Day 22 – Supertutes (MPAA Warning: This blog contains brief nudity!)
Up at 4:30am. On wonderful TAM Airlines by 6:30am, heading back to Rio from Foz do Iguacu. The flight includes breakfast. Not hungry but impressed that food is offered for a flight that’s barely over an hour.
"Slider, you stink."
We’re back in the hotel around 9:30, grab some breakfast at the hotel (which we’ve been paying for for the last few nights but not using), then head to Copacabana Beach, where we promptly pass out. In between shoreline snoozes, we try our hand at body surfing the enormous waves, but it’s too exhausting and we crash and burn like Maverick’s initial move on Kelly McGillis.
Rio - you been freestyzied.
Brazil needs climbing condoms
At some point in the afternoon, we head back to Arpoador Point, in-between Ipanema and Copacabana Beaches. Seeing as how the area is rather empty, we start bouldering some of the rocks at this scenic point. The spot is romantic enough to be the backdrop of a Nicholas Sparks novel, but we take it 180 degrees in the opposite direction, and make it our own “American Gladiators” set. A lot of the rocks had slight protrusions that seemed like they’d be perfect for climbing; but instead - merely stabbed us. After acquiring a handful of scrapes and cuts, our Tenzing Norgay-experiment was done.
Est. feet scaled: 8,982,286
We returned to the rock-weight gym and met two foreign exchange students from Sacramento. They suggested we head to Lapa that evening. Lapa is closer to the downtown Rio area, which is a little more shady, but where all the locals hang.
Est. speedo count: 8,546,345,256,987,765,422
For the first time in Brazil, the weather started to change from homicidally hot. As we ate dinner at Ibero Bar, a Spanish restaurant near our hotel, it poured lions and tigers. Ironically, we had plenty of time to wait out the storm, as the service was so atrocious it took more than 2 hours to bring us our food. Granted, we ordered paella which takes a while to cook – but not 2 f’n hours! I ended up arguing with the owner over the wait, but it was the most inept argument of all time. This is how it probably translated: “We wait for food. 2 hours. No like. Very bad. Friend to work nice guy. I like him. But I say where paella one hour before? Paella never to come. Tonight is last night in Rio. No want to be here for 3 hours. I no to pay everything. Less money.”
Coconuts? More like cocosucks! See what I did there?
I believe the owner responded with something along the lines of we don’t offer discounts on the bill if you have bad service - no one in Rio does. This sounds ludicrous to me, but by this point we had lost so much time, I paid our bill (minus the tax!) and left. It wasn’t a battle worth fighting.
We got back to the hotel around 9p and tried to sleep until 10:15 to get ready for Lapa. It was our last night so we were ready to go hard like a warlock with Adonis DNA. The foreign exchange students suggested we watch ourselves when we head to Lapa, and not bring a camera. So we left photographic devices at the hotel, which I’m totally bummed about.
Not Lapa. A rainy Copacabana
The area was what I pictured a lot of Brazil to be. It was almost European-style, a couple small intersecting streets lined with bars, live music, and V-necks. There was a decent crowd out for a Tuesday night, but by no means was it crowded.
As we sat outside a restaurant/bar on a street corner, it was great for people watching. Small groups of beautiful Brazilian people would walk by, along with homeless orphans straight out of “City of God” and the occasional supermodel prostitute, or “supertute” as I have coined just this second. A pair of 40-something Brazilian women (not prostitutes!) tried to talk with us, but the conversation never got very far. They would ask us something, then we’d pause, look at each other, shrug, ask them to repeat, pause, look at each other, then finally say, “California.” This arduous conversation continued for much longer than you would think, or hope.
Safest boobs in Brazil. The magazine that is.
After they left, a local military guy sitting next to me started talking to us. He was about to embark on a UN mission and wanted to practice his English with us, so we happily obliged. His English was decent, so we picked his brain quite a bit. We told him about Barbarella, our unexpected and unfortunate “strip” club experience. He laughed at us, then suggested we go to this place called Cuatro by Cuatro. We asked if this was a strip club, and he simply replied – 'you won’t regret it. You will thank me.' We told him we’re not interested in strip clubs, and he steadfastly stood by his answer. He explained that the women there are beyond beautiful, and when you get there they give you a bathrobe to change into. Then you choose a woman, or women, go to a separate room, and have sex (although he dropped a startling f-bomb out of nowhere). After, you go into a sauna, sweat everything out, take a shower, and return home to your wife and kid. Yes, apparently our United Nations friend we thought was so innocent and nice, frequently partakes in going to sex clubs, then returns to his WIFE AND KID! And when did saunas become an effective way of curing herpes? I don't remember seeing any such articles in my daily medical journal readings. I don’t know why he tried so hard to convince us to go there. A strip club isn't our scene, but changing into a robe and going “Eyes Wide Shut”??? Yeah, that's our bag! Rio…. (head shake)
Pete and I walked through Lapa some more, but the crowd was dwindling quickly, so we bussed it back to Copa and saw a huge crowd outside Balcony, the first restaurant/bar we ate at in Rio a week ago. The place seems normal and is swarming with gorgeous women. As I walk into the bar, I see a stunning woman staring at me, let’s call her Giselle. So I smile back at her and she continues to check me out. I’m feeling pretty good about this, thinking whatever attire I’m sporting is working like I’m 70's Burt Reynolds. As we continue towards the bar, another beautiful woman, Giselle Light, is smiling and staring at me. I smile back at her and start to think I’m living a real life Axe commercial. Ego is definitely inflating like Carl Fredricksen’s house in “Up”. As we sit down at the bar, a third model, Giselle Reality, winks and smiles at me, too. Then it dawns on me.
It's actually 8pm!
I’m surrounded by supertutes. Giselle Reality’s smile kills my smile. Pete and I are actually in the hidden lair of the supertute. The bar is more packed than the Mos Eisley Cantina and every female (and probably male) here is looking to clean up on an hourly wage. The search for non-prostitute gorgeous Brazilians is going worse than Jack Nicholson’s search for his kid in a hotel garden maze. And it ends the same way. With failure. Back to the hotel.