Patrick and I spent one more day in Florianopolis hoping for the sun to blast through the soggy clouds, but we waited in vain. We decided to head north through Sao Paulo onto Rio de Janeiro. Patrick was keen to get to Rio because he had a beautiful girlfriend living there. But I wanted to stop along the way, at least for a night, in Sao Paulo because I wanted to catch up with a Brazilian friend that I had met at the Clan Hostel in Buenos Aires in July. Her name was Marcella. Having talked to her a few days before she said she would show me around the massive city.

For the rest of the time I traveled with Patrick I let him lead - mostly because he was a better navigator but also because I tended to take more risks passing cars, lane splitting and generally going too fast. I let him set the pace, which was usually set a bit above 70mph on the highway. Along the way we met thick patches of fog and wet weather. Nearer to Sao Paulo the clouds lifted just enough to dry out the streets but the overcast gloominess still lingered - which was suitable I suppose considering Sao Paulo is grey and shabby. The streets there would have been next to impossible for me to navigate so I was extremely happy that I was following Patrick. Although he is competent at finding his way around we ended up driving up and down streets for more than an hour trying to find a hotel that wasn't seedy, not already booked, and not too expensive, which in Sao Paulo is quite difficult considering that there aren't many hotels to choose from.

I hadn't done laundry in ages and most of my wardrobe had a damp musty stench to it. The process of handing over my laundry was an hour long difficult process that I'd rather not go into just now. When it was ready it would be dropped off at my room early the next morning. In the lobby I went online to see if Marcella would be available to hang out tonight. Sadly, her only free time, because of university and work, was a few days away. I, nor Patrick, wanted to stick around that long. I was disappointed because I really wanted to see Marcella again.

By now it was time for dinner and Patrick found an Indian restaurant on the internet. He hadn't stopped talking about Curry since he left the Clan Hostel. I'm not big on Indian food, in fact I cannot stand anything spicy, but the last time I had Indian food was longer that I can remember so I thought I should give it a try. I randomly ordered something off of the menu (a dangerous decision) and ended up with a tasty salmon dish - not spicy at all. After our meal we smoked sheesha out of a hookah - also something I hadn't done in a long time.

For the route to Rio we decided on a coastal road. At the time this was probably an unwise decision considering the last few days of riding in the rain. This road would undoubtedly take a lot more time than the highway and would surely be wetter considering the closer proximity to the ocean. But we set our hopes high.

An hour after setting out the skies cleared up and we saw the sun for the first time in days. The coastal road gently swayed left and right making it a pristine road for our motorcycles. It was set in what might be called a mountainous area. On the high passes there were many times I could see for miles out into the ocean. I saw islands set in turquoise water, yachts bobbing up and down, many beaches, and even a bikini or two. We were finally on our way towards paradise.  

Again, like many other times, we misjudged how long it would take to get to Rio and we only made it half way to a touristy cobbled stone town that is Parati. Just before we reached Parati the rains returned, this time in a fine mist that slowly but surly seeped into my riding gear and luggage. Not a terribly beautiful end to an otherwise perfect day. We decided to let a hustler usher us to a hotel in the town center. The brochure he handed us had beautiful girls in bikinis sunbathing near a swimming pool. Obviously it was nothing of the sort considering the weather and the low season for tourism. We were the only guests but we made the most of it by drinking a few pints at the outside (but covered) bar near the vacant swimming pool.

Later in the evening we ventured into the town walking in our rain gear. We came upon a restaurant called Che Bar. How could we not go in? Patrick had invented a drink (Martini and Smirnoff) and we drank that until an older gentleman introduced himself as the owner. He asked about our adventures and cursed the rain because it's bad for business, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. At his table sat just one other man and about 7 liters of beer.

The next morning the sun was shining and we set some of our stuff out to dry while we ate breakfast. We got a late start but the sun held out and the roads were beautiful as before. Later in the day traffic picked up and the roads became wider giving us the indication that we were close to Rio. For thirty miles we had our eyes on the lookout for the giant statue Christ the Redeemer - all too famous to the Rio landscape. Patrick saw it first. At a stoplight he pointed it out to me. "Look, I think it's that over there" he pointed. "What the hell" I said, "It's supposed to be gigantic. It's absolutely miniscule!" And Patrick agreed with me. To be fair we were still a good distance away from it but one still expected it to be quite a bit larger.

Once we reached the beaches of Ipanima and Copacabana we parked our bikes outside of a large restaurant. We smiled and gave each other a handshake. We had made it and this was the end of our journey together. We settled down for a beer and rejoiced at the wonderful weather - not one cloud in the sky and I was sweating.

Rio really is a beautiful place. It's a drastic difference between both Sao Paulo and Florianopolis, which, to be completely honest, were disgustingly ugly cities. Rio seems to be cleaner, friendlier, warmer, and richer.

We found a hostel close by that didn't have a garage but allowed us to park our bikes right outside the front entrance on the sidewalk.

I only stayed two days in Rio. It's all that I really had time for since I still needed to sell my motorcycle in Argentina and somehow fly back on the first week of November. Staying even two days was pushing it.

The first night I sat at the bar and drank with Patrick and some others. Later Patrick went out to visit his Brazilian girlfriend who lived miles away from the center. I ended up going to a club that was recommended to me by the hostel staff. The club consisted of seventy percent men and thirty percent prostitutes - not my dig so I left soon after I arrived.

The second night Patrick's beautiful Brazilian girlfriend, Mayra, showed up. For three weeks all he talked about was his girlfriend and how beautiful she was - I figured it was just that, talk. But he had really outdone himself. I pulled Patrick aside later after dinner and asked if she had any friends. He smiled and said he already asked for me. We were to go out that night and meet up with them. Thank you, Patrick, again.

In the cultural center of town we went to a bar/dance club and played a few rounds of Pool. My partner, Mayra's friend whose name I have forgotten, was quite stunning. We were all dismally horrible at pool and the last game went unfinished and so we went upstairs to dance.

Neither Patrick nor I can dance - at least not before a few (many) beers - so the Brazilian girls did their best to teach us. One of them was even a professional dancer. Patrick and I just pretended like we were dancing. What were really doing was watching the girls dance. We had never seen girls dance so provocatively and I had been to quite a few dance clubs around the world. I can now say, without a doubt, that Brazilians dance the best, and the sexiest.

That night I told everybody that I was leaving back to Argentina in the morning. I was begged to stay by Mayra and her friends. They said that a few more days wouldn't make too much of a difference. I considered it and told them I'd sleep on the idea. That night I had dreams and memories of riding through Colombia with Bob and Wayne and in the morning I felt nostalgic and I took it as a sign. Patrick was still asleep by the time I was packed and ready to leave on the bike. I woke him up and shook his hand and told him it was a pleasure riding with him. "See you next year", I said.

I took the main highway south to Curitiba and headed west towards Iguacu. It's a long ass way and I made it in two full days of riding. I passed through the border to the Argentina side quite fast and very easily. In the morning I went back to the small town of Puerto Rico.

Puerto Rico is the town where, two weeks before, Patrick broke his chain and we got picked up by Dani, a local, and we stayed at his place for a few days while we worked on the bike. Before we left to go to Brazil Dani said he would like to purchase my motorcycle. So here I was, back to sell the bike.

Dani, and his beautiful girlfriend Vanesa, were very accommodating. I had planned on staying a few days, just enough time to handle the motorcycle deal. Dani had a few problems with wiring money outside the country and Western Union was quite expensive so I settled for it all in cash, USD. Legally, I never did sell the motorcycle, I abandoned it. Dani ‘gifted' the money to me. It's not legal to sell a used foreign motorcycle in Argentina. Dani will have to wait two years to declare the motorcycle officially as ‘abandoned' so he can register it and this was perfectly fine with him. There's the ‘Legal Way' to do business and then there's ‘Latin Way'. We chose the latter.

I arrived in Puerto Rico on a Saturday and left on November 1, also a Saturday. I said goodbye to my bike and even went as far as to give it a hug. I gave Dani a handshake and Vanesa a hug. I will miss them both but when I come back to Argentina I will be sure to visit them, perhaps next year. The sixteen hour overnight bus ride was very luxurious. Blankets, pillows, food, in suite, a chair/bed and ‘flight attendant' - all included in the very reasonable price of sixty dollars. Even Champaign was included.

I arrived in Buenos Aires refreshed (something that's never happened after a long bus ride) and found the Hostel Clan again. This is a hostel I always come back to because I know all of the staff and I consider it my Home when I come to Buenos Aires. I was greeted warmly and they helped take my luggage to my room. After quick shower I was all set to roam around. But it was still just eight thirty in the morning and it was a Sunday, everything was closed.

I decided to see if I could change my flight. It was set for Wednesday and arrived in Colorado on Thursday. I knew Bob and Wayne wanted to get to LA on the first week of November. So I called Canadian Airlines and asked if they had any availability for today or Monday. The lady on the phone said I could fly out later today if I wanted. I considered for a moment and figured I may as well. I felt bad about staying just one day at the Hostel Clan. I got to say ‘hello' to all my friends again, then ‘goodbye' for a year to come all in one day.

I took a taxi to the airport and was surprised that I had a stopover in Santiago, Chile - something that wasn't listed on my ticket. My other stopover was in Toronto, Canada. I passed through security, immigration and customs without problems and passed the two hours on the flight reading. In Santiago I was happy that I had fifteen different currencies in my wallet because one of the bills happened to be the Chilean Peso.  I ordered some snacks and waited to board the new flight. I waited and waited. The flight was delayed by an hour. I soon began to get worried about missing my flight in Toronto. Then the intercom above me came to life, "This flight is now canceled".

"Fuck", I thought.

There was a sudden rush to the front counter and I was among the first but didn't get any information for another two hours. Those two hours were a mess of utter confusion on both sides of the counter. I heard several different stories about why the flight was canceled and one of them was that the pilot of our airplane had a heart attack and the plane had to land somewhere besides Santiago.

It was finally decided that I would be taking a flight on American Airlines that departs an hour later - one of the worst airlines in the world, but it beats having to stay overnight. The stopover was in Dallas, which I considered to be better than having to change planes in Toronto. I asked about my luggage and if it would be transferred and they assured me it would arrive in Denver without problems. While I was waiting to board I met a beautiful girl from the Czech Republic who was also supposed to be on the flight to Toronto. We had a long conversation about travel and where we've been.

So I took the nine hour flight to Dallas on the terrible AA and asked about my luggage. They had not been transferred to my flight and the lady couldn't give me an idea of where they were. "Go figure. You're American Airlines, it's to be expected", I said.

I called the parents in Dallas to inform them they should pick me up earlier than expected due to the flight change. The call came at five in the morning, which they weren't too thrilled about.

It was only an hour and a half flight from Dallas to Denver and in Denver, again, I asked about my luggage and, again, no luck. I was worried because one of the bags contained all my motorcycle riding gear that I needed to take to Arizona in just a few days.

Back home I had a few things to catch up on. I needed to figure out what exactly I needed to load up my motorcycle on the boat for Australia. I need a Carnet (a document for customs and importation in other countries - $1,750), I also needed to get a license plate for the bike since I only had an expired temporary plate ($70), I needed to figure out how much shipping would cost (Bob found another shipping company that would ship all of our bikes for $850 each - shipping Cargo will take 6 weeks), I needed to buy a plane ticket to Arizona ($230), and do all the other normal research that involves traveling.

Bob and Wayne were still getting their stuff handled so I will be flying out on November 11^th to Arizona and we'll take two days to drive to southern California to load up the bikes. I'll probably fly back to Colorado from there and spent the rest of the year as a Ski Bum before flying to Australia to pick up the bike.