I wrote about Karl because he is the human form of Medellín. It’s interesting how some guys are Colombia guys, some are Brazil guys, and some are Argentina guys. Each attracts a distinct personality. I’m a Brazil guy, a place that isn’t even on Karl’s radar. Karl is Medellín, Medellín is Karl. The city is made for guys like him.

A few people commented that he is a “loser” or “pathetic,” but I never thought that of him. Though he had his drug issues, I enjoyed his company and was truly saddened when he left. At risk of sounding gay, I looked forward to when he would come in my room to regale me with crazy stories from his past. Sometimes I even left my door halfway open to encourage him.

I can see how Karl could be considered a loser by most hyper-educated American office workers. He doesn’t have a car, a condominium, disposable income for fancy restaurant dining, and he certainly doesn’t have health insurance or a retirement savings. He’s not well-read. He goes against everything us Westerners are trained to become, but if I had a choice between spending a night with Karl or with educated Chad, the dutiful government contractor with pleasant features, I’m going with Karl every time. One is interesting and exciting while the other is safe and boring. A night out with Karl was a trip into the unknown, with a level of uncertainty that I had trouble handling at times.

I’m not trying to justify Karl’s lifestyle, but it works perfectly for him. He’s with the beautiful girl he wants, back in Colombia in the apartment that they share, doing his booze and drugs, barely working, hatching his next scam. He’s living his dream and I respect him for that. There’s not a lot of people I can say that for. Fact is most do what they’re told, not what they desire.

If I ever run out of things to write about, all I have to do is hit up Karl and tell him to start from the top. I think his life would be a very successful book. I’d definitely include his business plan on how to run a successful trans-Atlantic cocaine empire. It’s all about having a GPS system worked out, he said. What you have to do is…

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

PREVIOUSLY: Part 4

A few weeks went by when Karl booked a ticket back to Sweden. He wanted a good-paying job for a few months so that he could return and properly marry his girlfriend. He told me it would be “easy” for him to get a job on an oil rig in Norway, but I had my doubts since he had no oil rig experience. In fact he had no professional experience at all, unless you counted his internet scamming and operation of a bar that got shut down by the Greek authorities.

“Did you call Miguel for the weed?” I asked.

“Oh yeah I forgot. How many bags do you want?”

“Two. That should last me for the rest of my time here.”

“You still have a shitload from the first bag. Are you sure you need two?”

“It’s only $5 a bag. I might as well.” It crossed my mind that I’d have a lot of excess to get rid by the time I was ready to leave the country.

“Hey have you been to a casino yet?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“You know I forgot to tell you that casinos are pretty good for meeting girls. There was this American guy I knew that would only pick up girls in the casinos. I mean you go there and there’s a dozen beautiful girls just standing around, and if you’re a gringo who isn’t disgusting you’ll do well. All the other people who go there are deadbeats.”

“I’m kind of off gambling though. I always lose.”

“You really don’t need to gamble. Just play some slots and drink and talk to them. He got a lot of girls from that, and you have to think about why those girls are hired—for their looks. Let’s go now, you’re not doing anything.”

“Okay but I still have to cook dinner. That’s going to take about an hour.”

“Fuck you I’ll get you an empanada. But first let me do a pick-me-up.”

He was already pretty drunk from drinking beer and rum all day, but after he inhaled half a gram of coke he livened up real fast. He was swaying but surprisingly lucid.

We walked into the casino and there were a dozen girls in their tight outfits staring at us, looking bored out of their minds. There was more staff than gamblers.

We sat down at a $2.50 blackjack table with three other Colombians and cashed in $30 each. The blackjack action was far from world-class. A gentleman sitting next to Karl split everything, including 6′s when the dealer was showing a face card. The girl sitting next to him would stay on 12 when the dealer showed an ace. The third person would wait for the dealer to announce her count total before making a move. They kept losing and cashing in more money, at a rate of over $50 an hour. I wondered how people so stupid could have so much money to blow.

Karl and I were the only ones at the table who understood English. I was able to safely mouth off.

Let’s see what this idiot is going to do now.

What the fuck he’s messing up the deck!

Karl lost his $30 immediately, not winning a single hand. It was especially ironic since his job is to game online casinos. I hung in there and kept the drinks coming so he wouldn’t leave. We had some laughs in between moments when I refused to take his advice on how much to increase my bets, even though in the end it would have won me more money. Sometimes Karl annoyed me with his constant inebriation and potential to get my killed, but he was an addicting guy to have around and I knew I was going to miss him when he left.

When it was time to go home (I broke even), he told me he wanted to do some more coke. “You won’t be able to sleep if you do more,” I said.

“Oh it’s okay I have some Ambien.”

The next night was his second-to-last in Colombia. He invited his girlfriend and her family to the gringo mansion for a goodbye dinner. I came back from an impulsive visit to the casino after losing $50 at both blackjack and poker, the latter of which was especially embarrassing since I played in a table tournament and busted out on the first hand dealt. Inside the house I saw balloons and streamers decorating the living room. I took a meek peek inside. A large, half-eaten chocolate cake was on the coffee table with dirty plates surrounding it, and Daddy Yankee was playing at low volume on the portable stereo. Everyone stopped talking to look at me. I introduced myself to Karl’s girlfriend, her parents, her sister, her uncle, her two cousins, her sister’s boyfriend, her sister’s boyfriend’s sister, and a little 2-year-old who was chasing a balloon on the floor. They were friendly but stiff, as if something was wrong. Karl was not in the room.

I walked towards the kitchen to put away some avocados I bought on the street and saw Karl slumping against the wall in the hallway with his head gyrating back and forth. A bottle of beer was in his hand and he was mumbling something I couldn’t understand. True to form, Karl got completely trashed in front of his girlfriend’s parents.

The mother approached me in the kitchen and in a soft voice asked that I take care of him, but there was really nothing I could do. When some guys get drunk they simply can’t hear anything remotely connected to reason or logic, and Karl was way past that stage. The girlfriend’s family gradually left, whispering things to each other with concerned looks on their faces, and no one but the little toddler wore a smile. I felt bad for Karl’s girlfriend, who I doubt has ever been more ashamed in her life.

Every five minutes after that I heard a big crash when Karl fell on the floor in his bedroom. He’d howl my name and tell me to get dressed so we could go to a strip club. “Come on fucker I’ll buy you an empanada,” he repeatedly yelled. “I just need to do a pick-me-up and I’ll be fine. I’m fucking calling Miguel right now.” I closed my door and ignored him. It didn’t take very long for everything to become quiet.

The next day he came into my room groaning in pain. He looked old and beaten.

“I think you have a drinking problem,” I said. “The only time you should not get drunk is in front of your girlfriend’s parents, but you got the drunkest I’ve ever seen you.”

“No it’s these new pills I’m taking. They make me drunk really fast. I’m not used to them.”

“You’re blaming one addiction on the other! It’s just an excuse! Look I don’t care, but your girl has to have a heart of fucking gold after what you did last night.”

“Hah yeah she’s great.”

“Though honestly I’m getting used to your drug problems. Hey speaking of drugs did you call Miguel? I still would like those two bags of weed.”

“Look at you, you drug addict!”

“Please, once or three times a week is not an addiction.”

That night I was on my way out for a date with a cute girl I met at a local university. Karl walked me to the front door where his girlfriend was already waiting behind the gate. She was going to spend one last night with him before he left the country. It was only one day after the dinner party debacle and she was visibly angry, greeting him with the word borracho (drunkard).

“Well at least he’s not drunk right now,” I said, with a cheesy smile.

“Yes but he needs to change,” she said.

“Well maybe a little, but who doesn’t? He’s a great man and I’m lucky to know him.” I squeezed his shoulder like he was my best friend in the world (at that moment he was), and said goodbye. It was the last time I saw him.

The next day a 53-year-old American man with bad arthritis took Karl’s room after the maid decontaminated it with potent chemicals. He immediately asked me how to score some weed and pussy.

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

PREVIOUSLY: Part 3

Karl came into my room while I was working on my laptop. “Hey I’m about to call my drug dealer. You want anything?”

“Yeah a joint, a small one though,” I said. “What are you getting?”

“Some benzos. I have anxiety lately.”

“The shakes?”

“I don’t know what it is, but I’m trying to get off my Ambien addiction and it’s harder than I thought.”

“You can be addicted to Ambien?”

“Ooph yeah. Just one pill and it gives you a better high than cocaine—you feel light and happy. I started taking one a day to help me sleep, but after a month I was taking seven a day. The girl at the pharmacy knew me and had my Ambien ready when I came in because here you don’t need a recipe.”

“You mean prescription?”

“Yeah prescription. I got the Dutch guy hooked on it too.” He gave one of his deep laughs and then took a swig of beer. “I asked him if he wanted one to help him sleep and a month later he’s taking five a day. That’s why you’re only supposed to use it for a couple weeks, because more than that and you get addicted. I’m trying to wean myself off it and I’m down to two a day, but I was sitting in bed with the shakes and knew I needed something else.”

“So to fight your addiction to one drug, you use another drug?”

“Yeah it’s like using methadone to quit heroin. Soon you’ll be off both.”

“Yeah I’m sure this will work.” I let out a snort.

“It was getting so bad with the Ambien that I was using it during the day as an upper after a night of partying. I’d get up feeling miserable from alcohol and coke and just pop one. It’s great for hangovers.”

“It didn’t put you to sleep?”

“No not when I’m hungover. It makes me feel… normal.”

I wondered how many people Karl has gotten hooked on drugs. Possibly dozens. He’s convincing without being pushy, along the lines of “Just try it once and if you don’t like it then you don’t have to try it again, no worries.” But of course you’ll like it. I swore never to take any pills or coke from him.

One hour later we were in front of the patio waiting for his dealer.

“He’s a taxi driver but doesn’t make shit so he sells drugs on the side,” Karl said.

“How much does he make a day driving the taxi?”

“About 20,000 pesos.”

“That’s nothing!” It was about $300 a month, which would barely cover my food and coffee shop expenses.

“Yeah because he doesn’t own the car. If you don’t own your taxi it’s hard to make a lot of money.”

The taxi came and Karl went to the window to get his benzos. He then told me to pay 10,000 for the weed. I asked the taxi driver for his name to get on a friendly basis with him just in case. The driver slipped me something half the size of a cigarette pack and I immediately put it in my jean pocket. Back in the room I took it out and placed it on the table.

“Ooph look how much weed that is!” Karl said, laughing. It was a lot of weed, packed tightly inside a baggie wider than it was long.

“There’s at least fifteen joints of weed in there,” I said. “I just wanted one joint! What am I going to do with all this shit?!”

“Smoke it! Do some right now and make sure it’s good.”

Karl gave me a cigarette and showed me how to take out the filter, empty the tobacco, insert a roach on the filter end with a rolled up piece of business card, and then stuff the weed through the other end with a thin pen cartridge. The final step had to be done slowly to not tear the cigarette paper, which became very fragile after removing the tobacco. It was a laborious process that I’d repeat quite a few times because I couldn’t find a goddamn place that sold rolling paper anywhere in the city.

“Why is it so sticky? I don’t remember weed being like this,” I said.

Karl rubbed a clump between his fingers. “I’m not sure. Maybe because it’s organic, not like that hydro stuff you have in America.”

The joint was ready and I smoked it while Karl was hitting a high on his happy pills. I collapsed on the bed with a big grin on my face while Karl sat at my desk drinking a beer.

“Look at you, you’re high!” he yelled.

“Huh?”

“Huh?” Karl mimicked me. “Your mouth is about to fall off. Feels good?”

“Yeah it’s pretty good. I haven’t smoked in a while.”

“And look at the bag it’s like you barely touched it.”

“Huh?”

“Hey did I tell you about when I owned a bar on an island in Greece?”

“Nope.”

“We had a closet that we’d rent for sex, fifteen minutes at a time. It was on the menu, right underneath the martini drinks.”

“Did people use it?”

“Every night. Hey you mind if I roll a joint for myself?”

“Go ‘head.”

“But yeah the closet was so small you could only do doggy style. Me and my friends would target the out-of-town girls by giving them free drinks all night and then inviting them to the closet. I fucked a lot of girls like that. It was so great.”

I laughed for what seemed like forever.

CONTINUED: Part 5

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

PREVIOUSLY: Part 2

The following weekend we went to a party hosted by the rich guy with the Mercedes. All you can drink for 50,000 pesos. Supposedly all the hottest girls in Medellín were coming and only fat gringos would be the competition. One month in Colombia and still no sex, I was hoping the party might turn things around, but when Karl began hyping it to the moon I knew it was going to be bad. Turns out there were more fat gringos than girls, and only two were cute.

Karl was trashed and mostly incoherent by midnight. I ended up meeting an Australian guy named Dan who was going on six months in Medellín.

“Other gringos keep telling me how friendly the girls are here,” I said, “but I’m not seeing that yet. I’m having some trouble.”

“It’s because the girls here are idiots, “he said. “They don’t work or have education. Talking to them is a nightmare and after six months I can’t even fake a conversation. Here you ask a girl what she’s up to and she just says she’s hanging out at home, or how she went to get her nails done, or how she went to the mall. You won’t have anything in common with them, but since they’re pretty they expect you to buy them dinners and shit. They’re spoiled from all the drug guys they have dated who take them out and pay for everything. When they meet a gringo they expect the same.”

“Have you been to Argentina or Brazil?” I asked.

“Yeah, both. Brazil is the best I think for girls.”

“So why are you here?”

“I’m a teacher here.”

“So your Spanish is fluent?”

“Yeah it’s decent,” he said.

“Is it helping you?”

“Of course but I’m at the point where I’m just tired of the girls. They’re all the same, all boring and fake.”

Could Argentina be better than this? I know the girls there are a lot crazier, but it was easier to talk to them in clubs. They don’t hang in these massive groups of guys.

Another Aussie guy overheard me talking about Brazil. “Brazil is good for sluts?” he asked.

“I mean, better than here. It’s easier to pick up in Brazil.”

“Where do I go in Brazil for sluts then?”

“Do you mean prostitutes?”

“No, just sluts.” He was getting impatient.

“Well I’ve only been to two cities in Brazil, but you can’t go wrong with Rio and points north. If you go south then it gets harder. But Argentina has the hottest girls I think.”

“But are they easier than Brazilian girls?”

“No, definitely not.”

“So for sluts I should go to Brazil?”

“Uh yeah, but Peru is easy too if you’re a gringo.”

“Just tell me where to go for the fucking sluts man, fuck.” He squeezed his lips tightly and leaned his body
closer. For a second I thought he was going to punch me in the face.

I looked at Dan and said, “Your friend is creeping me out.”

“And the funny thing is he teaches English to little kids.”

“What the fuck, I just want sluts. What’s the big deal?”

“Okay then go to Cuzco, Peru. Definitely. You’ll love the girls there—they are surprisingly pretty. Not indigenous-looking at all like in other parts of Peru.” Truth is Cuzco had some of the ugliest girls I’ve ever seen in my life.

After trying our hand on a couple of girls with fake tits, we decided to head to Parque Lleras, the most popular nightlife zone in the city. Dan suggested we all go to Blue, a rock club.

“I hear there are a lot of gringos there,” I said.

“Yeah but there’s a reason for that—the girls there like gringos,” Dan replied.

“It’s the only place where you can pick up a slut in this town,” said the creepy Aussie.

Karl was talking to a part-time gringo prostitute that both Aussie guys had already fucked. Her going rate was 150,000 pesos but supposedly you can bargain her down to 70,000 towards the end of the night. We convinced Karl to meet us at Blue, but in his stupor I had doubts he would make it. It’s a miracle that he’s still alive with the way that he gets shitfaced every single time he goes out.

Blue was a dingy Colombian club with American rock music. The middle of the club was full of tables and there were two dance floors, a large one in the back and a smaller one in front. I saw a Colombian girl sitting at the bar watching her two friends dance. I slowly made my way over, leaned towards her ear a bit and said, “Let me guess… you’re from Colombia.” She laughed and asked me where I was from. She spoke English and even though she wasn’t particularly cute, I decided to stick around because there weren’t many other options. It appeared that every single hostel in Medellín had unloaded their predominately male clientele in the club, and though I didn’t count I’m pretty sure there were more gringos than Colombians.

The Aussie guys were talking to other girls until they disappeared, which was a shame because I wanted to exchange numbers with Dan. Then Karl arrived with his whore, who eased him into a chair at the bar because of the trouble he had standing up. He gave me a slight smile of recognition. I winked back at him.

I knew I was lowering my standards in order to get my Colombian flag. This awareness wasn’t helping my cause so I kept ordering more drinks for myself, until my inner monologue quieted down. I sat on a stool next to the girl and we chatted on and off, in both English and Spanish, until almost an hour in when I asked her to come to the dance floor with me. I wanted to get the kiss out of the way. She shook her head no. Ten minutes later I asked her if she wanted to go right outside to get some fresh air. She shook her head no again. Frustrated, I went outside alone and sat on a stool meant for smokers. I didn’t believe I wasn’t getting anywhere with a girl that I didn’t even like.

A random American gringo sat next to me and I told him the story of the girl. He said, “Well the club is closing in 15 minutes. You might as well just hang in there and see what happens.” He had a good point. I went back inside and when the girl saw me her eyes lit up. She did a 180, grabbing me and bringing me close. I kissed her right then. It’s like she wanted to give me enough love so that I wouldn’t leave her again.

Karl asked me if I had any money. My guess is that he wanted to fuck the prostitute, who was looking pretty decent as the night went on. His decent fashion sense made it seem like he was rather wealthy, but I’d seen him go stretches of three or four days surviving on nothing but his beer tab, a bag of white rice, a cheap package of hot dogs that smelled like cat food, and assorted foodstuffs left over by guys who had checked out, until casino robot monies finally got wired into his account (in the meantime he’d stay home all day and flirt with girls on the internet). Then he’d blow it all on drugs, rum, and women, only to repeat the process a week later. I don’t know if I loved hanging out with Karl because he was an interesting guy or because I wanted to be there at the exact moment his life imploded. He was the type of guy I thought only existed in Hunter S. Thompson novels.

I pretended I didn’t hear him and then he got leaned in closer and asked for money again. I lied to him and said I only had 10,000 pesos for the cab ride home when I actually had close to ten times that. The prostitute left, angry at Karl for wasting her time on a weekend night. I’m sure I did Karl a favor because she would’ve robbed him of his money without putting out. My girl’s friends eventually ditched, leaving her with me and Karl. I looked at her and said, “The roof at our mansion has a great view. Why don’t you come for a little bit and then I’ll take you home afterwards?” She agreed to come back with us.

It was pretty routine after that. I had to act like I was interested in her as a human being when I just wanted to stuff my dick inside her hole. I fucked her two times and then in the morning escorted her to the front of the house after telling her to write down her number on a piece of paper. On the way out she swiped a promotional flyer of the gringo mansion that contained its address and phone number. That worried me terribly so when I went back into the room I grabbed my used condoms from the trash can to make sure my sperm was still inside. Then I flushed them down the toilet so the maid wouldn’t see. She thought I was a nice gringo unlike the other prostitute fuckers and I didn’t want her to know that I was sexually active. I saw her as a motherly figure.

Karl came into my room with his hands on his head, complaining about his hangover. “So how was it?” he asked.

“Have you ever fucked a corpse before?” I said.

“No. Wait. Yeah no.”

“Yeah well I have. It was awful—she didn’t do anything. Just laid there and the only noise she made was grunts of pain, which actually kind of was a turn on, but the mere act of sex hurt her, in every position. It was the worst sex I’ve ever had.”

“Ooph. That sucks. Hey how much money did you spend last night?”

TO BE CONTINUED

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

PREVIOUSLY: Part 1

Karl’s room was small and only had a twin size bed. I had a table with chairs in mine, so I’d leave my door open as an invitation for him to stop by. He usually would, always with a bottle of beer in his hand. We had a cleaning service but because of his crushing hangovers he’d keep telling the maid “mañana.” It wouldn’t take long for the pizza boxes, dirty clothes, beer bottles, and trash bags with used condoms inside them to pile up next to his bed. His room smelled like anus.

Downstairs was a fridge of booze with a log sheet to mark each bottle we took. Karl’s box was completely full of hash marks. Every other day he jokingly accused me of charging beers to his account. We did some backwards analysis and calculated that he drank about eight bottles a day, which was less than another gringo staying down the hall who killed a 12-pack every day of the cheapest beer that was sold in the supermarket.

“Did you see the American guy bring another girl?” I asked.

“No I didn’t see her. How many girls is that now?”

“I think that’s four in as many days. They’re pretty beastly though—I mean I know you’d bang them but I got standards.” I paused for a second to allow him to react to my insult, but he didn’t. “I asked him how he was meeting them and he told me they were from a previous trip. I dug some more and he told me his strategy: meet girls during the day.”

“At the mall?”

“No on the street. He says he simply goes up to girls and asks them if they want to have lunch with him. He said, ‘None of these poor girls turn down a free meal. And it only costs you a few dollars. Then you bring them back to your place and they open their legs.’ But he says the girls are so poor that he has to give them taxi fare back home.”

“Oh yeah the barrio girls don’t have any money. Most didn’t finish secondary school and now they just walk around centro, or they get their nails done.”

“Where did you meet your girlfriend?”

“On the internet. I’m shy I don’t like walking up to girls.”

“Your girl is cute though. Today I was on that site you told me about for an hour and only found five girls who weren’t monsters.”

“Yeah it takes time, but that’s the same site I met her on. We’ve been going out for a year now. You know I was married to a Colombian before right?”

“No you didn’t tell me.”

“A few years ago I got married but it didn’t work out. We married right here in Medellín but divorced in Sweden. It lasted two years.”

“You think you’re going to marry this girl?”

“Oh I don’t know. I want to start a business here with her. Or maybe take her back to Sweden. She’s a good
girl.”

“What are you doing now for money?” I asked.

“Online gambling.”

“Poker?”

“No, robots.”

“Robots?”

“I have these robots which know how to beat the house long enough to get the sign-up bonus, so I find people to run the robots for me. I pay them a cut of the winnings. Business used to be good but it has slowed down.”

“How much were you making?”

“Oh back then when it was good—$300 a day.”

“Damn!” I did the mental calculation in my head—almost ten grand a month.

“Ooph it was crazy. Me and my partner would fly around to Mexico, Las Vegas, Barcelona, just blowing money. I had a penthouse here in Poblado on the top floor of a building. It was huge with a bar and a hot tub. I was paying 2.5 million pesos and month for it and then I was going out and spending another 200,000 pesos a night. I would buy bottles and pour it into people’s cups. Girls would notice and ask me to dance and we’d do pick-me-ups.”

“Pick-me-ups?”

“Cocaine. For the penthouse I bought a grocery bag of cocaine and dumped it on the bar. It was a huge mountain of coke.” He rested his hands on the table shoulder-width apart and moved them up to shape an imaginary pile. “It was like in the movie Scarface and I’d have people over and they’d put their nose in the pile and start sniffing. But I don’t have that kind of money now.”

“What happened to all the money?”

“I blew it all. I haven’t saved anything. Never in my life have I saved.”

“Sounds kind of romantic,” I said. “I’m too reasonable to do something like that.”

“Do you do coke?”

“No I’ve never done it.”

“Oh I got to get you to do it. It really picks you up.”

“Once in while I smoke weed.”

“Dude the weed here is so cheap. You can get a joint for maybe 9,000 pesos, the size of a thick cigar. It will last you for days and it’s the strong shit, but I don’t like weed it makes me sick. Next time I call my drug dealer I’ll get you one. I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

I asked him if he was trying to go out later and he said he’d think about it. A club called Babylon was having ladies night. Girls get in free and guys pay 30,000 pesos for all they can drink. Another one of my gringo friends went the week before and picked up a cutie, saying when he walked in he was approached almost immediately and didn’t have to do any work for the rest of the night.

A few hours later Karl came in my room dressed up in dark jeans, an ironed collared shirt and a fitted blue blazer. Every Scandinavian guy I’ve met has had style. We hopped in a cab soon after and on the way there he saw a Mercedes S-series ahead of us on the right.

“Rapido, rapido, quiero hablar con ese carro,” he told the taxi driver.

In the car was a portly man with three girls. Karl said some things in Spanish that I couldn’t understand.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“He owns the Poblado apartment I rented. He’s the biggest player in Medellín. Always has half a dozen girlfriends.”

“So he has money?”

“Of course dummy. Didn’t you see his car? Girls are lining up to get fucked by him. His father is rich, owns land throughout the country. He was thinking of importing a Ferrari here, but thought that may make him a kidnapping target. He could afford it though. I remember one time he gave me his business card and sent me into the grocery store to give it to this beautiful barrio girl. You know those girls who give out samples in the stores? They make shit, maybe 10,000 pesos a day. Her parents wet their pants that the richest guy in Medellín wanted to take out their daughter. It’s like winning the lottery.”

“What happened?”

“He took her out on a date, but he said she had a scar on her chin that he didn’t like. When she was little she had a cat that scratched her.”

We got to the club and sat down on cheap wooden chairs next to the bar, which was so wide you had to yell at the top of your lungs for the bartender to hear you.

“I’m so tired I shouldn’t have taken those sleeping pills earlier. I need a pick-me-up.” He was drunk. He drank five beers before we left and a quarter of bottle of rum. The bartender had just handed us another bottle, the same brand that caused us to puke the other night.

After a drink I followed Karl outside to watch him smoke a cigarette. While he was on the phone trying to convince the guy with the Mercedes to come to Babylon, a guy approached me selling chicle (gum). There’s a million guys selling chicle on the streets in Colombia because Colombians chew the most gum per capita in the world, or so I’m told. I declined and then he said, “Que tal cocaina?”

“No pero tal vez mi amigo quiera.”

He wanted patiently for Karl to get off the phone and then started his pitch. Karl was interested. While leaning back against an old Datsun he bargained the chicle guy down to 15,000 pesos for a big hit.

“Where are you going to do it?” I asked.

“In the bathroom.”

“But the counter is dirty.”

“I’ll just use my keys.”

He went into the bathroom to do his drugs and when he didn’t come out ten minutes later I thought maybe he had passed out. I walked in to see if everything was okay and heard him talking on the phone in Spanish, probably to his girlfriend. He stayed in that stall for almost an hour.

I couldn’t do better than an ugly girl who approached me when we initially walked in. Girls wouldn’t even give me a chance to say my line. To get their attention I’d tap them on the shoulder as they were walking by, but they kept going. It turns out they’re not as easy as American girls to stop. I’d have to walk up to them. With Karl camping out in the bathroom it felt like I was at the club alone. There was another girl who liked me but she was morbidly obese, stuffing her mouth with birthday cake.

Karl eventually came out of the bathroom and I noticed the coke didn’t pick him up at all—he was worse off and his eyes were half closed. Then he did the thing where he started approaching guys. I told him I was leaving but he ignored me. I tried again ten minutes later with the same result. I left him there and took a cab back to the house.

The next afternoon I was worried that he didn’t make it home and that I’d be partially responsible for his death. I imagined having to make an official statement to the Embassy of Sweden, but he eventually strolled into my room with a beer in his hand. He asked me how much money I had spent the night before.

“30,000 pesos for the cover and 15,000 for taxis,” I said.

“So how the fuck did I spend 100,000 pesos?”

“I thought you only paid 15,000 pesos for the pick-me-up.”

“Ah it was the chicle guy! He tricked me and took my money!”

“That probably explains why he disappeared after you bought the coke.”

“That fucker tricked me. What happened later in the night?”

“Not much, but you started talking to guys at the end.”

He laughed. “Yeah that’s a bad habit of mine.”

CONTINUED: Part 3

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

(Download the PDF file for all five parts by clicking here.)

Karl said it was the Americans who ruined it for all gringos. “In the past two years there have been boatloads of Americans coming to Colombia to have sex with prostitutes. You can go on the internet and see it—sites devoted just to fucking them like which brothel to go to and who will let you do it in their butt without a condom. The families here know what’s going on and now they’re very hesitant to let their daughters date a gringo, because they think we’re all like the Americans. Are American girls that hard to fuck?”

“No actually I think they’re pretty easy,” I said.

“So why are millions of American men fucking prostitutes here and pretty much anywhere that’s poor?”

“Well you need game to have sex with American girls. It’s like a special key, and once you have it it’s somewhat automatic. Lots of guys never learn it or they’re old and fat and don’t care anymore.”

I had been in Colombia for only two weeks. The first ten days was in Bogotá and now I moved into a sort of gringo boarding house in Medellín. Most of the residents were single guys who were in Colombia either for sex or drugs. There were a few older men in their 40′s who would tell me about the prostitutes they were banging with such excitement that I think they expected me to give them a high five or a pat on the back.

Karl, who was Swedish, was staying in the room next to me. He was approaching a year in Medellín, well past the date on his entry stamp. “I’ll just pay a stupid fine,” he told me. He had blonde hair and baby blue eyes, a deadly combination in South America that would get his foot in the door more often than not. It didn’t matter that he was short and had to balance on his tippy toes to reach the top cabinet in the kitchen—girls were drawn to something their country could not produce. Unfortunately my complexion is the perfect shade of brown that allows me to fit in just about anywhere on the American side of the world, and unless I open my mouth girls think I’m a local. I’ll only stand out in Africa, Asia, or Iceland. Even Sweden, Karl told me, is stocked full of Turkish immigrants who work in döner kebab restaurants and look just like me.

My fifth night in Medellín was a Sunday. I finally got over a case of laryngitis and was ready to go out and flirt. I didn’t get much action in Bogotá so the pressure was building to get my Colombian flag out of the way before it became a big deal.

I asked Karl if there was a good place to go out on Sunday night. Two hours later we were in a cab on our way to a small hip-hop club called Karma. Sunday was their busiest night.

“I don’t want to spend a lot of money tonight,” Karl said as we got in line.

“Yeah neither do I.”

“You want to go in on a bottle of rum? It’ll be cheaper that way.”

“How much is it?

“48 thousand.” $24 dollars.

“Yeah sure.” I figured my half of the bottle would last me the entire night. We went inside and made our way to the bar. The club was packed.

From the few nights that I went out in Bogotá, it was clear that girls hang out in big groups of guys, and according to Karl it’s because they can’t afford their own drinks. They need to go out with someone who can buy them liquor.

“A lot of these guys are drug dealers so you have to be careful,” Karl said.

“What does that mean?”

“Just don’t talk to any girls with guys who look mean.”

“But all the girls here are with mean-looking guys.”

“Yeah that’s a problem in this place.”

In Colombian clubs there’d be several girls who would stare at me, but when I’d walk up to say hi a random guy would pop in from nowhere to listen to the conversation or butt in. Isolation was difficult. The guys were very protective of the girls and the only option I saw was to approach the guys first. Maybe compliment their ubiquitous graphic t-shirt or something.

The rum was sweet and the hip-hop music made it go down my throat easier. Even when the ice cubes in my glass melted I drank the rum straight, warm. It didn’t take long to finish my half of the bottle. I lost Karl at some point and later found him outside smoking a cigarette while texting on his phone. “Bro the girls are hot, but it’s hard to pick up here,” I said.

“Yeah you don’t pick up in the clubs—you pick them up on the internet and then you invite them with you to the club. Buy a bottle and have a good time.”

“Plus the guys… I don’t think they like me.”

“Yeah because you’re making them jealous. When a guy looks at you twice it’s because he caught his girl checking you out.”

“What happens if he looks at you three times?”

“That could be serious. Be careful because I almost got killed one time.”

“Killed?”

“It was one night that I was so drunk.”

“Isn’t that every night?”

“No shutup.” He looked up from his phone and took a drag from his cigarette. “I talked to this girl who was with a big guy and even when he got in my face I kept talking to her. He wouldn’t go away and I said, ‘What are you going to do?’ He said he was going to take me outside and stab me in the neck. I said, ‘Let’s go bitch.’”

“Smart move.”

“I was really drunk.” He laughed and took another drag. “The bouncer saw what was going on though and pulled me out while the guy was yelling and pointing at me with his hand shaped like a gun. I waited outside 45 minutes for him to come out but he never did. I got into a cab and went home. What they do is call the sicarios—assassins—who live in the hills. They ride to the club in their cheap motorbikes and wait for you to get into a taxi. Then they follow you and when you stop at a red light they pull alongside the taxi and start shooting. And you’re done. Sometimes they give money to the taxi driver to help pay for the damage.”

Thing is Karl didn’t learn his lesson. When we went back inside the club he kept trying to talk to guys who obviously didn’t want to talk to him, and I had to keep pulling him away. The bouncer kept his eyes on us. I realized that Karl was the type of guy that could get me killed, without doing it on purpose of course.

I went to the bathroom and when I came back Karl had a fresh bottle of rum and was drinking straight from it. He could barely stand. The bouncer eventually had enough when he started talking shit to another guy and kicked us both out. Karl’s bottle had disappeared by then and I think someone stole it, since he told me never to leave bottles of booze laying around in a club.

On the cab ride back to the house my head started to spin. Both of us ended up puking.

CONTINUED: Part 2

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

Four and a half years ago, after visiting Venezuela, I got the idea of doing a travel pickup guide. Hints of it were seen in my Real Man Travel Guides blog along with my book A Dead Bat In Paraguay, but I never commited myself to writing a complete guide for one country. In the past year I realized that my free time and background made me very qualified to work on such a project, and that it’d be fun to try. At the start of my fifth month in Colombia I buckled down and began work on Bang Colombia, finishing it about nine months later. Here’s the synopsis:

Bang Colombia is a strategy guide designed to help you sleep with Colombian women in Colombia without paying for it. It contains dozens of moves, lines, and tips learned after six months of research in Medellin, where I dedicated my existence to cracking the code of Colombian women, who are more challenging than their Western counterparts. In addition to teaching you the differences between Colombian and Western culture, it details the logistics of traveling through Colombia, tips on studying Spanish, a packing guide, and recommended nightlife for the country’s three largest cities. You’ll learn three effective methods of meeting Colombian women, how to combat their flakey nature, how to ask them out via email and phone, how to date them, how to seal the deal quickly using non-obvious shortcuts (even if you’re staying at a hostel), and much more. With lines shared in both English and Spanish, Bang Colombia aims to be a must-read for every Western man visiting the country.

You can get your copy at BangColombia.com. It’s available in paperback or Kindle editions from Amazon, and a “pay what you want” eBook in PDF format that is free to download with no strings attached. If you choose to donate, you’ll get a little bonus as an extra thanks for supporting the book. On the website I also share notes of the mindset it took to write the book and specific details of exactly what’s inside.

May every man who reads the guide get their Colombian flag.

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

My master plan was to live in Colombia, Brazil, and Argentina for six months each, and then evaluate which was best to live in for extended periods of time. Here are the total lengths of time I stayed in each country during my last trip:

Colombia: Six months
Brazil: Five and a half months
Argentina: One and a half months

I left Brazil a little early because of when my monthly lease in Rio ended (I didn’t have the will to mill around in hostels for two weeks).

Argentina was a different story. You know those medical experiments that end early because one condition far outperformed another? If I remember correctly they did this with an HIV study in Africa where they tested if circumcision led to lower infection rates. It proved to be such a strong benefit that they ended the experiment early to tell the uncut guys to immediately get cut. Well that’s why I left Argentina so soon—the little data I had in my hands told me that it wasn’t a place that would have brought me more happiness than Colombia or Brazil.

That said, here is my evaluation of what it’s like to live in all three countries, along with my declaration of the best.

LAW ENFORCEMENT

Colombia: While there is a police presence, you can go all day without seeing a single squad car. Sometimes you only see cops on dinky motorcycles that look like dirt bikes. There is no heavy hand of the law here.

Brazil: Maybe only a decade behind the U.S. in terms of the Big Brother factor. The police are heavily armed, well financed (from an equipment standpoint), and make frequent stops. There are speed cameras and sobriety checkpoints. You don’t go long without seeing a cop car on the street. While the laws are more lax than in the U.S., Brazil is not a good place to openly fuck around. Even though Western media loves to portray favelas as lawless, police are generally on top of their shit outside of them.

Argentina: Police are positioned in street corners within rich areas of big cities. They don’t seem particularly well-trained or competent, probably because the country has been spared from narco-wars. It’s unlikely you’ll be bothered here.

Advantage: Argentina

PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION

Colombia: Local buses are run by private companies. While cheap, the lines are confusing and the buses old and very uncomfortable. The routes are not always logical and transfers are commonly needed. Medellin’s metro line though is clean, safe, and very reliable, but often crowded. The one good thing about the buses is that they come very frequently and you can flag them down anywhere along the route.

Brazil: Buses here are slow, lumbering beasts, the big versions you see in American cities. They come often and are reliable but you generally have to walk to a designated stop instead of being able to stick your hand out wherever you please. They aren’t that cheap, starting at about 2.20 R$ for a single trip.

Argentina: They have big buses like in Brazil but are almost impossible to use without insider knowledge because of nondescript signage. In Argentina you’ll only see something like “H7,” while in the other countries they’ll be a placard detailing a dozen or so stops.

Advantage: Colombia

SUPERMARKET FOOD

Colombia: It’s hard to find lemons or lunch meats in the bird family. Most sell peanut butter at inflated rates. Boneless chicken breast is usually frozen.

Brazil: Doubly hard to find lemons, and even common vegetables like broccoli and zucchini can be MIA. Peanut butter is astronomically priced. Great selection of fruits, cheeses, and lunch meats. Boneless chicken breast is usually frozen.

Argentina: Lemons are everywhere! But limes are incredibly hard to find, as is peanut butter. Poor selection of cheese, lunch meat, and fruits, but excellent choice of wines. Boneless chicken breast is refrigerated and of good quality, though much more expensive than their famed red meat.

Advantage: Brazil

RESTAURANT FOOD

Colombia: Not much selection in local fare except for dirty diners, but you’ll find many decent fusion restaurants in tourist centers, usually run by expats. I still don’t know what typifies Colombian cuisine besides stews, arepas, and fried snacks.

Brazil: Beans, rice, and meat seem to be the Brazilian staple. Local restaurants have fixed plates that will serve bland but filling meals of rice, beans, potatoes, and meat. There is more of a food tradition with dishes like feijoada and moqueca, but convenience foods like pizza and fried bread snacks are beginning to fatten the population. Upmarket restaurants put interesting spins on typical foods.

Argentina: Great value for breakfast and lunch, especially the latter where for $5 or $6 you get a tasty three-course meal with beverage. While restaurant service here is the worst, you’ll find far more creative fare with more European influence than in Brazil and Colombia. Argentina is also a better pick for the foodie who is impressed by plate presentation.

Advantage: Argentina

WOMEN

Colombia: The hardest part of getting laid in Colombia is dealing with the language barrier (you won’t meet too many girls who speak English), but if you’re conversational in Spanish and approach during the day you shouldn’t have too many issues banging cute girls. Flakiness will be your main problem.

Brazil: Brazil has proven to be a country of streaks for me and my gringo friends. You’ll bang three girls in a couple weeks then get nothing for a while. Otherwise the country is very gringo friendly and you’ll find tons of girls who speak English. The okay girls are quite easy to get in bed, but the cuter ones take more work. Towards the end of my time in Brazil I was getting sick of all the mediocre girls throwing themselves on me and having to seemingly rely on luck and the numbers game to get anywhere with the quality ones.

Argentina: These girls have a reputation for being difficult and I find that to be the case. Not only will you work your ass off to get laid, it won’t be with one of the hotties that you went there for in the first place. My second trip to Argentina I gave up on the women and found myself a Brazilian girl.

Advantage: Brazil

NIGHTLIFE

Colombia: Tables and chairs. People prefer to sit down everywhere, even in clubs, but on the plus side nightlife is concentrated in the cities so it’s easy to stumble on a variety of places that have electronic, rock, pop, or local music. Bars are a total bust in meeting people. Clubs have decent value in terms of cover charges and drinks.

Brazil: Much more Western in that people mingle. While typical bars offer tables for socializing among friends, you can find bars where there is standing and movement. Some cities have nightlife centered in specific areas, but others like Rio can be quite spread out and hard to get around. Cover charges for the high-end clubs can be astronomical.

Argentina: It has the typical bars with tables, which people start going to around midnight, and then a progressive club scene with rotating DJs develops after 2am. The nightlife is agreeable for younger kids with energy to stay up all night and dance, but for older guys over 30 it can be quite annoying to go out so late to deal with girls who aren’t even drinking anyway. A positive is that the value is very good, and you won’t pay much for cover charges and drinks.

Advantage: Brazil

COFFEE SHOPS

Colombia: There is a cafe culture with the Juan Valdez shops where you can sit with your latte and laptop for an hour or two. Ironically one of the best cafes I’ve been to in Medellin was the McCafe.

Brazil: Brazilians love their cafezinho (espresso shot), but they don’t linger. Since all coffee shops have waiters, they don’t expect you to sit down and write the next greatest American novel. For that you need to go to the mall and find a Starbucks, which is prohibitively expensive (10 R$ for a caramel frapp).

Argentina: Hands down the best coffee shop scene. Big cities have tons of pleasant cafes with wireless internet and delicious sweets. There is a lingering culture here so feel free to camp out for a couple hours.

Advantage: Argentina

SAFETY

Colombia: Safer than I was led to believe. I never had issues walking around at night even in shady areas. It’s a shame that the stereotype of the country being a warzone persists, but in a way this is good because it keeps out a lot of gringos who visit Costa Rica or Panama instead.

Brazil: Most dangerous of the three. While I’ve never been robbed in Brazil, I keep hearing stories that tell me my Brazilian-like appearance probably helped keep me safe (though don’t think Brazilians don’t get robbed). Brazil is very unforgiving for gringos who don’t have a lot of travel experience, though the most common “robbery” is getting severely overcharged by a taxi driver. I have to dedicate more energy here to staying safe than I would like.

Argentina: I’ve never heard a gringo getting mugged here—only petty theft in bus stations. Many times in Cordoba it didn’t feel like I was in South America at all.

Advantage: Argentina

FRIENDLINESS OF THE LOCALS

Colombia: Very friendly. They are much more intrigued that you’re a gringo and will always ask about where you’re from and why you’re in their country. They’re almost thankful that you’re visiting Colombia.

Brazil: It depends. I’ve met some incredibly rude and cold Brazilians, and I’ve met some who welcomed me into their home without even wondering if I could be a ax murderer or not. I would say Brazilian people are friendlier than Americans, but their friendliness is overhyped by quite a bit. A better term to describe them is warm—within a short time you’ll feel quite at ease, like you’ve known them forever.

Argentina: Outside of clubs Argentines are friendlier than Brazil, believe it or not. Even though Brazil has a more open culture to gringos, it seemed easier to make superficial friendships in Argentina with random people. I accumulated more phone numbers of both guys and girls one month in Argentina than six months in Brazil. A lot of guys though initially mistake the friendliness of Argentine women to be that they’re easy. They learn eventually.

Advantage: Undecided

TAXIS

Colombia: Taxi drivers are usually honest, and are great to practice Spanish with. All I had to do is ask “How are you today/tonight?” and we’d get into a long conversation. Towards the end of my time here I had pretty tight taxicab game, rarely getting ripped off.

Brazil: Taxis here are the worst. It’s very rare that a taxi driver, no matter how nice to me on the surface, will not try to scam me. I’ve had to argue with so many that I dreaded taking a Brazilian cab—I began taking buses everywhere instead, even late at night. While getting ripped off rarely means more than a $5 difference, it was the principality of it.

Argentina: Mostly honest, though less friendly than the Colombians.

Advantage: Colombia

MUSIC

Colombia: You got three main choices here: salsa, reggaeton, and vallenato, all of which are danceable, in addition to your normal house clubs. Plus you got Juanes, Colombia’s Michael Jackson, and Shakira, Colombia’s Shania Twain. Rock is also popular.

Brazil: Brazil has a very rich musical culture. Each state has their own flavor of music and you can live here for years until you know them all. From traditional samba to pagode and forro (I need more triangle!) to the newfangled tecno brega, music is an important part of how Brazilians connect with each other and pass the time, but most of the music is hard to dance to for the average gringo. Expensive clubs usually have Western music (fun fact: the song “Forever Young” is huge in Brazil).

Argentina: Reggaeton is slowly making its way here in addition to mainstays like cuarteto, cumbia, rock, and house. Argentines are pretty crazy about house music, but unfortunately they have very little idea how to dance to it.

Advantage: Colombia

CELL PHONE SERVICE

Colombia: Expensive and mostly reliable, though some text messages remain in the ether for hours until delivered. You have a lot of options on the street to make cheap calls from minuto celular vendors.

Brazil: Crazy expensive at more than 50 cents a minute if calling another cell phone from your own. Your only other option is Skype as they don’t have phone vendors on the street like in Colombia. Text messages sometimes get temporarily lost here too.

Argentina: About the same as Colombia, but no minuto celular vendors.

Advantage: Colombia

LANGUAGE CLASSES

Colombia: Group classes can be found at reasonable prices, from $5-10 an hour.

Brazil: Expensive as balls. Prices starts at $20 an hour for group classes if you include “enrollment” and “material” fees. I eventually found a private tutor for $35 an hour that I used for two hours a week, but I couldn’t help but feel raped. Everyone I met reminded me that I was indeed getting raped. Unfortunately Portuguese is harder to learn on your own because of a dearth of self-study materials.

Argentina: The cheapest, which is why so many gringos come here to study Spanish. You can find freelance private tutors starting at $6 an hour.

Advantage: Argentina

VALUE

Colombia: Great value that is slowly diminishing as both the economy (and peso) get stronger.

Brazil: While I was in Brazil I felt like I was paying American prices. Besides grocery store food there is very little value to be found. It was rare that I felt like I was getting a good deal on something.

Argentina: Super great value that will only get better as the peso crashes and burns due to continued government incompetence. They say the Argentine government is so corrupt because their ancestors are Italian.

Advantage: Argentina

VIBE

Colombia: Colombia is full of good-natured, curious people who want to learn about foreigners while showing the best of what their culture has to offer. While Colombians don’t go nuts like Brazilians, they’re a sensual people who are fun to pass the time with. Edgy city life keeps you engaged and interested.

Brazil: Brazilians are constantly in celebratory moods, and it seems like there is always some type of street party or event that makes for a good excuse to start drinking early in the day. There are lots of nightlife choices and daytime activities, and the locals are always ready to party and meet others. The sexual atmosphere is very favorable to visitors of both sexes.

Argentina: You’re not going to have much fun here unless you get into a social circle or have some sort of university class or job where you can make easy friends. Argentines are diehard conformists and always worried about what other people think of them, so there is not much in way of personal flair or spontaneous excitement. But once you get to know some cool people, you’ll have a good time and maybe bang a cutie or two.

Advantage: Brazil

There is no debate in my mind that the overall winner is Brazil. While it doesn’t outperform Colombia and Argentina in all categories, and is also frighteningly expensive, it’s the one place in South America that I must return to. It’s also the best option for the single man. While Colombia is a fine choice as well, I think it’s worth saving up your money for a Brazilian adventure that I guarantee will be the first of many.

While I’ve tried my best to explain Brazil’s charm in previous writings, it’s something you have to experience yourself to understand why fans like me love it so much. I remember something a man told me many years ago: “There are two types of men—those who haven’t been to Brazil, and those who are trying to go back.” Not a week goes by that I don’t fantasize about what my third visit to the country will be like.

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

I hesitated going to São Paulo for a while because of all the bad things I kept hearing. The traffic is horrible, it’s dirty, it’s too big, it’s too hard to know where to go, it’s expensive, etc., but I’m the kind of guy that needs to check things out for himself. Since I was close I had to stop by and visit the largest city in the Americas after Mexico City.

The size is quite impressive. A city like New York is separated by all those dirty rivers, but São Paulo is just one huge concrete salad. I still can’t get over it, and that alone is almost worth a visit.

Someone in the forum took the trouble of breaking down the city so I won’t do that, but you can’t go wrong staying in the Vila Madalena area, which is reasonably close to a lot of popular clubs. The city is so big that cab rides at night can demolish your budget, so when it comes to lodging your main criteria should be how close you are to the nightlife (during the day you have the subway).

What I like about São Paulo over Rio is that you have your normal tribes, making it easy to fit in if you have a unique style. For example, there are many pseudo-rock clubs where I would do well at, but in Rio that was a lot harder to find because almost everywhere caters to the mainstream crowd. São Paulo has a ton of variety in types of clubs, bars, and restaurants for more specific tastes, while Rio is more of a one-size-fits-all type of place.

Unfortunately the girls are not as pretty as the ones in Rio. They’re lazier with their appearance while lacking the carioca sexiness. In Rio girls refuse to go out without heels, but in São Paulo I saw more of that Argentine trend of going out with dirty Converse shoes. That’s not to say that there aren’t tons of beautiful girls in São Paulo, but per capita I saw a decrease in quality. Also for a big city, there’s a surprising number of fatties walking around. I guess that puts a kink in the argument that people are skinnier in big cities because they have to walk so much.

A lot of Brazilians say that “São Paulo never sleeps,” but that’s not exactly true. In a city of almost 20 million people, there were two clubs listed on a popular nightlife guide for Monday. Tuesday wasn’t that much better. Until Thursday, you don’t have many options besides some sit-down bars. This is not Vegas, and it’s not New York either. On the bright side, girls are more curious about your gringo status and a surprising percentage speaks English. For some guys it will be easier to pull here than Rio.

I recommend you come for a weekend, not necessarily for the girls but just for the travel enjoyment. São Paulo is arguably the most important city in South America and it’ll definitely keep you busy and interested for a few days. My Danish roommate fell in love with the place and I understand why—it’s more progressive than Rio and simply has more to see.

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

“It’s hard to know, when you’re in such a jam, which is worse—not having a place to sleep or not having a place to work. One can sleep almost anywhere, but one must have a place to work. Even if it’s not a masterpiece you’re doing. Even a bad novel requires a chair to sit on and a bit of privacy.”
—Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller

One of the hardest things about traveling is finding a decent place to work. A lot of countries don’t have that lingering coffee shop culture that we have, with comfortable work spaces and a staff that leaves you alone. In South America it’s too much to ask for wireless internet, electrical outlets, a bathroom that is less than a quarter mile away, and a large selection of artisanal teas.

Most of the time I had to work from home (or hostel), but unfortunately I wasn’t nearly as productive. In the States I’ve had peak days of cranking out five hours of honest-to-goodness work, but I rarely got above two hours in South America. For my latest trip I took some pictures of my work spaces, which I believe you will find fascinating.

Bogota, Colombia

Finding a table and chair was sometimes challenging, so for my first city I used a trash can as my working platform. It’s here that I put the finishing touches on A Dead Bat In Paraguay. On a trash can. When the maid came by I had to remove everything so she could empty it.

Medellin, Colombia

My first Medellin apartment had a pretty decent work area. I started the trip drinking water out of bottles but eventually drank straight from the tap. I never got sick from it. My stomach was actually healthiest in Colombia (it got worse in Brazil and then fell apart in Argentina where my “Days Without Diarrhea” counter never got into the double digits). I’m okay now, thanks.

The desk in my second apartment was considerably smaller, but I lived near a McCafe where I could hang for a couple hours at a time. Note the kitty calendar hanging on the wall (thanks sis).

Fortaleza, Brazil

I stayed in this hotel for a couple days and converted the nightstand into a desk. My Portuguese books are stored at the bottom.

Pipa, Brazil

The desk was a little low so I’d have to hunch over to see the screen. There was a massive ant colony nearby that was drawn to the warmth of my laptop. Brazil has a lot of ants.

Vitoria, Brazil

This is the niciest and most expensive hotel I stayed in during the trip ($70/night). Ironically, it was the only place that charged extra for internet and breakfast.

Vila Velha, Brazil

I moved to an apartment in a neighboring city, owned by a guy who worked at the expensive hotel. He had no furniture here so I went to a mattress store and bought a $40 foam thing that barely held up for my week stay. I didn’t get any work done here.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

This was my home for the first two weeks in Rio until I found my favela shack. I had to revisit the trash can desk. I actually got a lot of work done here because the room was usually empty with my gringo dormmates sightseeing or visiting the beach. I’m sure they thought I was loser since I didn’t do much during the day.

Cordoba, Argentina

For the first time in my life I lived alone. The apartment came furnished and set me back about $700 for the month (it was expensive because I was on a month-to-month contract). I dreamed of living alone for a long time, but it was surprisingly boring, probably because I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I had a lot more fun living in my Rio shithole with my dreamy Danish roommate.

In Cordoba I finished my third book. It’s about Colombia, and should be out in a month.

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

There are a few things I learned upon my return trip to Cordoba, Argentina.

1. A white Argentine girl is harder to bang than one with a little bit of brown in her. These brown girls are more similar to Colombians in the work it takes to get with them. And I must stress similar because there is a difference. In Colombia girls flake right before the date, but in Argentina they do stupid shit well before. For example, in Argentina a girl will throw her number at me and then when I get her on the phone to make plans she’ll say, “Sorry but I have a boyfriend,” or something equally retarded. They just wanted to see if I’d ask them out or not. If you’re doing it by text then she simply won’t respond after a couple back-and-forths, no matter how much affection she gave you previously, making asking girls out here a lose/lose dilemma which game theory doesn’t have obvious answers to.

Many times it’s happened where a girl responded very enthusiastically when I messaged her, with replies that included exclamation points, but then simply gave me radio silence after I tried to set plans. I wanted to get an insiders look at this phenomenon, so I went through the steps of making plans with one of my Spanish speaking partners with the intention to disappear on her when it was time to finalize the time, like Argentine girls did to me.

She texted me on a day I had mentioned I might be free, asking if I could meet up later in the evening. The plan was to simply not respond and leave her hanging, but I just couldn’t do it. It’s too mean to leave someone out there like that so I eventually replied (with an excuse, but at least she got a response). It’s almost evil how disrespectful Argentine girls can be. While we do see issues like flakiness in Colombia and even Brazil, at least those girls have the consideration to let you down easy. It seems like in Argentina the girls have a goal to make you feel like shit, at multiple points in the seduction.

2. In the U.S. to upgrade from a 5 or 6 to a 7 takes a marginal amount of work. But in Argentina it’s significantly harder. There are the very cute girls who take quite a bit of time (and luck), and then bangable girls who are similar to Colombians in terms of difficulty. For example, I get looks and approach invitations from 5′s and 6′s all day, but the 7′s and up only look with their peripheral vision, if at all.

3. If the club you’re going to has a web site or can be googled, you shouldn’t go there. Alright that’s an extreme rule, but you don’t want to go to trendy places frequented only by “white” Argentines who think they’re European. Experiment with trashy bars and clubs.

4. Because your first date with an Argentine girl will most likely be with her friends, the appearance of the girl you approach doesn’t matter much because odds are she’ll have at least one cute friend. Argentine girls younger than 30 don’t like doing one-on-one dates right off the bat like in America. So what happens is she invites you out to a big group and then you can play the field and turn on the charm for the girl you really like. Stay on a friendly vibe with the initial girl you met in order to make a painless switch. In other words, don’t lead her on because if she likes you too much then her friends will back off.

On my first day in Cordoba an ugly girl at the mall was eye fucking me. I wanted to practice my Spanish so I opened her, and within five minutes she had my number. She called me later that night and invited me to a birthday party that had many girls cuter than her. There was a sad moment when she realized I didn’t like her, but I was able to meet prettier women that I wouldn’t have otherwise. The girl you approach during the day, for instance, will be merely a gateway to more poon. It’s best to do these day approaches on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, to get invited out later those nights while her feelings for you are still strong. Two downsides to this strategy: (1) You may not like her friends or they may have boyfriends, and (2) Who wants to regularly approach ugly girls?

5. Cordoba has a lot of beautiful girls because of the huge university population, but when you take that away, like I got to see on Easter weekend when the students went home, the locals are of equal beauty to other Argentine cities. What happens is pretty girls from small towns in surrounding states come to Cordoba to study, and then go back to where they came from or move to Buenos Aires afterwards. Cordoba has that wow factor when you go to a club, but most of those girls are under 23 and frankly, not yet ready for the type of easy sexual relationship you probably want. Even doing simple things with them will give you grey hair.

6. Like I described in A Dead Bat In Paraguay while observing my Italian friend Beppe, you can’t escalate on an Argentine girl like you can with Western sluts. You have to be 50% more passive than usual (assuming you’re as aggressive as I’ve taught you), and let the girl do a lot of work, either by messaging you first, inviting you out, or asking you to come to the bathroom to do drugs. The main idea here is for her to initiate the escalation move and then you finish it off.

Unfortunately many Argentine girls will not put in any work, so you’ll get “rejected” when the girl simply does nothing. Pushing the interaction hard or going direct only works on desperate girls (i.e. ugly), and boy do those desperate girls skip out on game playing to get laid! Note this passive type of game is not optimal in Brazil or Colombia. In Argentina you’re punished for being a man who goes about getting what he wants, which is probably why so many Argentine guys are weird and creepy, or have just given up on women completely to devote their lives to rock music and pot smoking. Your best option is to sit there, be cool as fuck, get her laughing, and just hope for the best. In America the game is like a mountain, difficult at times but with a visible goal that is attainable for those who train hard. In Argentina game is like a cloud, impossible to grasp.

I have to put some things in perspective. When I first visited Cordoba, I was coming from the dregs of South America (Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia). I was blown away by the appearance of the women without having the twelve months of experience that I later gained in Colombia and Brazil. While I still think Cordoba has some of the most beautiful women on the continent, they’re pretty lame, insecure, and immature. And even when they get older, a Cordobesa in her late 20′s has the maturity of a Brazilian or Colombian in her early 20′s. Sure their appearance is splendidly feminine, but they are missing the sexy vibe of Brazilian and Colombian women, and definitely the dancing ability of the Brazilians. On the bright side they seem to pick up on sarcastic humor a lot better than other South American women because of their love of American television shows.

7. Many guys told me that once you get an Argentine girl out of her city and social circle, she’ll be much more tolerable. I find this to be the case with two Argentine girls I’ve fooled around with outside of Argentina, one in the U.S. and the other in Brazil. They were very easy to make plans for, hardly flaked, and didn’t play psychosexual games. Therefore it may be easier to get your Argentine flag outside of Argentina. I hear there are a lot of Argentine girls in American ski resorts.

8. Argentina is the only country where the quality I can get is lower than in the United States. I’m talking about a timeline of one or two months. Sure if I lived there forever I’d land some decent girls, but why bother when there’s this big country that starts with a B right next door, where women have healthy attitudes towards sex and like wearing high heels instead of dirty Converse shoes or cheap boots.

9. I don’t want to make it sound like you can’t get laid there—I know tons of guys who have and even a few who got one night stands. But compared to other places, the amount of work you have to put in for something average is insanely high. I’ve never seen a gringo with an Argentine girl who was higher than a 6, which means I’ve never been jealous of something a gringo has pulled. But in Brazil it’s happened a few times.

10. My Argentine lady friend says that once you have sex with an Argentine, the floodgates open, but that’s how it is in Colombia and Brazil as well. Argentine girls think this compensates for their pre-sex craziness, but they obviously haven’t banged girls from other countries. Argentine women are simply not vale la pena (worth the pain) that it takes to get them in bed. Stop by Buenos Aires to get your flag by visiting some lame Irish pubs, where the women are more progressive, older, and speak English, then get the hell out and head to Colombia or Brazil. Honestly even that may be too much of a waste. You miss out on nothing by not banging an Argentine girl. Nothing.

Argentina is a very nice country, but trying to crack their women is a waste of life. I don’t plan on ever returning.

More Posts About Argentine Girls:

• School Of Argentine Girls
• How To Pick Up Argentine Girls (From An Argentine Guy)
• Brazilian Vs. Argentine Vs. American Girls
• Argentine Girls Final Thoughts
• Argentine Girls Final Thoughts (Part 2)

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

It’s insane how beefy Brazilian men are in Rio. It seems like every guy, even those who live in a favela, are either cut or buff. I like to think of myself as confident but I couldn’t help but feel small when walking on the beach upon my most recent visit.

There are pull-up and dip bars all over the place and they’re constantly being used from men of varying socio-economic classes. There are gyms on every block, the most per capita in the world, and they’re all full at peak times. If you are a frail guy coming to Rio, relatively speaking you will look like a scrap of a man. While in the U.S. some girls like that frail hipster look (where muscles would actually rule you out from sex), in Rio that’s not the case. Puny men will have trouble competing with guys who have sexy bodies.

Looking good matched my values, so I took very easily to stepping up my workouts to four times a week. It took about two months until I was no longer among the weakest 50% of men within any club. My diet improved as well, since it’s impossible to workout that often while eating like shit. The result? I become a little cockier, I bought tighter t-shirts, and I got more looks from women. That slightly increased my make-out rate with the shallower carioca girls, who grew up in the beach culture where looks are much more important than being, say, a writer who lives in a shack.

In Rio the baseline male has muscles and there’s no excuse not to have them. How did the culture get like that? How did having muscles become normal? How about America? What’s the new normal there? Well in the States I know that there are actual organizations trying to push fat acceptance. There are trying to make being a burden to society—economically and visually—something that is normal. Feminists are playing their part too, because we know that their corps is mostly composed of dykes who could stand to lose a few dozen pounds.

Looking fat and gross doesn’t match my values, so it becomes very difficult when I did my best to look pleasant and I go inside a bar where 60% of the women are warthogs with short hair who can’t dress well. In fact it’s a serious problem.

While there is a happiness blow that comes from leaving family and friends to live abroad, I think it’s nearly compensated when you’re in a place that better matches your values. It remains a happiness wash until you get old enough where you have no remaining single friends. Then the scale tips and a permanent move abroad may be the winning choice to make. If you don’t agree with the life choices of a majority of your countrymen, then you may need to go somewhere else.

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

Handsome, no?

Looks matter in Brazil, and they matter in a big way. If you have blonde hair, blue eyes, and an above-average appearance, you will have an easy ride. Girls will check you out, invite you to approach them by getting close to you, or just approach you outright.

I remember when my Danish roommate told me the story of how a girl approached him. He rebuffed her by saying he’d chat with her later, and then she approached him again later in the night by grabbing his arm tight, basically begging him to kiss her. That has never happened to me anywhere in the world, and most likely never will.

It’s no surprise that my roommate was not big on approaching (until meeting me, anyway). With his good looks he was never hurting for poon that he had to dive into the trenches and work on his game. So what he did was wait for a girl to check him out before going over to play cigarette game, in addition to maintaining a profile on Brazil Cupid. That’s all the game he really needed in Brazil.

But of course there’s a big catch: I banged about the same quality as him (I like to think better), though he had me beat in quantity. It’s true that I had to work harder by doing far more approaches than him, but by using tighter game, which in Brazil was approaching much more and not being needy, I could get women who were significantly better looking than I’m handsome, while he got girls on the same level as himself.

How do I feel about the extra work I had to put in?

Life sucks! It isn’t fair! Why God, why?!

Though honestly I’m fine with playing the hand that I was dealt, because I know there are a lot of guys in the world who have it worser off than myself (unless you’re a quadriplegic or look like the Elephant Man, you’re still in the game). At the end of the night when me and the Dane were talking about the girls we were banging, I realized the result is the same. If anything, by working harder I’m building a skillset that will stay with me long after our looks fade. The alternative, of crying about it and not getting laid at all, is simply unacceptable.

The Dane and I have become quite good friends (I think I mention him here more than Virgle Kent or Roissy). We have the type of bond where we can openly discuss our strengths and weaknesses, so one day he said to me, “I wish I had your game.”

Without skipping a beat I replied, “I wish I had your looks!”

If he did have my game, he’d be unstoppable, but that will never happen because his results will always be good enough, while on the other hand I’m overcompensating for a youth of zero pussy. He doesn’t have the ache like I do, that while much diminished is still bubbling underneath the surface. Thanks to game, uglier guys like myself can get girls just as hot, or hotter, than a guy who used to be a somewhat famous singer on MTV Europe. No lie.

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

Because verbal game in Brazil not as effective as in the States, the game economy there is mostly built around appearance and confidence. My Danish roommate, who is the exotic ideal for Brazilian women, had to work much less than me for the same result. Now I don’t want to say I get his residual pussy, but it’s happened where girls I’ve preferred gravitated towards his baby blue eyes instead of my common browns.

One night he approached a very pretty girl in a bar and talked to her for maybe ten minutes. He saw her first, liked her first, and approached her first, so there was no ambiguity about who gets her. It’s never happened that a girl he approached went after me, anyway.

Well, there’s a first time for everything.

He introduced me and I made sure to be pleasant but not interesting or funny. It’s just bad form to upstage your wingman by turning on the charm. Instead I worked the monotone and shook hands with a zombie-like expression on my face. But almost instantly she stopped talking to him and started asking me questions. She squeezed him out and began light touches on my arm.

“Hold on one second,” I said to the girl, and turned to the Dane.

“Dude, what’s going on? She’s basically stroking my arm hair like I’m a cat,” I said.

“I know! We just talked a little, but she likes you a lot—you should go for it.”

“Why don’t you work on her a little more?”

“No no she obviously likes you more than me. Just go talk to her don’t worry about me.”

“Are you sure? I feel kind of bad.”

“Shutup, just go.”

I did feel bad. He did all the work and now she’s sucking on my big balls, but his insistence was genuine. There was no point in letting her get away, so I kept talking to her. Soon I become a little curious if this was a looks issue or not. I asked her, “Do you like gringos with beards?”

“Yes, and with big hair.” She looked at my helmet haircut, courtesy of the little scissors on my Swiss Army knife.

“Well I have some good news!!!”

To me this was an automatic kiss, which in Brazil doesn’t say much but still the girl was very decent. A little while later, after getting close enough that we were practically breathing on each other, she asked me how much longer I was staying in Rio.

“Well, ummm, only eight more days.”

“So you’re leaving?”

“Yeah but I’m coming back real soon. I mean…”

She moved away from me and sat down next to her friend, neither saying anything or responding to any sort of bar stimuli. I got the paddles out and… clear! Zzzzzt. Nothing. CLEEEAAAAAR COME ON GOD DAMN IT FIGHT! ZZZZTTTT.

The nurse had to pull me away. Time of death: 12:14 AM. I lost her.

While many Brazilian girls would be down for a one night stand, most are not, especially once you move up in socioeconomic status (the exception is if they happen to be traveling). If you’re only here for a week or two your best bet is to go to Lapa and hook up with a black girl as they will be easiest. Those pretty girls you see in the mall likely won’t open up to you if they know you’re only passing through. Not saying you can’t make it happen, but it’s unlikely.

“I shoulda lied,” I said to the Dane. “But honestly I don’t think I would’ve hit in just a week.”

“Yeah that sucks.”

“Bro you woulda been so mad if you saw me hooking up her! I guess it worked out for the best.”

“No I wouldn’t!”

I gave him a look.

“Alright alright maybe a little.”

“I wouldn’t have minded a little kiss,” I said.

“Yeah me neither.”

“It’s all good man.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

If you don’t put your wingman first, before any woman you may meet, then you shouldn’t be going out with him. The girls won’t respect you if it’s obvious you’re willing to throw your “friend” under the bus for them. Either go out with big love for your boy or go out alone, because no matter what happens you’ll go home with a smile on your face. Both of us lost the Brazilian girl that night, but we each other we had the potential to meet dozens more. And we did.

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

The colonial towns were nice and pleasant but after ten days I was dying to flirt. I went to Belo Horizonte, the state capital. Even though you’ve probably never heard of it before, it’s a huge city with over 5 million people (the third largest in Brazil). While costs are cheaper than Rio, you’ll be spending that much more on taxis to get around if you plan on going out a lot at night.

Thursday Night:

I went alone to Arcadium Bar in the popular Savassi area. They played forro, which is the Brazilian version of salsa with more of a country twist. I think the music is a bit annoying personally, but I didn’t want to leave Brazil without trying it out once. (The New York Times recently wrote an article on forro.)

Turns out it’s exactly like salsa. The girls go there to dance first and kiss second, so you see all these guys who are great forro dancers have their go with a girl until she thanks him and returns back to her friends. There was a lot less hooking up here than I would have expected for a Brazilian nightclub, but on the bright side guys rarely got turned down to dance. It’s a safe place for men who are scared to approach.

I hung out with a group of three girls who taught me a few moves. One girl was into me but she was not very pretty. I talked to a couple others and while they were friendly, my reluctance to dance didn’t help my cause. Overall the quality was not very good, just like you’d expect at a salsa club.

Friday Night:

I met a German guy who had both game and a sense of humor (a first), and we took a 20 minute cab ride to Chalezinho, a club that was recommended by a girl I met the night before (another good club option would have been Swingers Club). We arrived early to try and beat the crowd (11:15), but it was already mobbed. The line for guys was more like a blob. It seemed very hopeless but then I saw a hostess working the girls line with a clipboard.

I said, “Esta é a fila para gringos?” (Is this the line for gringos?)

She looked at me and smiled. “Where are you from?”

“United States!”

“I lived in Salt Lake City for a year.”

Her English was nice, her face even better, and after some small talk I asked her what my German friend and I should do to get in.

“Just hang on I’ll help you out.”

Five minutes later she signaled us to follow her and took us right to the front of the line, bypassing at least 100 guys (“Que isso!” they groaned). I thanked her and she said she’d be inside later, but unfortunately I never saw her again.

The girls were incredibly gorgeous (better than Vitoria, better than Rio, better than Colombia, and better than Córdoba). It was almost a dream to be in the same building with so many beautiful women, the best I’ve ever seen anywhere in South America. I swear you could smell vagina. I was giddy with excitement and did a warm up approach that went fine until the girl asked me how long I was staying.

I find that if a Brazilian girl asks that before you’ve kissed her, and your answer isn’t “I live here,” she will disappear within two minutes about 80% of the time, like this girl did. I did another approach and talked to a 9, which by my standards is close to a 10, but she asked me the same question. Four more times I talked to girls who were digging me, touching me, but would all ditch when they found out I didn’t live in Belo Horizonte. My blonde haired, blue eyed German friend didn’t fair any better (blonde haired wingman in Brazil are like a canary in a coal mine for me—if they can’t pull then I’ll definitely have difficulties).

By 4am I gave up. Perhaps there was a slut in the room that would bang me same night, but after nearly ten tries I didn’t find her. I sat down on a bench and looked over to my right to see an average looking guy kissing what I’d say is my ideal type of girl. Six months of living in Brazil coalesed into that moment and I realized that I too can have that girl. All I had to do was permanently move to Brazil and learn Portuguese.

I’m not getting outpulled by Brazilian guys because they have better game or style than me (definitely not better style)—I’m getting outplayed because I don’t live in Brazil. God knows how many girls I’ve “lost out” on because of that. These guys I see getting with pretty girls simply wouldn’t be able to compete with a gringo who has the permanency, the language ability, and the hyperawareness to make fast game adjustments. By passing through a city for short stints, even staying for a couple months, it’s guaranteed I will not get the most that I’m capable of. This is a downside of travel that gringos must accept. While you can get better quality than back at home, which I did in Rio, it will still be less than if you stayed permanently.

That said, a club like Chalezinho is where dreams are made. Get there before 10:30, take a couple hundred reals, get your Portuguese warmed up as English isn’t too common, and have your brain rewired in a way that makes going to an American club something that sends you into terrible fits of depression. Even though I didn’t get anything, it was one of my most memorable nights in Brazil.

Saturday Night

I went out this night a little pessimistic. Everything would go fine until they asked me that question, and then things would end. My only hope at getting laid was to find a slut, so in order to do that I would have to approach a lot.

The German and I went to the La Cancha sports bar first. Oddly enough almost all the girls wore high heels (I’m not complaining), but they were sitting down in groups. I ran Swingers game on a hostess and told her to meet us at a club downtown. She said she had no friends, but that she would get off of work in ten minutes. The German and I waited outside, agreeing that we’d let her pick which one she wanted to hook up with.

At the club she picked the German. She was cute but nothing to cry over so I went to work on the girls there and by my third approach I found something better: an 18-year-old from Juiz de Fora, another Minas city that I hear has very good night action during the weekend. It took about ten minutes to get some kissy action from her, and then I looked over her to see the German making out with the hostess. All good right? Well unfortunately for me my girl’s brother was there, and he cockblocked me later as I was entering the groping stage of the seduction. I sort of understood.

We were at the club A Obra, which is the Belo Horizonte version of Casa da Matriz in Rio. There were a lot of tatooed freaks with stretched earlobes. I knew I was in the right place because girls were asking me if I was in a band and a fattie walked up to me and stroked my shaggy hair. I had a couple more bites after the cockblock, but ran into the “So how long are you staying here” wall that was beginning to drive me crazy.

It turns out that this was the last night in South America where I’d go all out to score. In Argentina I’ve been unable to conjure up the will that was always with me in Brazil.

Bottom Line:

They say the girls in Belo Horzonte are more traditional (i.e. harder), and while I can’t confirm that because of my short stay, don’t expect it to be easier than Rio. If you have several months to live in Brazil than I’d strongly consider staying here if you’re not crazy about the beach, though understand the city is ugly with nothing special to do. Speaking Portuguese is important because many girls have no English ability. If I come back to Brazil, I plan on spending a lot of time either here, Vitoria, or Porto Alegre. God bless Rio, but I wouldn’t be happiest there.

Belo Horizonte Nightlife Guides: NaBalada and Guia BH

Lodging: Chale Mineiro Hostel ($), Hotel Sao Bento ($$), Hotel Metropole ($$$), and Motel Papillon, an hourly motel for sex located at Rua Rio de Janeiro 639.

More Brazil Guides:

• Minas Gerais Colonial Towns
• Northern Brazil
• Vitória
• Foz do Iguaçu
• Rio de Janeiro

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

Minas Gerais is located in the nortwest of Rio de Janeiro State, and easily accessibly by bus. Known for its cheese, pork, and women, I decided to have a little look before leaving Brazil. I visisted four cities in two weeks.

TIRADENTES

Tiradentes is a tiny colonial town named after a famous dentist freedom fighter (the name translates to “Tooth Puller” in English). It’s located about five hours by bus from Rio.

The town has a big tourist side so you’ll find a lot of cutesy antique, chocolate, and artesanal shops. There is a peaceful little river that snakes by the main square and a tiny coffee shop with only two tables. Street signs cannot be found. The colonial arquitecture, peacefulness, and safety made it seem more like I was in Europe than Brazil, so it’s no surprise that on weekends couples pour in for romantic walks down its stone-lined streets. There are also nearby hiking trails if you’re into that sort of thing.

There is absolutely nothing here for the single man, though it’s a nice break from city life. Come between Sunday through Wednesday for maximum isolation.

If you insist on talking to girls, find a club in the nearby city of São João del Rey. It’s only 30 minutes away by bus, but you’ll probably have to catch a cab back afterwards.

Where to stay? There are a couple dozen pousadas here and I can’t really recommend the one I stayed at due to its horrible foam mattresses. Bargain during weekdays and be sure to make a reservation if you come during the weekend.

OURO PRETO

Four hours away from Tiradentes is Ouro Preto, another colonial town with more arquitectural goodness for your digital camera. There is a large university here so you have more options for girl watching, but I didn’t see anything spectacular. Surprisingly there are tons of fat girls even though the city is incredibly hilly (it’s possible that the fatties I witnessed were tourists).

The city reminds me a bit of Valparaiso, Chile, but smaller, prettier, and safer. On the downside it has very limited nightlife options and is extremely touristy. There is one club near the main square but it’s full of college kids, and the bars are of the sit-down variety. Day trips can be made to other colonial towns nearby with Mariana being your best choice.

Where to stay? I stayed in the Pousada Sao Francisco de Paul, a hostel with rustic private rooms. It’s not particularly good value but it’s close to the bus station so you don’t have to take a taxi.

DIAMANTINA

A ways off in the northern part of the state, Diamantina is another colonial town that receives far less tourists than the others in Minas (except for its Carnival, which is supposedly the best in Brazil). Within ten minutes of arriving I knew it was a special place, and told the taxi driver upon leaving four days later that I’d like to grow old here with my Brazilian wife. It’s safe with a small-town vibe, but during the day streets feel alive with animated people going about their business.

There aren’t many girls but the ones that come out of hiding during the day can be very beautiful. Supposedly there is a university on top of some hill but I didn’t bother to check it out because of my short stay. It’s here that I realized how relative beauty is. Seeing a girl who’s a 6 on the streets got my complete attention, though in Rio I wouldn’t have noticed. That’s actually a problem in cities: you’re surrounded by so much beauty that you don’t want to settle down until you get a bonafide hottie, yet in Diamantina I’d wife up the first 7 that was down. (Is city life constructed to make you less happy when it comes to finding mates?) If I lived in Diamantina and built roots, I’m confident I’d get something very decent.

There is not a whole lot to do here, so come if you want to relax, read, or get some work done without other tourists around. The value here is very good, as food and lodging is the cheapest of the other colonial cities.

Where to stay? I highly recommend Pousada Dos Cristais. For only 70 R$ per night I stayed in a very large room with a balcony. The staff is very friendly and there are two cats.

These colonial towns are great to relax in when you want to get away from the dirty cities, but are horrible for talking to girls. Overall they’re definitely worth a visit.

More Brazil Guides:

• Belo Horizonte
• Northern Brazil
• Vitória
• Foz do Iguaçu
• Rio de Janeiro

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

PREVIOUSLY: Part 3

The line took forever. We were exposed to the São Paulo air, which wasn’t as polluted as so many others made it out to be. Maybe it’s worse at the height of summer. She started talking again and I heard “something something something meu namorado something something.” My boyfriend. Did I hear that right? Yes, I’m sure I did. My brain and ear complex is a scientific instrument that can pick out the word “boyfriend” is about a dozen languages.

“If we don’t see each other again after the flight, make sure you email me.”

“I will.”

But of course I was going to wait for her after we landed. I just didn’t want to tell her that.

The flight was under two hours. I dozed in an out of a light sleep, thinking of her most of the time. When I went to the bathroom in front of the plane I glanced back and saw her hat poking up in a window seat. She seemed to be reading her workbook. It’s happening a lot recently where I think, “She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever talked to,” and I’m not sure if that really is the truth or if my memory is getting more faulty as I age, but at that moment she had the title. Of course I was going to Argentina and who knows who I’d meet there, but to know that my little tentacles were beginning to wrap around this one made me feel… good. I like to think I don’t need validation from women, but our completely innocent two hours together was validating me more than a third of the women I’ve had sex with. I know she’s just another human being, with her own issues, insecurities, and flaws, and that somewhere there is “a guy who is tired of fucking her,” but I wanted the clean shot to be that guy myself.

The plane landed and I walked out of the boarding tunnel and then made a right turn down the hallway and then a U-turn down the escalator. I waited next to a column. I wanted to see the surprise on her face when she caught sight of me after thinking I had left.

For being only nine rows back it seemed to take forever for her to come out. I played with my phone for a bit and then looked up and saw her coming down. We made eye contact and she let out a huge smile, and I smiled back.

“You waited,” she said.

“Yup only for you.”

Three minutes.

“So do you have someone here to pick you up?” I asked.

“No my dad was supposed to but he couldn’t. I will try to call him.”

“So I have to get my bags and check in again with another airline. TAM doesn’t go to Córdoba.”

“Do you have a lot of bags?”

“Only two but they’re insanely heavy. One is a backpack and I think it’s time to get a bag with wheels. But I feel like a strong man when I carry everything on my back. So are these all your bags?” She had one little wheeled suitcase, a plastic bag with the name of a chocolate shop I’ve seen in Rio, a small handbag, and a duffel bag.

“Yeah this is it. I was only in São Paulo for three days.”

“Mmhmm four days for me.”

“When does your flight leave?”

“In a little less than two hours.”

“So you have to check in soon.”

“Yes I guess so.” We had taken slow steps from the escalator and stopped in the middle of the baggage claim hall. Another flight had just been let out and not far off was a large crowd waiting behind the arrivals glass.

Two minutes.

“It’s a shame that we don’t live in the same city.” I said it as earnestly as I possibly could, so she could pick up on what I was really trying to tell her.

“Yes but we’ll keep in touch.”

“Yes but… ” But you know this is it right? How long is our little email conversation gonna go for? One month if we’re lucky. When am I coming back to Porto Alegre? In two years when you’re married, with a kid? Right, we’ll keep in touch.

“Yes we’ll definitely keep in touch,” I said. “And soon you’ll write to me in English.”

“But you have to keep writing in Portuguese to practice.”

“I’ll forget everything by then, though back in the States I know of a couple Brazilian stores. I can go there to say a few words, buy some açaí pulp and guarana syrup to make my own açaí like they do in Rio. I wonder if they have queijo minas too…”

Neither of us broke eye contact. For a second it felt like she was stuck and couldn’t move. I heard the baggage belt begin turning and squeaking.

One minute.

“It was really nice meeting you,” I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

“It’s only one kiss right?”

“Yes, one,” she said.

“But in Rio there’s two. I heard in some parts of France there’s four. That’s a bit much maybe.”

She just looked at me. I noticed my hand was gently holding onto the underside of her left arm, near her elbow. She didn’t move it away.

“Well if I visit Porto Alegre one day you’ll have to be my personal guide.”

“Of course! And if I visit Washington…”

“Of course.”

“Well I guess I have to get my bags now.”

“Yes go ahead. Make sure you email me!”

“I will in a couple days.”

“Okay then.”

“Goodbye.” I squeezed her arm and walked away. Twenty seconds later my mind seizured with doubt and thoughts of what I could have done differently, but by the time I turned around she was gone.

Three days later I sat down to send her an email. She wrote her address in very bad handwriting and I couldn’t make out several characters. I tried a couple combinations, but they all got returned.

—

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

PREVIOUSLY: Part 2

We had been talking for an hour and a half. My Portuguese was losing potency, but by now she was doing most of the speaking. I passed that crucial point where she became comfortable just talking to me about whatever was on her mind. In the moments I blanked she resumed the conversation with questions, observations. I took her talking as an opportunity to just stare into her eyes and imagine things that would never come to pass—just for fun, just to give me a little hope that one day everything is going to perfectly come together with the girl I want in the city I’m living in.

“You told me you’ve been to New York before,” I said.

“Yeah but only for a week. I really liked the city.”

“I think New York is the best city in the U.S. though honestly I haven’t been to a lot of American cities. I’ve been to more places in Brazil.”

“Wow that’s pretty strange.”

“I guess. But there I just don’t have the motivation. I know, say, Boston, is different than Washington D.C., but how much different? In the end I like doing things that are difficult, and going to another American city isn’t. There’s no struggle—it’s just sightseeing and going drinking, meeting people who are similar to ones I’ve already met. I want to learn a new language, a new culture, learn different ways of living. Something about it has to be hard, and Portuguese is definitely very hard.”

“Yes, it is. Did you take a class?”

“I had a tutor in Rio. I studied with her about 15 hours or so. But yeah one day you should come to D.C. We have very nice museums.”

“What else? How is it like living there?”

“Well it’s like Brasilia I guess. You have a lot of politicians and lawyers. It’s a serious city, alright for three days but you’d have more fun living in New York. Besides the museums and a couple cupcake shops there’s nothing else I can really recommend.”

We had to hop on a bus to the boarding gate. I followed her in, finally getting a nice view of her body, and sat down next to her. She’s talking and talking about all sorts of things, and unfortunately I was understanding less as she began speaking faster and using more slang. I would single out a word here or there for her to explain but I let a lot of it go because I didn’t want to disturb the flow of the conversation. Instead I’d do my trick of matching her facial expression towards the end of what she saying so she believed I understood. “This wouldn’t be a problem if we dated,” I thought, “because at fours a day of Portuguese you’d get there in six weeks.” Besides not living in her city, I’d admit to nothing else that would hinder a potential relationship.

I wanted to feel out her interest a bit more. She was talking to me, which was a good sign, but how interested was she? I can’t yet say there were heavy flirtations.

On the bus I made sure not to touch her side while seated next to her. About two minutes in I felt her thigh slightly touching mine. With women there is no such thing as an accidental touch. To accentuate a later joke I touched the top of her knee with my hand for two or three seconds, just to do it. My feelings were mixed, a combination of the pleasure of spending time with her mixed with the emptiness of our inevitable separation, of going to a new country and starting all over again for the third time in a year.

At the time I felt that things were beginning for real, the bus came to a stop next to our airplane. We got out and waited in line on the stairs up to the door. It was a big plane so the odds we’d sit next to each other approached zero.

“What seat are you?” I asked.

“16E.”

“I’m 16D!”

“Really?!”

I looked at her wide open eyes and felt bad for my joke. “No unfortunately not. I’m 6C.” She didn’t laugh, and I told myself I wasn’t going to test her again.

CONTINUED: Part 4

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

PREVIOUSLY: Part 1

“So what do you do?” she asked.

“I’m a farmer. I have a farm in Belo Hor…” I’ll admit it comes across a lot better in the bars. I could tell it was sounding stupid at that moment so I ejected.

“Just kidding I’m a writer.”

“What kind of writer?”

“Right now travel writing. I’m writing a Colombia travel guide for men, like where guys can go out at night and things like that. I lived there for six months before coming to Brazil.”

“Oh cool. Have you written anything else?”

“Yes, a memoir of my previous six month trip through South America. I went to Ecuador, Peru…” Strangely enough I never got around to telling her about my other book.

“What do you do?” I eventually asked.

“I’m an actress.”

“Oh neat. I knew a couple actresses in Rio—they were always telling me about how tough the business is like. Are you a telenovela actress?”

“No, movie actress. I’ve been in three movies.”

What you’re supposed to do is pretend you’re not impressed so she doesn’t think her value is higher than yours. But when you see yourself as an equal to these types of women, which I believe I am, there’s no need to pretend. You congratulate them on their success like you would a good friend on his new promotion at work.

She told me about the movies she stared in and I said, “Good for you that’s very cool. I know it’s not easy to get roles like that, especially in Brazil, which doesn’t have the amount of acting opportunities as in the U.S. You have to write down the names of the movies so that I can watch them when I go back home. There’s this company called Netflix and they always have rare foreign movies.”

She wrote down the movie titles along with her email address.

“I put down my email address too, so we can keep in touch.”

“Great, we can do a little language intercambio. You write in English and I’ll write in Portuguese. Truthfully you’re the only Brazilian I know who doesn’t speak English. I think my Portuguese is weak because I would always speak English in Rio.”

“No your Portuguese is incredible for only staying here four, five months.”

“Thanks! Now I have a secret if you want to speak good English in two months.”

“What is it?”

“Study only four hours a day.”

“Four hours! I can’t do that!”

“Just do one hour when you get up, two hours in the middle of the day, and one hour before you go to bed. It’s easy!”

“That’s too much.”

“Alright I’ll let you get by with only two hours. I’m sure you can do that.”

The interaction was simple and light due to my limited ability to communicate. More than 80% of my game and humor was locked up in my head screaming to get out. Unfortunately it’s not a simple matter of translating word for word, as at least a quarter of what I say in English is composed of slang, idioms, sarcasm, and cultural humor that’s only funny to a Westerner.

Things started to change. For the first 30 minutes we mostly exchanged facts and basic stories, but those stories were getting more complex and frequent joking released more smiles and laughs. If we had been sitting closer I’m sure there’d be more touching as well, but the more I got to know her the more conflicted I felt. I have enough travel experience to know that I will never see her again, but then again I couldn’t end it.

Of course it turned out that we were taking the same flight.

“I know a lot of Americans come here for sex tourism,” I said, thinking about how this was a risky topic without any real upside. “So the stereotype about that is building and every time I meet a Brazilian girl I know it’s in the back of her mind.”

“Just like how there is a stereotype that Brazilian girls are easy and only care about sex.”

“Exactly, thanks to those Carnival pictures from the sambadrome. I think speaking Portuguese has helped me get out of that though. I’m a special gringo!” I added, “When you have really rich countries, and then poor countries, that sort of thing is going to happen. It’s a shame really.”

“Wait they haven’t called our flight yet.” She got up to read the screen. “They changed the boarding gate.”

“If you didn’t check we would have kept talking and missed the flight,” I said, not realizing that that would have been the best possible outcome for me.

We walked to another gate and waited behind a crowd of people. She was holding her English workbook and I took a look at it. She completed exercises in the present tense, with pencil-written sentences like “I like the music” and “Where is the apple?” I asked her to say a few words in English to hear her accent, and it was as cute as I had imagined.

CONTINUED: Part 3

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.

A lot of people want to meet models, bang models, marry models, but that tells me they haven’t met models. They are boring and not even that much prettier than your average club rat once you remove the creative makeup and expensive clothing. Actresses on the other hand, while not having that “wow” factor when they’re done up, are smarter with better social skills, and they’re less likely to abuse drugs and have serious daddy issues. If you think about what an actress has to do in the course of her career, she has to be at least a little bubbly, interesting, and charming.

My last day in Brazil (São Paulo) I had a flight connection in Porto Alegre on my way to Córdoba, Argentina. The previous few nights I went out and talked to girls but it was so futile because they kept asking me how long I was staying in the country. Obviously my answer was unsatisfactory to them. For that reason I didn’t want to meet any more Brazilian girls.

I checked in my luggage and sat in front of the gate, two chairs next to a random girl wearing a fedora. I couldn’t see her face but didn’t care—I didn’t want to talk to anyone. It would be pointless.

I could’ve taken out my Spanish notecards, or listened to a couple Spanish podcasts on my shitty mp3 player, but I was tired from the previous night and in no mood to concentrate. I went out drinking with my former Danish roommate, who had moved to São Paulo weeks prior and was wrapping up his time in the country as well, racking up a couple more notches in the process.

I stared straight ahead at the gate when I felt eyes at me, kind of like when I feel a television is turned on in the next room. Very slowly I turned to my left and made eye contact with the girl. She held it for only half a second before snapping her head back down into some thick workbook, but I saw enough: she was stunning. Her face was as close to perfection as you can imagine, almost as if it was touched up by a photoshop artist. She had Brazilian tan skin, shoulder length black hair, and a handful of freckles behind a light coating of makeup that I wouldn’t have noticed had it not been for the fluorescent lighting. Her body was petite yet curvy, as I would find out later. My heart started beating faster and I forget that I was tired and I forgot that I wasn’t going to talk to any more Brazilian girls.

For as much as I travel it’s surprisingly rare how often I sit next to a pretty girl on a flight, long distance bus, or any sort of waiting area. The last time it happened was six months ago in Colombia when I was on my way out. I sat next to a girl from Bogotá on the commuter bus to the airport and continued the conversation at an airport café before finally saying goodbye. That girl was cute but this one was very different.

What could I ask her… where’s the bathroom? What does “desembarque” mean? Do they allow smoking on Brazilian flights? All awful.

“I like your hat…”

Her eyes flickered but she didn’t turn her head.

“…I have one just like it.”

She finally turned around and looked down, shaking her head while slightly pursing her lips, which in so many words told me she didn’t understand English. So I said it in Portuguese, along with the rest of our conversation.

“Really?” she said.

“Yup it’s in my house somewhere, I think…” No chance she picked up on the sarcasm. “I spoke in English because it looks like that’s what you’re studying.”

“Yes I am but it’s very basic. I just started taking classes.”

“Well I happen to speak English very well. You can practice if you want. My Portuguese is pretty bad.”

“No, no your Portuguese is very good. Where are you from?”

Even though I do value beauty, I’ve talked and slept with enough beautiful women in my life that it’s no big deal. It doesn’t show that I care that she’s gorgeous. It’s like I’m talking to my cousin, or a little old lady. In fact I show more eager body language when I’m talking to a little old lady because I want them to think I’m interested in what they have to say.

Two things usually happen, and I was braced for both. First, I was going to run out of “good” Portuguese, meaning all my interesting little quips and what not would be used up and then Awkward Silence City (Pop. 2) would tear me up inside. That usually takes about 10-30 minutes, depending on how talkative the girl is. Second, she was going to ask me how long I was staying in Brazil, and then a minute or two later the conversation would come to an end.

Neither happened. Not only did the gods give me a Portuguese power-up boost to keep talking (it was my final exam, I suppose), but she didn’t mind that I was only in her country for a few more hours. It seemed like she genuinely wanted to get to know me.

Part of me wanted to know why. I think I’m an interesting guy, but here’s a girl who can have her pick of whomever she wanted, and is engaging this gringo who is leaving the country. What can I offer her? Am I being insecure? How can this be explained?

Sometimes it can’t. Sometimes things that don’t match up at all on paper have a life of its own when played out in the flesh. We had a connection, and even though I didn’t understand what she was saying all the time, our conversation was moving and we were getting to know each other.

CONTINUED: Part 2

P.S. My second book is called A Dead Bat In Paraguay and is now out in paperback or eBook. Described as "honest," "fearless," and "inspiring," it's a 262 page fast-paced memoir of when I quit my job and tried to bang my way across South America. Check out its home page for a video introduction.