(Written by my dear soul sister, Jenna Shenna Roberts, with whom I drove home from Home in 2010.
Re-posted with permission by the author.)

“It has been over 10 months since the rollover accident, and I am still working my way out of physical pain. I am not saying this to pander sympathy (although back rubs and hugs are always welcome, why thank you), I say this because the tickets were just mailed out for this years’ burn, and festival season is here, and I want you to go to and from events more gracefully than I did last year.

I know many of you will soon pack hard, party hard, and drive tired. Recently, returning from Symbiosis, my friend Gray said that he thought of me and got a hotel in Reno rather than pushing it. He got nicely cleaned up and then ran into friends and ate and slept well for cheap. I am hoping that writing this will influence more of you to do the same.

I assure you that it’s an ideal alternative to being jolted awake from the gasp of your friend as a sudden jerk to the left becomes the ceiling smashing on the asphalt followed by every side of the metal box you’re in thundering after it as all of your oh so very well organized festival gear spews haplessly across the dusty desert highway while your freshly poignant ‘Now Is All You Have’ dashboard sticker gets splattered with your dear friends’ head wound blood. This run on sentence is brought to you by 5 seconds of nodding off.

We were so very lucky. I am even an example of the adjective “unscathed” in a fatigue-related accident and I have had over $15,000 in healing treatments. I also just enjoyed turning 35 years old and I am more deeply grateful for that this year than usual. Eben and I are a part of the mere 13% of non-fatal sleeping-at-the-wheel accidents (yup, an 87% fatality rate). One good friend who showed up to help me heal afterward had lost a lover when they fell asleep at the wheel many years ago. Others have shown me their permanent physical damage. This all makes my minor but consistent backaches and my cravings to dance freely again into petty whines in comparison, but I sure do miss bumping to beats a few times a week. I can count on both hands the number of times I have shaken my booty since tumbling (well, upright that is .)

I can’t even legitimately milk the sweet teat of guilt on Eben without being a hypocrite. I was slapping myself awake on the drive South in a caravan a few weeks before our crash. I don’t really get how caravanning makes it any better other than having witnesses to your spill anyhow. Eben and I had swapped out only an hour or so before. Granted, we had eaten a big meal and it was a warm day, but we were only an hour from Summer Lake Hot Springs where we would rest for a night or two. So just pull through it, right? I would likely have done the same as he and pushed on. We all do this, but we don’t actually need to. It’s better to catnap and be delayed.

It’s not like Eben and I are the first in our community to have had this happen. Tito had a similar narcoleptic crunch on the burn drive a few years ago. As he says, “I had two red bulls and a yellow jacket (energy supplement) and still went down.” Now, imagine a world without Tito, how much would that just totally suck? If you don’t know Tito, just imagine a fun, loving, participatory, community-building friend. (Oh, and now imagine a big protective ball of light around Tito to counter the ookie of the first thought. . . . Thank you.) Do we need a tragedy to wake us all up? I don’t think so. We’re smarter than that.

It’s easier to be smart than lucky, but I am so grateful for all the details that made this event less painful. Thank God my Subaru Outback was a solid machine that took a beating to spare us. Thank Goddess I had full insurance that included medical for all passengers. Thank our parents for making us always wear our seatbelt. Thank the Universe we were only 4 miles North of a desert town with a new hospital and a good staff. Thank the friends who showed up to help afterward. Thank us that we were totally sober, because going to court or jail in pain must be really, really hard.

Most gratefully, thank the incredible healers of Portland for helping us feel as good as we do. If anyone needs a good chiropractor, energy healer, physical therapist, acupuncturist, massage therapist, naturopath or herbalist, I know quite a few now. I also highly recommend the anti-inflammatory diet, which isn’t easy to do, but I may delve into it again to try and kick out this last bit of back pain. Because I am ready to be done with it. And I am grateful for all it has taught me. And if it saves just one of you, then every wince was worth it.

Please drive safely. Have fun. Sleep. Then drive safely home. Thank you for being alive and vibrant.”

We all love them and that damnable UNIMOG of a music machine, but how did all that begin? I caught up with PK of Space Cowboys for the story.

(RSL)When and how’d Space Cowboys come into being? What was the initial vision and how has it changed and grown over the years?

(PK)The Space Cowboys started wrangling the cosmos around 1997. I don’t remember exactly. It was a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away.

The Space Cowboys were one of the first large-scale sound camps at Burning Man. It started of as a group of friends who wanted to go to the desert, build and run essentially a free night-club in the true wild west. Initially the Cowboys had a large camp on one of the “corners” of Black Rock City, and ran a sound system and barter bar everynight. Big changes happened in 2000 when after meeting the fine lads of SpaceLounge, the crew’s focus shifted. As the two camps merged SpaceLounge continued to build the physical public camp that rocked every night and the Cowboys began work on a novel & radical idea at the time: a mobile sound-system. In 2001 the UNIMOG debutted on the playa, and well the playa has never really been the same since.

Ever since it’s founding the Space Cowboys have focused their on playa efforts into one evening, the Black Rock Hoedown, one of the finest events BRC has ever seen (we are a bit biased). Held every year on the Friday before the burn, with the advent of the UNIMOG the location has changed each year to a different amazing artwork on the open playa.

(RSL)Do you have sound camp veterans in your camp and what camps did they come from?

The old-timers amongst us are either original Cowboys or SpaceLoungers.

(RSL)What music stylins’ should people expect to hear from your boom bass?

(PK)Peeps should expect nothing but the finest in Breaks & House from the Cowboys. Our roster of residents is as deep as it is talented, and the individual leanings of our selectors vary. While we definitely have a funky sound, don’t be surprised to hear funk, electro and even the occasional drum & bass set coming out of the Mog.

(RSL)What is the Space Cowboys signature? What do you feel you do best?

(PK)Shaking your business! True story: At a Mog sound check by our old warehouse, an old man, the proprietor of a nearby shop, came running up and said “You! What you doing? Stop! You shakin’ my business!”

That’s frickin’ hilarious! So, with all the other big sound camps & sound art cars at Burning Man, what makes yours unique and a not-to-miss place to be?

(PK)Oh, you’ll have to come and find out. We wouldn’t be around so long if we hadn’t figured out the secret recipe!

(RSL)This year’s burn theme is Rites of Passage. For many old school electronica fans, the rave was a musical rite of passage for them. Do you remember your first rave and can you tell us about it?

(PK)Rave? I’m originally from New York City. I was going to clubs as a kid. I was Old School in High School!
[And on a side note] A True playa story: I was sitting in an RV with a friend’s ex and he asked me how I got started in this whole crazy thing, and I told him that I used to go to this club in NYC called MARS on Friday nights and we would dance all night in the basement. The crowd was amazing and diverse, there were drag queens, models, artists and big black gay men blowing whistles while the house music would keep everyone together in this amazing moment… I asked him how he got his start as a dj, and he said he started substitute djing for a buddy and eventually took his gig. When I asked where, he said Friday nights at MARS. His name was Moby.

(RSL)What a great playa story. When you think back to those days, who do you remember being the first significant DJ or what track made you fall for electronica? What about it affected you?

(PK)Jungle Brothers. I’ll House You. it made me realize that “electronica” is a ridiculous concept, the boundaries people draw are silly. Was that Hip-Hop or was it House? Who cares? Good music is good music. And to quote an ILS track: “Everybody loves good music.” [Here's a 2011 video clip with Afrika Baby Jam who discusses the group's history among other hip-hop topics on air with Breakbeats & Rhymes Radio.]

(RSL)Who are a few of your camp’s resident DJs our fellow burners shouldn’t miss and why?

(PK)Oh. I’m not going to play favorites. You crazy? Our crew is amazing. With talent like Shissla, Mancub, ShOOey, rrrus, 8ball, Kapt’n Kirk, Brad Robinson, Tamo, Deckard, Zach Moore and others how do you?

(RSL)Is there anything else you’d like BRC citizens to know about Space Cowboys this year?

(PK)Sure we’re going to do a little day thing at our ranch on Wednesday in the BRC Historical District, 4:45 & Esplanade, and of course out there somewhere on the open playa Friday night for the Black Rock Hoe Down. Come find us. [Note: RSL knows where they'll be Friday!]

RSL SUGGESTION #1 – MUSIC FOR THE ROADTRIP HOME
Go to www.spacecowboys.org, www.soundcloud.com/spacecowboys or check the Space Cowboys’ RIPEcast (their weekly podcast) available on Podomatic or iTunes and load up on sweet Cowboy sets.

Friday finally arrives. My flight’s at 10pm so I have one more full day to soak up this beautiful, amazing Brazilian energy before the long flight home. I spend as little time as possible repacking my backpack then escape out into Lapa. I pay my R$.40 fare (that’s .25!)  and jump on the Bonde, the last of Rio’s historic streetcars. Brazil had one of the world’s first electric tramways and the world’s largest fleet of open streetcars. It’s a must ride! I step off into the St Teresa neighborhood atop a hill is full of restaurants and shops as well as artist galleries and magnificent views of the city. I wander the curvaceous cobblestone streets and visually feast on exquisite views, homes and gardens. All is awash with color. Brilliant blue homes to fiery sunset skies spark the natural energy felt among the streets and establishments here. I leave begrudgingly to see my final, famous piece of Rio, the Selarón stairs.

After a quick Bonde ride back down to Lapa, I wind down a few streets and come upon these most famous steps. Selarón began to tile these steps, in front of his house, in 1990. 250 steps measuring 125 meters long are covered in over 2000 tiles collected from over 60 countries around the world. This constant work in progress, he claims, will only end upon his death. He encourages people to send him tiles from around the world, and he will use them as he replaces tiles often. I heard he still lives in the same house along the stairs and works on the mosaic each morning while telling tales at night. Sadly, I didn’t see him while I was there, though I secretly hoped to thank him in person for his beautiful art.

5pm. No escaping. The end of my trip to Brazil lingers, awaiting the final moments to tick away. I return to Rodrigo’s to say goodbye. He greets me with the broadest smile and fullest hug. Somehow thank you isn’t enough but no other words seem more true. He tells me we have to take a Couchsurfing picture. It’s tradition! And so my last memory of Brazil is of Rodrigo and I surfing on his couch. It captures everything Brazil is: fun and silly, generous and alive, and mostly, openhearted. It feels like home. Is it the real people? The simple joy of dancing? The food? Maybe it’s the authentic me that feels most like home. Maybe that’s why so many of us call the playa home. But like the playa I do not leave home when I leave Brazil. I carry home with me, everywhere I go. My home just keeps growing bigger the more amazing people and places I experience, and for that, I am most humbled and grateful.

Today, I mingle with the local Cariocas! Now that all the college revelers have zipped up their backpacks and left Rio and its beaches, I easily bus back down to Copacabana and Ipanema for a day at the beach. After much rain the hot sun peaks out of a partly cloudy sky and warms me.

I exit the bus at the northern most point of Copacabana. Today I walk the entire boardwalks and shorelines of both of these two world famous spots. Though locals pack the beaches, an sense of calm and rest, not revelry, fill the air. THIS is the scene I want to experience!

Copacabana is more dense and a bit shabbier than its sister beach and because it faces east to the Atlantic, it loses the sun sooner than south facing Ipanema. I walk past the Copacabana Palace and envy the magnificent costumes guests must have worn to its famous Magic Ball masquerade the Saturday before, but in the same moment I also don’t envy the easily $1000 ticket price. (Burning Man theme camp magnificence dances through my head instead.)

I complete the 4km Copacabana walk before early afternoon and stop by the Forte de Copacabana before I continue my gait to Ipanema. First, I sit on the seawall to watch the surfers then make way to the sand. Vendors troll the beach offering the most delightful of liquid concoctions and wears. I stop one man to buy the most deliciously large slice of ruby red watermelon while another, with blow horn turned to 11, announces “Acai! Acai!” (“Ah-sigh-EEEE, Ah-sigh-EEEE!”) I find one vendor selling bikinis on the beach.  With only hand gestures, sand writing and a few key Portuguese phrases, I astutely barter down to a mere R$35 ($21!) for my new, two piece Brazilian beauty.

I continue along the beach. Different crowds sand loiter at different, world famous lifeguard posts. Ipanema’s Post 9 is known for the tanned and lithe, while also laid back and alternative, sunbathers. I walk on this post’s foamy shoreline until I find a comfy spot on the sand to sunbathe with my kanga beach blanket (much like a colorful, fringed sarong). Another vendor stops to offer me a made-fresh-in-front-of-me caipirinha (muddled lime over sugar, ice and cachaça, a Brazil-famous fermented, sugarcane liquor).

Here is where I wait for Chelsea, a Brazilian who recently lived in L.A. and though hasn’t been to Burning Man, was welcomed into the local burn community while in the U.S. She and I have tried to hang out several times. Today we meet. We drink beer on the beach then walk to the lagoon, chatting the entire time. We become instant best friends. *Sigh.* I love being a big kid in the world’s sandbox.

Soon we are off to the weekly Rio Couchsurfers meeting near Post 5 in Copacabana to meet Rodrigo and other like-minded locals and travelers. My last night in Rio, in Brasil, I meet the most incredible, inspiring people. Gathered under too small umbrellas, it begins to monsoon around us. Unlike the others anxiously avoiding the rain, I intentionally step deep into the middle of the warm drops. They soak my clothes, my skin and my soul because rain will wash away everything, if you let it. Yes, it is a night to remember.

Quick! To the shower then to a taxi! I am about an hour late but Kyle messages me the driver still hadn’t arrived. I jump out of the taxi to find a chill Kyle updating his Facebook in his hostel’s lobby. His hostel is of questionable standards. This is confirmed by Kyle who tells me a girl at breakfast counted her bed bug bites. 412. Yep. Another reason to be grateful for my Couchsurfing host! I have tried to blissfully ignore the dead cockroaches crunched along the streets but the bed bug story inspires me to make my way down to the corner restaurant to grab a quick breakfast while awaiting our driver.

In perfect time the driver arrives; however, he tells us the price to hang glide because it’s Carnival is more than the hostel host quote. Kyle tells him this is odd as the host confirmed the cost this morning only two hours ago. The driver conveniently tells us he is just the messenger. We kindly request he talk to his boss and offer just R$20 more per person, including photos. After a bit of haggling, we are in the car and driven to the São Conrado neighborhood of Rio. From there we sign our lives away,  purchase our student pilot’s license (state required and a sure fire way to make an extra buck), and wait for our ride up the mountain. Each time we interact with our tour, we meet a different person. Kyle and I agree we are glad to be partners in crime for this adventure as we might both have pulled out of the jump had we gone through this somewhat shady treatment alone.

In the car and up the mountain we go. The fog moves in and out over the mountain. Some flights go, some wait. We hope we can beat the weather and make our flights. Kyle and I witness several other, perhaps more reputable, hang gliding companies give student pilots long safety instructions. Our guides offer us this advice: “I will count to three, then we run, do not jump, just step out into the clouds and whatever you do, don’t look down until we’ve taken off.” One might wonder at this point if I have good judgment, but Kyle and I both queue up in line to fly, questionable sanity intact. Kyle is first. The fog rolls in. He has to wait. His nerves build a bit but when the clouds clear, his take off is perfect.

I am next. My momentary bit of fear releases. We prepare. “One, two, three, RUN!” I step off a cliff and fly like a bird. The shift from ground to air is effortless and without turbulence. Suddenly, I am flying, surrounded by beautiful mountains, the ocean and an amazing city. I am most pleasantly surprised at how quite the flight is. I am blissfully happy, all smiles.

We land on the beach sand, and I jump up and down like a kid. What fun! I meet Kyle on the boardwalk, and we share in two celebratory coconut waters, then scrape out the shell’s jelly. A perfect treat to follow such an adventure.

On the ride back to Ipanema, I tell Kyle all about Couchsurfing. He is prime to join. He’s traveled the world, loves to surf and is totally laid back, congenial and fun. He’s sold. I leave him at his hostel to go online and join while I stroll the beach. I wander the boardwalk then the shoreline. I talk to locals and tourists alike, check out street vendor wears and then make it home in time for Rodrigo to tell me the girls are going to buy tickets to watch the Sambadrome if I’d like to join. Yes! No time to rest. I am off to sit in Sector 6 and watch, no dance, to the parade. We return home about 1am. I am beat. I sleep 11 hours. I awake in perfect time to dress and run off my final day of blocos.

I awake to Rodrigo telling me Suzette and Sarah are about to leave for a Bloco, but they’ll wait if I want to go. YES! I dress with my Sambadrome costume streamers, and we make our way to the party, which I believe is Escravos de Mauá, in Centro. Many blocos don’t list their start times correctly or aren’t listed at all in order to encourage local participation and crowd control. Even the most diligent Carioca might not find an accurate schedule. Ah, so goes Brazil. Time is always a suggestion.

Bloco costumes often resemble online ordered Halloween costumes to raided grandma’s closet outfits. Glam is not the goal, hot mess fun is. We apply thick eyeliner, bright lipstick and lots of sparkle glitter then wander the streets until we reach the party. The clouds part just as the band begins to play and march down the street. We three gals keep close to the bloco ropes and the band! Thousands of people show up for this bloco! Rain or shine, the streets are alive with energy. Yes, these neighborhood parties are the life of Rio.

We dance for hours but parade only a few short blocks. It doesn’t matter. The day is perfect. People of all ages, costumed and not, dance like no one’s watching.  This is a neighborhood block party. The music ends and we trail home for an hour before the next local Lapa bloco at 2pm. Then we march and dance even more. We leave this party only to catch the metro down to Ipanema where I plan to meet Chelsea, a burner connection I had yet to meet in person. Sunday is the biggest  day of Carnival celebration, and most young people go to Ipanema to celebrate. The metro is crowded with revelers in costume, many singing bloco songs and carnival chants, pumping electricity into the now stuffed metro cars. It is here on the metro we meet Lilianne and her friend. They help us navigate the packed streets and find my friend among the thousands upon thousands celebrating. What a difference from Lapa. The Ipanema crowd reminded me of Fort Lauderdale’s Spring Break. For me it was too crowded and too drunk. Chelsea, the gals and I and our new friends leave to go to a bloco in the Botafogo. After a short visit there, Lilanne suggests we go to Lapa. Chelsea stays behind, and I am off to spend the evening with new friends met moments ago on the metro. Did I mention Lilianne doesn’t speak a word of English?

We arrive to a lively Lapa crowd, walk off the main roadway and find a sweet, small samba band playing on the streets. We stand and dance, then a couple of Brazilians ask Lilianne and I to dance. Oh, partner samba dancing! What fun to find a man who’s an amazing lead. We dance for hours, laughing and enjoying the play of the dance. I arrive home in the wee hours of the morning. I believe I just may have danced more in the last three days than I do the entire week I am at Burning Man.

My internal alarm clock awakens me at 9:30am sharp. The exact time Kyle, my hostel friend from Ilha Grande, told me to meet him at his hostel so we could go hang gliding together. Luckily I knew I had Brazilian time on my side, but would I make it?

5:40am arrived too early. I was sure I just blinked to sleep and then my alarm sounded. Up, packed, sunscreened and bug sprayed then out the door to the Metro and Tiete station for my 7:00am bus to Barra Mansa where I then take a bus to Angra dos Reis. Arrival to port ETA 3pm. I expected to nap on the bus but didn´t account for the bumpy cobblestone roads, which are charming, just not to my derriere. The last 45 minutes were the most beautiful part of the bus ride. We wound down the lush, green mountains to a panoramic view of the port, then bumped through three primative (read of questionable safety) tunnels. We reached the bus station, I taxied to the catamaran and then in mere moments, I was sitting atop the boat, sea breeze blowing in my hair.

I met a few people on the boat, shared in a celebratory beer with them and soon disembarked on the island. It was cloudy and humid but I was excited to settle in and wander the small town of Vila do Abraão. There are only three cars on the island; a fire truck, a police car and a garbage truck. The only way around the island is by foot. My hostel, the HI Holandes hostel, was at the end of town and up a hill at the base of the mountains. After the small hike, I arrived in paradise. This hostel was amazing! Several A frame cabins sat amid rainforest foliage and ponds. Upon check in I am informed the power is out on the island. Good thing I brought my headlamp! I reach my room and found I was sharing my space with three gals just graduated from university from London, Susy, Laura and Lauren. They were one month into a 6 month trip through South and Central America. Listening to them talk, I realized how very backwards we Americans seemed to have it. Two weeks was by far too short a vacation to travel anywhere. I wandered into the city to eat, found myself practically falling asleep at the table, then meandored back to my room by head light and fell fast asleep for my first full night´s sleep since arriving in Brazil.

I awoke to clouds and electricity as I arrived at what I learned was a famous hostel breakfast (included). Bread rolls with cheese and ham, granola, Brazilian coffee, juices, papaya, melon, pineapple and cake. Yes, I said cake. Not breakfast cake. Actual, real dessert cake – warm just out of the oven chocolate cake with light chocolate frosting. For breakfast. When the cake came out, the hostelers pounced. Other cake followed: banana chocolate cake. The buffet also included gum drops, chocolate covered peanuts and cookies. Clearly, this hostel knew its guests made makeshift lunches each morning. I heard one hosteler told her friends staying elsewhere about the food, and they snuck in to noch on this morning feast. I was delighted to watch this all unfold in front of me and to wait my turn in the cake line.

Today was to be hike day, but while eating my meal, torrential rain poured down. The kind of rain that made cement pathways rivers and town streets lakes. I didn´t mind hiking in the rain but trying to crawl through river trails was not recommended. No beach and no hike. Instead, the London gals and I walked into town. No one was out but we stopped for one of many Acai treats with granola and banana. We waded through watery dirt roads. I didn´t have a rain coat. Everyone I talked to who´d been to Brazil told me I didn´t need one. But that didn´t stop me from wandering the town, allowing myself to become sopping wet the moment I stepped out and embraced the warm rain, smiling. It was at that moment I was reminded of a short story from Sherwood Anderson´s Winesburg, Ohio,  Adventure – concerning Alice Hindman. But the particular section I recalled was this:

“And then one night when it rained Alice had an adventure. It frightened and confused her. She had come home from the store at nine and found the house empty. Bush Milton had gone off to town and her mother to the house of a neighbor. Alice went upstairs to her room and undressed in the darkness. For a moment she stood by the window hearing the rain beat against the glass and then a strange desire took possession of her. Without stopping to think of what she intended to do, she ran downstairs through the dark house and out into the rain. As she stood on the little grass plot before the house and felt the cold rain on her body a mad desire to run naked through the streets took possession of her.” The rain didn´t torment me like Alice, instead I was free and alive, not fearful to be alone.

That night at dinner, I met several travelers from around the globe. We all hoped for dry weather so we could all hit the trails in the morning. We awoke the next morning to dry but cloudy skies! The London gals and I take off hiking (only after our requisite cake breakfast). We decide to hike the Lopez Mendes, an estimated 3.5 hour hike took us past three beaches before we arrive at one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, as it starts to rain on us. The 10k hike took us just shy of 2.5 hours.

We were happy to have arrived, sat down under the umbrella of tree branches and ate our packed lunch. The air was warm, the breeze chilled a bit against my dewy skin. After our meal, we peeled our clothes and danced bikini-clad in the ocean´s surf. I felt at home, like the cloudy, misty Oregon beaches I was used to and loved.

The gals and I caught a boat back to town and feasted on an amazing dinner to celebrate our long hike. We also make a stop at one of the infamous street dessert carts for a tasty treat before we returned to our hostel.

I refreshed and then sat in the hammock outside my room and pondered: How can I manifest a life of regular travel? Perhaps I just decide to do it and do it. Is it that simple? So, here I commit and manifest that my future world will include extensive travel around the world. And I am not done with this island. I will be back. Even with all the rain, this is a magical paradise.

I found a new music love. You might think it’s samba, which is amazing, but I have fallen in love with electric tango. Argentinian in origin, this down tempo sensual sound is the perfect background for a long drive or dinner party. I highly recommend you stop for a moment right now, go to Pandora and create a new station with these two artists: Gotan Project and Bajofondo. You won’t regret it. On the subject of Pandora, Pandora is blocked from non-US countries because of a lack of viable licensing structure for Internet radio. However, Brazil does have access to Grooveshark. Hmm. I am confused here. Are they not similar? Can someone explain why Pandora is blocked (self-imposed) and Grooveshark is not?

After my ride home I actually sleep, yes, finally, in Brazil. I awake to tour the San Paulo city streets and then return home to Mari who has our evening planned out. First, dinner then to Hotel Unique and its Skye Lounge for their signature Skye Watermelon martini. (Look for me to serve this refreshing concoction on playa this year!) We leave the hotel at just the right time to arrive at D Edge night club for Rock Night. The dance floor is amazing, surrounded in strobing bar lights of multitudinal colors. I am happy to rock out to punk indie until the wee hours of the morning. I momentarily regret this decision when I awake at 5:45am to catch the Metro to Tiete station for my long bus ride to Angra dos Reis so I may catamaran to Ilha Grande for 3 days of island hikes and sun. Yes, the regret is only momentary. Now, if you haven’t gone over to Pandora yet, do so now. Seriously.

I spent a beautiful, long day at the sunny Camburi beach fully covered in SPF 50 and sheltered under a beach umbrella. I finally accepted I am never meant to tan, just become a darker shade of pale. Mari, Natasha, Marcella and I treat on Rochinha sorvetes midday before another swim in the ocean. We pack up end of day, grab a bite to eat and then I enjoy my first of many Acai smoothies and ices. Then off to nap before going to Sirena.

We make the 15 km drive and arrive at Sirena at 12am. But the gates are locked and the club is closed. Apparently, the one night of the year they are not open, to prepare for Carnival. Though sad, we find another club nearby for dancing. A new DJ begins his set and the music and energy picks up. Shortly, an Argentinian man approaches me, takes my hand and proceeds to swirl and twirl me. I love a good dance lead. We spin some more, laugh and introduce ourselves. He is Fernando from Buenos Aires. But his fun dancing soon becomes aggressive. He leans in past my personal boundaries and bites my cheek (which leaves a bruise the next day). I push him back. His fun energy has shifted to one of purposeful predator. He is not interested in me but in someone going home with him tonight. He stops dancing with me and now tries to pin me against a pole in the middle of the dance floor. I do not allow this forceful behavior and clearly tell him “No” while physically moving out into the open. He has mistakenly judged me as his prey, I tell him I will not joining him at his posada and walk away. I never felt fear, but knew the signs of a true predator though I luckily don’t regularly meet or experience such men.

This brief encounter reminds me though I may be open to play in child like wonder and am ready to embrace playa magic, I also have to tap into my street smarts to help keep me safe, especially as I travel mostly alone through Brazil. I gained some amazing knowledge on the subject last Spring when my burner friend Pedro taught a women’s self defense class to help women understand not only how to physically escape a predator but how to recognize one long before being put in physical danger. Pedro required his students to read The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker before class. Pedro’s course is different than most self defense classes. He spends the majority of his class time reviewing the important warning signals women should recognize, including the first and most important: women should listen to their intuition even if it may seem rude. It’s better to be rude than harmed. I am a huge proponent of empowering people with knowledge. After reading this book, I was not fearful, but strengthened to stand by and actively listen to my intuition, notice the beginning moments of predatory actions and remove myself from the situation quickly. I highly recommend every woman read this book so she may easily save herself from uncomfortable sitations before they escalate to dangerous altercations.

This experience reminds me of a Jeanette Winterson short story, The Agony of Intimacy. Fernando was a hunting Zeus looking for his Leda to overpower and instead of breaking me for looking him in the eye, I emerged strong and unaffected. My decisiveness kept me strong and uninfluenced by this most persistent Zeus.

At 5am we leave the club and return home to the lovely beach cottage to nap for 5 hours. (Technical difficulties keep me from posting pictures currently. I will update this post with images soon.) I awake to Mari’s breakfast awaiting me and one more beach day before we must return to San Paolo.

Not much sleep happens on long flights. Even the nicely scheduled over night flights like my plane from Miami to San Paulo. During my layover in Miami, I am sore, stiff and tired with only half my travels complete. After finding some dinner, I return to my gate but unmotivated to sit. So, I begin to stretch. This turns into yoga stretches which in turn becomes yoga movements. I move  to a larger space unconcerned of people´s thoughts, for their opinions of me are none of my business. But as I begin I a woman walks up and asks to join me. We then talk of airplane aches and stretches we think will help ease the discomfort of our next leg. A few more people join in as well and soon, for about 20 minutes, we have a humbly small, yet lovely group of people practicing yoga. We each smile as one by one we drift off for our flights feeling lighter and more centered than before. Who needs sleep when we have yoga!

I board my plane to find I am lucky enough to sit aisle side with an empty center seat. I proceed to nap on and off for the next 9 hours. I arrive more rested than I expect and quickly manouveur customs, buses and the Metro subway to arrive at my new friend, Renata´s atelier where I will stay. She is there working but has a lovely bed for me to nap in while she finishes work.

´We have a birthday party here later. Then to samba to celebrate. You will not sleep much tonight so you will want to nap now,´she says.

I agree, shower the travel off me and nap soundly for 3 hours. I awake and ready myself for a night of celebration and fun. I meet Renato, the birthday boy, and friends Lucas and Veri. The house fills with more people, more Brazilian beer and more laughter. At 1:30am we leave to go to samba.

Renato tells me, ´You are lucky. Samba at Samba do Bule only happens the last Friday of each month.´ We arrive and find many people outside.´You must try cachaca!´Renato tells me. This I found out is pure sugar cane alcohol, strong like everclear but sweet.

We then enter the small building to find the samba band circled in the middle of the room. People are singing and dancing next to the musicians. There is much dancing and I can´t help but do the same. We celebrate to the late morning and leave at 5am.

This is when Mari tells me she decided we will leave for Cambury right away and nap on the beach. We arrive at Natasha´s family beach cabin (how lucky am I?) then go spend the day on the beach napping and then go out to Sirena Maresias, a famously popular night club in Brazil. (Armin Van Buuren, Bob Sinclair and Fat Boy Slim will be playing there the week of Carnival.) We will be out til early morning again.

And so I nap, in the car and on the beach. I have been in Brazil for 48 hours and have yet to sleep. Yet the naps have been so lovely and full of dreams. Yes, I believe I´m going to like napping through Brazil.