Ok, everything’s fine. I got a place to live for the next few months (a chance to get my bearings and learn the language). It’s in a great neighborhood (Sion, close to Savassi, if you’re wondering) with a great guy (Marcelo). It’s actually Eduardo’s room as he is in Angola for four months.
Sorry about yesterday’s post. I think I just had to bleed my vagina out a bit.
As promised, documentation of the paragliding adventure:
Leco, Steve and I arrived, late because this is Brasil and everyone is late, to a flurry …

Last night I lay in bed suffering from a mild heart attack flavored something like this: What….the….fuck….is….wrong….with….me…..?
You see, I moved to Brasil and I think i’m going to throw up. I don’t know how any of this shit works. Here are a few of my anxieties in outline form:

I don’t speak Portuguese and as smart and good with languages that I think I am, I’m not.
I won’t be able to find a place to live.
And when I find a place they won’t rent to me.
And when they do rent to …

Those of you who know me well know that I actually don’t go home with girls very often. I keep them at arms length, flirty and fun, but going home alone is one of the many keys to my happiness. I love waitresses this way. It’s their job to flirt and I happily indulge. I flirt with my friend Annie. Fuck, I flirt with Oliver and Josh and Henri. It’s harmless and awesome because all of them know that I don’t want to fuck them. And it’s always more fun …