It took all my remaining energy to drag myself to bed and start writing. I finished this morning, after I did a half hour of yoga to placate protesting muscles from my overdoing it yesterday and smoothing on a bit of BioFreeze on my knees. Ahhh. I do intend to take a short (the operative word here is short) bike ride to test drive my new helmet and bell (ching! ching!) after work, but I'm not (no, I'm NOT) going to ride my bike across town to the city band concert. Nope, not gonna do that. At least not until I build up my biking muscles, besides I don't think Durwood would like me riding around over the bridge and in the dark. Ooh, maybe I can buy a light. Settle down, Barbara, time to post writing and go to work. Overboard much?
June 29--Ilha Grande Bay, Brazil. One island for every day, well, except for Leap Year day, but there were 365 islands in the bay. At least that's what it said on the website and we all know everything on the Internet is true. Carla didn't really care of the island count was correct as long as one of them had a place where she could kick off her shoes, unsnap her bra, and lie down. It had been a very long day of flying and waiting and flying again. She had lost count of how many times she had taken her shoes off to send them through yet-another x-ray machine. The babble of rapid fire Portuguese was somehow soothing as she made her way from the baggage claim with her small suitcase. She kept a tight hold on it so that none of the taxi drivers and resort touts could pull it away and force her to follow them. This was not her first trip out of the States, not by a long shot, and she was wise to the ways of these opportunistic men. By the time she had settled into the back seat of the gleaming white van from Ilha Grande Bay Resorts with a cup of chilled pineapple juice in her hand she was sure that this had been the right choice for a much-needed getaway.
Only got time to spellchek and fly. See ya!