Puppetry of the Parsimonious

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In a small town in Brazil there’s a puppet show that’s recommended by locals and visitors alike with a fervor typically reserved for things like oxygen. Though not a single one of these enthusiasts ever managed to describe its content, style, or even so much as its duration, their zeal had me psyched up to slice myself in the knee-pit for a ticket (if necessary). And I might have done that if only it were an option: tickets to the fabled puppet show cost the Brazilian equivalent of ten dollars, and it was seven weeks until my flight home from Rio de Janeiro, and humans have to eat to stay alive, and what am I, a millionaire? I had won this trip in a goddamned raffle, for criminy. I consequently opted for an evening that was cheaper and, clearly, more forgettable. I think it might have involved a German from Miami.

Seven weeks later, I still had ten dollars left. I probably had twenty. I could have seen the puppet show twice and been just as broke.

It’s been six years since that incident and the lesson I gleaned was “If you’re going to be broke anyway, you might as well see the fucking puppet show, you cheap asshole.” The itinerary for the remainder of 2012 includes the United Kingdom, Ireland, France, Morocco, Croatia, Turkey, South Africa, let’s just throw Asia in there, how about Australia if there's time, and parts in between -- or perhaps I’ll just call it what it is: A Tour of the Former Supercontinent of Pangea (or Thereabouts).

My money is saved. My arms are inoculated. My apartment is empty. My first stop is Boston.

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Photos

Sweet Home Chicago
Not pictured: tumbleweed.