You bought three new, well-reviewed, novels for this trip. You’ve always envisioned yourself as the kind of guy, who on vacation, reads Hemingway at a table outside a café along the water, sipping a glass of Cabernet. The kind of guy, who wakes up early and takes a jog on the beach, has fruit for breakfast, maybe plays a game of tennis, and then hits up a local museum.

Your highly acclaimed novels are still buried beneath dirty clothes in your suitcase. You don’t know at exactly what point you deviated from your “ideal self.” This morning when you called your mother you felt ashamed. You used phrases like “Nice and relaxing” “Catching up on work” “Plowing through novels” “Good restaurants”and “often lonely” to describe the trip.

For a brief moment you have a flash of yourself behind the podium, ala Bill Clinton. Behind you a video screen is running highlights of your debauchery. You read the cues from the prompter: Always used protection - She swore she was18 - Never paid for sex- Didn’t inhale- Thought it was just a massage-Highly intoxicated-

You hang up the phone and pay the fifteen Reas for the call. Now that you’ve made your token phone calls you feel like you have just been to Confession at church. Yet, you confessed nothing.

You are still riding the adrenaline rush of last night’s Red Bull and Cialis fueled comet trail of adventure. Bits and pieces are forming shapes in your mind as you sip an espresso and watch the girl’s parade down the strip in their short denim skirts, hiked up for extra effect. A street kid puts out his hand for coins as he passes you by. “No tengo nada” you lie. He curses you out in Portuguese.

Your night began at Amozoa, or was it Europa? You were already pretty tight when you arrived You entered to pounding bongo drums, a vaguely tribal feel, and a clan of scantily clad Brasiladas shaking their stuff on stage to the pulse of the music. No sign of the blonde and her friend that you were supposed to meet. But Brasiladas have no concept of “on time,” so you don’t worry, and make your way to the bar to grab a Bohemia and take in the view. You were here two years ago but that trip was during your “Black Label” phase, which left you with very few clear memories, and a liver that still has not forgiven you.

“Where you from?”A Brazilian guy is shouting in your ear.
You wonder if you have the word “gringo” tattooed on your forehead. You’re not sure if you welcome company at this time. You were quite enjoying your own blurred thoughts and not quite enticed by the idea of engaging conversation with a guy who obviously wants something from you. But your “well raised” childhood taught you to never be rude.

“Estados Unidos,” you scream back.
“You like Coca, Marijuana?”
“Only chicas” you say.
“I’ll find you a good one. What you like?”
“No necassario,” you tell him. For some reason you always feel compelled to speak your broken Portuguese, even when they’re speaking English.

He calls over probably the only two ugly girls in the club. They both have penciled in eye brows and slicked back jet black hair, and you wonder if they could be transvestites.

“You like?” he asks you. The guy seems genuinely pleased with himself.

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