Money and I aren't speaking at the moment

A dryer full of money would do me wonders right about now. (P.S.: You absolutely must watch Breaking Bad if you haven't yet. It's amazing.)

So I'm stressing about money right now. I know, I probably don't have the right to complain since I was the one who made the decision to walk away from a steady salary last year (a decision I still don't regret), but I knew back when I made it that times would eventually get hard and now those times have come.

I feel like I'm living in some alternate dimension of the life I'm supposed to be living. Kind of like there are different variations of my life playing out all at the same time, parallel to one another, and I just ended up getting caught in this computer-glitch of a variation, the one that snarls savage orders at me that I must comply with, like "You will eat that top ramen and you will LIKE IT!!!" In this current reality glitch I live across the street from a handful of dollar stores, "checks cashed" storefronts, a suspicious bowling alley, and my building reeks of general ghetto-ness ... the kind of ghetto-ness punctuated by neighbors who allow their dogs to use our elevators as toilets. In this life I get a puerile kick out of free samples in my mailbox, I share one washer and dryer with an entire high-rise floor (which takes strategic planning if you ever want clean clothes, people), and my "check engine" light is always on, warning me of some expensive repair looming on the horizon. Who am I?

Thankfully I'm not stuck alone in it all; J is also mucho stressed out, evidenced by my increasing reminders to "stop pulling out tufts of eyebrow" -- a bad nervous habit he has when things aren't so copacetic. (He's also got the added pressure of keeping up his grades to graduate top-third in his class next month, coupled with the general stress he's under on a daily basis to find a job post-graduation. Once he takes the Bar this summer I know he'll find the job he's been looking for -- and not have to settle -- but this still doesn't seem to raise his spirits. It also doesn't help that he's reminded of it all every afternoon as he chows down on his 99-cent turkey and cheese Lunchable at school like a fifth-grader.)

Not that we don't have padding -- we're selling some stocks this week to pad out our cash situation even more -- but it's disturbing how far money doesn't go in this country. (I guess it could be worse. I could be living in parts of Europe that, though beautiful, would result in me paying out the nose for everyday things like groceries while steeped in a land of 34% unemployment.) My part-time tutoring job pays well, but the hours are somewhat erratic and the semester ends in early May so those paychecks will taper soon enough. J is currently interning for free and taking no school credits for his legal gig at the SEC three days a week, so it's not as if he could pick up part-time work between the internship and his full load of classes.

Anyway it makes me really, really uneasy when our bank account starts to ebb, even though the cushion is still there. I'm a "buffer" kind of a girl and tend to get irritable when my finances tread close to my buffer. The bills are piling up and costs in the near-future are what are really getting us down. My private health insurance, his Bar class and test fees (about $5,000 total), our moving costs to get back to California ($1,500 for a Uhaul truck, not counting gas), and little costs are quietly adding up (i.e., his graduation invitations, cap and gown, Law Journal banquet tickets - $40 each, etc.).

It would be at this point in any sane marriage that a couple would crack under financial pressure and the relationship would fall apart. Luckily we aren't sane. Whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger, I suppose. Like I said earlier this week: "If, as newlyweds, we not only get through law school, but also our financial situation this last year, then we're bullet-proof, kid." He agreed. Right now all we can do is laugh at the current circumstances. It helps that we find the humor in these even dire situations and can make light of our misery. It really does. Because the alternative would probably end up looking like a Shakespearean tragedy.

Needless to say I've cut out most everything I enjoy doing for the sake of saving whatever funds we have. This means absolutely no more shopping (I can't remember the last article of clothing I bought), no going to the movies, no traveling, no eating out (unless it's Taco Bell), no more concerts, no more happy hours, and no more buying whatever I want at the grocery store if it isn't on sale. And yes, I've become one of those people who reads through all my weekly grocery inserts and travels to each store to get the best price for different things on my grocery list.

I guess these complaints all lead in to my 28th birthday, which is on Monday. My last couple birthdays haven't been all that amazing and for some inexplicable reason I want to try and make this one special. Obviously taking a trip is out of the question, and now I'm wondering if we should even go out to a decent dinner. (Clarification: Technically we can afford a dinner, but in the effort of saving cash would we want to drop $60-$100 for one meal? Would I even enjoy the meal as I mentally balance our checking account with each margarita?) It doesn't help that J and I are attending a Law Journal banquet of his tomorrow evening that we had to spend $80 worth of tickets on, but I totally get that networking and socializing is part of the "education" at his school, and that establishing lifelong professional relationships with classmates there is part of the whole package. Still, $80 is $80.

So, this is where I'm at. I hate worrying about finances to this degree but I'm starting to think that the only way I'll stop worrying about money is if (when?) I'm disgustingly wealthy. Until then no amount of money ever feels like enough. Anyway I feel better venting about it and I know most of my worries stem from the cost of moving slash J taking the Bar. Putting down between $5k to $10k in a one month span is never fun, especially when I'd much rather take that money and save it as a down payment on some property. Or travel. But such is the way of life. Right now nonessentials take a backseat to priorities, but my chin is up -- I know it won't be like this forever.

Now, what to plan for my birthday?...

Fashion democratization, Buenos Aires for expats and "Sunset Boulevard"

Here are a few links that caught my eye last week:

• The New Yorker is a little late to the Polyvore game (um, about 3 years, to be exact), but they recently ran a fun, lengthy expose on the Silicon Valley-based fashion start-up. Apparently women obsessed with Polyvore -- the ones who spend hours at work putting together mock outfits or perusing the latest fashion collages rather than, well, work -- are known as "Polywhores" and there is an actual "Anna Wintour" of the Polyvore world. She's some chick from Calgary who creates collages under the screenname MyChanel. The more you know.

• Ok, so this New York Magazine article is from 2006, but having just traveled to Buenos Aires I see it's still completely accurate: Buenos Aires is an expat haven like Paris was in the 1920s. Imagine a city with the conveniences of Manhattan, the old-world charm of Paris, the street-style of Milan, and you've got Buenos Aires. Everyone is chic, there's no dearth of great shopping, the restaurants are spectacular, the wine is amazing, and the cherry on top? You can totally afford it all. Americans are moving there to feel rich. Money just goes so much further there than in the U.S. or anywhere in Europe (I hear the word "Euro" and I cringe. Ten dollar gelatos, anyone?)
  

• A recent NY Times Critics' Pick was "Sunset Boulevard" and they published an excellent 2-minute clip about the film. "Sunset Boulevard" is about a famous silent film star named Norma Desmond who's unable to come to grips with her descent into obscurity once films with sound become popular. Like a spider she creeps into each scene and is terrifying in her portrayal of a woman hell-bent on denial and preservation, trapping a young scriptwriter in her web of grandiose narcissism. (Famous Norma Desmond line: "I am big, it's the pictures that got small.") In the film noir genre, "Sunset Boulevard" is hands-down one of the best. Go netflix it. Now.

• It looks like the "hot" baby names right now aren't as Twilight-centric as they were last year (thank GOD, there is nothing creepier than naming your baby Esme, people). The SF Chronicle blogs that according to a certain baby name expert (by the way, is that real job?) the new "it" names have a distinctly elite ring to them. After skimming this list (disclaimer: three names mentioned are what I plan to use for my kids), I don't find them "elite" as much as I do vintage. Names like Atticus and Phineas have a early 20th century feel; they're literary and dated in a good way. Not sure why this makes them seem high brow, but so be it.

• In an Ayn Rand-esque effort to stave off the "totalitarianism" that he witnessed as a child in the Soviet Union, it turns out Google co-founder Sergey Brin was the major proponent in abandoning Google's operations in China due to the strict censorship guidelines the country demanded and the cyber-attack that followed. Brin told the WSJ that memories of that time—having his home visited by Russian police, witnessing anti-Semitic discrimination against his father—bolstered his view that it was time to abandon Google's policy.

• Just in case you're curious as to how many calories that burger with fries has but don't want to have to dig to find out, you no longer have an excuse. (Damn it.) In signing the health-care legislation last week, Obama will be requiring all restaurant chains to include calorie counts on their menus. It's time to gear up for bikini season, boys and girls.
  

• Apparently there are eight types of people to unfollow on Twitter or defriend on Facebook. Such people range from "The Overusers" to "The Oversharers". I think we can all agree that no, none of us really want to hear about your yellow toenails.

• Last but not least: I loved this Quentin Tarantino reference page. You know, just in case you need a tear-out sheet to remember the basics by. I think I'm putting this one on my fridge. (And if you're wondering, Kill Bill 1 and 2 are my Tarantino favorites. Revenge really is a dish best served cold.)
  

When a cheap haircut goes wrong

A few days ago J got a haircut that went horribly wrong. In an effort to save money -- and ignoring my requests to cut his hair myself (this is where I point out that I'm pretty good with scissors and a comb) -- he went to the nearest Hair Cuttery. Big mistake.

Now I'm not one of those girls who shuns all low-end haircut shops. Supercuts, Great Clips ... call me brave but I've tried all these firsthand out of sheer curiosity and found results to be surprisingly good, not bad. Contrary to popular opinion, I don't think an amazing hair cut -- for men or women -- needs to cost $50 to $100. I've had expensive cuts in this price range that have been worse than $20 ones and made me nauseous at having dropped bank on such a hot mess. (On the flip side when my $50 hair cut turned out fabulously there was no better feeling.) So my disclaimer is that I'm not a hair snob and not all Hair Cutterys suck. But the Hair Cuttery J walked into for a clip recently was downright ghetto, to put it mildly.

I sat near the entrance on a bench and watched him take his seat inside. From the outside everything looked fine. The shop seemed busier than usual, but nothing was out of the ordinary, other than the fact that they made him swipe his card before his haircut, something about them "closing the register soon". Totally suspect. Of course J is a consummate tipper, so naturally he left a 20% tip on his card before even getting the haircut (which kind of negates the whole idea of a tip since it's to reward service, right?) *Smacks face with hand when thinking about it*

Well, J went in looking like Shaggy and 20 minutes later came out looking like "Guile from Street Fighter":
(His words, not mine.) J looked like he wanted to kill someone with the 15-pound hardcover lawbook he'd been lugging around.

"I'm never, ever going back in there," he said through gritted teeth.

"Uh, you look like Krusty the Clown," I responded. What else was I supposed to say?

"The whole time the lady cutting my hair was mumbling things under her breath, like she had better things to do than cut my hair. And look -- SHE GAVE ME A '90s FADE!" he said, turning around and pointing at the bottom of his neck. "I look like Vanilla Ice!"

Try as I might to commiserate there was only one thing I could say: "You do!" I said, doubling over with laughter.

He turned back to face me and seeing how angry he was just made me laugh harder. I mean, if it was a tattoo or something, I'd probably be a bit more sympathetic. But it's hair, people -- it's not like it wasn't going to grow back. Plus, I was getting too much satisfaction from the fact that it appeared J had finally reached his breaking point here on the East Coast. I'd reached mine long ago (I believe it involved an incident with public transportation and me losing it on a subway platform). It was nice to finally be in good company.

The whole way home J was silent, white-knuckled and gripping the steering wheel, mumbling something about how it looked like "someone put a hexagonal hat on [his] head." Needless to say once we got home he spent 10 minutes in front of the bathroom mirror fuming at the atrocity he'd actually tipped for before he placed a hair of scissors in my hand and told me to fix it. Asap. So I fixed as much as I could and though the fade needs a little time to grow out he no longer looks like Krusty the Clown slash Guile slash like he's wearing a hexagon hat. In fact, it hardly looks like ever he got a bad haircut in the first place, thanks to his amazing and talented wife (ahem).

Next time he promises I can cut his hair, but I told him I'd only do it now if I get a 20% tip in advance. (What I didn't tell him was said tip would come in the form of watching a Real Housewives of OC marathon with me, but he'll find that out soon enough, my pretties!) All that matters is standing in the bathroom, the color back in his face, we shook on the deal.

Living like an artist, Part 2

When you're on a tight budget, there are two areas in your life you pray don't go down the pooper: Cars and computers. If anything goes even remotely wrong in either of these two areas, nine times out of ten you end up on the verge of tears, standing across from some smug mechanic/smug IT guy who's obviously getting sick pleasure out of telling you how expensive the repair costs will be.

Enter my hoopty, a tomato-red 2000 Hyundai Accent. It's come to my attention that we need new tires as the tread looks to have worn down to the slickness of a Brody Jenner pickup line. I pointed it out to J and he agreed, which means I nearly had a hernia when I saw how expensive these suckers were.

The only alternative I can think of to buying new tires would be attaching on snow chains to my old tires for year-round driving fun, which would -- if nothing else -- definitely give them the teeth they need to take street corners at 70mph. Then again, I imagine the clink, clink, clink on asphalt through downtown Washington, DC in the three seasons that don't have snow would just attract unnecessary attention. Not for the type of whip I'd want to ghostride, at least.

Unlike swapping in a subpar replacement for a coffee filter, me thinks we have no other option than to scrounge for coupons and bite the theoretical bullet. Unless any of you all have creative ways to bandage the problem. Otherwise, new tires it is.

Living Like an Artist, Part 1

Today I stumbled out of bed, practiced some favorite dance moves in my pjs to get the ol' blood flowing, then plodded over to my beloved coffee maker. Typical weekday morning for me. Except this time when I reached in my cupboard I realized I was out of coffee filters ... then I realized we're on this "budget" thing and we swore we wouldn't go to the grocery store for another week ... Damn. It. No coffee is never an option. Especially on a Thursday morning.

I had to get creative. Toilet paper filter? No, not robust enough -- coffee would end up with squishy lumps of butt-wipe throughout. Pass. Paper towel? Ding ding!

Coffee? Check!

I know I'm not the first to discover this gem, but I was quite proud of myself. "So this is what you get when you're living on a budget," I thought, smugly sipping my piping hot beverage. "Linty coffee. I kind of dig it ..."

Suddenly Elvis' "In the Ghetto" began to fade in. Startled I looked around, but the radio and turntable were off. The music got louder, echoing like some symphonic harmony in an unrecognizable dream. Moneypenny, Lola ... they watched me with baited breath, either because of the music or the fact that I was standing next to a tub of Trader Joe's ginger snaps, I don't know. Confused I leaned in closer to the coffeemaker. Ah, there it was. That's where it was coming from -- my soiled and stained paper towel filter.



(Ed. Note Update: J said "enough with this nonsense, we're not poor" and bought me a mesh coffee filter. No more linty goodness for me -- and just when I was getting used to it.)

w00t!

Quick note to say I just found out that I was mentioned in Mediabistro last week! (Does a little Irish jig next to the couch, aka my "office.") I've been reading Mediabistro for years now so it -- in the vein of Dirty Harry -- made my day to see one of my posts alluded to. Some people get their kicks skydiving or smoking crack; I get mine seeing my writing noticed:


Even though this doesn't really do anything for me in the grand scheme of things, it's still fun to see. When I showed J, he said he was "glad to see the world recognizes the sagacity of [his] advice." Usually I negate 75.3% of everything he says, so I'll let him feel smug for a day or two about this. ;)

Confession

"F*ck me, I love Keats." - Daniel Cleaver

All right, I'm just going to come out and say it. I hate living on a budget. I know, I know, why the hell did I name my blog after such a personal abomination? Well, because for right now (in my late 20s, at least) I'm on one, and even more so after quitting my job.

Most of the time I completely forget I'm on a budget because I have and/or buy whatever I want. But there are other times -- like, um, Saturday morning when J and I sat down and looked over our spending for this last month -- when you realize you've been a little too breezy in some fiscal areas of your life. Take groceries. We usually spend about $250 to $300 a month in our combined Costco/Trader Joe's journeys. This month? So far we've spent over $400 ... and I'm already out of diet root beer. Ugh. We both balked when we realized this overall total, especially since we've been eating out constantly (Baja Fresh, you are ruining my life) and we spent another combined $100 at CVS and Rite Aid.

"What do we even buy at the drug store?" J asked, completely bewildered.

"Um, candy and beer," I responded.

"You mean to tell me we spent one hundred dollars on Swedish fish and Miller High Life?" asked J, even more surprised because we aren't big beer drinkers ... and he thought he was in some way cheating the system by buying one of the cheaper, albeit "champagne of", beers.

"Yup," I answered ... a faraway look of disbelief in my eyes.

So, after we scrutinized our recent finances, we've decided we need to clamp down on our spending ... as in, not spend at all (okay, I admit allotting $80 a month to our "Target needs" is still spending, but to me it's like not spending at all). This is how it's going to be, at least from now until we move in 8 months. After all, J's Bar fees are ridic and moving expenses will add up.

Being the masochist I am, I forced J to come shopping with me at the mall that very same day and used him as my financial barometer. The typical convo that ensued:

Me: "Ooooh this is cUUUUuuuute ...." (I hold up a dress/necklace/sweater/pair of shoes/peacock-feather headband in J's stolid face.)

J: "Yeah, but do you really need it? It's a short-sleeved dress and the temps are dropping, you wouldn't be able to wear it for another six months."

Me: "I know, but it's SO cute!..."

J: (Sighs). "Do what you want, but do you not want to be able to move back to California because you spent all our money on dresses and headbands and 'cute' pink doggie-poop-bag holders that you don't even need?"

(Twisted look of frustration pervades my face, and I angrily stuff said dress back into rack/fling said headband back onto shelf/leave said pink doggie-poop-bag holder next to cash register.)

Then I festered in self-pity and pouted in the car ride home until J -- again, my genius voice of reason -- says "You know, it's a trade-off. Would you rather be doing what you did before and shopping all the time, or working on your book and not spending much money?"

Sigh. How can I argue with this?

Looking at it like that, hell no. I would not want to do what I was doing before, no matter how much I got paid, and I am SO HAPPY that I instead get to do what satisfies and inspires me. It turns out true freedom is never free (as our budget so deftly points out).

"If you want to be an artist, you're going to have to live like one," J said.

Leave it to J to boil it down to an absolutely excellent, valid, puts-things-into-perspective point. He's right. I've never had to live the life of an artist, so I didn't know what to expect. And even though I loathe living on a budget, I'll do so because while it may seem that I'm irate now, I was even more exasperated before with my other career and all the money I had. Go figure.

Of course our limited spending also means limited spending on our "outings", like going to the movies and incessantly eating out at restaurants. But J had an excellent idea Sunday morning -- why don't we read to each other? "It's free," he pointed out. As if that was the major draw with his idea.

"Oh my god," I thought. "So Victorian, so romantic, so Bridget-Jones-and-Daniel-Cleaver-reading-Keats-in-their-rowboats." (Note: In real life J is, was and always has been Mark Darcy.) I was definitely in. I love reading and analyzing lit, and J is the perfect person to do it with. So that afternoon we took a Starbuck's gift card we had lying around, ordered a couple coffees and read Heart of Darkness to each other at a table near a window. Didn't cost a thing, and I loved every minute of it. We decided it's going to be "our thing", and I've already gotten out my old Hemingway short stories to read aloud next. I guess being on a budget right now isn't as bad as I originally thought?...

Buenos Aires in retrospect

If Buenos Aires had a theme song, it would be “Cite Tango” by the Gotan Project.

The city is sexy and cosmopolitan, yet a little rough around the edges after emerging from a long history fraught with political upheaval and strife. Though the government is relatively calm now compared to the days of Peron et. al., the financial situation still weighs heavily on the country, with unemployment very high and inflation quite rampant ($1 equals about 4 pesos). While this doesn't bode well for Argentinians, for Americans it's a dream come true. You can live like a king on almost nothing here, especially in the trendiest, hippest neighborhood of Buenos Aires: the Recoleta district. Here is where Santa Fe Avenue lies, with its endless boutiques, cafes, book stores and restaurants that stretch for miles both ways. I stayed in an apartment just around the corner from Santa Fe, and when I wasn't visiting the usual sights, everyday was spent shopping here or on Calle Florida (another long street filled with retail in both directions), drinking espressos at corner cafes.

During my stay I bought a black peacoat ($30), a black wool trench ($50), a real(!) leather handbag in the style of Balenciaga's motorcycle bag ($55) and knee-high leather boots ($60). In other words, prices here are ridiculous compared to what I'm used to -- especially for quality leather items. The unspoken uniform in Buenos Aires (at least in the fall/winter) is knee-high leather boots, whether flat or heeled. Every woman is wearing a pair, so to blend in with the locals and look stylish, a pair is necessary. Speaking of style, I found the women here to be more stylish than anywhere I've seen in Italy, France or NYC, and they pull it off with ease and the knowledge that designer labels aren't needed to look good. Sometimes it was fun just to people watch with a cappuccino because of all the great oufits that passed by.

Our apartment was beyond charming, and true to most of the architecture in the city, was impossibly French in every way. It felt like a flat in Paris, but was instead nestled nicely in the Recoleta district, and came out to only about $100 per night. (For a two-bedroom/two-bath with modern kitchen, it was a steal.):

I fell in love with the building's French cage elevator just outside our
front door. It was like a scene right out of "Amelie".

San Telmo:

Every Sunday there's a big artisan's fair in the San Telmo district of Buenos Aires. It's called the "feria de San Telmo" and is filled with tables of arts, crafts and antiques from local artists and collectors. Fun to peruse and soak in the culture, as San Telmo is a historic district known for its tango and tango dancers it used to house:

The city:

Me in front of the Casa Rosada (or "pink house"), where the president's office is.

Calle Florida (or "Florida Street"):

A group of tango dancers on Florida Street continuously perform for tourists and passerbys near the entrance to a mall called the Galleria Pacifico.

The entrance to Galleria Pacifico (above). This mall is incredible. I've never seen any like it.

I couldn't help myself.

Recoleta Cemetery:

On our way to the cemetery (above). I really want to own that building with the for sale sign behind us. According to real estate rates quoted by an agent I spoke with, it probably costs about, oh, $200,000. I don't know what I'm waiting for.

Now I don't usually visit cemeteries on my off days...or any days for that matter. Frankly they creep me out (as do most things that are tied to death), but the one in Recoleta is world famous so we had to pop by for a visit. It's exactly like the Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris (you know, the one from the Oscar Wilde vignette in "Paris Je T'aime"), and in true cemetery fashion, is pretty eerie:

Many of the tombs had glass doors, and you could see the coffins lined on shelves inside. I'll be honest, it was ... different. After we visited Eva Peron's grave (above), we hightailed it out of there. The feeling of just how mortal we were was a little too palpable for our tastes.

El Ateneo:

I've heard it said that Buenos Aires is one of the most literary cities in the world, and the many book stores I came across was evidence of this. I couldn't go more than three or four blocks without stumbling upon another hole-in-the-wall bookstore or behemoth that could easily rival a Barnes and Noble at its best. For a bibliophile, I was in heaven. In fact the most stunning bookstore I've ever visited thus far was the El Ateneo on Santa Fe Avenue. Even if you could care less about books, you MUST visit the El Ateneo. The giant space is an old majestic theater converted into a modern bookstore, where a cafe sits in the stage area, and the tall red velvet curtains, frescos and gold trim detailing along the eaves have all been kept in immaculate condition. Where else can you spy readers lounging with their books in historic opera boxes near the stage area?:




The restaurant scene:

If you were to live permanently in Buenos Aires, you would easily be able to afford eating out almost every night -- and you wouldn't have to rely on fast food to get you through your journey. Locals go to dinner around 10pm, and often stay out enjoying their food and drink till midnight. Going out to eat is an event here -- something to look forward to in your day. Even the most upscale restaurants in the city only run about $10 to $12 a plate – the same kind of restaurants that in the states would cost $30+ per entree. And bottles of wine, both ordered in restaurants and bought in grocery stores, is a pittance compared to what we're used to paying. If dining out is your thing, this is the city to do it in:

A dinner show (above and below).

A charming fondue restaurant (above) we ate at one night in the Soho district. Below, Restaurant Cabernet, a romantic bistro with candlelit seating in a courtyard inside the stucco walls.

If you love Italian food, you have to try the fresh handmade pasta at La Baita (above), also in the Soho district. During our dinner two opera singers came out among the tables and sang while customers enjoyed food and wine.

Evita Museum:
I know she was corrupt and all, but I'm obsessed with Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical "Evita" and have always been intrigued by the cult status of Eva Peron, so we visited her museum during our stay. Though it's small, it's definitely worth a visit and houses many relics like her collections of hats and dresses:



All in all, Buenos Aires is a beautiful city, and I can't wait to go back and stay longer. It's an interesting hybrid of the old and new, of antiquated Europe and modern Manhattan. It has all the conveniences of an American city, but with the charm and sophistication of Paris. Best of all it's 10-folds more affordable than any other city I've ever visited. If Carrie Bradshaw had lived here instead of the Big Apple, her clothing and shoe addiction on a columnists' salary would have been much more believable. ;)

Rio de Janeiro in retrospect

Last day at Copacabana Beach.

And I'm home. The last three weeks have been a blur of tango, flan and Havaianas (among other things) and while it's great to be back home (I missed my husband dearly), like most trips mine went by way too fast. Unfortunately I'm still in the process of getting my faulty memory card to work again, so all I have are the photos I took during my second and third weeks. Luckily my sister has pictures of us visiting the Christ the Redeemer statue, etc., so I'll get copies of those when she arrives back in the states in late October.

Anyway, Rio was fabulous, plain and simple. There's a charm about the city, but contrary to popular belief it's not in its beaches. I was told that's where it lay, but the longer I roamed, the more I saw that the beaches were not the main reason to fly southward.

Instead, it's the almost unrecognizable delight of being in a city where practically no one speaks English. Whoever said Portuguese was a dead language has not visited Rio. Here it thrives, and for such a tourist destination I was pleasantly surprised to see that any "American" way of life that may have rubbed off from tourists up north hasn't succeeded in pervading Rio's people or culture.

In the dirty streets, where a mixture of trash and banana leaves line the gutters, one can't escape the smell of car exhaust from the city's buses and cars, which go flying by and could care less about jaywalkers and red lights. With a little help from the humidity that lies thick on its descent in from the Atlantic, the smog sticks like a patina of pollution to your skin, a badge of honor earned as you traverse deeper on foot into the city. Here juice bars stand on every corner with nary a Starbucks in sight. Local "cariocas" (or locals) in tank tops and flip flops sit at corner bars sipping coconut juice under neon lights of soccer games broadcasting on TV sets above them. If they aren't here or enjoying caiprinhas at outdoor bars, they the cariocas are strewn across the shores of Ipanema and Copacabana, dotting the terrain in patio chairs and bikinis, drinking sweet water out of green coconuts with long white straws.

It's not cheap here. Good hotels are pricey, and food is even more so. On one particular quest to find peanut butter at a nearby grocery store, a local guided me to the closest thing to my description -- a sugary peanut paste that tasted more like raw cookie dough than peanut butter (turns out I like actually like this stuff better). The price I didn't like, but the local commented that prices were, in fact, quite high in Rio -- it was once you got out of the sprawling city of 7 million, she assured me, that prices became "normal".

But one doesn't come to Rio for the "normal", so it's just as well that the word stays outside of city lines. Rio is probably the most geographically beautiful city in the world. It's where jungle meets city, and the fascinating combination creates an exciting and dangerous atmosphere thick with lush foliage and urban streets.

The Jardin de Botanica:

An extreme close-up of the Christ the Redeemer statue, taken from the botanical garden.

The botanical garden in Rio is a must-visit. I'm not that big into plants and foliage, but the walled grounds here are breathtaking and serene.

Rio at night:

View of Ipanema Beach from our patio (above), and a very tiny-looking Christ the Redeemer statue (below) atop Corcovado Mountain to the right of our patio.

Taxi ride to the Rio Scenarium nightclub.

Rio Scenarium:

The Rio Scenarium is a samba club in the Lapa district of Rio. Lapa is a dangerous neighborhood, but if you take a cab you can get dropped off right at the door of the samba club. If you only have time to do ONE thing in Rio, it has to be a visit to this (okay, also a visit to the Christ statue, but this comes second). Inside, the Rio Scenarium looks more like a speakeasy in 1920s New Orleans than a samba club in South America. Fun, crazy antiques fill the walls and shelves and there's an electricity in the air as everyone drinks, dances and has a good time to the excellent live music:

The entrance to the Rio Scenarium (above), on the right.

Me having too much fun.

Rio by day:

Laying out on Ipanema. My bikini was by far the most conservative of bikinis on the beach.

I went a little Havaiana-crazy and bought too many pairs. Oh well, when in Rome Rio. Here's my favorite pair.

The favelas:

My earlier blog post on this says it all.

More Rio at night:

We ate dinner one night at the Garota de Ipanema (above), where "The Girl From Ipanema" was originally written by Antonio Carlos Jobim. Apparently the girl is real, and used to walk by this restaurant every day, catching the attention of the musicians hanging out inside.

The sidewalks in Rio are made up of small black and white tiles, with different patterns swirling throughout the city streets. In Ipanema the pattern looks like so (above and below).

In Copacabana (above), the swirls are more free but just as beautiful.

On my flight out en route to Buenos Aires.