I’ll bring the hot sauce

5 de Julho
Pousada Lembranças de Búzios, Búzios, RJ 10:00 PM

A beautiful place. This corner of the world is certainly a marvel, a gorgeous city on an isthmus of beaches carved straight out of the jungle.

Three sleepless hours after watching the dirty sunrise in Rio, we stepped off our bus into a postcard. Baldomar, a raspy, Gene Hackman-ish Argentine who I believe to be completely untrustworthy met us at the bus stop. Shelter, food, car rental… the services he offered were many, some of them implied rather than advertised. He’s one of this town’s many multilingual foreigners with dubious connections and vague, definitionless job titles. He, like any number of Bolivians, Argentines, and Chileans in these parts, is simply a purveyor. I have even less trust for them than the wandering Argentine junk sellers one sees all over Brasil. Long, dark, Berkeley-style pony tails, tattered linen clothes, and racks of hemp jewelry of cloth mats. Raunchy accents and pale skin; these strange bastards wander Brazil illegally in pairs or alone, on some unending trek.

Búzios is a dream. The sandy harbor is filled with fishing boats, tourist vessels, and skiffs of all shapes and colors. The ever-present cobbled streets are lined alternately with hotels, fortress-like villas, and thick tropical jungle. The beaches, which wrap nearly all the way around the isthmus, are gorgeous and clean. It’s the off-season, meaning the population is extremely low. Apparently this town of 9000 swells to 100000 in December/ January (according to our Lonely Planet), but for now the hotel/guest ratio is about 1 to 1.

Downtown is filled with classy restaurants, expensive shops, bars, and cafes. This place reeks of foreign affluence, but now, with “summer” so far away, it’s a quiet and pristine place.

We spent the day wandering the beaches and avoiding the scattered Eurotrash. At one point, a husky, worthless southerner approached us in a restaurant.

Fatty Jimbo: “Y’all speakin English?”
Me: *Theatrical sigh* (Portuguese)”Yes, are you?”
Me: (English) “Yeah.”
Fatty Jimbo: “Whut y’all sumthin mumble hiyer?”
Me: “We’re from California.”
Fatty McWife: “Wur frum Saoth Carliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiina”
Nate: “Sweet”
Nate (Portuguese): “Fucking christ.”
Fatty Wife: *Waves to second Fatty Southern Couple* “Ovur Hiyer, y’all! Watch aot for thayt street daog, they’s diseased.”
Me: (Portuguese, to waiter) “I’m sorry for my country. Good luck with them.”

The girthy Caroliners, using various methods of pointing and speaking very loudly ordered some food. We talked tons of shit with the waiter, apologized once again, and left.

F the South.

Our guidebook mentioned that Búzios is typically a couples city, not a singles town. The reason for this is obvious: No woman, no matter how stout of heart, could resist this place. None. A man who brings a wife, girlfriend, or mistress here is guaranteed to be absolutely worshiped, to be showered with affection, sexual favors, and amor in general.

Expensive clothing stores and fancy restaurants a stone’s throw from some of the world’s nicest beaches. Chic hotels staffed by scampering brown servants, boat trips to secluded isles, and only three hours from Rio. Búzios makes any Club Med look like a Nevada Correctional Facility.To bring a warm-blooded, human female here, regardless of relationship status, is to smash them in the face with the aluminum baseball bat of romance, no holds barred.

Even a loathsome bastard like myself can appreciate the wonders of this place. It’s a pity a budget and severe time constraints prevent us from being here after the 15th, when all the colleges go on vacation. It’s a wonderful town, but frustrating in a way. On the rest of our trip, our new friends per hour rate is about 7, and meeting awesome, friendly people has been a god damn cinch. Here, the air of opulence and couples worship isolates us severely. The town is nearly empty, and the youthful, brokeass traveler population is approaching a zero asymptote, not counting us.

Finding a place like this without a woman at your side, to be honest, moderately sucks. It’s like getting the keys to a lamborghini thats out of gas. It’s 50-yard line season tickets, but to the Cleveland Browns. It’s all the peanutbutter in the world and no fuckin jam.

Not that brooding is even moderately possible in this place. Isolated or not, holy shit this place is nice. There are hundreds of artsy photographs to be taken, beaches to be explored, and shady Bolivians to be met. And who knows, the night is damn young. Apparently nobody hits the streets here till midnight. The possibilities are endless.

Boa sorte, fools.

-T.

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