Greetings, hombres. Forgive my tardiness on this report, and the lack of photos. However, I'll try to compensate through prose.

As a lurker for many months, I could resist no more the prospect of traveling to Rio, a city in which a stepparent of mine was born and raised and a place that he frequently talked about when recounting childhood stories. This Brasilero came to the U.S. shortly after he was 18, and had already served in the Brazilian army. It was coincidence that my hotel, the Orlay on Avenida Atlantica near Arpoador, overlooked the military training ground that juts out into the water.

I had planned for months to visit the City of God. In advance, I culled countless bits of information and advice from hombre veterans, who clearly have extensive ''track marks'' from the addiction that I, too, now and ever more refuse to give up for the illusion of rehab through monogamy or - god forbid, never again - marriage.
I pulled the trigger in early March, ordering tickets and obtaining the 5-year visa. I set up a 6-day jaunt: 4 days of sightseeing ; ) bookended by two days for recovery from the flights.

March 25: I get out of work, head to the car and drive to Newark Airport; the war in Iraq is still raging, and I wanted to travel during war time, knowing that few Americans would have the teabags to do overseas flying. Right On! There are about 20 people on the plane to Sao Paolo, and shortly after takeoff and three bloody mary's, I'm comfortably stretching out across 3 seats. No Ambien necessary.

March 26: Arrive in Sao Paolo early in the a.m. Snaking our way out and around the airport for another security check before heading for the connecting flight to Rio, I make eye contact with one of the beautiful, young security attendants at the X-ray machines. Her openness to flirting, and the lasting, seemingly longing, eye contact we make serves to heighten the anticipation of my adventure. I'm not that surprised: In my fourth decade or life, I still have all my hair and am reasonably handsome. But after a long, cold lonely winter in NYC, I, and my easily tannable skin, are quite white. It's somewhat embarassing next to the beautiful skin of the Brasileras I am now surrounded by. Then I realized how tired i am. But, God, I need a smoke. There's No Smoking signs all over the Sao Paolo airport.
Two people who were on my plane, and are obviously visiting family back home, light up with abandon. It's my first time in Brazil. I'm not gonna. On to Rio!

An amazingly short flight. Couldn't have been more than 35 minutes in air from Sao Paolo to Rio International. We disembark, and after going through customs, retrieving baggage and exiting the baggage/second-checkpoint area, I enter daylight at around 11 a.m.

Immediately, I am besieged by ''helpful'' men who want nothing more but to help me exchange my money, get a cab and, no doubt, help mre dress myself each and every morning for a small fee. WIth the valuable knowledge I'd gleaned from the Club, I skipped the scene, found a cambio and got a not-bad 3.2 reals to the dollar. What power! I went over to a Radio Cab booth, and obtaineda ride to Rio for 56 reals. That seemed a bit steep (I'd seen 45 quoted as a standard by other hombres) but who was I to quibble at this point. Next time - and in light of Lula's economic reforms which are strengthening the real - I'll bitch and moan about each and every real. Not now. Now is for adventure.

I easily get into the car, and begin speaking Portunol (Portuguese/Spanish) with the cabbie, who was in Brazil from Spain. I'd ordered and studied Pimsleur's basic Brazilian Portuguese tapes for a month before the trip. Now, my newly adopted language blended merrily with the Spanish I learned in 7th grade. How quaint.

To be continued.....

Onward, out of the airport we go. My first mission is to inspect from the highway the nation's infamous favelas. "Todas miserias," my cabbie says. To which I reply: "Si. Todas." People living like livestock in buildings that had no walls, facing the expressway. Axis: Bold as Love goes through my mind: "I just want to talk to you; I won't do you no harm. I just want to talk to you `bout this here people farm. I heard some of you got your families living in cages, tall and cold. I heard some of them just dust away past the age of old."

Oh, my. Guilt. Will I continue feeling this way? I know from reading that the Oz lies somewhere on the other side of the mountain with Christ on it. Through the tunnel we go.
What a difference a tunnel makes (think Jersey City and Manhattan). Now I'm looking at this beautiful lake, and anxious to get to my hotel. I know Solarium is somewhere on the other side of the lake. Alas, It's a place I wouldn't get to during my 4 days. L'uomo and Help! would dominate 3 of my days and nights.

I arrive at the hotel, which is at the Ipanema end of Avenida Atlantica. I booked through Ipanema.com, and had asked if it was garota-amenable. It was, though for a nightly fee of 50 reals, which in my case turned out to be roughly $14. It bugs me a bit, but I'm gonna go with the flow. The room is excellent, for $65 a night. The dipping pool, restaurant and other amenities are perfectly fine. There's an electronic safe in the room. The bathroom is clean. I'm happy...but tired. Off I doze. I know my first stop will be Centaurus, given that it's practically around the corner from where I'm staying.

I wake up 3 hours later, at 4 p.m. in the afternoon. I shower and brush my teeth for my date! I know it's going to be expensive, compared with the rest of the trip. So I walk in the rapidly fading daylight to Centaurus, taking in the sights and sounds of my new South American home. I detect a strange odor to the city - it's not offensive. But it's a distinct smell to the city that I'd recognize over and over. Indescribable, really.

Into Cent I walk, and a big, tough-looking, grey-haired Mama is behind the desk with a cigaratte dangling out of her mouth. I immediately light up, and ask her what brand she smokes. In English. No doubt, this marks me - if not already marked - as a tourist qualifying for a surcharge. She replies in English that she smokes Marlboro reds. Okay. No problem. Now, at this point, I order the 310 real program, or whatever it was. Selfishly thinking of the 3.5+ real-vs.-dollar ratio, I don't give it a second thought. A beautiful girl named Shayla approaches after I leave the dressing room. Now, I was prepared for this obnoxious practice in advance, and considered ditching her for the saunas. But I liked her. She was about 5 foot 5, had blonde hair and the type of Coppertone-tanned figure that has become an archetypal in the American collective conscious. So I stick with her, speaking Portunol, have a drink. She has a kid. 5 years old. Hmmmm.... wonder if that's a negative. Vaginally speaking, I mean. Well, I'm feeling downright liberal in my judgments today. At one point, we hit a translation roadblock, and she summons over a beautiful, green-eyed tan goddess with Raven hair. Can't remember her name. Don't you hate that? However, she does tell me later that she's Italian/Jewish. I'm going to do a dupla. I just know it. I know I shouldn't. I'm not in the right mood after the flight, etc.... But I'm trying to loosen up. And I just know I'm going to have my first double-action party. I know it because despite my fatigue and cloudy-mindedness, I'm getting horny. Of course, both theur hands are between my legs in the bar area, which helped. So the green-eyed lady goes downstairs with me to set up the adventure. They make up a separate bill that brings to $240 American dollars the full cost of the session. I later discover that Miss Green Eyes has selected the King Suite for me. Something I had not asked for. Shit. I know this is not the bargain I believed I should be getting in Rio. And it goes to show: No matter how much I prepared myself by exhaustively reading the adventures of hombres, there's still a big learning curve when it comes to mastering Rio's termas. I'm a gringo here. Not completely stupid, but enough to be had once or twice. Well, needless to say, the money issue is disturbing my heated thoughts of four breasts bouncing over me, and two mounds of pussy and balloon-knot holes on my face. My performance is lackluster. And when I ask Shayla to let me in the backdoor, she initially declines. This is Green Eyes' only saving grace. When Shayla declined, Green Eyes asked her "why not?", as if she was a senior member in the Centaurus garota hierarchy. Well, Shayla relented then. Still, not great session, on account of the earlier billing incident. I left vowing never to go to Centaurus again unless I felt there was nowhere else to obtain such talent in Rio.

After the next 3 days, I vowed never to go to Centaurus again.

Nice report. I'm generally with you on Centaurus. They have some beauties, and many are great at what they do, but you get more attitude there than anywhere else.

BTW, Rio is not the "City of God." Cidade de Deus is a favela in Rio, and Cariocas would be horrified to hear someone equating their "Cidade Maravilhosa" (the more-or-less official nickname of Rio) with Cidade de Deus.

Ouch dupla in suite at Centaurus. For simple cabin, extra girl is usually an extra R$180.
Well still not a bad start I would say with double anal session. Looking forward to reading the next 3 days action.

Deanyc:
Enjoyed your report. Looking forward to more.

Bwana.

Thanks for making that distinction between Cidade de Deus & Cidade Maravilhosa. I didn't see the movie City of God, and assumed it applied to the entire city.

Stay tuned for the rest of my report.

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.

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.

Please See SubTopics Above For The Rest of the Story.

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

Prose much?!

You're off to a decent start. Kudos for going solo and being so well versed for your first trip.

DG

Thanks, DG.

It's not needless to say that many of your fine posts and photos were inspiration. I plan to learn, earn and burn in subsequent trips.

Nice work, Deanyc; welcome to the Riophile Gang.

Your perspective on the youthful Cleopatra is interesting. I guess the guilt got your tongue. Looking forward to reading more.