The Girl from Ipanema

It is amazing what an extended bout of trichinosis can do for a woman's self-esteem.

I've spent the past few days walking around half naked on Ipanema Beach in Rio, and all I can say is, "Thank You, Gulu." Between the mosquitoes that drained half my blood and the mass quantities of pork I consumed to keep a minimal level of protein going on in my body, I finally feel confident enough to wear a bikini. At least the top part. My ass is still "Missing In Action."

I gotta tell you, I TOTALLY feel like "The Girl from Ipanema." I feel like the hottest thing since Jalapeno sauce. I feel beautiful, and strong, and confident, and ALIVE.

Maybe it's because I survived 8 months in Gulu. Maybe it's because today is the 4 month anniversary of my sister's passing. Maybe it's because I'm staying at my brother Peter's fully furnished, completely SWEET condo near the beach with my best friend Faith and another friend Jamila, and Jamila is a gourmet cook, and I've been eating pain perdu with fresh macerated peaches and spinach and chicken crepes for breakfast every day. Or maybe it's because for the first time in a long time, I feel HAPPY, and I don't feel like I need a reason to be happy, or that maybe I should apologize for feeling confident and at peace.

Whatever. One thing I know for sure after 3 days in Rio...there is no problem so huge and insurmountable that putting on a skimpy bikini top, thrusting your titties out and strolling along a beach can't solve. Especially if you do it in Rio. Granted, 90 percent of the men and women here are Amazons, which could really mess with your head if you let it. I mean, it's like cellulite and beer guts are punishable by 25 years to life down here.

But that other 10 percent? I've seen some nipples dragging their own trail in the sand these past few days. I've seen men with so many wrinkles and hide so leathery, they look like alligator suitcases with legs. I've seen some things most people should not have to witness, unless they're being punished for some unspeakable crime.

Yet I've seen those things tied into thongs, draped by bandeau tops, stuffed into speedos, and hiked into booty shorts, and strutting down the beach as bold and bad as you please. After a couple of hours, I started to feel like Halle Berry. No, I take that back. I started to feel like Rachel Jones, and that Rachel Jones was perfectly fine just the way she was.

So, a hearty "Bom Gia" to you all! I'll try to post a picture of me on the beach later today. I almost didn't recognize myself when I saw it. I've never seen myself look so much like myself before.