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.

Olinda Parte Umo

After Sunday night’s devastating tie, we made the quick walk back from the Fan Fest to our temporary home in Centro, and inexplicably went to sleep on the Megabed 4 hours before we had to wake up. We arrived at the airport mentally functioning at about the 3^rd grade level. After a quick 3-hour snooze of a flight involving only 3 wakeups by the folks sitting next to me to use the restroom (God.), we were greeted at the airport in Recife by our driver, Gilberto, as well as Samba dancing and free airport Caipirinhas. United could learn a thing or two from TAM Airlines. Gilberto dropped us off at Dolores’s adorable little home in the heart of the historical district of Olinda, the neighboring town of Recife, which we proceeded to promptly destroy. Just as a word advice, when renting an apartment for a few days using AirBNB, it’s generally considered disrespectful to break a shower curtain (Becca), flood a house by leaving the windows open on a stormy day (all of us), and clog a toilet (Goose, Becca, Megan, (not me)) within 24 hours of arrival…but more on that later. Dolores, if you’re reading this, Desculpe o senhora (Forgive me, ma’am).

View from the apartment porch is fine

We arrived and were met by Soulange, who set us up with everything we’d need despite speaking approximately 0 words of English. Gilberto drove us to the market to grab some groceries, and gave us some super obscure and unintelligible directions for our cab back to the house. We nodded as if we had a remote clue of what he was saying, grabbed our grocieries and a new cab back. We told the cabby the address, he nodded, and started driving. Generally, when a cab driver does this it is assumed he has some sort of idea as to where he is going and/or what planet he is on, but this guy had neither going for him. The 5-minute drive turned into 25, we ended up on top of a mountain briefly, but eventually found our way home using nothing but the graffiti art we noticed earlier as landmarks. For some reason, instructing a driver to find the “mural that looks like Plankton from Spongebob and take a left” doesn’t work in Brazil/anywhere in the world.

After a quick turnaround, and an absolutely thrilling joy ride to Arena Pernambuco about a half hour from the city, it was time to witness a World Cup game.

This match, Mexico-Croatia, was essentially an elimination game, as the winner was to move on to the knockout round. Mexican fans were well aware of this fact, and they spent every last peso they had to get here, dominating the environment inside and outside the arena. This had positive and negative effects. This was great because, as it turns out, they are all completely out of their minds and almost all wore absurd costumes. This was not awesome because Mexican men tend to like pretty women possibly even more than futbol, and therefore there were just as many people trying to take pictures with people dressed and painted up as Aztec warriors as there were to take pictures with Becca and Megan, dressed as American women in tank tops. There was a point when Goose and I waited for them to catch up walking, but they couldn’t because there was a line of three groups of men trying to take pictures next to them. But this did give us some time to analyze and come up with a Mexican Futbol Fan Power Ranking. The top 6:

6. World Cup Trophy within a sombrero

5. Aztec Warriors stumbling into a futbol match

4. Peppers in a sombrero super heroes?

3. These Guys

2. This monstrosity

1. Unicorn siting

A World Cup game is unlike anything else. There is no sporting event on the planet, Olympics included, which can bring individuals and nations together like this one. Despite incredible violence, drug-induced wars and gang-related terrorism in their homeland, every Mexican amigo was on the same side. They chanted, sang, screamed (and eventually annoyed the crap out of us) in unison before, during, and after the game. Four goals in 20 minutes was a treat, but recognizing the bigger feat of such a game was incredible. The World Cup is greater than the sum of its parts and extends FAR beyond just the game.

We took the train back to town with hundreds of our Mexican neighbors screaming and chanting like they just won the entire tournament, and checked out the festival occurring downtown in honor of someone that did something good somewhere along the line. It started pouring for the 4^th time of the day, and we took cover with Germany fans Andy and Marcus below a makeshift bar manned by Eddy the Brazilian bartender. We basically decided that we liked Eddy’s caipirinhas, the local drink of choice, but that we were just going to start making our own. Eventually, this led to me becoming assistant bartender alongside the two, and forging a pact to open a bar called The Three Gringos, featuring a drink that I just invented during the course of the evening.  

We walked back toward our place to retire for the night…and were met by an outdoor Samba-dancing festival on our street, highlighted by a mid-70s Brazilian rapping to the beat and being echoed by everyone else on stage, which was really just someone’s front doorstep. Another Biblical rain struck though, forcing us to retire our extraordinarily Caucasian moves until next time.

Slept in yesterday morning, ready for a nice relaxing day at the beach. Upon arrival, though, there were some kids juggling a soccer ball in front of me. Obviously I was joining that. From there, being an American with unexpectedly decent footskills, we were going to have to take it to the pitch up the beach.

A full-fledged game erupted featuring Goose and I and a group of ten other Brazilians. I’m not here to brag or anything but exploding for 4 goals and 2 assists in the span of an hour and a half against some Brazilians is no easy task, so I made sure to let everyone on the beach know how big of a deal this was with every excessive celebration I could think of. Goose manned the goal and almost broke a leg or three with his breakaway saves, giving us a good name in the eyes of Brazilian jogadores. The problem with this game was that Goose and I had been running in Brazilian heat for almost 2-hours and sweat out about 300 combined gallons of water, which didn’t provide the most relaxing beach day in the world. The moment of the match? 5-year-old Manhuel scoring, running to midfield encircled by the high schoolers, and immediately Samba dancing as a celebration. This country is crazed by soccer in ways that are impossible to describe. Despite the minimal communication, we left the game with hugs all around. They loved it.

After a nice, small, 6,000-calorie dinner we all nearly passed into food comas, walked the beach, played cards (I won, but who’s counting?), and then possibly the most foul act in human history went down.

The problem with eating so many amazing fried cheeses and breads is that your toilet tends to be susceptible to explosions of sorts, and when Megan walked out timidly, explaining that there was a “problem with the toilet,” we were all blown out of our minds by what exactly she was talking about. The entire scene and smell of what had just occurred in the porcelain bowl was easily my worst nightmare, as I was previously convinced that women never actually did that, but just smelled like flowers. This presented the second toilet problem of the day: earlier in the day, Megan and Becca were in the bathroom together (which is probably the weirdest culturally acceptable girls-only tradition that exists in the world), and provided exhibit A as to why this shouldn’t be done: Becca hit Goose’s electric toothbrush off the sink and immediately into the toilet while Megan was using it. Whoops. NOW though, at 1 a.m., we were having far larger toilet problems with far larger potential consequences. We don’t know of any Brazilian plumbers and had no choice. Goose admitted to some previous foul damage he did as well, but then rebounded and claimed, “unclogging toilets is one of my greatest skills,” and went into battle.

After 10 minutes of attempted plunging with his shirt tied around his face like a terrorist, he even went so far as to yell from the bathroom battleground (while we were seeking refuge on the porch) that we were now approaching “Emergency Levels.” Later this was taken a step even further when Goose declared the apartment to be on a full-fledged 12-hour Bathroom Lockdown. Lockdown Status is rarely achieved, but the situation called for it, and there was no way I was going to let this situation pass without writing about it. Apologies to anyone I have offended (mainly Megan). An hour after loading the toilet with soap, chlorine, and hot water, and Goose putting his life and precious brain at risk with the toxins he was inhaling, success was achieved. For now. We’re halfway through the Olinda leg. Desculpe, Dolores.

Living, confiscated crabs at security tent. Only at a Mexico game.

Who we sat next to

Military on call because that's how every sporting event ends?

Sao Paolo Recap

I am so depressed/shocked/angry/sad/confused right now I can barely type. Portugal’s 95^th minute game-tying header just sucked the life out of the Americanism-dominated Sao Paolo fan fest, where we watched Geoff Cameron have two of the most devastating mental blunders in U.S. Soccer history within a span of 95 minutes. BUT, before THAT wild ride of emotions – what a weekend.

After United Airlines put on the most impressive display of incompetence since the invention of Cutlericks,

re-routing us on 4 occasions, delaying 4 flights, and jumping our anticipated 14 hours of travel to 40, we arrived at 10 Saturday morning. We were greeted by a nice taxi driver who transformed me into a fluent native during the 20-minute drive, and were dropped off at Hotel Internacional, where we were greeted by an equally-kind host and an incredibly foul homeless lady walking around with her pants at her ankles and carrying her box-bed above her head. Welcome to Sao Paolo. The hostel is basically the same as a Ritz Carlton except there’s no hot water and our beds were all built for toddlers that enjoy sleeping on cement. So small, in fact, that I actually found myself sleeping like this in the middle of the night:

Our solution, obviously, was just to create one large Megabed…which was large enough for Goose.




Before that, though, we attacked the day with vigor. We took down the entire center of the largest city in the Southern hemisphere in a couple hours, seeing Mercado Republica (Translation: ‘Cheap crap with a few handmade items mixed in’), Monasteirio Sao Bento, Basilica Ifigenia, Catedral do Se, the FIFA Fan Fest, had a drink about 500 feet in the air in Edificio Italia, Beco do Batman, and Vila Madalena for street food, joining a wedding party that was doing soccer chants, the outdoor party scene, and a live music Samba bar. Not a bad effort on day one. Day two we came out hot again, taking down the southern part of the city by hitting up a 500-foot viewing tower first. This took an hour and we were granted 5 minutes in the viewing station. We love lines. We then got the doors of the Metro closed on our bodies like a rubber guillotine and proceeded to the Liberdade street festival – a Sunday afternoon festival featuring incredible Asian food and incredibly too many people in one place – followed by Avenida Paulista and then Parque Iberapuera, the city’s Central Park (or Memorial Park, I hear you Omaha). We ended the day with an awesome night at the Fan Fest, meeting Americans from all over and hugging the other ones I didn’t know during our 94-minute victory over Portugal (and 1 second tie). In summary, with pictures:

The Cathedrals were epic, as expected. America has some catching up to do in the “Build ridiculously obnoxious churches” arms race that began in the 1500s.



The FIFA Fan Fest is full of games and is incredibly well organized. One game involved running in place on a mat and a simulator tracking your pace while you race the person or group next to you. Needless to say this got a little heated, and either our tracker broke or Becca’s dual ACL problems started acting up, because clearly, judging by my pristine form, I deserved every bit of a victory here but Becca and I came away losers against Goose and Megan, which was about as depressing as giving up a 95^th minute goal GOD BLESS AMERICA GEOFF CAMERON.

PICK IT UP BEC!!!

 Walking around, we've noticed that despite the riots and whatnot you've heard about on the news, Brazilians really like Brazil soccer. Really, really like it.

Classing the joint up in the 41st floor Piano Bar

..with this as our backdrop

 We've also noticed that if something is not graffitied in Sao Paolo...well, it will be in the morning. But, ironically, the only remaining bits of SP that are not graffitied upon are graffiti arts themselves. Beco Do Batman, which has absolutely nothing to do with Batman, is a street of graffiti murals on people's houses and walls (not entirely sure if any of it is legal) and the art was perfectly kept and pristine, possibly the cleanest part of the entire enormous, dirty city.

Beco Do Batman

Outdoor weekend nightlife in Vila Madalena

Some native Brazilians

Touring the nicest gym in Sao Paolo - some giant cinder blocks attached to rods

View from the top of the bank building

Downtown Omaha skyline. Or Sao Paolo, they look basically the same

US-Portugal watch

When the US beat Portugal

Finally, we have two early favorites for Picture of the Trip. I'm pretty sure this one is going to win, hands down:

But this one, by the Iberapuera park's lake, is probably the fan favorite:

 Thanks for reading. Flight for Recife leaves in 6 hours so I'm sure we'll be feeling just spritely tomorrow. That's all from SP for us, goodnight America, and go Portugal on Thursday (but only by 2 goals).