I buy rubber flip flops and a tight pair of low-rise, cropped jeans (that I wouldn't be caught dead in in San Francisco). My dark hair and light eyes, an anomaly at home, are commonplace here, as is the aforementioned abundant bunda. I am on my way to Being Brazilian.

A man in a café speaks to me in Portugese, I reply in bad Portugese, "I don't speak Portugese". Francesa?, he asks.  "No". "I am American" "Yes". The Australian man (it turns out), says that he never would have guessed.  I'm going to have to learn to speak Portugese if I hope to blend in.

Portugese is one language I don't mind unscrambling. -­ I love the sound of it - hard consenants are softened into sh's and ch's and odgys. And vowels are elongated.. And all of it is spoken with a melodic lilt as if everyone is singing the same tune. It is similar to Spanish - Differente is pronounced differenchay, dia, gia. Kathy, Kaughtchi, and so on. Add a splash of French to really mix it up ­ Bom, pronounced Bon (good) - and you have the lingua of Portuguese, a mixture of languages, like its residents who moved here over the years.

We are invited to lunch today at Kathy and JhaJha's, neighbors who live across the cobblestone street from Jim and Debbie. At  the top of the hill, I stop to catch my breath and to admire their fairytale-like, hobbit-castle. They built it themselves over a dozen years, using old windows and doors collected from abandoned churches. JhaJha a musician, and Katchi a painter, have day jobs respectively as world history teacher and social worker. Ten year old son, Luan, is a photographer's dream with blonde ringlets, light blue eyes, dark skin, and a love of the camera.

Christiana (Kathy's sister) and her family live in the story-book house on the hill just below Kathy and JhaJha., and below Christiana is the house of Herman, the girls' father. Herman was born in Brazil 80 years ago, shortly after his German parents immigrated here. He eventually married the indigenous Brazilian mother (now deceased) of the girls, which explains why Katchi looks like my Bolivian friend and Christiana, like a tall lanky German, with hints of Brazilian in her hazel-eyes and olive skin.. Each family member  from grandchild to grandfather looks entirely unrelated. Ironically, Brazil was the last of the South American countries to free the African slaves, while today it is the most racially mixed.

JhaJha has laid out a table for us topped with farofa (baked and grated casava from the Amazon), sliced linguisa, cauliflower, white rice, a stew of beans and beef, and a brilliant plate of shredded carrots and beets. There is also Skol beer, and JhaJha's premium cache of cachaca (sugar cane alcohol that is to Brazilians as tequila is to Mexicans and as deadly).

Debbie rings to say she'll be late. JhaJha announces that we will wait for her. "In that case, I say, I'll go back across the street to write until she arrives." I head for the door.

"Tranquila, Tranquila", JhaJha says. "One should not rush through life. Far better that one contemplate life and philosophy with friends over tasty food and drink in the company of beautiful women." Only what he really says, best as I can recall, sounds like this: "Nao bon pasar el tiempo corriente. Tenemos contemplar la vida con nossos amigos, con comidas e bedidas sabrosas, y mininas bellezas".

Ok, so I stay. And make a mental note to slow down. Enjoy what is in front of me in this moment.

JhaJha pours a shot of cachaca  A squirrel scampers into the kitchen. Jaja calls out, "Mi amigo!" and bends down to display  a fresh chunk of coconut in his open palm. The squirrel approaches timidly, takes the treat and scampers back outside. Jaja says, "That one, he is my friend". Then "Robin, Do you have a religion?" He points outside and says, "Mine is out there in the trees, in the animals of the forest." He leads me then into a discussion of politics by asking what I think about the conflict between Bush and Saddam Hussein. JaJa says that Americans think they are free, but they are not. He says it will take South America hundreds of years to recover from covert US activity in their land during the seventies.. Kathy lightens things up saying, "But we love Americans. And the men don't hate all American politicians. They love the story of "Prezedenche Cleentone and Mowneeka Lewinsche". The men guffaw. I mention my continual surprise at the diversity of Brazilians' physical traits. He says that after Holland invaded Brazil they held it for seventy years during which time they intermarried with the former black slaves and Indians. "Muito bonita!". he says about the resultant blue-eyed, chocolate colored Brazilians that came from those marriages. He says about his blonde haired son, "Luan, is a mixture of German, Spanish, Portugese, Indian, and African. We are proud of our diverse make-up. But above all, I am Brazilian".

At 10:30 PM, Debbie and I and a few of the neighborhood women take the bus to town for an outdoor rock concert. We work our way to the front of the stage where the Brazilian pop star is singing into a microphone, while below hundreds of teenagers, middleaged couples, singles, and some elderly folks sing every word to every song, waving their arms high in the air, while those who find space, dance. The teens don't seem one bit annoyed that their parents and grandparents have come along for the evening.

One morning the rain stops.And so we pile into Katchi and JhaJha's car to drive the ten minutes into the national park. Following their lead, Jim and I (Debbie is at the internet café) hop over rocks, under trees, stepping lightly over the spongy ground to the water's edge where a cascade of water meets the creek. Then we are standing under the roaring fall, the sound of crashing water filling our ears. We paddle across the pleasantly cool stream to a massive granite slab. Kathy holds JaJa's ankle, JaJa leans down to offer me a hand and pulls me up onto the rock where we lay on our backs gazing at the azure sky. Suddenly Kathy takes off the blue beaded ring I've been admiring and hands it to me, "Here Robin, I made it for you, my friend." And then we crawl over to the shady side of the boulder, where it is slick with moss, and together we slide down on our backs into the rolling water below.

I've grown used to climbing into bed each night in my unheated cabin fully clothed, with the hood of my coat pulled up around my ears, and three wool blankets piled on top. It is summer in Brazil, but in Tere, the air is thin and offers little warmth once the sun has slid from sight. I'm growing restless for the heat of Brazil's beaches.

Together, Jim, Debbie and I pore over maps and discuss my next destinations. Initially I was drawn to the people, celebrations, and animistic nature of northeast Brazil. But the reality is that no matter how massive Brazil looks on a map, it's even bigger in person and I had only three weeks in which to see it. I'm looking for towns within two hours of a major city, with a sizeable expat population, a bohemian community, with aesthetically tasteful architecture. I decide to spend a week each in Buzios on the Golden Coast north of Rio, and Parati on the Green Coast located half way between Rio and Sao Paulo. And I cannot come all this way to Brazil without going to Rio.

Teresopolis is Jim and Debbie's paradise. For me it has been the perfect launch pad for Brazil, where  until a week ago, I knew no one. Leaving There feels like leaving home - you know your parents are still there to run back to should things get scary. As for my first Brazilians, Kathy and JhaJha? They are artists in love with life, and they are incredibly generous.. I suppose when you live for the moment as they do, it doesn't occur to you to hoard some for yourself. If Kathy and JaJa are a composite of what other Brazilians are like, I'm going to love this country.

Rio is my next stop. My friends back home expressed great concern before I left about me going alone to Rio de Janeiro, reputedly one of the world's most dangerous cities. What they don't know is, that in spite of the fact that I haven't lost my Pollyanna belief that everyone has the same basic need for love and respect, I have developed some street smarts over the past five years. It's called blending in. For instance, in Rio I will heed Jim's advice about dressing as if I'm headed for a day at the beach and carrying no more than 50 Reais in my pocket.

I kiss everyone goodbye in the traditional Brazilian kiss on each cheek, climb on the bus for Rio dressed like a Brazilian and head off to the big bad city in the bus like a Brazilian. And once I get to Rio?, I will walk like a Brazilian.