Although Marcelo had arranged for a car to take me to the bus station, where I was confident I could pick up my pre-purchased ticket and board the correct bus to Arraial do Cabo, a beach town a few hours from Rio de Janeiro, when the driver arrived, he expected to be told where to go.

“Omnibus…” I said.  Then, “Estacion?”  He seemed to understand omnibus (bus), but instead of driving along, he pointed to the right hand lane where the city buses were lining up and making stops.  Clearly, he hadn’t understood.  In a panic and not wanting to miss my bus–for how to explain in extremely limited Portuguese that I ought to be able to use my ticket for a later bus–I furiously whipped out the few pages on Portuguese phrases I’d torn from Lonely Planet and tried again to explain where I needed to go.  Smart driver, he stopped outside of a hotel and found someone who spoke English to assist us, and we were on our way.

My bus station experience was simple, and I boarded the correct bus at the right time.  I had a dorm bed booked in Arraial do Cabo, and I was anxious to find my way to the hostel from the station in Arraial do Cabo as I knew it was only about a ten minute walk.

Unfortunately, I stepped off the bus too soon, and because things are not clearly marked in Brazil, I didn’t see any signs indicating that I was actually in Cabo Frio and not Arraial do Cabo.

Several friendly cab drivers, despite their not speaking English, informed me of my mistake.  One man, Luiz, spoke English however, and when he started to tell me that I’d have to pay another R$26 to take a bus to my desired destination, I felt my eyes well up and my throat tighten.  I knew I was close to where I wanted to be and couldn’t justify spending the same money for a twenty minute ride as I’d just paid for nearly three hours on the bus.  And, besides, I’d asked the bus driver, “Arraial do Cabo?” when I’d gotten off the bus, and I could swear he’d nodded.  I should get the ride for free, I thought indignantly.

Indignation led to frustrated tears and Luiz asked me in clear English why I was crying.

Why was I crying?  I wasn’t scared.  I trusted the cab drivers.  People were trying to help me.  The first two men had found the only English speaking driver to talk to me, and now this kind man was offering to save me the trouble of purchasing another bus ticket or attempting to find my way on a local city bus.

But, I was displeased with myself.  All I’d wanted to do was make an independent move, find my way, get it done.  On my own.  If I couldn’t get to where I needed to be this time without any hassle or snags–a short trip compared to the ones in my future–how was I ever going to make it to around South America by myself?

Wiping my face, telling Luiz I was just tired, and inwardly blaming my (over)reaction on hormones, I talked Luiz into taking me directly to the hostel for R$15 instead of the R$25 he’d suggested.  He agreed, and twenty minutes later I was taking a hot shower and minding the not-so-small red ants who occupied the space with me.

In the end, I made it to where I wanted to be, and I also learned a valuable lesson (one of many more to come, I’m sure):  just because everyone else is getting off the bus, it doesn’t mean it’s the last stop or my stop!