied by a glass breakfast table with iron wrought legs, a padded smoking chair, a sizable desk with connections for laptops and mobile phones, pens and paper, a big dark wooden entertainment center containing a television and gaming systems, and a mini bar lit by ambient lighting with menus for room service, the hotel spa and salon, and local attractions.
The first thing I do in any hotel room is drop off my bags, check out the view, peek at the bathroom, and in a triumphant relaxing sigh, allow myself to fall backwards onto the bed.
Moments later I'm changing into my swimsuit, grabbing a towel, and heading out to the beach. It is still only about 1 in the afternoon, Ivan my cameraman isn't due to arrive to the airport until 2:30, then an hour ride to the hotel after that.
I place a few Reals and my room key in a plastic bag and put it in my swimsuit pocket. As I'm walking out of the hotel I recall a quick email Andrea had sent me, reminding me of the three things I'll see in Rio. First, people are constantly exercising on the beach strip, whether it be running, biking , or playing futbol or volleyball, and that the beach is always open because of giant stadium style lighting at night. Second, the people are all beautiful. And third, I should seek out the guys who sell green coconuts on the beach, and buy one.
The beach is across the street from the hotel. This strip of road is usually filled with cars at all times of the day, but luckily they close down one way of traffic at certain times of the day so that the excess of runners, walkers, and bikers can have ample room for strutting their stuff. A few yards in front of me lie the exact three things on Andrea's list of Rio: Hoards of beautiful people exercising; giant stadium style lights lining the beach as far as I can see; and a stand selling green coconuts. Impressed with Andrea's description, I decide to celebrate her accuracies with some delicious fresh coconut milk. The yellow coconut stand is plastered with "BRAHMA CERVEJA" images, and for a moment I have serious Deja Vu. I'm suddenly seeing this image again, yet not on the beach in Rio but in a convenient store in San Pedro, Guatemala on Lake Atitlan. I am buying 6 beers with this image on them and passing them out to Chris, Jimbo, the Canadians, and the Brit. But something is amis. The logo on this beer is exactly the same, but I know it's off. What is wrong I do not yet realize.
The Coconut:
Regardless, I walk up to the stand where a fairly large Brasilian is using a meatcleaver sized knife to chop into the coconuts. This method is it's own circus act. With his left hand the man grabs a fresh coconut from a large pile sitting in a white oil drum sized bucket to his left. With his right hand he holds onto the coco-cleaver. In a fluid motion, he throws the coconut up in the air in front of his chest, chops into the top portion at an angle, repeats, and repeats again. Suddenly the top of the coconut has fallen to the floor, leaving an exposed top portion which the man quickly fills with a straw and passes to me. I feel like cheering. "Dos" He says to me. I pass him the two Reales and taste my first fresh, green coconut, sipping it fully as my eyes gaze over the beach of Ipanema.
The sand on the beach has a different texture than what I'm used to feeling on the shores of Lake Michigan. In South Haven, MI, the sand can be almost rocky , as if it were just tiny pebbles of the same shape and size thrown into the same area. It will stick to your arms and legs but can be brushed off easily like rolling thousands of small round rocks off of your skin.
In Rio the sand is softer and clumpier. It feels as if someone took the entire beach, put it through a blender, and redistributed it back at the waters edge. The clumps stick to you and brush off like thick powder.
The Caesar Park has a cabana that passes out towels, chairs, and umbrellas. Beyond that lies another, wider cabana with massage tables and massueses. I pick up a towel and find a spot close to the water. To my left are couples sipping on cocktails and beers, smoking cigarettes and soaking the sun. Some are younger Brasilians, incredibly fit and easy on the eyes; some are older, most likely retirees or tourists from afar, with their redding flesh from the shock of prolonged exposure to the hot Brasilian sun. To my right is the single crowd, groups of girls tanning, sipping on drinks, listening to music and chatting amongst themselves; groups of guys joking around, kicking a football, playing paddle ball, picking at guitars and hitting bongos.
I have my fill of people watching and decide to hit the waves. In front of me is a woman trying to trick her body into adjusting to the temperature of the water by slowly exposing her skin increments at a time to the ocean. Not a believer in this theory, I run out past her and dive in to the first wave that approaches. Immediately I can taste salt, a reminder once again that this is not Lake Michigan. The waves are approaching their midafternoon arbitrary patterns, making it a game to pick out which upcoming rollers will be the best for body surfing. I manage to catch a few very long ones that bring me almost back to the beach. The view from the waves somehow seems like a vastly different vantage point than from the beach just meters away. I'm able to take in more of the natural beauty of Rio from standing chest height in the ocean and looking around. To the West and North are huge tree covered giant rocks that jut up from the ocean and surrounding areas, sometimes competing for space with skyscrapers. To the East, the beach stretches on for what seems like miles before coming to a point, guarded by a rocky precipice.
I decide since it's day 1 that I should probably remove my body from the afternoon sunlight and head inside to clean up before meeting Ivan. At this point, I've been traveling for nearly 24 hours, through multiple rides in cars, planes, buses, and now waves.. I smell like a mixture of all of these experiences, my body is slowly turning lobster red, and I’m just wearing a swimsuit and holding my towel and KeyCard. I cross the street and walk up the steps through the revolving door into the hotel lobby. Ahead of me I spot a blue porta-brace bag, one that is basically an industry standard for toting around camera and lighting equipment. Accompanying the bag is a curly haired man wearing khaki shorts, sandals, and a short sleeve, button down, green and tan shirt. The man is checking in, and behind him lies a hotel cart filled with more camera equipment and a hard, four wheeled suitcase. I consider for a moment what the possibilities would be of another cameraman checking into the Caesar Park Hotel at this hour on this day, and conclude that this, indeed, must be Ivan Torres.
“Ivan?” I speak as I step closer to the man at the counter. The man turns from speaking to the concierge and looks to me. Quizzically, he smiles and says, “Jeff? It's you!"
We shake hands.
"Welcome to Rio!" I say to Ivan. "You made it."
"Yes, great to be here!"
He finishes signing his check in documents.
"How was the trip? I ask.
"It wasn't bad, we got in early." He finishes with the Concierge. "You are just getting back from the beach?"
"Uh, yes, yes I just had to hit the water after all the traveling. I didn't get much sleep on the plane overnight. A man stole the last seat in my row so I couldn't stretch out."
"That's too bad."
"But the water feels great, I couldn't resist the beach in Rio."
"Very good!" Ivan smiles and starts padding his shirt and pants. He finds a pack of cigarettes and pulls one out. I glance over at his bag to see a box of Marlboro Reds.
"You a smoker, Ivan?" I say sarcastically.
He looks up at me as he searches for his lighter. I nod to the pack, realizing he didn't quite catch my sarcasm.
"Oh, heh. Yes, you?" He offers me the pack.
"No, no thank you, occasionally when I drink..."
"This job will do it to you." He says jokingly. "Yes our plane was early from Sao Paolo, so I took a, a taxi, yes, and now I am here. It was just like 30 or 40 bucks and just sweeee- (makes a motion with his hands) took me right here." As he speaks I can tell he's actively trying to remember certain English words. I nod in approval.
"Oh, I took the bus, it was like three fifty, took like an hour but it was a nice view of the city."
"You took the bus?" He looks at me with a slight notion of awe. "You're a smarter man than I am, Jeff." At the moment I don't realize what a compliment that is.
"Well, I'm going to smoke, then perhaps we could go grab something light to eat?
"Yeah, that sounds great, I've got to go clean up and change anyway. Want to meet back in the lobby in say, 45 minutes?"
"Perfect. It's good to meet you my friend." Ivan shakes my hand again and cracks a smile.
"You as well Ivan, glad to finally meet you in person!"
He leaves to smoke and I return to my room.
The room has a very nice walk in shower with maroon and tan marble stretching from the floor, around the walls and onto the counter. A special faucet juts from the wall closer to the floor, with it's own dedicated drain perfect for sandy feet after the beach.
I exit the bathroom and look at the bed, where the amenities that will await me every night when I return to the room have been properly layed out. A bottle of water, piece of chocolate, bag for dry cleaning, and a room service menu.
45 Minutes later I find Ivan waiting for me in the lobby and we head out to the street.
"If I remember, there's a really good place just a couple blocks from here. They've got little sandwiches and salad, its pretty good."
"Sounds good to me." We start down the street. "Do you come to Rio that often?" I inquire.
"Yes, a few times a year. Usually I come for work, but once or twice a year I'll come for vacation with my wife and kids. They like to come for the beaches and the shopping. Actually there's very good shopping close to here."
We walk down a few blocks and take a left at an intersection where there's a park and a small church. The streets are a mixture of stone and pavement, most have driveways cutting through every couple of meters. The streets are lined with trees and greenery, and the many shops and restaurants have their own plants and flowers covering outdoor patios and store entrances.
As we walk I ask Ivan about his past work history. He tells me how he has been working in news and journalism for years filming all over the world. He started shooting mostly in Chile and
around South America. He's also worked and lived in the Middle East for a while, then later moving to Mexico City, where he started working remotely with my boss, our mutual friend, Andrea. I learn about his wife, Lorena, who also works in the industry mostly in Chile; his children are around my age, his daughter is in Italy at the moment and his son is off on a camping trip on an Island off the coast of Chile.
In the middle of his stories I suddenly notice my left sandal has broken. The center flip of the flip flops has busted through the sole. These were the only other footwear I brought along on the trip other than tennis shoes. Ivan looks down and notes that they sell better sandals just up ahead at a local tiendita. We head for the shop, and I wonder just how well Ivan knows this city. Inside are two women standing behind a small counter packed rim to rim with various items. It's mostly cheap plastic items made in China, but to the right of the counter lies a turntable rack full of black, blue, and red sandals.
"These are what the locals wear." Ivan says as he searches through a few. "Havaianas." I search toward the bottom for the largest number, which, to my amazement, they have. The previous times I've been shopping for shoes in Latin America I can never find my size. Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Guatemala; throughout my travels to these countries I've never been able to find footwear big enough for my size 11.5 gringo feet. At the shop in Rio, they have 11's, so I size them up with my busted sandal and they're just about right.
As I'm purchasing the sandals I ask Ivan, "Have you ever been to Hawaii?"
"No, I hear its beautiful."
"It is indeed. The sandals that people wear in Hawaii, the locals, are just called "locals"
He gives me a funny look.
"They're the most comfortable flip flops I've ever worn; I'll wear them through till my heels touch the ground . We'll see how these Havaianas hold up."
We reach a street corner where a restaurant has outdoor seating on barstools and hightables. "Ah, here it is." exclaims Ivan. "Lets take a look at the menu." We sit down at a hightop outside.
Everything is written in Portuguese and English names, but there's no descriptions of what each name means. "The Lip-smaking Garota" has no more meaning in English than in Portuguese if I don't know the ingredients that make up the meal. Luckily Ivan has been here before and informs me of what the good eats are.
He holds his hand up in the air like one would flag a cab in New York City, then whistles at a waiter, who scuttles over. They converse in Spanish, at least I assume at the time, thought I can't really understand anything. I decide that it's Ivan's Chilean accent.
I choose a sandwich with a type of Brasilian meat, and Ivan gets some sort of smoked salmon salad.
"Ahhh, now time for a chopp, what do you say?" Ivan states as he lights up a cigarette.
"What's a 'chopp'?" I inquire.
"Um Cerveja." Ivan says in an overly Brasilian fashion, emphasizing the "mmm" and "jjjj"sounds. "They have the best beer in Brasil. It comes out in a tall glass, thin, very cold."
"Of course, Adriana's list!" I explain to Ivan how my Brasilian co-worker at the bank, Adriana, had told me before I left about the beer in Rio being served super cold, all the time. She had written me a list of go-to Portuguese words that I might need. Topping the list were the words for beer - cerveja, food - comida, and women - mujheres, "Do you do drugs?" Adriana had asked me when compiling the list. I looked down at the first few she'd already written. "No" I responded. "I think I'll be ok... but thank you though."
Ivan laughs at the story, and just then the waiter comes bringing us our chopp. Instantly I'm reminded of drinking beer in Germany in 2005 with my dad and sister. The beers in Cologne were served in tall straight thin glases. They'd often mix half beer and half coca cola, which to all of our surprises was incredibly tasty.
The chopp which we were about to indulge was served in slightly shorter and wider glasses compared to those of Germany, but still tall and thin by American standards. A thick, inch worth of foam topped the glass.
"Saúde" Ivan says to me as he raises his glass. "To finally meeting, and to a great trip!"
"Saúde." I try my hand at Portuguese. Glasses clink and I suck down a few gulps of chopp. The beer is just as cold as I imagined it being from Adriana's description. As in most warmer climates, its light and smooth, with just the right hint of bitterness but no aftertaste.
The first glasses go down quickly and Ivan orders up a second round. "Mais dos cervejas. Obrigado."
"Mais dos" I ask Ivan, trying to work on my Portuguese. "Porque no 'dos mais'?" I recall that in Spanish the noun would go first.
Ivan explains to me that the phrase is such a frequently used one that it has its own special rule of language. This is not uncommon for the most often used phrases or words in a language. In Spanish, the verbs that have irregular conjugations are usually those most frequently used. Tener - to have, conjugates Tengo- I have, when the rules would say it should be Tiendo.
4 cervejas later and we are no longer talking semantics. Life, love, and travel become our main topics of discussion. Ivan tells me about his past relationships, the breakups, the romances, and the hardships. I tell him about Erin, college, the difficulties of dating long distance, transitioning into the working world. Ivan has a relatable story for nearly everything I'm saying, and I begin to take in his wisom and experience. He pulls out another cigarette.
"Por favor, puedo probarlo?" - Please, can I try one? He passes me the pack.
I light a match and take a few puffs, then a sharp swig of the chopp. For a moment I reflect on where I am, sitting in Ipanema with my new Chilean friend, drinking, smoking, and talking about the good stuff.
After food and drinks, Ivan wants to go to 'shopping', as he calls it. Apparently the name for a shopping mall is just 'shopping'. Inside the 'shopping' there's a coffee bar making esspresso. Ivan asks if I want a cafecita - little coffee, as is customary in Brasil and Latin America to have after a meal or drinks. Back at the Bank in Washington, I remember Andrea ordering one 'cortado', which literaly means 'cut'; the barista cuts the drink with milk. Ivan orders two esspressos cortados. He takes three packets of sugar and pours them on top of the foam, then stirs it all together and finishes it in two huge gulps. Amazed at the amount of sugar, and speed, of which Ivan takes his esspresso, I feel less of a man somehow as I sip mine straight.
We decide to head back and rest a little before dinner. I head up to my room and write a few emails to Erin, Andrea, and a quick blog update to let everyone know I made it, met up with Ivan, and everything's cool.
Ivan calls me on the hotel room phone later that evening, asking if I want to go to Copacobana. He says he remembers there being an open air flea market of sorts, a good place to buy trinkets and knick knacks.
We meet back in the lobby, exit the hotel, and cross the street to the beach front sidewalk. I look out to the Atlantic ocean. Beyond the islettes of rocks that hug the coast, the sun has just set, but a lingering rose colored hue still clings to the horizon. In front of us as we walk stretches the beach of Ipanema still covered with people, but the beach crowd is turning more into nightlife. Cars are parked close to the beach with windows and doors open playing Pop favela music and Bossa Nova. Groups of friends gather here and there, some are playing volleyball still on the beach, others have started drinking and listening to music.
"I remember Copa being much closer somehow." Ivan states as we continue walking. It's been about ten minutes, and the rocky precipice that's the dividing line between Copa and Ipa is still hundreds of yards away. "Lets just take a taxi, ok?" He says.
Ivan flags a cab, using the same hand motion as before when getting the attention of the waiter. We hop in and the taxi driver takes us through away from the beach, through the connecting tunnel, and back out again toward the beach on the Copacobana side. Ivan asks the driver to let us out, pays the man, and again we're walking on the beach. To my left is the Copacobana Palace Hotel, probably the most infamous building on this beach, and no doubt the scene for movies and their stars from the 1940s, 50s, and 60s. To my right is the beach illuminated by hundreds of tall, wide bright lights.
The market is a half block of local artists selling mainly tourist trap items. Keychains, pens, shot glasses, tshirts, wooden hand crafted sculptures, basically anything you might find in a gift shop at an airport but handmade by locals. We browse for a bit and Ivan and I pick up a fewthings. I get some keychains with surfboards and the Christ the Redeemer image that say "Rio". Ivan and I both pick up some sarong type cloth for our respective females.
"Well, what do you say we find a spot on the beach and have a caipirinha?" says Ivan.
Just across the street lies a little beachside cafe, with white plastic tables and chairs encircling a small bar. We pick a spot with a good view of the water and take a seat.
"I've heard big things about these 'caipirinhas', so I'm pumped to taste one on the beach in Rio, straight from the source." I say to Ivan. He's lighting another cigarette and smiles at my remark. "It's hard to find a better place for caipirinhas than the beach on Copa."
"What exactly is in one?" I ask. "I know they're similar to a mojito."
"You take a few limes, cut up, and grind them in the bottom of the glass, till is almost liquid. Pour in 3 or 4 scoops of sugar, then add cachaça, and you're good to go."
"And whats cachaça?"
"It's like a, Brasilian rum. But its made straight from sugar cane, not from, uh, how you say, melaza?"
"Molasses?" I try to translate.
"Exactly."
We order up dos caipirinhas and cheers again to the beginning of our two week adventure. For the next hour I tell Ivan my ideas for the shoot. The main goals at each location are three parts. Lock down our key interviews, with Bank Staff and Project Leaders, so that regardless we know we have the soundbites that we need to tell the story. I tell him how I've already informed almost everyone we'll be shooting with of what the topics of the interview will be about, so its just a matter of getting the specifics come shoot time. We also need to look for interviewing any locals who live in the area and can provide us with a more intimate perspective of the project, any benefits and changes because of it. And lastly, I tell him my ideas in terms of shooting style, how I want to unify the entire piece with similar shot patterns and themes, such as the same type wide tilt down and up shot at each location, always getting faces of the local community, and shooting our interviews outside on location to give the video a real natural, organic feel. During our discussion a local boy comes up to our table selling peanuts encased in small, cone shaped bags. Ivan buys two from the kid and hands me one while I'm talking. I open the peanuts and pop them into my mouth between bits of conversation and caipirinha swigs.
Ivan listens to my ideas while taking puffs from a red and sips from his drink. As I'm talking I can tell he's absorbing all of my thoughts and thinking about how this will translate to the camera. When I'm finished he shares a few ideas about shooting as well, and we chat a little more about logistics, the schedule, how we only need two or three minutes total from each location when all is edited down, and to keep the interviews brief and concise. We speak a little more about tomorrow's schedule. At 9am we're going to call the key architect of the project to settle a time to speak with him, then take it from there. Hopefully in the afternoon we can get some beauty shots of the city, iconic stuff like Christ the redeemer, beaches, and people in bikinis.
We finish our conversation about the shoot and take down the last sips the drinks. The sun has long ago set over the mountains, and we're feelin days worth of travel weigh down on us.
After a quick cab we're back at the hotel. Once again I tell Ivan. "I'd say its been a good start to this little adventure." He smiles and returns the comment. "Yes, my friend. I think its going to be a good trip." He pats me on the back, then heads off to his room.
Hundreds of miles from Washington, hours of travel later, many glasses of chopp and caipirinhas, minutes upon minutes of dialogue shared, I find myself back in my room, hit the lights, and instantly fall soundly asleep.
