A lot has happened since my last entry, where I was previously in a fitful sleep on an interminable nine-hour flight. Rather,we are now in the Rio Rockers Youth Hostel. Seeing as there is a considerable gap from where I was then and where I am now, I'll do my best to reiterate the events between the airport and the hostel. In essence, the moment we exited the cold clutches of the flight, we immediately went to customs, where officials were thoroughly scouring the checked in luggage of passengers. However, since we carried all of our bags on the flight, we simply stepped out the large, shining airport, unaware of what would occur next.
I, for one, was tremendously nervous as I'd heard stories of the swarms of persistent, and often cunning, taxi drivers who would hustle you into their cars. Yet, in reality, we had a much easier time than I thought we'd have, finding a clean, white taxi marked with a long blue stripe. It read, "Radio taxi" on the side. Learning prior to our journey that these were safe and reasonably priced, I cautiously stepped in with my parents, feeling immensely relieved. Our driver was an elderly gentleman with a short grey fuzz covering his head. After unsuccessfully attempting to start a conversation with him, my father quickly learned that our driver could not speak English and was heavily dependent on Portuguese. Looking earnestly into the old man's rugged face, my father tentatively held up a crinkled piece of paper that read the name of our Youth Hostel. There was a moment of silence as the gentleman studied the paper. I feared he would reject it in incomprehension, and we'd would never reach the hostel. Finally, after a few agonizing seconds, he nodded in recognition and started the ignition. As I leaned back in the hard, smooth seat, feeling numb and worn from the flight, I felt a small smile creep across my face. We had done it. We had survived the flight, received our luggage, and were all in one piece. What's more, we were in Rio de Janiero, Brazil.
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