Waiting for fejoada

Before Brazil, I knew about rice and beans; I did not know about fejoada.  Upon arriving in Sao Paolo a couple of weeks ago, I quickly learned that fejoada–black beans with pork sausage and meat, served with rice and other accompaniments–was the authentic dish of Brazil.  Because it is not just your standard peasant fare of rice and beans but a heavy, middle-of-the-day meal, the kind that encourages a siesta after consumption, most restaurants only serve it on Saturdays or Sundays.

I consulted the locals and The Lonely Planet and decided on fejoada on Saturday at Bar do Mineiro in Santa Teresa, a hip, artsy, hillside neighborhood in Rio.

After a few hours of being chauffered around to see various sites of the city, we three made it to Bar do Mineiro.  Erin’s friend Adriana, a Salvador native recently-returned to Rio after years  studying and working abroad, had offered us the use of a driver for the day.  Her father had insisted, for he wanted us to enjoy Rio.  Adriana, who clearly takes after her generous father, wouldn’t accept a cent from Erin nor I, simply saying that she wanted us to feel at home.

Always excellent to see the sites with the locals, Adriana’s presence exceeded typical expectations and made for the best day in Brazil thus far.  Well-traveled, easy-going, smart, and cosmopolitan (without the slightest hint of pretention), Adriana is a lively and lovely person, not to mention a champion beer drinker, who (sneaky tactics of paying the bill aside) made me feel right at home in her city.  Our Saturday in Rio was experienced as though we were true cariocas, or Rio locals.

The fejoada was just one of many reasons.

Bar do Mineiro

As the picture indicates, when we arrived at the much vaunted place for fejoada, there was a 30-40 minute wait for a table.  Having lived in New York City the past two years and frequented restaurants that only take reservations for parties of six or more people, I was prepared to wait.

It’s common in Brazil to drink outside, for people to spill into the streets of an open door cafe with drink in hand.  At Bar do Mineiro, there were even groups of people who set up camp across the street.  It is a much different scenario in New York, where street drinking is forbidden and a sure way to get hit with a heavy fine.

The 30-40 minute wait turned into 90 minutes, by which point, we three ladies were tipsy and famished.  Without necessarily criticizing the Brazilian way of doing things (with much less speed and efficiency than I am used to), I commented on how in NYC we were likely to have been compensated with a drink or appetizer on the house if a similar thing occurred.  After hostessing at ‘inoteca, a bustling, cool wine bar on New York’s lower east side, I know from experience that accuracy with wait times is rather important, despite its not being a science.  Adriana, who graduated from George Washington University in D.C. and later lived in Europe, agreed that customer service (the customer is always right) in the United States is better than it is in Brazil.

After inquiring about our table, Adriana ordered us another round of drinks, and soon we were seated.  We ordered the fejoada completa for two people and not three as we were told it would be enough for us.

“Are you sure?” Erin asked, and I wanted to know the same thing.  In anticipation of the meal, I had eaten only a handful of granola in the morning.

Fejoada completa (greens, rice, and another starchy side dish studded with crispy, greasy chunks of pork skin and fat) for two was enough to feed three very hungry girls and fill a to-go container, which we later gave to a young, skinny Brazilian boy juggling tennis balls (read: begging) in the street.  “God be with you,” he said and sauntered happily away with his comida.

It was, by all non-vegetarian, meat-loving foodie accounts, ridiculouslyy delicious.  Worth the wait.  And the calories.  And the food coma.

fejoada completa

yummy pork fat

Following fejoada. Erin, Adriana, Stacey.

Rainy Rio de Janiero

Minor scrapes and bruises

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!

Solo and female!

I’ve had quite the easy time so far: ride from the airport in Sao Paolo, maid service upon arrival, my own bedroom and private bathroom, the father of my couchsurfing host refusing to accept any money for shipping my laptop to NYC, ride from the bus station in Rio with help from friendly Brazilian I met while en route to Rio, assistance from current couchsurfing host, Marcelo, with purchasing bus tickets, booking accommodations and offering pleasant company for various things to do and see (read: everything).

I haven’t had any truly challenging days (unless you consider underestimating the strength of the bottomless caipirinha while on a boat in the middle of the sea a challenge), only a couple of snags along the way, but as a foreign female traveling by herself, I think I may even be at an advantage at times.  Recently, my friend Paula sent me an excellent (and brief) link to both the male and female perspective on the solo female traveler: does she have it easier than the solo male?

As Paula and I once backpacked together through Greece, Italy, and Spain for five weeks the summer after we graduated college (yes, we were overnight ferrying it to the pristine but festive island of Mykonos while the majority of our friends became acquainted with the cubicle), I can attest to the luxury of leaving my bag with a friend while I hopped on over to the restroom before the train’s (or ferry’s) departure.

However, safety and, ahem, pee issues aside, I think traveling alone is empowering, liberating, and thrilling.  While I don’t know if I’m ready after only a week and a half to conclude that we solo ladies have it easier than the solo guys, I am happy to share a couple of my positive solo travel experiences.  Social interaction, for example, Dave’s (aka the male perspective’s) first point, is not difficult for the woman by her lonesome; I’ve found myself bonding easily with foreign women who don’t speak a word of my language.  It’s not the kind of  bonding that leads to a best friendship, mind you, but it’s the small connection that warms the soul and reminds me that words aren’t always necessary.  (And, of course, it’s not all that hard following a little eye contact to make friends of the opposite sex either!)

Nilda (prnounced New-duh), the maid in the Patrick household, took a liking to me and I to her.  Though verbal communication was difficult, we had our moments.  One evening when I was leaving the townhouse, Nilda rushed to the door to ask me if I was staying for dinner.  I understood as  much from her gesturing towards the set table and the smells of food cooking in the kitchen.  What I wasn’t sure was how to ask her what time dinner was so that I could make an informed decision.  I struggled with trying to get her to uderstand me, and eventually I just took out my watch and pointed to the time (7 PM), which is when Nilda said “oito” for 8 PM.

“Ate mais tarde (see you later)”, I said, and when I returned with a bottle of wine and showed it to Nilda, she nodded, opened it and placed it on the table with the other dinner beverages.

In the afternoons, unable to tear myself away from my twice-daily caffeine habit, I’d timidly (still completely unaccustomed to havig a live-in maid) seek Nilda’s help with making the coffee.  Each time, she seemed to do it happily but not without looking at me in my tank top and bare arms and asking me if I was cold (frio?).  Once I put a sweater on, Nilda seemed content.

The day before I left, I took out my camera and indicated to Nilda that I wanted to take a picture of us.  Even though she wasn’t pleased with her appearance (something I figured out by her expression and quick removal of her hat) we smiled for the camera.  And when I left, she came over to say goodbye, and I asked Patrick to thank her for me and tell her I enjoyed meeting her.

When I was in China, I had similar bonding experiences in spite of the impossible language barrier.  There was the woman who owned the hostel in Yangshuo who gave me breakfast porridge and laughed when her daughters translated that iId named the kitten that lived with them.  We say together and drank tea, but we did not speak.   And then there was the old and sage Great Wall tour guide who looked out for me as I was the only one among the group traveling by myself.  When I showed her the picture taken of us, she smiled her big, toothless grin again.

Earlier today, an Argentine woman started began speaking to me.  She had somewhat of an ulterior (but harmless) motive, for she was practiing English, doing her homework as she told me.  A lovely woman, she stressed the importance of my safety, told me to be very careful in Argentina.  Certainly, we were in a safe and relaxing environment, on a boat in Arraial do Cabo, a small, sleepy (at this time of year, anyway) beach village a few hours from Rio.  (Next to Sao Paolo and Rio, it felt like an oasis of safety, but I was grateful for her insight.)

There are, undoubtedly, plenty of obstacles I’ll face by myself on my journey, feelings of homesickness notwithstanding, but I hope none of them will be serious or detrimental.  For now, I am mixing it up a little actually and will be traveling with a friend from college for a few weeks in Brazil.  I excaped on my own yesterday to Arraial do Cabo, and not without some minor scrapes and bruises either (story to come), but Erin and I will say goodbye to Marcelo on Monday and bid him billions of thanks for his incredible hospitality before we head to Salvador, which is, according to Lonely Planet’s South America on a Shoestring, *the* place travelers are most likely to get mugged.  They say there’s safety in numbers, so perhaps this junction of my solo travels is best interrupted.

Futbol=Soccer=Serious

Soccer game

Stadium in Sao Paolo

I had the fortunate experience of going to a semi-final soccer game last night to watch Cruzeiro beat Sao Paolo, although it wasn’t supposed to happen like that.

“If Sao Paolo wins, we go out, if they lose, we go home,” is what Patrick said.

The game was at 10 PM, but we had to leave at 7:30 PM to pick up a few of Patrick’s friends and sit in notorious Sao Paolo traffic for a while. Of course, I was rooting for Sao Paolo to win, but I haven’t gotten to the point of the trip (yet) where I’m interested in staying out until 7 AM only to be completely unproductive the following day. (Rio’s next on the agenda, and if I decide to couchsurf there my first two nights, I’m sure I’ll need to party late to adjust to the described sleeping arrangement: a mattress on the floor of the CS host.)

In any case, as a traveler and not a tourist, I am trying to be a go-with-the-flow kind of person, maybe stray a bit from my comfort zone, do things I wouldn’t get to do at home, so long as I feel safe.

So, when Patrick invited me to the game, I immediately accepted, even though I am not a soccer fan. Not one bit. I knew the game was a big deal though, and I felt priviliged to have been given a ticket. I’m happy to report that the evening was a success, minus Sao Paolo’s loss, that is.

Game night things I found interesting:

-No beer is sold in the stadium; beer is purchased from the car as you get closer to the stadium and parking, if you like.

-As we sat in traffic close to the stadium, I noticed people tailgating and asked if they called it the same thing in Portuguese. They refer to pre-drinking as a warm-up.

-A stadium clock is forbidden. The players are not supposed to know how much time has elapsed.

-Seats are first come, first serve; however, if you are an owner, as Patrick and his friends are, your first come, first serve choices are better. We were, apparently, sitting in the elite, la-ti-da section.

-I could count on one hand how many women were seated in our section.

-Groups of people from Sao Paolo favelas, or slums, were loud and colorful fans, not to missed in the stands. Supposedly, they would rather spend their money on futbol than on food.

-The clock, which is kept only by officials (and devoted fans) never stops.

-Singing is the preferred form of cheering.

-Fights among opposing fans broke out with frequency, and when they did, attention moved from the field to the fight.

-My guess is that about 80% of the fans were sporting their team’s paraphenelia.

-When your team loses, you don’t drown your sorrows in chopp (draft or keg beer). You go home.

Brazil on a budget

After only three days in Sao Paolo, I’ve learned that enjoying Brazil on a budget is not so easy.  Obviously, I am saving money on accommodations by couchsurfing; furthermore, the family that is hosting me has invited me to consume any food I find in the house.

Last night, Patrick was working late, so I enjoyed dinner with Sylvia and Mark, his lovely parents.  My contribution was a bottle of Malbec that ran me about $8 USD.  I realize that I am in a fortunate situation.  Jardins is, indeed, a ritzy area, much like the upper east side near Central Park, I imagine.  All of the buildings are highly secured and gated.  I am buzzed in and out every time I come and go, and it feels safe walking around during the day.  It is questionable at night, which helps with staying on a budget because I won’t venture out and about by myself, but as I’m sure all of you know, it doesn’t take much time to spend a lot of money.

On my first night, I attended the couchsurfing meeting.  They call it a meeting, but it’s really a bar gathering.  I am happy to confirm that Brazilians are as nice as everyone says.  Aside from a Greece couchsurfer and a guy from Westchester who was doing what I’m doing until he landed a job editing a Web site for an American company based in Buenos Aires (I know, pretty sweet, right?), the group consisted of Sao Paolo folks.  I ended up staying for several hours and spent about $30 USD, which I understand is not terribly expensive for a Tuesday night out, but the caipirhinha deal didn’t apply to me because I ordered it with the Brazilian liquor.  (Patrick would later tell me I was overcharged.)

I met some of the couchsurfing people for lunch today and ate a pastel de baccalau, a fried rectangular pie filled with dried, salted cod, onion, and plump green olives.  At about $5 USD, it wasn’t exactly as inexpensive as I’d have liked.  A filling slice of pizza in New York City, after all, will run you about $2-3 USD.

Food and drink aside, the main cost is proving to be travel within Brazil’s borders.  For example, bus rides are pricey and pricier depending on the amount of luxury one chooses.  I’ve decided to fly from Rio to Salvador because I found a flight for only $82 USD, whereas a bus ticket would have been close to $100 USD.  At this point, I have little idea of where I’ll go from Salvador, but I’ll probably end up spending a pretty penny to fly to Central West Brazil.  Fortunately, all of my couchsurfing requests have been accepted, and before I meet up with a friend from the states in Rio on Monday, I’ll be staying with Marcelo, who lives in Ipanema Beach.  Gabriel, a resident in Salvador, an African-influenced area, has agreed to host me for a couple of nights.  I’d couchsurf in every city if I could, but the problem is that only the big cities have a lot of CS hosts.  Outside the Pantanal, where I’d like to do an ecological expedition, there are few, if any CS hosts.

After Brazil, I’ll be in Bolivia, which *should* help me stay on budget.  My budget, in case you are curious, is about $25-30 a day, not including tours or excursions or flights.  What I need to do is sit down and do some math.

Not everything in Brazil is as expensive as it is in New York, however.  This afternoon I got a bikini wax for only $7 USD.  That’s unbelievably cheap!  Tomorrow I need to purchase a Brazilian bikini, something I’m not looking forward to donning.

When in Brazil…

The backpack pack

When L. asked me what I was packing, an unassuming, innocent, reasonably curious question, I found myself unable to answer.

“I…I can’t talk about it right now…” I had said. We were down by the shore in Avalon, NJ. staying at C.’s family’s beach house; it was my last weekend before beginning the trip, and while mostly calm and relaxed in the days leading up to my departure, I wasn’t without periods of stress, anxiety, and doubt. Lounging around with my friends, sipping wine and indulging in a butterfat cheese spread from Murray’s, I was glad to be away from the city and spending quality time with close friends. And I was happy to talk details about the trip. Most of the time.

The previous week I’d been in Buffalo and had soaked up as much of my sister as possible in the few days we had together–her back from China, me nearly off to South America. Because Stephanie had done something similar last year, being in her presence was an endless source of comfort. My last few days were relatively stress-free, until it came to the unavoidable packing issue.

How *does* one pack for a year? Better question: how does one pack for a year of seasons?

Reasearching (read: googling) travel advice, I stumbled upon a couple of decent packing lists, and from those and my own prior backpacking experience, I faced the task ahead. Here’s what made the cut:

Clothing:

5 J. Crew ribbed tank tops (I live in these, and they’re great for layering.)

1 skirt

2 dresses (one that works for colder weather)

1 bikini (I’m planning on buying a Brazilian bikini because, apparently, that’s the only way to beach it down here.)

two pairs of flip-flops (one leather, OluKai, one non-leather, Merrell, which can double as a shower shoe when I’m staying in hostels that have community bathrooms)

sneakers

everyday shoes for walking, hiking, etc

favorite jeans

Patagonia rain jacket (the hood that doesn’t want to stay put is a source of frustration)

20+ pairs of underwear

2 bras

1 sports bra

running shorts

long-sleeve dry fit running shirt

2 pairs cotton shorts

leggings for running and cold-weather sleeping, if necessary

khaki-type pants

4 T-shirts

3 sweaters: 1 light wool, 1 heavy wool, 1 cotton

hoody fleece

black comfy pants

beach cover-up

1 cute/sexy halter top (already I fear I’ve not packed enough going-out attire)

scarf that doubles as light blanket or hair towel if absolutely necessary

several pairs of socks

absorbant towel

lounge/sleep pants and T-shirt

long-sleeve shirt, good for layering

sleep shorts

2 hair scarves

2 hats: one light weather, one wool

Personal Care Items:

Suave 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner

Blistex DCT

earplugs, several pairs

Venus razor cartridges (I forgot the actual Venus razor, but I reckon I can still shave my legs using just the razor portion.)

toilet tissue

Nars The Multiple (Thanks a mil, C., for lightening my make-up load significantly!)

Dove soap, several bars

toothbrush (I have serious misgivings about leaving my electric toothbrush behind as my whites haven’t seen a cavity since I started with the Oral B spin brush many years ago.)

dental floss

tampons

mascara

loose powder

body lotion

eye mask for sleeping

suncreen, 30 SPF

insect repellent with DEET

tweezers

q-tips

night cream for face

daily facial moisturizer

1 lipgloss

Medications:

Dramamine

Immodium

Pepto Bismal (I have a stomach of steel, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.)

Malarone (anti-malaria pills)

Aleve

Tylenol

Neosporin

Antibiotics: Cipro, Doxycycline

Clear Eyes (not sure why I bought this)

Diflucan (not interested in being caught in a foreign country without this)

heartburn medication

Alka-Seltzer

vitamins (is this in the right category?)

Other:

Steripen (Thank you Rachel, Aunt Carol, Mom and Dad!)

cameras: Panasonic Lumix FX 37, Pentax N73 digital SLR

batteries

zip drive

extra memory cards for cameras

Sony Vaio laptop

Skype headset

REI headlamp (a supposed necessity for long bus trips)

Books:

Lonely Planet’s South America on Shoestring

Joseph J. Keenan’s Breaking out of Beginner’s Spanish

Richard Ford’s Women with Men

Paul Beatty’s White Boy Shuffle

(I’m counting on book exchange places to keep a new book in circulation always.)

I figure I will end up chucking a few things as necessary. As it is right now, what I’ve listed fills my large backpack, my day-pack and another over-the-shoulder bag. My friend Denise drove me to the airport yesterday, and I was fortunate to have a ride today as well, so I haven’t had to do much walking with all of my stuff just yet, but I’m not sure how much weight my back can handle carrying if I have a lot of ground to cover.

Safe in Sao Paolo

I’ve been in Sao Paolo, Brazil for less than six hours, and I’m alternating between two thoughts: “Oh my God, what on earth am I doing?” and “This is so great.”

I’m confident that the latter thought will win out in just a few days’ time. In spite of a non-working, cumbersome, seventeen inch laptop, a Continental flight attendant who warned me that without proof of onward travel out of Brazil, I may get deported, and several extra hours at Newark International, the trip is off to a great start. My couchsurfing host, Patrick, spotted me immediately and showed no signs of annoyance at having had to wait around the airport.

As we drove to his place, I asked many questions, particularly interested in where I could grab a quick, cheap bite before a bit of rest.

“My maid will make you something,” he said as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and surely, for him, it was. Patrick showed me to my “couch,” which turned out to be his sister’s pretty, pink bedroom complete with attached bathroom. She is traveling in Italy this summer, so the room is all mine for the week.

Not long after Patrick left me to my devices–a hot shower and a nap–I was summoned by the maid, whose name I haven’t quite caught due to her thick accent. She’d laid out a spread big enough for three people, but the only place setting was for me. I greedily dug into the white rice, buttery corn kernels, garlicky chicken cutlets, and tomato and iceburg salad. A tray of condiments was set before me, and I drank peach nectar.

I slept for several hours after eating, and when I rose, I took some pictures of the city from the balcony. On the drive to the apartment, I noticed the slums, the incredibly dirty little shacks, the poverty that is so prevalent in this city, and ahead I saw the skyscrapers, the looming, colorful city.

Patrick’s family lives in Jardin Paulista, a seemingly swanky neighborhood with lots of green trees and fancy shops. I may check out a couchsurfing meeting this evening. It’s at a pub located a few subway stops away. Or I may call, Pablo, a Brazilian I met while traveling in China. I’m still sort of reeling from the idea of what I’m doing, and when I pause to think of the time frame I’ve set up for myself, I get kind of freaked out. One day at a time. One Portuguese phrase at a time.

See you later

When I found out my 10 PM flight out of Newark International Airport was delayed by an hour and a half, I didn’t mind.  I hadn’t had a chance to post an entry and had been meaning to all day.  I figured some down time at the gate would allow me to write and get settled.  Of course, even though my computer was functioning perfectly well back at my apartment in Brooklyn only hours earlier, it’s no longer working.  I was met with a black screen and tried not to panic.

I walked to the closest lounge/restauarant area and made the acquaintance of Bob, a businessman traveling to London.  As I somewhat frantically called my sister to ask her to notify my couchsurfing host of my delayed flight, Bob went to the bar and bought me a drink.

I don’t want to dwell on the computer issue, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t frustrated and discouraged.  I’d rather focus on the trip ahead.

I wanted to write a post about the week before my trip, but I have no time.  As Bob left to catch his flight, I introduced myself to Michael, a businessman traveling to Brazil.  I’m on his laptop, and he is getting anxious, so I must end this.  I can’t find the spell check option, so I hope I haven’t misspelled anything.

I’ll write more tomorrow, provided I have Internet access.

From virtual meeting to couch

Definition couchsurfing: staying on a stranger’s couch free of charge, moving from one couch to the next over the course of travel, surfing as in sleeping or crashing when one needs a place to stay, that which provides budget accommodations, community-forming.

I’m not quite a newbie when it comes to couchsurfing–my first time surfing as we CSers fondly call it was in San Francisco in October 2008, and my second (albeit failed) attempt was in Shanghai in January 2009, and I’ve hosted surfers twice–but I’m no veteran either.

I’ve gone to exactly one CS event in NYC, and these types of events–bar parties, potluck dinners, picnics in the park, Bryant Park movie nights, RSVP-required shindigs, comedy club outings–occur frequently in the city and in its best borough, Brooklyn.

But I’m trying to get more involved.  I’m trying to be a regular surfer throughout South America.  Last night I quickly browsed the site for available couches, and if you’re interested in reading more about how this all works, check out Nomadic Matt’s excellent post on the subject.  I dashed off three brief but (I hoped) charming messages to potential hosts and changed my “availability” to “traveling at the moment” as the surfing requests had been inundating my inbox lately.

I woke up this morning to three positive replies: “Sure, Stacey, you can stay with me during those dates…”  “I can host you, Stacey.  Please confirm… ”  “What time do you get in, Stacey?  I can probably pick you up from the airport…”

I read the entirety of the last reply to my sister, who also has a couchsurfing profile and good experiences to speak of, especially with the “meet for coffee or a drink” option that the site offers interested members who choose not to offer an actual couch.

“Go with Patrick,” Stephanie encouraged once I’d revealed the name of the possible airport pickup.

Now I’d been intending to take public transportation to my first in-city destination, be it a hostel or host’s place.  Budget travel doesn’t allow for cab rides just because they’re the easier option(at least not often, anyway).  Budget travel generally means opting for the more difficult option, which, in my past experiences, ends up becoming the story you tell over and over again, making it ironically the best option.

But this offer for the airport pickup was too much to refuse.  Plus, if I recalled correctly from my Sao Paolo couchsurfing profile-browsing, Patrick lived with his parents and siblings, which at least *sounded* safe.  I’d accept his offer and politely thanks but no thanks the others.

Initially, I was planning on staying in a hostel my first few nights.  Figuring it would be a good idea to give myself some time to get adjusted to the whole OMG-I’m-traveling-for-9-12-months-what-the-hell-am-I-doing? thing, a hostel, where I’d hook up with other like-minded travelers seemed like a wise first move.  Yet no one seems to embrace fully Sao Paolo as they do Rio di Janeiro or Salvador or Buenos Aires.  From what I’ve read, Sao Paolo is a huge metropolis, difficult to navigate, and not all that pretty.  Supposedly the nightlife scene was hopping, and it’s common to stay out until 6 AM no matter the night of the week, but I might want to ease into that lively scene.  Maybe with a local guide of some sort then, like a fellow CS member.

Cat, a lovely Canadian couchsurfer who stayed with me in early May, had just completed nearly a year of couchsurfing throughout South America, and she spoke highly of her stays, claiming that in South America the hosts were excited about taking you out and showing you around.  There’s no guarantee that a host will have time to point you to the cloest bus let alone take you clubbing.

Sure, couchsurfing is nice because at its most basic function, it provides you with a place to sleep; it saves you money.  But that’s not its purpose.  And it’s not what it’s all about.  When I hosted, although I had little time to entertain, I delighted in the giving.  Here I was, a person of little means financially, able to provide a towel, blankets, fresh, clean water, a rich cup of coffee in the morning, conversation, and a place to rest for a perfectly trustworthy stranger from a different city, country, or continent.

The community is growing in popularity, judging from the number of members–over one million–and it’s an excellent travel option for the backpacker.  Like most of my trip, I’m not sure when or where I’ll surf.  I don’t know when I’ll choose a hostel over a host, or why–until I’m in the decision-making moment, I assume–but that’s the idea, if you haven’t picked up on it yet.  I’ll go when I go.  Because I said go.