It was Friday night, the sun was setting, and my father decided that he wanted to celebrate the Sabbath like a good Jew. Sure, some people come to Rio de Janiero for the beaches, the music, the bikini waxes, but not my father. And this action was particularly puzzling as Brazil is neither a country known for its Jewish population, nor is my family terribly religious.

After getting the name of a synagogue from the concierge, he set off with my mother and no command of Portuguese. And after twenty-five minutes of walking, it turned out that no such synagogue existed.

“Well, we tried. Let’s head back,” my mother said.

And just as my father was about to respond, he spotted a Jewish couple. How do you know they were Jewish, you anti-Semite, you ask? Well, let’s just say nothing screams Heeb like payas (those curly sideburns) and an accompanying woman with a long skirt and a stroller full of babies.

“Perfect!” My mother exclaimed. “I bet they know where there’s a synagogue. Go ask them.”

“And how am I supposed to ask them?” my dad said, frustrated.

Frankly, I think there are a lot of ways he could have explained himself. Simulate praying. Draw a Star of David in the air. Show them you’re circumcised. Instead he said, “Let’s just follow them and see where they’re going.”

And that’s when my father started his Jewish reconnaissance mission. And as my mother knew it was fruitless to argue, she went along for the ride. I don’t know if it’s because my father was in the army during Vietnam—albeit it was language school—which made him feel like trailing someone was a good idea, but off they went.

Whenever they feared they would be “discovered” they would jump into the nearest doorway, like some kind of two member A-Team gone horribly wrong. They followed the couple for three miles, past the beach, past the prostitutes, the pick pockets, and the many salsa and meringue clubs that filled the city.

Finally, the Jewish couple entered a building. Only problem was that it was someone’s house. Seems the couple was heading to dinner, and not to hang with God just yet. My parents dejectedly began the trek back to find our hotel.

Luckily, the expedition wasn’t a total loss: my mother found a “Curves” gym, which she belongs to in the states, and it thrilled her to no end. Apparently, it’s just the little capitalist things.

- by Emily Epstein of b’scuse me? fame.

Brazil has amazing views and a vibrant music scene, but muggers and prostitutes are just as plentiful. And while that adds a sense of adventure to your trip, there’s something creepy about watching a hooker hit on your father in broad daylight.

One afternoon, my family visited the Museo de Arte Moderna in Rio de Janeiro. (That’s right, I’m cultured. And while the art was fascinating, it seems that artists are a tortured bunch regardless of country of origin.) After, we walked through the financial district of the city, which on a Sunday afternoon was pretty deserted.

We passed a guy that looked to be in his twenties, and sensing that we might be from out of town, he gestured to us for the time. Being that we didn’t have any fanny packs on us, I was sad that it was that obvious. My dad showed him his watch and we continued on our way.

All of a sudden I heard a scream coming from behind me and then a thump. I turned around to see that very same man holding on to my mom’s handbag and pulling for dear life. My mother, tough woman that she is—due to her upbringing on the mean streets of the suburbs—was gripping it just as fiercely.

As soon as I saw what was going on I started screaming at the Brazilian, using every curse word I knew in combinations like “youmothershitfuckingassface!”

And then I thoroughly surprised myself. I walked right up to the guy, who was still engaged in the tug-of-war, said “Don’t touch my mom!” and then slapped him across the face. Granted, there was no force behind my slap (adrenaline works in mysterious ways) and it probably felt more like I was caressing his face, but he got the idea.

And then he did something even more surprising: he ran away.

This entire ridiculous exchange took place in about 10 seconds, but it wasn’t until after the Brazilian escaped that my father actually turned around.

“That’s okay, we can handle it,” my mom said sarcastically.

And it turned out she didn’t even have anything valuable in the bag. “All I had in there was my reading glasses and a book,” she said. “But I really liked that bag.”

Who knew it was so dangerous to come between a woman and her accessories?

- by Emily Epstein of b’scuse me? fame.

This weekend there will simultaneous partying involving parades, masked mischief, beads, babes, and drinking going on all over the nominally catholic world. To get the skinny, take a gander at the latest episode of The Map, where Liza runs down some of the world’s top Carnival spots, and hits up a German “Karneval” party right here in New York. For some extra goodness, take a look at other carnival videos from our archive. Here’s a clip about Rio’s Samba school parade, and a list of the cities most famed for their pre-Lent madness:



– Basel, Switzerland
– Binche, Belgium
– Cologne, Germany
– Mobile, Alabama
– New Orleans, Louisiana
– Patras, Greece
– Port of Spain, Trinidad
– Rijeka, Croatia
– Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
– Sitges, Spain
– Viareggio, Italy
– Venice, Italy

In honor of the coming New Year, the jet-setting folks at Condé Nast Traveler have rounded up a list of how 12:00 am, January 1 will be met in nine different places around the globe. From a night of Buddhist meditation in Tokyo, to Edinburgh’s three-night Hogmanay bender involving gallons of alcohol, and men in skirts and no underwear, there’s bound to be a celebration to suit your style.

Argentina
– “Maté obsession knows no class, age boundaries” (San Francisco Chronicle)

Brazil
– “In Lapa, Rio de Janeiro, the Samba Never Stopped” (NYT)
– “Discover ‘Black Gold’ in Ouro Preto, Brazil” (Houston Chronicle)

Car-less California
– “A freeway-free coastal journey” (LA Times)

Chile
– “Surreal Patagonia” (San Francisco Chronicle)

Mexico
– “Chiapas, Without Reservations” (Washington Post)

New Orleans
– “Back to New Orleans, Gently” (NYT)

Oslo, Norway
– “Norway’s grand prize” (LA Times)

Protecting World Heritage
– “Saving the Great Wall From Being Loved to Death” (NYT)
– “Wearing out our welcome” (LA Times)

Senegal
– “7 hours away” (Guardian)

Here, to fill the gap between P.J. O’Rourke’s Holidays in Hell and Jackass, comes the Vice Guide to Travel. The anti-hipster hipster magazine that brought you “Dos and Don’ts” fashion mockery, scatological humor by the truckload, and liberal-baiting editorial pranks, has just released their version of a travel documentary, in which the editors, regular contributors like comedian David Cross, and Mr. Johnny “Jackass” Knoxville himself, play a worldwide game of chicken in some of the most “extreme” destinations on earth. Among the stunts on the DVD: hanging with the Mujahideen at an arms market in Pakistan, hunting mythical dinosaurs in the Congo, tracking down the descendants of Nazis in Paraguay who’re keeping the Third Reich alive, and a visit to a training camp for “PLO Boy Scouts” in Beirut. As for tours of the favelas in Rio and the Chernobyl disaster site, though, how badass can you be when fusty old-school rags like the SF Chronicle and the NY Times got there first?




Previously:
- Cooking in the Danger Zone/ Bourdain Behind the Line of Fire