BRAZIL 2018....."Sentimental Journey", or "Show Me The Way To To Home"?

TIME OUT FOR BRAZIL - 2018
Peggy Bangerter Porter
Brazil was going to happen in ’18. I could feel the undertow of it even though I could barely face the planning, the coordinating, the financial hit, the STRESS. I am not a world traveler, apparently not born for it, even though I really want to go. I also just want to stay in my comfortable surroundings once I find myself home on the ranch. If someone would just go ahead and plan EVERYTHING for me next time I “travel”, I would really appreciate it. I don’t do it enough and now I know with certainty, I stink at it.
But Brazil is home too. I was born there, and 2018 would mark an anniversary; I won’t say which. If I could relate the incredible saga of my parents’ experience there; their years of service and love affair with that vibrant land and people, it would take a couple of weeks to show and tell it. Besides being a glorious, fascinating country busting at the seams with exotic beauty, resources and delights for the senses and palate, it is also home to a perfect melding of a multi lineage people and a blending of ancient cultural histories. Yet the Brazilians seem unique…. What is it about them? I know, they are absolutely nuts! Brains, gall, excitement, kindness, fun, and they have this way about them. They CAN do and DO do what they put their hearts and minds to, a phenomenon known as “JEITO”. Which means you had better watch out; it’s a ticking time bomb and you don’t know if it’s going to help you, or get you.

Actually, now was the time to get to Brazil because two of my brothers were serving the church there, (Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints) in the capacity of “Mission President.” Paulo, (also having been born in Brazil) with his wife, JaLayne,

and Howard, with his wife, Lissa. Paulo was currently the president of the Salvador South Mission and Howard, the president of the Piracicaba Mission. So to have time sharing the Brazil experience with them was our foremost goal and we would never have gone without this enticement.

We tried to get off in February and that dream slid away as we couldn’t get passports and VISAS in time for decent plane tickets. The trip would happen in May much to Doug’s chagrin. We would squeeze it in between the springtime calf operations and the heavy haying season.

Herding cows to higher pastures, day before our departure.

Really, there were untold troubles and ranch preparations to finish before we left, and having a deadline to meet worked wonders, but it was a tired Doug that boarded that Delta flight on May 17 from Salt Lake City. Oh golly, how will I ever tell this story? Mercy.

Building bridges, adding a culvert.

Quarter mile of new fence, due to newly swapped property.

Filly, "Charlie" born April 19, 2018

The night before leaving, we drove from our home in Thatcher, Idaho to my sister, Duella’s home in Syracuse, Utah. Her husband, Lonnie was staying home to hold down the fort and supporting our efforts to get off. Desiree, their daughter, was coming also, but meeting us at LAX airport. At this late hour, Duella was stuffing things into a GIANT suitcase and two carry-ons. It had done no good advising Duella to travel light for this 10 day stint; she was more excited and bouncy than a sack of puppies and had plans to bring home a boatload of souvenirs. Duella has always fancied herself to be a Brazilian too; she’s not, but there’s no crime in behaving like one.

AIRPORT(S) MADNESS
There is this thing with me and airports. It started out when I was thirteen and my parents sent me to Philadelphia on “standby” to see my sister, LeeAnn. Suffice it to say, since then, I confess I have a jittery sense that something is bound to go terribly wrong. Leaving Duella’s place around 6:30 AM, a bit later than we should have, and with Lonnie in the driver’s seat, we were making splendid headway, when getting off the freeway at the airport exit, we felt an unmistakable lopsided loping sensation and all it took was a glance to reveal the right rear flat. Lonnie limped the car into a lone business parking lot and we all piled out. Lonnie was frantic; this was a “new” car, and he had not yet assessed the tire changing strategies. Flailing his arms and demanding that we bail out the luggage and call a taxi, I admit that my thoughts were more along the lines of, “You know, Doug could probably change this tire and pretty fast,” but before we could blink, out of the lonely business building came a skinny young man approaching a tiny black compact car. Lonnie yells at the poor guy, “Hey, we’ve got to get to the airport! We’ve got a flat and don’t have time to change it. Can you take these guys right now; here’s twenty bucks! The guy said, “Sure, let’s get your luggage in.” Do you remember Duella’s bag as described above? We stuffed and crammed and wedged that thing into the tiny space of a trunk then piled the rest of our bags on top of us in the back seat. The “little man” had saved the day.

Look at this face! The world is ripe for the picking.

Bags crammed wherever they'll fit.

At bag inspection, Duella’s GIANT bag caused a stir when all the food inside required extensive assessment, (treats for Howard and Paulo), and other necessities.

Important essentials. Who ever heard of traveling light?

And what? You don’t like my aerosol can of mosquito spray, so necessary for a trip to South America? Fine, keep it. An uncanny coincidence happened at this very instance: Doug’s Bestie, (our Bishop) Gerald Alleman and wife Jolene, showed up just adjacent to us, their bags being inspected for their flight to New Mexico. Gerald had a last minute request for Doug: “Come home.”

And finally, Gerilyn, (my niece; easily as excited about this trip as Duella), ah yes, Gerilyn, our missing traveling companion, was pleased to show her face just now. Despite our repeated calls to her this morning with no answer, here she was in the flesh, pink and pert and refreshed. “Sorry guys, my phone has been off all morning!”

Nothing is ever a problem, as long as Gerilyn's with you!

It wasn’t long before we were truly in our assigned seats, with smiles of self congratulation and backpacks stowed beneath us, and, for some reason, could hardly believe we had made it THIS far. Doug kept saying, “Are we really on our way?” Oh yes, we were on our way; “The Point of No Return.” Ever heard of it?

LAX
Before exiting the plane in LA, Doug and I made an emotion charged pact with each other that had 2 main points. #1 from Peggy: “Where you go, I go. Don’t let’s get separated.” This airport wisdom stemmed from an incident (well several) experienced twenty years earlier on a trip to Brazil with my brother, Paulo and wife, JaLayne. The memories were coming back to me now in a frightening rush. So let’s just say, I wanted to keep the lesson close. #2 point from Doug: “When I say I need to hit the Little Boys Room, I mean NOW!” We exited the plane and found ourselves immersed in a shoulder to shoulder crowd. Doug declared, “I gotta find the men’s room!” I commenced chatting with Gerilyn and Duella; Doug disappeared quickly and we three stood waiting outside the nearby men’s room. Ten minutes stretched into fifteen. What the ….? I dialed Doug; he answered with a jolly: “Are you lost?” “No, I’m not lost,” I replied. “What’s taking so long? You okay?” Yes, he was okay. Due to the suffocating crowd we had been in, he had missed the nearby restroom and just kept going… and going …. and going, until he reached the baggage claim where he found his men’s restroom, a mere quarter mile from where he started. Splendid. We were off to such a great start, and in fifteen minutes time we had already busted to bits our “pact”.

THE 5th DEGREE
All of us met up now with Desiree at the baggage claim; she and Gerilyn left us to board another airline that would arrive in Sao Paulo, same time as ours.

Duella, Doug and I had quite a time finding COPA Airlines. Right in the middle of our nightmare security checks, Duella yells out, “You guys! Our plane leaves in 5 minutes!!” How could this happen? I thought we were all squared away with time. We three pushed our panic buttons and went running. (That is, I ran, Duella galumphed with her bad knee, and Doug was in fine form moving like a fast paced snail on his bad leg.) Reaching our gate out of breath, yes, our plane was leaving in 5 minutes plus one hour. And here is where I remembered something about travel: when I’m by myself I know the score; when I’m with a group my brain goes to mush. At last, we claimed some cleansing breaths and collapsed into chairs. When the call came to board, Duella and Doug calmly presented their boarding passes and trooped into a large hallway. My phone pass was not accepted and they sent me back to print up a real ticket. As I passed through the gate and into the hallway, I saw Doug standing a couple yards away with some airline “officials”; they were searching his carry-on bags pretty intensely on a table, giving him the fifth degree and finger printing. I slowed to see what was going on, only to be told to move on, that they were detaining him, because “they could.” Oooo yes. You guys have got the big bad cowboy now. Good work.

STUBBY
We learned the reason for this “officially official” work on Doug’s behalf. “Douglas Porter” is a common name. But as usually happens with Doug, he got the last laugh. When it came time to fingerprint Doug, they asked for his right index finger. He held it up: a sawed-off-in-a-log-splitter stump that doubles very well as a substitute “stick ‘em up” prop. They stared. They gaped. Catching them without their tongues, Doug offered, “Want me to give you another finger?”

Safely in our seats, for now, and on our way to Panama, we could afford some smiles while we treated ourselves to acai chocolate and snack medleys. We were livin’ now!

SAO PAULO
After our midnight pause in Panama, we took the overnight to Sao Paulo and landed there around 7 AM. Howard and Lissa had driven out from Piracicaba and were there to greet us. We motored off to see the city sights despite our mostly lack of sleep in the preceding 21 hours; bent knees jammed and neck pillows do not pleasant dreams make.

Howard and Doug piled our bags high atop the minivan, strapping them down with "comealongs." Two persons would have to ride in the far back seats, so the 'little girls", Gerilyn and Desiree, were elected. The first thing that just "floored" us were the motorcycles whizzing past us between car lanes. Doug was "holy cowing' while Howard explained that Brazilian drivers are polite to issue small beeps from the horn, and trust that you will not get in their way.

Lissa stated that her #1 goal before leaving Brazil was NOT to kill a motorcyclist. All is fast and efficient and three lanes are fashioned into four as needed for rush hour traffic. I saw that if you are a pedestrian, you better take care of yourself, because no one is watching OR stopping if you happen to be in the way.
We drove first to "Ipiranga" where Brazilian Independence is memorialized.

Then up and down hilly streets: cobbled, quaint and ancient little "bairos" until we reached the heart of Sao Paulo, the city of my birth, with it's myriad sky scraping structures. First thing we instructed Howard to do was to take us to any corner "launchonette" to have lunch and sample our first mouthfuls of tasty Brazilian happiness. We couldn't wait!

After our refreshments, we traveled deeper into the heart of Sao Paulo. Howard dropped us off and we ascended by foot, Rua Itapeva, where our quaint and beloved Mission Home had once graced a quiet street and to where I had been carried as a newborn bundle in my mother's arms. She had been in Brazil only ten days when I was born. (Pondering this, I sense the reason why so many of us in this family seem to "go out on a limb" with nary a worry.) My mother's example.....

But today Rua Ita Peva streamed with humanity walking down from Avenida Paulista, on whose busy avenue a woman had once found me, a toddler of fifteen months, walking by myself. We paused there to take in the majestic buildings, the cars, buses and interesting people. This" Avenida" could safely be termed Sao Paulo's "Time Square", with it's modern business district feel. Doug said he wished he could spend hours here just watching people.

MEMORY LANE
But we hurried on to Francisco Morato, the artery that took us to the Sao Paulo Temple and to the home we had lived in during our teenage years of 1977-78. This house on 153 Rua Batista Pereira, is now a mission office but we could hardly wait to get inside to take a nostalgic tour.

Ghosts of the past accompanied us as we reviewed the events and people who had crossed this threshold. A ghost of Sonia Wosnjuk stood in the entry way, her long blonde curls bouncing as she showed us our new home and welcomed us warmly to Brazil. Having served a mission in Rio Grande do Sul, she had been recommended as in-house help to James and Ruth Faust, who had lived in the home prior to our family arriving in Brazil on that lucky day of July 7, 1977. The Fausts had fallen in love with Sonia and were quite sure we would too. She hailed from the interior Brazilian city of Goiania, a daughter of a Russian father and Austrian mother.

Duella, Daddy, Mama, Sonia, Ruth and James Faust, Marta Rocha (Price) and brother Layne. At our home in Sao Paulo, 1978, at the time of the dedication of the Sao Paulo Temple. Picture taken in the carport, notice the tile.

She was to be our live-in cook, our friend, our tutor of all things Brazilian and a happy presence in our every day. Almost her first words to me were: "Let's just speak Portuguese." This we did. Sonia was not a "morning person" and each morning would begin with a strange ritual: Elder Wilson Duffles, my father's assistant, pounding on her bedroom shutters and shouting, "Sonia! Accorde-se! Accorde-se! Accorde-se!" She would awake and cry angry tears, but declared to me one day, with those tears spilling over: "Oh he makes me so mad! But if I don't marry this man one day, I don't think I will marry anyone at all!" She proved her words to be prophetic.

My parents, W. Grant and Geraldine H. Bangerter, Wilson Duffles and Sonia Wosnjuk on their wedding day,
James and Ruth Faust.

Because Daddy was the Area Authority of (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints) in Brazil, many apostles visited our home, and a prophet, Spencer W. Kimball, came there at the time of the Sao Paulo Temple dedication. Thus we were able to get acquainted quite personally with many church authorities as the following story illustrates: One night Sonia and I came in late together from a young adult dance. We were giddy and loud, remembering that Mom and Dad had left town that day, entitling us to laugh and shriek (as only Sonia can shriek) and carry on in her bedroom until the wee hours of the morning. In the middle of this brouhaha I bolted across the hall into my parents room to grab another pillow, throwing open the door to discover bodies on the bed. Knowing my parents were not home, I realized with horror that these bodies could only belong to Apostle Joseph B. Wirthlin and his wife who had arrived earlier that day. I closed the door softly, explained to Sonia what I had seen and the two of us buried our faces under pillows and laughed til our sides were splitting.

LIVING HISTORY
To this home came a phone call to my father one day from President Kimball, to inform him that the priesthood of God, from henceforth, would be a conferred upon all worthy males throughout the world. My father had prayed, I know from the time I had been a little girl, about the heartbreaking question; now no more to be a fetter and sorrow and thorn to impede the progress of truth and promised blessings in the lives of our beloved Brazilians. How we cheered and cried and rejoiced on that June day in 1978!
Around back of this house still stands another lonely little edifice where the wash was done. I saw the ghost of Naede, our laundress, working fiercely for us to feed her family, her smiling face of gratitude as my mother offered her packets of food to take home at days end.

And there were the maid's quarters, tiny rooms, where Daddy's assistants had once slept on flea powdered mattresses.

Next to these was a large room, a garage really, where we had once played ping pong; a space my parents determined to convert into a Missionary Training Center for Brazilians. This room, historically, would be the 2nd MTC in the world, and the first to be established outside of the United States.

This space was our ping-pong play room which was converted into the Brazilian MTC. Now living quarters for office missionaries.

We strolled around the Sao Paulo Temple grounds, recalled walking over from our nearby home to the construction site and that of the new chapel next to it. So many memories: the smiling faces of my parents; my siblings Duella, Layne, Paulo; Sonia, the missionaries who had served as my father's assistants; and finally Howard when he joined us after his mission in Portugal. I don't know if I can conjure any finer drama in my life to have taken part in and witnessed for myself. The mists and ghosts of the past were sweet but tugged on my heart something fierce.

Paulo was the first missionary to leave from this newly built chapel, in February of 1978. He was also the first priest to bless the sacrament here.

Before leaving Sao Paulo, we stopped by a couple of sites, including "Escola Graduada" where Duella had attended in the late 70s. Howard also attended this school in his early childhood. I never got the privilege since we left Brazil (the first time) when I was not yet five years old.

We also drove past the soccer stadium in Morumbi. We may not have seen a lot of soccer playing when we lived in Brazil, but we remember hearing the tumult of the action, reaching all the way to our house.

PIRACICABA
We left Sao Paulo and busted out onto the open road, heading to Howard and Lissa's home in Piracicaba, about one and a half hours away. The transition into the lush countryside of red dirt and sugar cane fields was quick, and beautiful and calming. I could remember trips like this as a child with my parents!

Piracicaba has a calm, peaceful flow and reminds me of the Brazil of my toddler days with it's hilly, one way cobble stone streets.

When we dragged our luggage into the spacious seventh floor apartment, we felt "at home" for sure. The seventh floor WAS Howard and Lissa's apartment, and the Mission Home. The wide balcony overlooked a truly spectacular view of the western sky.

After dinner we strolled in the warm darkness, descending the streets to get a treat of Acai, a tropical fruit, mashed and made into a sorbet, topped with more fruit and drenched with sweetened condensed milk. (Most desserts in Brazil are either made with SCM or topped with it.) Music from an outdoor concert somewhere floated on the breeze. It felt as if we had arrived in paradise.

We stayed up very late talking about the Brazil of our past. Doug kept looking at me, shaking his head, and muttering, "Are we really here?" I had to admit, and still do; it felt like a dream.

CHURRASCARIA! Bring it on.

MISSION PRESIDENT
It was an incredible experience to witness the flow of the life of a Mission President and his wife, the five of us interrupting the flow somewhat; nevertheless their work continued ceaselessly. When you have 125-150 children the fun never stops. Howard and Lissa received phone calls throughout the day or night, pausing to address concerns of a soul on the other end of the line. With transfer day looming, Howard informed one missionary of his upcoming transfer to another city only to be received with cold bitterness. Howard simply apologized and expressed his love to this missionary, who responded that he could not do the same in return. The next morning, however, the missionary called him back to express his remorse for his previous comments and to say, "I love you too, President Bangerter."

Delicious Feijuada by Lissa!

On the eve of this major transfer day, we were sitting relaxed with Howard and Lissa in their living room when a phone call came to the President.

The missionary on the line explained that his companion had broken his collar bone, been to the hospital, and the doctor had recommended that he not lift anything for two weeks. The problem: the afflicted Elder was to be transferred in the morning and become a "Senior Companion," or trainer. Howard hung up the phone and we all sat around discussing the options. With amazement I realized Howard never questioned the missionary how this unfortunate accident had taken place or the details surrounding it. With a sudden gesture, Howard stood up and said: " That Elder will not be transferred tomorrow; he's not ready to be a Trainer. Too bad he had to break his collar bone for me to know this." He called another Elder up on the phone and arranged for him to be the new Senior companion in the morning.
Astonishing to me was the fact that decisions, counsel and problems were dealt with immediately, and under the inspiration of heaven. God bless the Mission President and his wife who faces the same obligations and challenge. What a team.

Piracicaba, translation: "The place where the fish stop" is an interior city of Brazil where the great sugar plantations and sugar refining factories once ruled the day. The great Piracicaba River is a spectacular site with some terrific falls and rushing waters, probably the reason the fish "stop" here. We were thrilled to walk up the river where these falls prevailed and on the site of the old sugar refineries; fine old landmarks now being restored into municipal buildings and concert halls.

Streets swept clean every day.

Trash receptacle for small plastic grocery bags brought down daily for collection.

Desiree, Lissa and Gerilyn jogging in the park

Owl in daytime traffic!

Morning walk with Howard. Pink walls enclose grounds of sugar plantation owners.

One of the first things we did in Piracicaba was visit a "Supermercado" that overwhelmed us with lush, large and varied bounties of tropical fruits. We got to sample everything, Costco style. Doug was specifically looking for some home comfort food in the way of milk. Milk is packaged small, and when you buy it, people don't question why, but I'm sure they wonder why. Why drink milk when you live in a country surrounded by coffee plantations, flowing guarana (I'm picturing "Old Faithful" Guarana!) and warm bottled water? Don't even think about drinking cold water, as everyone knows in Brazil: it's harmful to your health. Probably very true.

Mamao

Manga

Monte de banana

Coconut

Abacaxi

Abacate

Ratagan

We spent a delightful Sunday at the Piracicaba Ward, and were treated to very enthusiastic speakers. It was a special surprise to hear Portuguese and understand it, and delightful to listen to church members singing with gusto the way dad always taught us: "If you can't sing good, sing loud." Relief Society was a warm, huggy reunion with sisters we didn't know. Doug was received in Priesthood Meeting with lots of questions about the distinctive tan on his bald head and all were introduced to a "real cowboy".

Relief Society teacher's handbag.

Doug was incredulous over the wiring configurations!

We were able to experience a full day with missionaries who were departing for home. Howard and Lissa rolled out the red carpet and treated them, and us, to a delicious outdoor lunch on the banks of the Piracicaba River. We ate fish, french fries covered in melted cheese and ham, a yummy make it yourself green salad and drinks of limeade, guarana and the "to die for" suco de maracuja!

After lunch was our time to stroll as a group along the great river and antique sugar refineries.

Lissa later took us, without the missionaries, into the City Central to shop and see. I noticed that these Brazilians are not used to seeing American tourists or hearing English spoken. They perk up their ears and stare, and it it's a child, they will ask "Are you American?" One such little family, paused, asked their questions, then cheered and clapped when we answered in the affirmative. When I had the chance to speak Portuguese, I overheard one woman say to another, "Did you hear her accent? I wonder where she's from?"

Inside the little "Launchonettes" people ordered their favorite Brazilian delicacy and then stood at the counter to eat with knife and fork and great relish. All the little girls in town carried baby dolls in their arms, the sweetest sight.

ECONOMIC CANUNDRUM
The Brazilians here enjoy shopping but I don't know how they can afford it. Their "Real" is worth one forth the US dollar. Therefore I bought some Christmas for grandsons, and spent $20 for 6 soccer outfits. Earlier in the day a woman named Marina had given me a pedicure and manicure in the Mission Home for what equaled $10.

She told me that she is also a psychologist with a practice, but earns more money doing nails. Puxa Vida! I feel badly for the average Brazilian, who cannot charge a fair price for their services, for there is no one or will pay that price. Also, maids, laundresses, cooks and so forth are still the order of the day. Every apartment still has quarters for a maid. Employing these hard working Brazilian women is what makes the world go round for the lower socioeconomic class, and were it not for this tradition, many Brazilians would starve. Thus, the throw-back tradition from slavery days continues; no one gets along without someone to do these tasks.

I mentioned to Marina that most people in the United States do not employ cooks, laundresses, house keepers or gardeners. I was met with an incredulous stare. Pausing her work on my toes and looking up, she questioned, "Serio!?" (Are you serious?) Yes. I do believe that to be an American is the privilege and invitation to step it up and "do it yourself". I have to remind myself that I am living the "American Dream" every time I run my vacuum, fold my laundry, wash windows, cook meals, do yard work and clean out the barn. And be thankful I can still manage what I can.

TCHAU, SAUDADES....
As our final day and evening in Piracicaba was winding down, we were witness to the testimonies of the departing missionaries , their tears as they stood one by one to express their feelings.

On the morrow they would be leaving, new missionaries would arrive and the "transfer-trainer" merry-go-round would begin anew.

All stood in a circle, holding hands and singing their mission song while struggling with their falling tears. Then came final hugs from their beloved President and Sister Bangerter. As I stood in the wings watching the scene, I bumped into the office Elders who happened to be there on an errand. That errand now accomplished, they stood around in the kitchen the way hungry missionaries do. I asked if they wanted something to eat; they gave slight nods. I quickly put together some "tacitos" with avocados and lime juice. They were practically crying with happiness. This was followed by a huge plate each of "feijoada" leftovers. I have never forgotten the way to a missionary's heart; having learned it and earned it a long time ago in the Portugal and Brazil of my teenage youth.

Teaching the new group. Day of our departure.

It was hard to say good-bye to Howard and Lissa the next day, and to their charming city. We had seen some exquisite sunsets from their balcony and enjoyed looking out over the red roofed dwellings.

Last look at Piracicaba red roofs.

But Iguacu was beckoning, and we must obey. "Iguacu, it calls me.....". Our chauffeur to the airport was none other than David Pierce, Howard's best pal from Alpine days, currently serving with his wife, Katherine, as "housing" assistants in the mission.

IGUACU

We arrived in the city of Iguacu too late in the afternoon to embark on a site-seeing tour of the falls. Oh darn. What are we to do?!? Just have to spend the evening eating yummy food, relaxing on the grounds of the VIVAZ HOTEL and getting massages.

Iguacu Falls is not something one can adequately describe. The last time I visited there with my son, Jacob, in 2002, visitors could just walk up to the falls and start walking the trail. Not so anymore. Brazilians have gotten wise and now a handsome price is exacted for the handsome experience. And rightly so. Now, you get in line, pay the fees, wait for the buses, etc. Same thing the U.S. has been doing for years.

Iguacu is a tributary to the Amazon and runs it's course through a tropical jungle. Anyone who gets the chance to go to Brazil should see this spectacular natural wonder. Gerilyn commented as we embarked on the trail head, "It's no wonder that when Eleonor Roosevelt visited Iguacu Falls, she exclaimed, 'Poor Niagra!'" Exactly.

This pink Hotel is an old but swanky piece of history, built the year I was born.
Paulo, JaLayne and I stayed here 20 years ago. Newly (and exquisitely remodeled), it was out of our budget this time.

RIO DE JANEIRO
We left Iguacu late that afternoon in time to arrive in Rio de Janeiro for an unforgettable evening. There would be no visit to "Pao de Acucar" by night however; the tram was out of order. The unforgettable evening would just have to be spent on the deserted beach of Copacabana, sipping coconut milk and tasting delicacies while watching the roll of breakers and listening to their hushing music.

One of those sardine taxi rides from airport to hotel. Expensive and memorably fast!

I was a little afraid of thieves, robbers, and all manner of evil in this vicinity. Doug and the girls only scoffed at me, and we owned the beach that night.

Doug and I rose early the next morning to walk. The local fisherman were out and we watched in fascination for a while.

Doug and I walked along to the point of this rock to watch the fishing.

Breakfast

The rest of the morning was spent, yes, on the beach where Doug was ensconced and determined to stay. The girls and I tried to find bicycles to rent, thinking to pedal all the way to "Ipanema". That was a royal flop as there were no bikes; instead we nosed around, exploring colorful streets in Rio until we made it back to Doug where he continued to rule the day in his beach chair.

This man took his time showing us these beach wraps, very worth it for him!

He kept reminding me, "We're on the most famous beach in the world! Why are you trying to be anywhere else?" But since our time in Rio was so short, even this pleasure was to be short-lived for poor Doug.
We wanted to ascend "CORCAVADO" for the view of Rio that will last a lifetime in the memory bank.

Also, a ride in a Brazilian driven taxi up the steep winding road to Corcavado is a thrill not to be missed. Reaching the parking area was only the beginning. We boarded a shuttle bus, that whipped us back and forth around curves fast enough, that I could swear we were going to tip over! We were speechless while being tossed around on top of each other, but I laughed and squealed through the entire experience, while trying to hold onto and eat a hamburger! After this, there were MANY stairs to climb to reach the pinnacle where vistas of the city are to be relished.

Gerilyn accidentally touches her camara phone and takes her own picture, I entitle: "A blessing on Corcavado."

Here Corcavado reigns, the magnificent statue of Christ that shines in the night sky like a vision of protection and a reminder that Rio ought to check itself and cease/desist it's sinful ways and it's reputation of "sin capital of the world". Christ is over all, right here above you, present, and....watching! As it was plain to see.
Our taxi driver and escort for the afternoon was a young man from our Hotel who took a shine to Desiree and visa-versa. When we had asked about "Uber" taxi service, he proudly claimed that he could do Uber, any day apparently. Lucky for us that he did; he treated us royally and we treated him to the view of the city from Corcavado, a view he had never had, though he had lived here all his life. We were lucky to have his help in navigating and getting us to the airport by 4:00 p.m.

JEITO GOTTCHA
Remember "Jeito" and how I said it could help you or get you? At the Rio airport we ran into a snag with Duella's and Desiree's large bags. For some reason we had all opted to be checked in with them in their line, and before you knew it, some little girl took issue with my Brazilian passport that read Peggy Bangerter, not Peggy Bangerter Porter. As we went to another station, all five of us to sort this out, the young woman at this desk wanted to see my credit card that had purchased these tickets. Well, I had not brought my AMEX sky miles card, but instead had my VISA handy. This wasn't good enough for ID purposes. The solution? Charge my VISA for new tickets to Salvador for the five of us. But no worries, it would be credited back to my account directly, I was assured. As I type out this belated account of our trip, I am here to testify that the return of those funds ($1,400 U.S. dollars) took 18 months and nothing short of finding a friend of a friend in Rio that would go to bat for me directly at GOL airlines. When they finally credited me back, it was for two hundred less than the original amount, because, they carefully explained, the exchange rate was so different now. Lesson? Use the Kiosks to print your ticket out, AND don't travel with suitcases you have to give pet names. (Bob and Matilda.)

SALVADOR

The arrival in Salvador was sweet and memorable. There was a brand new trucking strike happening all across Brazil which commenced while we were yet at Howard and Lissa's.

Hence, not a lot of people were out driving their vehicles due to gasoline not being delivered. Paulo and JaLayne were there to pick us up in one vehicle, which meant two of us (the "little girls", Gerilyn and Desiree) had to ride in the back cargo area, whilst all our luggage was tightly strapped to the top of the car.

Over the next few days, we would continue this sardine-like arrangement, with JaLayne taking her turn as one of the "little girls" in the back of the car. Paulo's exuberance knew no bounds. "There's so much I want you to see!" and he set out to do just that, with JaLayne's gentle chiding that "We may not be able to see all of it tonight, Paulo." But see we did. First to a hamburger joint in the "fancy" mall, where truly, the cuisine was absolutely first rate, not just the beef, but down to the buns.

Paulo was so excited that we try everything, which we did, then treated us to gelato which was indescribably creamy. Next we were off to the beach, in the darkness, where we all trooped down to enjoy the breeze's gentle sweeping of the palm trees and the delightful sound of the lapping waves .

Itapua Lighthouse

As we stood here next to a lighthouse and treating our senses, Doug grabbed my hand, looked into my face and whispered, "Thank you, thank you, for making all this possible for us!" Now Paulo wanted to show us more of Salvador after dark, taking us up and down hilly narrow streets - and I mean narrow - room enough for only one car; people standing in their doorways, waving to us as Paulo shouted out greetings of "Oi amigo!" or "Boa noite!"

This was an intimate setting and introduction indeed. "These people will never hurt you", he explained. "They are the friendliest people you'll ever know." And though Salvador holds the distinction of being the murder capital of Brazil, most of these occur due to drugs and those lords who direct the affiars of it's use, Paulo explained. Salvador is a city of seven million, 90% African descent, and has the third largest African population in the world.

It is, I suppose, like visiting the deep south of the United States. With one major difference. Though the population is poor, they are a happy bunch. This wasn't just information Paulo was feeding us, we could see it for ourselves as we traveled around Salvador those few days of our visit; a pure delight.

FAROL DA BARRA
We spent a cloudy morning at the beach and experienced a fun time exploring through the rocky outcroppings and playing in the waves, which were inclined to have their way with us.

Doug and I took a memorable tumble and ended up in a heap together, me on top of him and his face planted in the sand. We laughed pretty hard but we had to hurry to get out of the way of more punishment. It's a training ground that we needed more time to learn from. Eventually we made our way into the deeper sections and enjoyed the lift beneath us.

That afternoon was spent at the large seaside lighthouse and fortress, "Farol da Barra", or "Forto do Santo Antonio", Brazil's oldest military construction built in 1534 by the Portuguese, having installed themselves in 1501 to officially occupy the colony.

The Dutch occupied the fort briefly in 1624, only to have a reconquest by the Portuguese that same year. Housed in the fort is the "Nautical Museum of Bahia", featuring shipwreck finds, miniatures of legendary vessels, military artifacts, and of course lighthouse instruments of the highest curiosity.

Travel routes of Portuguese exploration

"PELOURINHO" or CIDADE ALTA
The next day, we motored to lunch at Paulo and JaLayne's favorite seafood place called "Restaurante Barra Vento" and upon entering we gazed out plate glass windows at the crashing coastal breakers. Feasting on everything from octopus to lobster, we were then treated to the sumptuous, beautiful signature Salvadorian meal, called "Moqueca".

Doug eating squid.

"Moqueca". Saute'd prawns with coconut mile, hot chili, garlic, onions, parsley, and tomato paste, served with white rice.

From this spectacular lunch, we traveled a short distance and spent an incredible afternoon in a place I will name: "Little Lisbon", situated up on the hillsides, off the seaside some little distance from the Farol da Barra fortress.

Built and occupied by the colonial Portuguese during the 17th-19th centuries, and resembling, in many aspects, their European Lisboa, it boasts magnificent richly adorned cathedrals, blue tiled courtyards depicting elaborate historical tales, and narrow, hilly cobblestone streets.

Multi-mural ceiling.

Our stroll in these secluded courtyards also revealed tombs and marked graves of Portuguese hierarchy and rulers.

Extending from the ornate buildings are the tightly and closely constructed, vibrantly colored households of slaves or other gentry, these along narrow cobblestone streets, so uniquely "Salvador".

"You put the lime in the coconut and drink e'm both up!"

The real name of this historical spot is known as "Cidade Alta", because of it's high setting off the seacoast, or more popularly referred to as "O Pelourinho", which literally means, the "pillory" of "whipping post", where slaves were disciplined. From the upper areas of the "Pelourinho", we looked down on the "Mercado Modelo", where slaves were brought to be exhibited for trading.

Looking down from "Cidade Alta."

Approximately 4.9 million slaves were brought to this place during principally the 16th-17th centuries to work for the lucrative production and exportation of sugar, then mining depositis of gold and diamond, and finally the rise of coffee in the 1830s. We learned about Don Pedro, the Portuguese born Brazilian ruler who freed the slaves in 1888, earning for himself an exile back to Portugal and a place in history as the great emancipator of the African-Brazilian. He was ever after mourning for his beloved Brazil.

Don Pedro II

Wood flooring.

Doug in the "Confession chair."

During and after walking around the Old Town "Pelourinho", I felt it to be a sacred spot, a memorial to the African-Brazilian slave. Looking into the faces of their descendants felt to me like a privileged glimpse into a sorrowful past. Yet I witnessed, and truly felt, a buoyancy and a glad beauty in their faces.

Capoeira

Paulo, JaLayne and I had visited this spot twenty years earlier, where it was touted as historical "Old Town", but was extremely run down at that time, a notorious slum and so dangerous to visit that there were armed guards at every corner to insure our safely. The night of our visit here so long ago, we were the only tourists, ate a meal that a woman cooked for us while we waited outdoors on a warm night, listening to Brazilian strains of a guitar/ bongo drum combo. Five little girls played on the sidewalk in front of us and a little boy brought peanuts in the hope of donations. Today.... the Brazilians of Salvador recognize the "cash cow" they have in this refurbished jewel of history, and those descendants of long ago slaves who still call this their home are being forced out, by ever increasing rental demands from their landlords; all in an effort to make this unparalleled historical setting an exclusive tourist "trap". I spoke to one such woman who told me that she and her teenage daughter must work day and night creating and selling their wares here to secure their household.

After our adventures in the "Cidade Alta", It was evening and time for something special Paulo had been thinking about for us. We went to a seaside "Pizzeria" and completed our day by eating to the sound of the ocean waves, playing cards, laughing and "mais ou menos" having an unforgettable memory.

I CAN'T BEAR TO LEAVE
Paulo and JaLayne were within a month of completing their mission presidency, and their apartment was being refurbished at this time. Instead of having the treat of us staying in their home, we were all booked at the beachfront "Hotel Ibis", next to their hotel, just across the road.

Looking from our hotel to the view of Paulo and JaLayne's hotel.

Breakfast at the IBIS HOTEL

We weren't complaining. We did get a chance to see their Mission Home apartment the morning of our visit to the "Pelourinho", and as JaLayne guided us through their home, she said with bittersweet melancholy, "I can't bear to leave it, but I don't want to stay." All the beautiful memories with missionaries, Brazilians, her cook and special friend, Dalva.

Mission Picture of Salvador, Bahia

Views from Paulo and JaLayne's apartment.

"I can't bear to leave it, but I don't want to stay."

Her expressions brought back all my own sentiments and ghosts of "Brazil past". I remember JaLayne's words now and believe I can hear her echoing them again as she left behind her earthly home, suddenly, this past December the 23rd, of 2019.

JaLayne, at the park near the mission home.

We drove that morning to "Supermercado Rio Vermelho" to take in more exotic fruits and the fish market.

Hot peppers

Various types of oranges and ?

Goiaba

Shredding coconut for us.

Banana Vermelha

Cupuacu

Jaca

Star fruit.

Ginger

Cacao (Chocolate)

Holding a bag of chocolate bars. Bahia is the chocolate capital of the world!

Paulo drove us through the heart of poverty stricken Salvador, into what we would term "slums" in the hollers and hillsides, where people labor for their living, and succeed.

These were sights never to be forgotten, of busy people in connected "Bairros",( or neighborhoods within a community), each fulfilling an economic niche , and each providing the rice and beans for their daily sustenance. It was truly remarkable to watch this bustling atmosphere.

VALENCA
Our last day, a Sunday, we traveled by ferry and then in a church van to the countryside village of Valenca, where Paulo and JaLayne would speak to a small branch.

We met some beautiful faithful Brazilians here and were inspired by their joyful spirits. Duella and I were invited by Paulo to express our testimonies and feelings in our less-than-beautiful Portuguese; it was a special moment for the two of us.

Doug's head a "Bulls-eye" curiosity!

This is what SOME people were doing during Sunday School! (Gerilyn and Doug)

In our travels this day, Paulo kept up an instruction chatter about the vegetation and the many species of Palm trees with their specific properties and uses. He named them as we drove by, and I could NOT believe what he knew, reminding me again of Paulo's ability to soak up information like a sponge.

We embarked the ferry once more late that Sunday afternoon to return to Salvador, and the airport, unhappily. It was time to return to Sao Paulo where we would meet our connecting flights to the U.S. early the next morning. The ferry ride was so delightful, and as much as I enjoyed the views, I could not stop watching the Salvadorians aboard.

Paulo and Peggy

A slight squall arose with a burst of rain that pelted us while the vessel rocked wildly from one side to another, which only served to delight the passengers no end, with shouts of exhilaration and laughter.

Off the the airport we go. This is how some cowboys roll.

PASSPORT YOU SAY?
Paulo drove us without delay to the airport where we feasted on some "last chance" Brazilian delicacies.

We gave our final hugs as Paulo called out cheerfully; "Everybody got your American passports handy?" Everyone responded affirmatively but me.

You WHAT?

I had in my possession my Brazilian passport which I had used to enter the country. And here I realized that an American passport would be required to exit. Whaaa.... Told you I stunk at international travel.
Arriving at the Sao Paulo airport, I stopped in at the COPA airlines desk and told them my problem and that I would not be making the 5:00 a.m. flight in the morning, so that I could take care of my passport. The guy was friendly, encouraging, said no problem, they would get me set up with another flight when my papers were handy. No papers would be forthcoming the next day however, because the next day was Memorial Day, an American holiday for the American Consulate's office in Sao Paulo. A phone call was placed to Howard and he made a plan to meet me the next morning and take me back to Piracicaba for another day's visit.
CUMBIPAR
The five of us piled into a taxi and set out for our hotel accomodations for the night, sending our driver to a place called "Cumbipar Hotel". " Hmm, he said, I've never heard of that one." The disastrous truck strike was still ongoing and gasoline short for everyone, which was evident by the taxi's fuel gauge blinking red. But the hotel was supposed to be near the airport. Why then were we headed away from the airport by miles, now going down dark streets, deserted dark streets, deserted dark creepy streets where we now pulled into a cement parking garage painted purple and chartreuse? CUMBIPAR was painted across the cinder blocks as verification we had arrived.

"Just a minute", I said, "Stay put." I ran up the stairs, Doug hurrying behind me. At the desk of "Hotel California" I asked to see a room. The desk clerk, doubling as the maintenance man and carrying a bucket of screwdrivers, followed us up, not stairs, but a ramp that wound around three times ."Are there no rooms available down lower?" I inquired. He shook his head while Doug responded for him : "Of course not; that's where we keep all the dead bodies." We glanced inside a room and I said, "Not a chance." Doug and I hurried down the deserted ramping and stopped at the desk. "We're not staying", I said. "That's okay", came the quiet response. " Nobody ever does". We were on our way within the minute, me telling the taxi driver to take us to the closest hotel to the airport. Which he did, back down the deserted dark streets while we watched our blinking red fuel gauge. I was mentally thanking daughter, Livvy, for making all the hotel arrangements for us; each had been a "HOME RUN". This one though, honey, was what you would call "FOUL".
LET'S PLAY DOMINOES
It was late. One o'clock in the morning late. The COPA flight to take Duella and Doug home, sans one travel partner, would be leaving around 5:30. Time to sleep fast. I awoke Doug, sent him off with a kiss and a prayer, to catch the shuttle bus from hotel to airport, in company with Duella. The shuttle bus left the hotel, as promised, promptly at 4, without the persons of Doug and Duella who had missed the shuttle by moments. Remember the gasoline/taxi problem of the night before? Yes, well, there were no taxi's willing to pick them up and whisk them to the airport. They instead rode the shuttle from the hotel which left promptly at 4:30. Arriving at the COPA check-in, they were met with deserted desks. Frantic, with Duella leading the charge and dragging "Matilda", they charged forward on a "forced march" (Doug's descriptive terms) to the other end of the airport looking for peopled COPA desks.

Finding none and after making inquiries, they raced across the expanse once more then up the elevator to the COPA offices where they were told tickets could be issued, but the large piece of luggage could not be checked at this late hour. Furthermore, the noon flights were booked. While still abed I received a piercing phone call with Duella shrieking, "We missed our plane!" I sized up our situation in a blink, saw the dominoes falling, colliding, crashing. Unfortunate is not the word I want. Disastrous fits pretty well. As the morning progressed, I bid farewell to Gerilyn and Des who were leaving on a different airline and Howard arrived to take me back to his home in Piracicaba. Duella wanted us to swing by and pick her and Doug up too, so we headed to the airport for a powwow. Greeting them curbside, Howard kindly told the pair he felt they should stay to work out their flight dilemma because to tag themselves with me might add to their complications. Doug was worried about leaving me alone and said he was willing to stay with me, but I could see that Howard spoke with sense. Once again I kissed Doug good-bye; he had that puppy dog look in his eye that bespoke of being fed to the wolves, whether he was the devouree or me, we could not guess. Howard and I were on the road to Piracicaba perhaps an hour when I got a jubilant call from Duella to say they had succeeded in grabbing the noon flight!

DOUG'S TALE
Doug and Duella had scooted back up to the now re-opened desks of COPA airlines, (by "scooting", I am refering to one "hobbler" and one "galumpher"....and it's debatable which term belongs to whom) and after talking with a "mean guy" who threatened a $300 fee each, they then talked to a "nice guy" who happenstancely had heard my sorry tale of the day before and quite discerningly, lumped these two sore thumbs in with it. Jumping to their defense, he found them tickets on the noon flight, checked "Matilda" for Duella, and left her sobbing with great shudders and puddles on Doug's shoulder.
What was left for me to do? Get their LAX tickets changed. One big miracle had been performed. (Thank you angels, you know who you are.) I could count at least a half dozen more miracles to go. At Howard and Lissa's place that afternoon, I spoke to a sympathetic Delta attendee who changed their tickets WITHOUT A FEE, as long as they were willing to take the 6:00 am flight out of LA the next morning, a layover of about 5 hours in the middle of the night. Done and Done.

THIS IS WHERE YOU KNOW MIRACLES ARE REAL
After a pleasant drive back to Piracicaba with Howard,

I spent a calm evening with Howard and Lissa, giving tutorials on essential oils to Lissa and handing over all of mine I could spare. I watched a beautiful sunset on their veranda as we ate supper and then retired to the maids quarters for sleep.

As I gazed out the little window that evening, a little voice spoke, "Take a good look; You are never coming back." I didn't know if the voice was divine or if it was mine, but I said to it: "Thank you."

Lissa and I got an early start to the consulate's office in Sao Paulo the next morning. I have had one too many "run -ins" with consulate offices , the last one being on my last trip to Brazil in '98 with Paulo and JaLayne. ( I will just have to add an addendum later about that story, cuz it's a doozy. But that "run-in" and it's consequences I attach squarely on the shoulders of my brother, Paulo.) I was not looking forward to today's events. But I want to state here, unabashedly and unequivocally, that from here on, things were handled by constant prayer and angel petitions, because I called down everyone and anyone who was willing to help. Coming into this consulate's office felt akin to a "Gestapo" orientation. Very official. Very impersonal. Those officiating knew their post and they were going to hold it. I filled out some papers, texted Rick back home to find my most recent passport and take pictures of it. Trouble was, my most recent passport had my old last name on it. I needed proof of my new (2010) married Porter name which was evidenced on our marriage certificate hidden away in obscure files back home. Rick found it. ( He was one of the angels I refer to.) The pictures were sent, shown to the officials and were promptly rejected because they were "only pictures." I had paid a sizable fee for the entire process, but there were two men gumming up the works who refused to make me a new passport with my new married name on it. Meanwhile my tickets home, of course, were for that new person: Peggy Bangerter Porter. I had talked politely and sweetly trying to get anyone to see reason. I whispered to Lissa, who was still attending me: "Keep praying." Now I was directed to a window where the new passport was to be typed up. There stood an American/Brazilian woman, (? don't know which) who sat looking at the papers and asked, "How is this supposed to work?" I answered that I didn't know, but those two men over there insisted this was how it was to be. "What two men?" I pointed to them both. She typed up the passport with my NEW full name on it and disappeared. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes. The men were also gone from the scene. I imagined what was happening behind closed doors and I whispered to Lissa, "Keep praying." But when she returned, I was handed my passport and Lissa and I walked out the door. I had just experienced, survived and conquered a sabotage and a "jeito" perfectly illustrated, and put down in the annuls of my brain as "A Miracle."

ONE ALONE
Lissa, bless her soul, had done her part.

She drove me back to that hotel close to the airport and dropped me off. We said our goodbyes and I booked a room for the afternoon and evening. I had work to do. I felt anxious, lonely and full of prayers. The next COPA flights, three of them, were leaving for Panama at 1:00 a.m. and I had no idea if I was going to be on one, truly. My plan was to be at their check-in at 9 pm and hope for the best. Full of prayers, I tackled phone calls to Delta again to arrange my flight from LA to Salt Lake, assuming I would be on one of those flights. The first person I talked to at Delta was not going to work with me, not going to waive a fee and was going to charge me a bundle. After talking with her for ten minutes, I asked her to let me talk to someone else. It took no more than two minutes time and the matter was cleared. Flights changed. No extra charge. And this was DELTA! Thank you angels. I placed this one down carefully in my brain files also. A Miracle.

But I had another miracle to tackle. I prayed again for help, knowing that to secure my ticket home would require first, a space for me, and secondly, someone who wouldn't charge me extra fees to secure it. I talked out loud to my father and asked him to step in and take charge if he must. I also prayed for God's help, but assumed he would send my dad: someone who knew all about the Brazilian mind. I was at the COPA check in desk at 9:00 pm. I entered the "exception" line, for "special" cases and "special" people with "issues". I'm quite sure I had a stamp on my forehead that read clearly in bold print, "Extra Special". There were two men handling these people. One of them was talking and laughing and easy going. The other one, well, let's just say he had a stamp of his own that said "Don't mess with me" and he wore it proudly. I prayed for the nice one; I got the other. "Daddy.....", I murmured. I began to explain to this (I'll call him "the goat") about what had happened the other day to miss that flight and that I had spoken to someone at the desk who had been so helpful and assured me that they would waive that extra fee to re-book. "Who is this man you talked to? He didn't document your conversation!" Now it got ugly. The "goat" stood up, and with a loud rant in Portuguese, frothing at the mouth and waving his arms, bleating and strutting for all the world to witness in full color, informed me that how he was going to help me was thusly: not charge me the entire plane fare, but rather the 300$ !! "Okay", I said quietly. The "goat" sat down to his computer and clickety-clacked away for a minute or more while I opened my wallet for the credit card. My heart was chastising Daddy, that he was supposed to have been there for me, was supposed to have helped me over this last hurdle. "Daddy, where are you?" While my heart was dripping with disappointment , the "goat" suddenly stood up, handed me my ticket and with the voice of a lamb, said, "Boa Viagem". I tried to give him my credit card, but he repeated in a more earnest tone: "Boa Viagem" still holding the ticket out for my taking. My voice failed. I could no more have said "Obrigada" than fly to the moon. I reached out my hand, firmly took hold of his while looking into his eyes and grasped the ticket. I turned away to run and hide myself behind a convenient pillar and only then did my tears give way. I finally found my voice. "Thank you Daddy."

I felt as light as a feather! Breathing deeply, I strolled slowly to security, went through it, sat down exhausted, yet invigorated, with a plate of Brazilian delicacies at a "launchonette", savoring my relaxed feeling. Double checking my ticket, I made my way early to the gate and sat to stare at humanity and my place in it. Finally, overhead came the call to board. I waited my turn and handed over my ticket. "This isn't the right gate for this flight", came a voice that shook my being. You are two gates down. I picked up my bag and ran to the gate, where the passenger waiting area was utterly desolate. But there was a man standing yonder who greeted me with a smile. "Are you Peggy Porter? We've been waiting for you." Somewhere in the back of my mind I recalled someone mentioning in passing that these gates and their flights change around from time to time. What kind of a world is this???!! I had to wonder if this is how I would enter the pearly gates when my time came: disheveled, rattled, exhausted...late, still clueless, and with angels cracking the whip to corral me!

I didn't care anymore. I found my seat between two men, one of whom was especially talkative, who listened with interest to my entire tale of woe and laughed and sighed with me..... and then I listened to him for at least half the night. Like I said, I didn't really mind. I was flying home wasn't I? To Panama, to LAX and customs and the whole long-lined rat race, and to SLC.
My sweet daughter, Katherine, picked me up at the airport and drove me all the way to Duella's house in Syracuse where my car waited. Another two and one half hours saw me pulling into the gravel drive of the most heavenly spot on earth. Home. I pretty well know where I belong, have got that much figured out in the last ten years. Ever heard tell of Thatcher, Idaho? Nobody lives there but cows and us.

Granddaughter, Lydia, blazing the trail to nowhere.

And honestly, I don't know if that new passport of mine will ever see daylight again. It might, but don't bring the subject up with Doug. Perhaps I'll have to see if there are any other takers to go along with me.... to Portugal perhaps? Paulo? Living on the edge. Duella? Treacherous....plus, that bag.