As of ten minutes ago, I’m the owner of an electric document which requires my being in New York next Sunday to board a flight to Rio de Janeiro. This same document requires my being in Santiago, Chile on April 8th to board a flight to Miami, enroute to New York.
Besides the initial five days, for which I’ve booked a bed in a mansion-turned-hostel on top of a lush mountain overlooking Lapa and downtown Rio, I have no real schedule. In the middle of March, I’m meeting up with people from Chicago in Buenos Aires, where I hope to set up shop for a few weeks and getting to Santiago from Argentina means a bus ride through the tallest mountains in the Western Hemisphere, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Tomorrow morning I’ll be headed downtown to the Brazilian Consulate to fork over some dollars and apply for a visa. I have to stop at Triple A to re-up my international driver’s license. I’ll also be consolidating my assets and having somewhat of an online garage sale.
As far as other necessities are concerned, I’m not going to lie and say I didn’t buy myself a new swimming suit from American Apparel yesterday. I also picked up a Portuguese phrasebook last week, which will come in handy, as my Portuguese is non-existent. I’ve also been watching Telemundo lately to make sure the small amount of Spanish that lives in my head stays there.
As a final point of concern, I’m flying in and out of New York. I, however, reside in Chicago, 800 miles west of New York. What this really means is that I’ll be eating at the Chick-fil-a in Youngstown, Ohio next Friday afternoon and enjoying a glass of Scotch at the Richardson in Brooklyn that evening. As usual, I’ll be spending my weekend in New York at the Manhattan Ave abode of @marksteffen, in the always festive neighborhood of Williamsburg, which as some of you already know, is the eastern terminus of the great Echo Park-Wicker Park-Williamsburg cocaine fueled rocket train. As one of Brooklyn’s finest once said, “If you don’t know, now you know.”
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