Third time is the charm.

Donkey cart on dunes.

Donkey cart on dunes.

 

So far I have lost three drafts, several photos, and have activated three themes on Word Press. I knew when I read a review that it was a site for A type brains it was not for me. Not ever close. I’m pretty sure I don’t have an A side to my brain. But, Blogger had let me down. Of the two other sites recommended on  PC Mag, one is already closed, the other I signed  up for took my  password and welcomed me, by name as if it knew me personally, to the site. First, though, before it let me in I had to go to my email and sign in with my new ‘handle’ and password. I did that. I was refused entrance. Apparently the info didn’t match. Within two minutes! Four days later I am still trying to post a blog on Word Press. It may be that I am not smart enough or, as my friend, Abby says, way too old, which in the world of technology is over twelve.

 

Paula, Grant, Peanut, Butter & Jelly at That Hostel (in the dog tent)

Paula, Grant, Peanut, Butter & Jelly at That Hostel (in the dog tent)

I left Rio in August after the manifestation protestors had been shunted off to jail, and Papa, had given his speech in a clearing that, rumor has it, over 100 old growth trees had been cut down specifically so he would have a safe place to expound his dogma. And then the rains came. image

I headed north along the Atlantic coast by bus. I traveled everywhere by bus. Brazil has big comfy Mercedes busses with working toilets. I found that buying a ticket, and finding the bus  was easy even w/o speaking Portuguese; but I do speak a bit of Spanish which usually made conversation  easier. 

Hanging out by the side of the road while the protesters block the bridge.

Hanging out by the side of the road while the protesters block the bridge.

 

On the way to Itaunas we encountered more protesters blocking the bridge we needed to cross. We got off the bus and hung out. I met Sebastian, from Argentina and Isabella, from Austria, who were staying at the same hostel I was-or would be when we got there and others who spoke some English. In Santa Maria a man who was undoubtedly in his cups boarded the bus and sat beside me. Disgruntled when I couldn’t carry on a conversation with him, he began to sing. Soft and low and on key he sang as if he were singing a lullaby to a baby. Big baby that I am, I fell asleep.