DAY 132: Lara was up all set for her last opportunity for our daily morning cheese, Gilmore Girls and Touched By An Angel. It being Saturday, The Warner Channel on our satellite TV was running cartoons instead, and so the only thing to do was pack our bags and clean out the apartment. Lara was still pretty angry that Luis yelled at us the morning before with false accusations instead of approaching it professionally -- especially after all the problems we had with them that we let slide -- and didn't want Angramar Turismo to get any more satisfaction out of us. She made sure she packed the fairly heavy bottle of tomato sauce in her bag instead of just leaving it behind for the owner to have.

"I know it's childish, but fuck them, I'm going to be childish."

OUR BAGS WERE PACKED BY NOON and we just hung around watching TV until Lara decided to gather her things and leave for the bus station. She didn't have a ticket to her destination of Campo Grande, near the Pantanal, but went off to see what she could find. This was the final goodbye for us, at least in South America, and I gave her a going-away gift: a signed and personalized copy of the travel anthology that I'm in, which she thanked me for. I walked her outside where, for a change, the weather was bright and sunny instead of the grey and rainy days of the past week.

"It's finally sunny and we're leaving," she said.

Knowing Murphy's Law, I said, "Yeah, it wouldn't happen any other way."

I escorted her to a taxi on the corner where we said our goodbyes. I helped her communicate to the driver where it was exactly she wanted to go so there would be no confusion.

"I'll talk to you on The Blog," Lara told me. The taxi door closed.

The last I saw of Lara, my South American partner-in-crime, was her hand waving back as she rode off. And thus ended her appearance on "The Trinidad Show" -- at least in South America.

TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THE NICE WEATHER, I rented a bike for a short ride along the beach. The sands weren't nearly as crowded as just a few days before when the influx of tourists were in town, and Rio had returned to a state of normalcy. No more spontaneous samba street parades, no more spray party foam. I went back to the apartment to clean up. In the end, the person who checked me out of the residence was Carlos' sister. Luis and/or Carlos were probably too ashamed with their false accusations to us that they didn't want to confront either of us one last time.

ORIGINALLY I WAS GOING TO TAKE A BUS OUT OF RIO and stop at destinations along the way to Buenos Aires, Argentina. When I applied for a visa to get into Brazil, I had to buy a proof-of-exit, so I had a ticket from Rio to Buenos Aires anyway that I intended on canceling. However, realizing that my visa was about to expire, I didn't have time for a 2-3 day journey overland, and just ate the money for the mere three hour flight. If I had gone the direct bus route, I would have been on a 45-hour journey, and that prospect wasn't too appealing to me.

A taxi took me to the international airport and I looked around for the check-in of my airline, Aerolineas Argentina. I asked an information desk for directions, only to be given one final test in Brazil.

"Voc falla ingles?" I asked in Portuguese to the man to see if he spoke English.

He reversed it with "Voce falla portugues?"

I managed to ask the simple question in his native tongue and he directed me down the hall to the red check-in section. I paid my airport tax, checked in my bag, went through security before waiting and waiting and waiting in the waiting room for my gate to be announced. I passed the time at the duty free shop and by continuing to catch up with "Blog."

Soon I was in my aisle seat on the 747 (picture above), still writing away, next to a guy that wasn't much for words. When he saw me look up a hostel in my Lonely Planet for my immigration form, it dawned on him that I wasn't latino and struck up a conversation with me. His name was David and was a Melbourne-native working in London as an engineer. "Working" was an understatement, because he bragged about the loads of time he had off to travel -- nine months here, seven months there, "I like to take my time." He had been in Buenos Aires before and talked up its nightlife.

"Buenos Aires shits on Rio."

He talked up this one party hostel called the Milhouse in Buenos Aires that I should definitely check out -- he had been there before for two weeks -- but told me he heard they were booked solid for the weekend. When we arrived in Buenos Aires, we made some calls to find another hostel since it was near midnight already. I found space at St. Nicholas, an Hostelling International hostel in the central city and so -- after confusion and running around looking for the correct one -- we hopped on a bus for the city. We split a cab from the bus station to the hostel about a mile away and checked in. I was rather impressed with the hostel -- TV lounge, roof terrace, beers, and a nice mix of people -- but David who was so convinced that the Milhouse was so much better, hated it. "You should definitely move out of this dump."

To suffice for the crazy, wild nights of the Milhouse, David was all amped to go to Pacha, some big raver club that everyone in our hostel was on their way out to. Refusing to pay the 45 pesos to go with the group, he opted to just call his friend in Buenos Aires to go with him. He made some calls and sent some emails, but in the end, after all his talk, he didn't go out at all. In fact, he was in bed before I was.

Party hostel or not, I was just glad to have moved on from Rio. After having settled down in one place for so long, I almost forgot was it was like to be a traveller again, and I needed to get back into the swing of things.