United We Cannot Stand (plus a big thank you!)

United Airlines. I'm done with you.Showing up to a United flight, we’ve realized, is basically a miniature version of the Hunger Games. Everyone shows up, expecting the absolute worst, tense with fear with what is about to happen. Is this the time I’m chosen? Is this the trip that will send me into the cut-throat re-booking battlefield? I witnessed it for myself. Twice.

After our snafu on the way out of America, which consisted of 5 re-routes and 2 flights cancelled entirely (making it to Sao Paolo based solely on a lottery system), we expected next to nothing from United. In fact, the night before, I checked my computer to check in for what was confirmed by United as a 2:35 flight from Iguazu to Sao Paolo. They just went ahead and changed that one. 11:40 a.m. to Curitiba, and from Curitiba on to Sao Paolo. “Just give them an extra flight, whatever. Warning? Meh, they’ll figure it out.“ No text, no e-mail, just left in the dark and discovering by accident we were to leave 3 hours earlier than expected. In the Sao Paolo airport during our 6-hour layover, we started a game called “How delayed will this United flight be?” Obviously it wasn’t going to leave at 9:10 p.m., as planned. That’s not what United does. Becca was the closest: she guessed 10:10 p.m. The answer? Infinity. It was never leaving.

We weren’t allowed to check in until 3 hours before the flight, because United decided that was the best way to create an absolute cluster-full, disastrous mess for themselves. We arrived at the airport to a line of purely comedic length. United doesn’t use ticket kiosks abroad, because that’s a clear violation of their strict “Pre-2000 technology only,” practices. The line was so long that a line to wait in the line had formed. Estimated wait just to get a boarding pass: 1 hour 45 minutes. Becca was having none of it, and after 20 minutes of moving 20 inches, we found ourselves in the “Special Needs” line, our special need being that we demand some semblance of rationality by our airline. We were through after 20 more minutes. We reached the gate, shopped for a bit and sat for longer. The plane had landed that morning 12 hours previously and was sitting at the gate. This was good. Surprisingly, we were slated to leave on time. Also good. No delays, no warning, nothing. We were relaxed, we were golden. And then: the hammer. Cancelled. Suddenly: chaos. Within minutes, the ticket counter was rushed by rabid tributes that were selected to join the Hunger Games of Re-Routing. The people were revolting. Horror stories of cancellations by United on the way to Brazil were surfacing. We were standing next to a guy who had just been cancelled for the second night in a row with no explanation. It was time for action again, and we had a simple plan: find another United agent and get re-routed as soon as possible. Over 150 people were trying to do the same in this free-for-all which was beginning to feel more and more like a battle royale, except we didn’t have any weapons because they aren’t TSA-friendly.

Finding an available United agent to help you in times of need is a bit like spotting a narwhal – it’s only been done a few times, and some even believe it’s a myth that they exist altogether. We found one at a neighboring gate, he gave some useful information, said he would be right back, and then, poof, gone. Never to return. Just…gone. He left a group of 10 passengers in line alongside 6 members of the flight crew (!) with no information. Just…gone. Becca went to another neighboring gate – that agent didn’t know how to use the computer, and directed us back to the original gate for someone to talk to. We waited for the mythical helper to return. He didn’t. Minutes later, THREE MEMBERS OF THE UNITED STATES SOCCER TEAM SHOW UP AT THE GATE. Deandre Yedlin, Brad Davis, and Chris Wondolowski – flightless. A day after putting their hearts and souls on the line for their country and coming up just short there they were, trying to get re-routed from their own troubles with a chartered flight. A friend we met in the airport ran into Tim Howard. He had just had the best individual performance of the World Cup, now he was waiting in line at a United ticket counter, trying to make it home. Picturing Tim Howard waiting in line with hundreds of other angry customers, just checking his watch and looking around helplessly as he tries to find a flight home is one of the most hilarious images I’ve ever had in my head, but this is 100% real. I asked Wondo if he had any room on his flight – he said he was just hoping there was room for him on anything. Unbelievable.

Yedlin having a blast

Brad Davis's only smile of the night

We circled back to our original ticket counter, which appeared to be the remains of a war zone. No passengers remained – they’d all been cast aside by the United tyrannical leaders. There was one agent left (the rest had presumably been slaughtered within the hour). This mid-20s guy was being attacked from all sides, including by another flight crew who had no idea what was happening or where they were staying that night. He doesn’t know. Nobody knew anything except that: a) there was a plane there that morning, b) there were “mechanical problems,” c) United apparently realllllly sucks at fixing “mechanical problems,” and d) the one young surviving gate agent explained that everyone was being re-routed the next day at 1 p.m. There were no other options, so we went with it. What happened next was one of the most backwards circus acts I’ve ever witnessed.

We were shepherded like a herd of sheep (frustrated sheep) to pick up our bags, against our will. There was yelling, there was crying, there was possibly some blood. We were instructed to get on a bus, which was to take us to the Holliday Inn 20 minutes away. This was United’s best idea: get these people away from us, promise them food, that should shut them up for a bit. We were not given any boarding passes for the next day, no confirmation numbers, and had no idea if we were actually going to fit in the hotel. Just herded onto buses with the giant crowd and shipped off into the darkness.

I wanted some sort of confirmation. ANYTHING. So I called, and was placed on a short little 25-minute wait on the phone (sorry for the July phone bill, Dad!). Someone finally answered, and I was completely bewildered because at that point I was putting the phone on speaker just to listen to the ‘hold ‘music that was playing like it was a radio. I finally find out what we feared the most: the 1 p.m. flight the next day we were all “automatically re-booked” on was cancelled. Mechanical problems. United has the worst mechanics of all time. So we were re-booked again, this time on Delta, and immediately begin celebrating since we knew we were in an infinitely better position with a new airline. In the middle of the conversation, I was asked if I want to cancel the flights we were originally re-booked on after the 1 p.m. flight was cancelled. “Oh, when are those?” “You would be leaving July 6^th, arriving July 7^th.” “You’re kidding, right?” A 4-day delay. Thanks anyways.

After our quaint 26-hour delay spent in the Museum of Futbol in Sao Paolo and other spots around town, we were off again the following night at 11, headed home from an inevitably life-changing trip. Delta did it. No delays, no cancellations, the flight left and arrived on time. Seems easy enough. We’ve learned an incredible amount, from ‘obrigado’ (thank you) to the frustratingly small coffee sizes. We’ve seen an incredible amount, from some of the world’s largest waterfalls to Olinda, one of the world’s most adorable towns. We’ve eaten an incredible amount of carbs. We’ve consumed more sugar in caipirinhas than was previously considered possible. Thanks for reading and thanks to those who made this trip possible.  Notably, thanks to my parents Mark and Jane, who basically shook their heads and agreed to my newest ridiculous adventure, Becca’s awesome parents Deb and Greg (Deb served as our daily/hourly weather forecast updates), Megan’s parents, who let her leave the country for the first time in her life, and Goose’s (/Magellan) parents, who basically didn’t know he was going until he was already gone. I appreciate everyone following and keeping tabs on us through this blog, it’s been another surreal adventure. So for one last time: obrigado.

The Boat Tour from Hell, and the Falls from Heaven

We picked the perfect ending to the perfect trip – Iguazu Falls, one of the new Natural Wonders of the World (joining another new inductee: the scene in the bathroom in Olinda).  Upon arrival in the airport, Megan took an aggressive lead and, prompted by excitement and general tourist naivety, we were suddenly convinced we needed to buy tickets on our phones. Immediately. We had heard that the “boat part” of the full tour of the falls was the best part, so, connecting the dots between A and B, Megan bought the Boat Tour for 9 a.m. the next morning. I followed suit and bought 3 more for Becca, Goose and I. Two important details to remember: 9 a.m., and “Boat Tour.”

Backing up now – on Saturday morning, Goose was slotted to go home from Rio to L.A. on Monday morning. On Saturday night, Goose executed one of the best smashmouth tourism moves I’ve ever been a part of. Three weeks previously, he’d accidentally booked his flight for Thursday from L.A. instead of Friday, although he was in Omaha on Thursday and flying back to L.A. that night. He awoke in a cold sweat (likely smelling of pure bloomin’ onion after 3 days at the C.W.S.), and called United to get his flight changed. For some reason, despite preaching the customer service principles of a Phillips 66, United Airlines obliged, and changed his flight to Friday. So, last Saturday morning, in perfectly innocent yet entirely malicious fashion, Goose used this to his advantage, acting like the changes were made as a fault of United’s, and begging for a free extra day on the end of his trip as a result. Because of United’s extreme lack of communication and operation on a system that relies solely on binary code, it worked – he was granted a free flight change to one day later. With the extra day, he bought a $700 flight for Iguazu Falls 2 days in advance. Trip changed. He was now slated to be in Iguazu for a full 18 hours. Amazing. 

After we settled in, we watched Germany nearly get blanked by Algeria at a nearby restaurant, and met some of the fellow world travelers at our hostel. The stories that come from these places are incredible. One Irish kid, John, was traveling South America alone for 4 months. Another couple booked a trip for 33 days, with no places to stay and no transportation in between. These are trips that would make mothers like Becca Swanson lose their minds in second. No plans, they were just going. Well, the next morning, we did the same. We just went for it. This is where things hit the fan for a few hours.

We awoke at 745 and considered what we should wear that day. We had heard we were going to get wet, but it was going to be in the mid-60s, so flip-flops and swim suits seemed appropriate. It was cold in the morning, so one layer with flip-flops along with some changes of shirts in a bag for later were the final consensus. We headed out. After only one small mixup that ended up with me on the opposite side of a 4-lane street as the bus that I was supposed to be getting on with the rest of the group and then getting two guillotine-esque bus doors slammed on my ribs as I barely made it in, we headed toward the falls. When we arrived, we immediately noticed it was still 45 degrees, and that when Brazil has a winter they REALLY have a winter. Becca and Megan immediately bought some super cheesy tourist sweatshirts for an extra layer. At the ticket counter in the park, I presented my e-mail confirmation of the 3 tickets I purchased for the boat tour, and Megan provided her name because she never actually received one (a sign of things to come). The ticket agent was confused, and slightly scared – these weren’t the right tickets. IN FACT, she explained, this tour didn’t even enter the falls. This was the boat tour of the islands, which is basically for bird hunters and whoever else in the world decides to come to Iguazu FALLS and tour the islands about a mile away from the falls. Additionally, because of extreme flooding in previous weeks, this boat was inaccessible by foot. BUT, they were going to work it out anyways – they found a tour guide, and they were going to make damn sure we saw these islands. We were given directions to a new kiosk in the middle of a forest where we were met by blank stares from the tour guides there. Each of them looked at each other like we were the dumbest people alive and each asked, “You know what this IS, right? And you’re aware the area is completely flooded?” Whatever. After another 20 minutes of them figuring out what exactly they were supposed to do with us four young idiots, we finally started walking toward the Iguazu River with our tour guide and were told we were going to have to start kayaking down the path because it’s impossible to walk. At this point, we were all shivering and accepting of whatever dumb boat transportation they could provide us. I would have accepted a blowup Shamoo whale from target and a paddle. “Toss me in the river, Jack, I’ve got nowhere to be.” Becca, contrarily, was turning cyanotic and her eyes had all but frozen over in the 45-degree and breezy weather.

Does Becca look like she has enough layers?

As many friends and family are aware, Becca is actually the only cold-blooded human on the face of the earth, and her body is physically incapable of homeostasis. It’s an ongoing situation, serious stuff. Don’t laugh. Anywhere outside of 75-78 degrees and we’ve got major problems – anything between shivering and sweating profusely is a possibility. So when she was stuck wearing only two sweatshirts, jeans, and flip-flops with socks, the Becca Body Temperature Situation was immediately upgraded from DEFCON 2 to DEFCON 1. We proceeded on until reaching the walking path-turned-river. The tour guide had us get into a jeep and explained the following, with this exact wording: “We’re going to attempt to cross this in the jeep. If that doesn’t work, we’ll kayak.” This meant that a) this had never been tried before and b) there was so much flooding they were unsure that an oversized expedition SUV could even trek through. It did, thank the good Lord. We made it to the boats on the enormous Iguazu River, where we were greeted by ONE (1!) other passenger for the tour: an English bird-watching enthusiast. Told ya so. We prepared Becca as was necessary, hopped in the boats, and took off on the grandest of tour fails.

If you want to know what it was like, imagine you’re really, really, cold…then add 40 mph winds. We boated for about an hour, stopped once and saw a bird, which almost sent the English man overboard with excitement, and started boating back down the river, which was brown with mud from the flooding. I thought I saw an orange bird once but just realized I was looking at the inside of my lifejacket, as my head was buried inside it to avoid the arctic winds whipping across our faces. Next? Kayaking! YESSSS. The one way we decided we could possibly make ourselves more miserable was to make ourselves sit in inflatable kayaks full of water that spun in circles if you paddled them. So that’s what we did for a solid 20 frigid minutes. Becca was so cold at this point her mental functioning was completely lost, and she agreed to do this as well for reasons unbeknownst to any of us, including herself. We reached the dock again and immediately proceeded into doing calisthenics and dynamic warm ups to return any sort of blood flow to our extremities.

Jumping jacks, get the knees up!

 

We did this while waiting 25 minutes for the jeep which never arrived, likely lost in a pile of mud and filth somewhere. We proceeded walking and came upon a new river. We circumvented this obstacle by getting some random teenage interns to pull us across in different inflatable kayaks while they were barefoot. Goose didn’t even care anymore, and went all in, sacrificing himself and his jeans for the good of the trip.

Taking proper preventative measures

#Allin

Ready my ferry boat, Winston, chop chop

The “Safari” ended in grand fashion: with a handshake and directions to a bus stop to get us to the actual falls. We needed this to be the best sight a human could possibly lay eyes on to make up for the disastrous, but memorable morning. 

And it was. The clouds burned off and saved us all. Neither words nor pictures have any hope of describing what a place like this is like. Imagine you’re in your backyard. Now blow your entire backyard up, turn it into a giant canyon, add some trees, and, throughout the entire canyon, through the trees and lush green bushes and plants, add the most enormous, cascading waterfalls in the world. That’s Iguazu Falls. Almost. As we walked the trail, the views grew increasingly intimate and increasingly beautiful. At one particular part, Goose actually became an entirely new human, ready to make love to mother nature at any moment. Here’s proof:

Yes

YES

YES!

YESSSS!!!

There are some moments in life where you are so awestruck by nature’s beauty that you feel compelled to just stand and stare. You’re drawn into it, and careless that the wind from the falls is whipping water bullets across your body, soaking you to the core. At least, that happened to us. Goose, Becca and I just stood, stared, smiled and even yelled about the beauty while we were out on the “Devil’s Throat,” platform, which puts you as close to the falls as possible. Megan was somewhere watching from a distance because she didn’t want to get wet but whatever, she got the idea. Goose explained that in a moment like that, if he died, he just hoped everybody knew how happy he was as he died. THAT is how beautiful Iguazu was.

 

Funny enough, rainbows actually taste like Skittles

And now, the trip has come to a close, Goose has gone home and we’re on our way back too…PSYCH!!!! WE’RE STUCK IN SAO PAOLO!!!! This blog will be continued when we actually have some semblance of an idea what’s going on, but United has left everyone in the dark. Here’s what we know: yesterday’s plane arrived at 10 in the morning, broke, and United did everything they could to fix the problem before our flight at 9:10 p.m. from Sao Paolo was cancelled at 8:45 p.m. And by “did everything they could,” I mean they did absolutely nothing and sent a 24-year-old employee into the fire to control the crowds and make something up about how we were all being re-routed. We were all placed on buses (not kidding) and sent out to a Holliday Inn with the promise of a flight the next day at 1 p.m. despite 150 customers having a grand total of 0 boarding passes and even less clues as to what they were supposed to do to get home. The bus was to leave the next morning “around 9 or 10,” back to the airport. It didn’t. Why? Because the flight at 1 p.m. the day after the cancellation never existed. We were lucky enough to be on hold with United for a short 25 minutes, and are now re-routed through Delta (thank God) at 1130 tonight, a full 26 hour and 20 minute delay. Considering there’s a hurricane ripping the East Coast to shreds at the moment, we’re just hoping to make it back at some point on the 4^th of July. Of 2015.

It's been Rio, it's been fun

            After Olinda, we took off for another cute little town in the southeast part of Brazil called Rio de Janeiro. Upon arrival, we instantaneously made sure to act like proper tourists and get scammed into taking a super special “airport cab” which, as we found out on our return home, was 40 Reia’s ($20) more than a regular cab. Good leadership. Our AirBNB host Jucelito, who was a co-winner alongside Jesus of Nazareth of the “Nicest Man in the Universe” award, greeted us. Jucelito had warned me on several occasions of the 95 steps leading up to the apartment, and I didn’t know why it was such a big deal until now. We were dropped off in front of several high-rise buildings, which were awesomely located in the Flamengo beach area in eastern Rio. I assumed these were just buildings without elevators. That’s fine. But no. Our apartment was located through these buildings and up the mountain behind them. Jucelito took Becca’s bag and, being slightly overweight (both the bag and Jucelito himself), almost suffered cardiac arrest within 20 steps. We stopped, Jucelito attempted to catch his breath, and we set out again. And stopped again. At this point, I was concerned we weren’t going to finish the trip because of an AirBNB-related death. We set out again though. And stopped again. Memories of Goose soaking not only his shirt but the entire mountain we were on in Cinque Terre were churning in my head. Jucelito was legitimately about to keel over with the gripper on step number 80 but still wouldn’t let me take Becca’s body bag off his hands. We finally made it up to the apartment, and coolly accepted that it consisted of just 3 rooms – an office converted into a bedroom, a main room converted into a bedroom, and a kitchen/bathroom hybrid. It worked. Jucelito gave us a “tour” which consisted of just pointing around, and proceeded to show us how everything (EVERYTHING) in the house worked, from the WiFi to the chairs to how to pour a coffee pot. Great gesture, but not sure just how incredibly stupid Brazilians think Americans are.

We took off back down the 95 steps for Botafogo beach, some groceries, and then Lapa, where Rio’s nightlife was put on display. In Rio, Bars are really just optional. In Lapa, for example, there are a solid 10 to 20 bars in the area which fill up, but thousands more fill into the streets, alleys and parks nearby, where street vendors with makeshift bars take over. A majority have about 0 minutes of bartending experience, but you automatically trust them anyways with their Caipirinha skills because it’s like the same as trusting an American with grilling a burger...even if the American is 18 and his clothes are made of a wool blanket. We toured the area, talked some soccer with Columbians, caught a cab and almost died for the 14^th time in one. In Brazil, we’ve discovered, “red lights” and “turn signals” are more suggestions than laws - nobody actually really obeys them because that’s a waste of time and effort. Just drive.

We woke up and decided we needed to sit down, chill out, and have a nice, long, classy breakfast with each other in Rio. So we ate scrambled eggs out of plastic cups.

5-star spot

We immediately proceeded to the Copacabana Fan Fest for the Brazil vs Chile round of 16 game on a Futbol Saturday (or, Sabado de Futbol). A Futbol Saturday in Brazil during the World Cup is basically the exact same as a football Saturday in Lincoln except everybody is singing or blowing horns, every day Brazil plays is dubbed a “national holiday,” and an entire country’s hope of prosperity and success as well as every player’s life rests on the results of the game. The fan fest had a solid 50-60K fans watching the big screen TV and another 10K of food, beer, caipirinha, cooked cheese, boiled shrimp, cigarette, watermelon, ice cream, soccer ball, and gum (gum? Really? Just gum?) vendors. During the game, Goose and I entered the ocean, and left with severe frontal lobe damage after undergoing an attempted manslaughter from Mother Nature. On one occasion, while some local Brazilian was confessing his love to Becca in the shallower parts, a miniature tsunami wiped both Goose and I out, and brought Becca down immediately, as well as her swim suit with it. Goose and I got up from our brief unconsciousness and Goose immediately began yelling, “BECCA IS DOWN. WE’VE GOT A BECCA DOWN.” Sure enough, the devilish Copacabana waves had brought Bec right on in and untied her bottoms along with it, presenting a perfect storm of “The waves keep knocking me over” with “I can’t stand up because my suit is untied and there’s a local Brazilian that wants to marry me standing just feet away.”

if your dog doesn't have a jersey, you're doing it wrong

Awesome security from the lifeguard here. "Just watching the game, please don't die"

Does this painted-on shirt make my breasts look big?

As we all are aware, Brazil beat Chile to advance to the quarters and Copacabana celebrated like…only Copacabana would celebrate. We headed toward Ipanema beach for some average views and then out to Gavea for some more outdoor parties, samba dancing, and random men peeing on trees right in front of us.

Sunday was considered “Elevation Day.” What does this consist of? High amounts of tourist activities in high places involving high-volume lines, high prices, and high amounts of food (churrascurias!!). The tourist activities were excellent. Sugarloaf mountain and Christ the Redeemer’s views are both some of the best in the entire world, and the lines (we love lines.) are worth it. But the Churrascaria (Carretao, Copacabana Location) sent me through a wormhole and into food heaven. Churrascarias are unique Brazilian all-you-can-eat meat restaurants, similar to U.S.A. Steak Buffet except you’re not at risk of dying if you eat the meat. Men with giant legs of meat continually strolled by and cut fresh pieces of steak and chicken onto my plate as if they were feeding the lion it’s prey for the week. I racked up double-digit stats with ease, eating until I couldn’t see straight like a proper American. We strolled (/stumbled) along Copacabana to end the time in Rio, and called it a night. On to Iguazu Falls for the grand finale.

my best pick-up line (get it?!!!!)

MAS POR FAVOR

Olinda: Parte Dois

The last 40 hours might have been the most absurd, wildly patriotic times of my life. Coming from a kid who routinely goes out to fancy spots wearing a t-shirt featuring an eagle with American flag wings on it and buys Budweiser not for taste but for the flags on the cans, that’s a big statement.

Yesterday, we toured Olinda and enjoyed the 3 hours of sunlight we were allotted by the heavens, then played some cards through the rain where Becca would incessantly make sure everything possible was done to make me lose. Super fun.

           



















The World Cup, we’ve discovered, is really just a giant party of sorts. Except players’ lives are on the line, there’s a corruption scandal every time, fans will do unforgiveable acts just to see their team win, and then cry their eyes out if they lose. In that sense, it’s a really awful party. But outside of the games, the party is non-stop. There’s a festival almost every day of the week, every apartment is adorned in Brazilian flags galore, even airport security personnel wear Brazil replica jerseys for their work uniforms. For the U.S., there is a “Night Before” party thrown by the American Outlaws before every game. Getting tickets to this was nearly impossible until I pulled some strings with the AO president of operations like a boss. I couldn’t figure out why it was such a big deal. And then we arrived. I don’t know if I expected an ice cream social or a casual meet and greet, but it was neither of those things. From the entry decked in U.S. banners, to the insane costumes on display, to the light show, to the DJ playing alongside a saxophonist (a strange, but unprecedented idea that made Goose claim he’s having them for his wedding reception), to U.S. Soccer President Sunil Gulatti’s speech which gave way to A GUEST SPEECH FROM WILL FERRELL (?!?), to the wildest chant-infested dance party I’ve ever seen – this party did it right. Every proper party makes sure to include at least a hundred 'USA' chants. I’ve never personally been to a “Pizzeria” transformed into a club featuring a 4^th of July Party on Steroids, but I’m pretty sure I want to go to a lot more pizzerias down here now. We were certainly appropriately pumped up to instigate World War III with the Germans. As Will Ferrell said, “I WILL BITE EVERY GERMAN PLAYER IF I HAVE TO.” I felt the same.  Goose and I shredded the dance floor as expected, while Megan fell in love for an hour or so (as somewhat expected) with Becca tagging along. Pretty standard. Had an absolute blast and we retired for the early wakeup around 1.

Great view of Ferrell here.

Video^^

The next morning, thanks to our general ignorance and total numbness to the rain that had already plagued the entire Olinda leg of the trip, we set out of the apartment in a deluge of biblical proportions, only to find out that bus lines were closed because they lacked the ability to turn into hovercrafts. This only meant one thing to us: we were just going to have to walk/wade/swim through some knee-deep flooding to get to our destination.  So we did…with Goose and I in shoes and socks just accepting that we were officially on Natural Disaster Alert Status. Random Brazilians cheered for us if we even attempted to cross some of the streets like idiots. Recife is known as the “Venice of Brazil,” but the only real similarity is that during the rainy season the streets are all effectively transformed into canals.

Here's a canal

Apparently, through this travel extravaganza, the game was about to be delayed or postponed, which would have made this entire experience at 830 in the morning pointless. But ignorance is bliss. And when we finally did make it, well, the Outlaws did it again. At a bar about a mile from the stadium, they packed in hundreds of Americans that were drunk on either Brahmas or patriotism, and threw a nutty, stand-on-the-tables and sing party starting at 8:30. We arrived at 10:30, wide-eyed (actually more like bloodshot-eyed. So early.), amazed, and officially ready to check off another bucket list item: seeing the U.S. in a World Cup game. Considering this was probably the biggest U.S. soccer game ever played, we figured we should probably start looking for tickets.

Need this costume if anyone is looking for a Bday present for me.

And these.

We did the march to the stadium amongst thousands of other singing fans, and the search was on, but to no avail. Tickets were going for $600 a piece and due to the fact that we still had 6 days left to survive in Brazil at the time, this was unlikely. Eventually, we split up and by some sort of Divine intervention, each found a ticket. Megan spent $360 to sit in the middle of some Bavarian mountain men, while Goose sat at midfield, and Becca and I were on the opposite side of the stadium, paying $225 each but sitting in the heart of the American Outlaws. My heart was beating about 750 times/minute from the second we got to the seats (which were never used since we stood for the entirety), and my severe hyperventilation prevented me from truly enjoying what I was seeing in the first half. But, slowly, we both realized that jumping, singing, and chanting alongside people we’ve never met just to see our country advance in the tournament made it the greatest athletic event we’ve ever attended. Although I will now need 10 fingernail replacements (chewed every one of them completely raw), some hair plugs for my freshly-developing bald patches, and a new pair of American flag shoes as the ones I wore smell like there is a perpetual sewage system within them – it was worth every penny and every second.

Goodbye.

After the game, we all died for about three hours, until some even MORE excellent news arrived: BECCA HAS ADVANCED THROUGH THE GROUP STAGE AND INTO NURSE PRACTITIONER SCHOOL. Like a genius. Amazing stuff. So we hugged and then I took a nap to celebrate, then checked out Old Recife and the Fan Fest area, watched Becca try and save the lives of another Baker’s dozen of stray dogs, stumbled upon a dinner spot with some of the best food ever made, and retired for the early wakeup. On to Rio de Janeiro – a quaint little southeastern town on the water.