Thursday, March 27:
I wake up to the sound of music, mother mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom: L'uomo Be.

I had heard that L'uomo was a favorite of many a veteran, along with 4x4. But the latter's location on the other side of town was a put-off, and though I am city saavy, I opted for Monte Carlo's and L'uomo's seemingly convenient locations to the Orla Hotel (correcting the name of hotel from earlier). But since I had about 5 hours to kill, I decided to explore the city.

Out into the streets I go, first doing the wavy-gravy black-and-white sidewalk of the Copacabana beach, then winding back along Avenida Copacabana to get the flavor of a South American Broadway. You know, I had heard everyone talk about lining up at the Citibank ATM at Blockbuster behind Marriott, and how this was the place to get money. But as I ambled down this main thoroughfare, I saw a Bank of Boston (still hasn't renamed itself Fleet) and HSBC, and I knew I would be able to get money at numerous places. Not just outside the American video mecca.

So I turn left off Copacabana, and pass the legendary Debret, which, alas, didn't have any available ocean-front suites during my vacation.

(I did check in with BlameitonRio4travel, but had spotty contact with them while trying to secure an apartment. Ipanema.com was spotty too, but in the end, they got back to me first with a good price at the Orla.)

I then go to Alcazar, where I take a seat, listen to some shirtless old, demented carioca ramble incoherently to the wait-staff, and order some pollo and fries. I am aware that this is the meeting place for various hombres. But having checked out the calendar on ClubHombre I know there are but only a few mongers in town. So I do no more than nod "hello" to some dudes seated at other tables. Okay, lunch down. Time for some sunbathing and CNN International back at the hotel to monitor the latest boom-boom over in Iraq.

3 p.m. The witching hour rapidly approacheth. I shower and shave for my date. Convenience is King, I always say, and as a result, I head straight for Monte Carlo. I walk, as I would do most of this trip.


By Deanyc on Wednesday, April 30, 2003 - 09:00 am: Edit

Monte Carlo: The French Can Have It :

As I make a left onto Rua Hilario de Gouveia, I notice the street is a bit dark, and dingey. Not dangerous, but my spidey senses tell me I don't like the location already. Still, I'm not here to chronicle the debacles of civil engineering, or to host a neighborhood improvement meeting. Dark & seedy always stirs up a fire in my loins, and this was no different. I find No. 19, and walk into a non-descript entrance. But immediately, I'm turned off by the white plasterboard, boxed-in looking hallway, and notice to the side a filthy bucket and mop nearby on some putrid, dank cement cubby. Again, let me stress: I've had my share of rat and roach-infested West Village lofts in my time. I don't require elegance. But I do require a good facade. And Monte Carlo wasn't getting a passing grade so far. (Note: I did like the T-Shirts for sale next to the front desk). As I discussed terms with the front desk, I learned that I was able to use plastic for entrance, but not beyond. Shit pellets. I only have 50 reals and plastic. But as I continue to survey the interior, I'm even more put off by the mental-ward blandness. Nonetheless, will go to an ATM, take out the requisite amount and return.

A funny Thing Happens At The HSBC ATM

After being unable to find the damned Blockbuster store, I find an HSBC branch that gladly gives me efficient ATM cash. But in rethinking my short visit to Monte Carlo, I have an epiphany: L'uomo is calling. Yes, I mentally recount the matrix of streets I will need to traverse to get to this wonderful place in a mall off Rua Siquieira Campos, just pass the metro station. I take the long walk, with dusk setting in, and absorb the sights and sounds of Rio at the end of a business day. The students, the children, the businessmen, the women shopping, the people busily hoofing to their homes, the hawkers selling stuff on the corners, the California surfer dude crossing the street in bare feet near the Hotel Atlantica.
I find the mall, knowing that I have to get to the second level (If i'd just looked up from street level outside, I would have seen the red neon). I go up the escalators, and realize I'm in some sort of permanent exposition of antiques. Some of the outlets look like booths, their numbers pasted clumsily here and there. A church also makes its presence felt on the second level, something that makes me uncomfortable given my latest epiphany. I find L'uomo, approve of the exterior, put my butt out in the ashtray, and enter. Ah... The wonderful hostess behind the desk speaks perfect English. It turns out her boyfriend lives in a New England town I'm well familiar with. I feel good here. I like the pricing. I walk down to the robing area, and proceed into the dark-yet-comfortable nightclub/living room-like bar that's filled with yummy garotas. I mean, yummy. Okay. To the experienced/jaded eye, maybe one can be a little more critical. But next to my experience at Centaurus, the 20 or so L'uomo beauties strutting their stuff or sitting in the comfy wall sofas seemed like a fresh batch of candy from the Godiva factory. Oh, man. Give me a Chopps and I'll light up a smoke and get my loins acclimated.
Soon, a cutie with black hair, 23, approaches. I'm putty in her hands. Her curves remind me of a non-blood-related cousin I always coveted as a young teen, and I realize then and there that I'm going to finally do my cousin. (I first have to erase the decade or so of post-teen shame that had kept those pubescent fantasies in remission). Another Chopps, and I'm off with Miss Garota with the Black hair that looks like Cleopatra.

THE RIVER NILE:
Cleopatra and I make the walk to the cabines, and she indicates a desire for one of the luxury models. I politely, but firmly, tell her "no." She tries for another oversized room, but I tell her I want simple, plain, simpatica. Okay. We go into what looks like a closet. But who cares? Shit, I've already showered and brushed my teeth after leaving the bar area. I need not such amenities in the love shack with this Carioca Cairo, who obviously has much South American indian blood running through her gorgeous veins. Her breasts are ample, but silicon-bolstered -- something I'm not a big fan of. Still, for
floating rubber underneath the skin they're pretty, and not obnoxiously sized like some ridiculous American chick with a stars-and-stripes bra covering a pair of massive, stretch-marked, blue-veined flesh watermelons. Ugh...
Cleo and I do the nasty. But I leave out the details boys, mainly because I have to get over some residual guilt of plucking this young 23-year-old flower. Now, she's done this before. I know that. She's wet as hell, and I only recoil once when she says she isn't "prepared" for me to travel down the old dirt road. But still, I'm not performing up to my usual American AMP standards. (why I don't suffer guilt over attending AMPs anymore, is beyond me). Mayve if the exchange rate were 2.5 reals to the dollar, I wouldn't feel so bad. I don't feel so bad as it turns out because the price is nice at L'uomo, coming out to something like $70US for 2 beers, garota and room. But I leave vowing that I must tune up my brain so the halo-wearing angel quits tapping me on my shoulder while I'm trying to enjoy the fruits of Brazil. Dammit! I'm going to chill for a while, then go to Help.