Truth in Advertising
I still wonder why I avoided this story for so long. Yeah, I paid for it. Perhaps I did it without hesitation, blaming the
caipirinhas, and giving in to the fact that I was no don magic casanova juan. To tell the truth, I can't remember where the deal went down, except that it was a posh hotel, where the front desk handled the transaction with my visa quite rapidly. My credit card statement came back with the hotel restaurant as the location billed. As if I would let my wife look at my finances.
Can't remember her name, but I do recall her kisses meant everything. But she could not fuck with passion. So I blew up one cliché, and built a new one. Maybe she was a turn-and-burn type of service provider, not necessarily keeping the kitchen open until a potential regular customer is good and ready to complete a fine dining experience after coffee. She had an excellent marketing strategy, yet finished poorly on delivering the service. A good way to turn-and-burn, yet a horrible technique to maintaining regular clientèle.
As I return to focus, this all happened outside the discoteca HELP, after closing down, when we returned to the beach after the Sambadrome. Once again, I understood why the club picked such a cheesy moniker. They advertise what they serve.
So what did we do next? I believe the clock struck 9:00 already, and the morning sun cooked my corneas well. Again, forgot to purchase sunglasses at the bazaar the night before, and the vendors would not return until later. They need some sleep as well, and I figured that to be a good idea.
Egan could tell you how I missed out on an escapade to one of the greater wonders of Rio, but as I figured later, 'twas better to leave something untouched, so that Rio would call me back someday. Hey, Egan, help me out here. Am I thinking about the same morning, or was this after Ash Wednesday? I cannot recall too well, since I break the fast of Lent on the first day every year. I just became so confused by all of the joggers, surfers, and sun worshipers populating the beach. I wondered how we could enjoy the rest of our holiday, exhausted. I hoped Rio would give us something different to help germinate the epiphany.
The Sambadrome
The truth is, I forced everyone to attend the samba parade. I can admit that now. We were undecided about going until taking a cab to the Sambadrome Sunday night to look around. The parade runs for two days, divided between Sunday and Monday, so we had an opportunity to observe the spectacle from outside the stadium. The chaotic scene we witnessed—part Bourbon
Street and part fall of Saigon—sealed the deal for me. I told the group we were going to the parade the next night—money be damned. And to squash any protests I offered to pay for anyone who didn’t have the cash. Tickets were said to run from two-hundred to two thousand dollars, but I didn’t care how much it cost. This was the central event of the biggest party in the world and I wasn’t going to miss it.
Back at our apartment house later that night, Ari asked the doorman to find tickets for us. This is not the recommended method, especially when the admission is rather exorbitant and the scalpers are rather shady (they ask for payment and bring you tickets later, presumably because they don’t have sufficient cash in the kitty to buy them beforehand). But I had the money to throw away—partially because I’d broken my key off in the room safe the previous day and was denied access to my cash on what would otherwise have been the most expensive night of the trip (at Discoteca Help, which Ari discussed earlier). So we shelled out the
reais and our scalper showed up the next evening with four embossed tickets to the Sambadrome.
An insightful friend of mine once said of a completely different event—Formula 1 racing—that it is a unique experience in that it overloads all the senses. For the ears there is the roar of engines; for the eyes there is the spectacle, the banners, the crowd; for touch, there is the vibration of the cars roaring past. Lots of experiences tease those three senses. But Formula 1 engages tongue and nose with its pervasive petrol fumes, which can be both smelt and tasted. The best experiences, such as races and concerts, overstimulate all five senses. The samba parade qualifies also. There is noise and spectacle and vibration. And the taste and smell are not petrol, but fireworks and booze.
The Sambadrome is a marvel. Think of the grandstand at Churchill Downs, but elongate it by ten times. Or picture a football stadium where the field is normal width but half a mile long. The Sambadrome was once a street, but was long ago enclosed by concrete bleachers on both sides. These bleachers seemed to extend to either horizon. We had fretted about which section our seats would be in. We thought we’d end up far from the action because we'd relied upon a scalper. But you can’t
end up far from the action in an arena whose floor is only fifty yards wide. Still, some seats are more desirable than others because they are closer to the judges boxes, where the samba schools stage the key parts of their performances in order to impress the panel. We got lucky. Our section was across from the judges boxes—our scalper had gotten us five-hundred dollar seats.
It is impossible to describe the majesty of the carnival floats. They are much larger than they appear in photos—most of them are three stories high. And there seemed to be no limit to the themes encompassed in their construction. One described fertility and harvest, and had four waterfalls on it. I don’t mean trickles, like from a fountain—I mean waterfalls. Another was a Spanish galleon with working oars. Many had moving parts—platforms that rotated with glitter-clad dancers atop, sculpted beasts that spun, devices that rose and lowered. The whole of these floats shook and bounced as their occupants danced and the music throbbed.
Each float was surrounded by throngs of dancers garbed in regalia that weighed up to fifty pounds. They danced and spun and paced the float as it moved along the length of parade grounds, continuing for up to an hour non-stop. Oftentimes dancers collapsed from exhaustion and medics sprinted from the sidelines and heaved the prostrate figure onto a stretcher. Then the ranks of the samba school closed and it was as if nothing had happened to disrupt the flow of the party. The party had to continue at all costs—that was clear.
The same songs we’d been hearing in the streets all week were now being performed live by hundreds of musicians. Most of the lyrics described adventures related to sex, love, and
cachaca—the local cane rum. The parade had begun at sundown, and around eleven I handed out the ecstasy I’d brought. Did I forget to mention that? Well, it wasn’t much—about ten doses. Doug had never done it, and was dubious but willing. Ari passed—not his bag at all. Steve was game, as always. Three of us dropped.
The parade got louder and crazier. It seemed like a million people were dancing and sweating and singing. There was no strife, no hate, no barriers between the thousands of participants. We were individual cells that had merged into a single organism, with a single consciousness. It was the most supremely inspiring moment of my life. We met a group of Japanese girls nearby. We met Scandinavians, Mexicans, Australians—all flushed with excitement, staggeringly drunk, and so insanely jubilant I wouldn't have been surprised to see them launch into the night sky like rockets. The entire planet was dancing. Half an hour after I’d given Doug his pill, he looked at me—wild-eyed, sweaty, generally hyperactive—and said: “I don’t feel anything.”
I nudged Steve: “Did you hear that?”
Steve smirked: “Ten minutes, max.”
Ten minutes later Doug threw his arm around my shoulders. “I feel
woooonderful.”
The parade lasted until dawn, but thousands left before then, exhausted. We didn’t leave because I wouldn’t allow it. My rationale: “I did not come all the way to Rio to say I left before it ended.” We stayed until the end, and staggered out as the sun rose, whereupon we were treated to a marvelous spectacle. The thousands of samba dancers, after a night of wearing their heavy costumes, had simply shucked them after their performances. The streets were littered with samba costumes.
Steve and Doug donned golden wings within seconds; I chose something I couldn’t wear, but which seemed to call to me from amidst all the scattered regalia—a gigantic golden bull’s head, which I immediately named Baal. We cabbed back to Copacabana and Steve, still bewinged, began blessing everyone he came across with: “
Domus onum, domus onum,” which I think is from a Monty Python skit. Doug crossed paths with a wandering hooker and got himself a blowjob on the beach. Unfortunately, his tryst was interrupted by the cops. But nothing could dampen his mood after the parade and the X, and he seemed blissful as escorted the girl back to us (pictured—note the wings) for introductions.
The sun was fully up now, casting bright white light on what was to be—I didn’t know at the time—the craziest morning in Rio yet.
I still wonder why I avoided this story for so long. Yeah, I paid for it. Perhaps I did it without hesitation, blaming the caipirinhas, and giving in to the fact that I was no don magic casanova juan. To tell the truth, I can't remember where the deal went down, except that it was a posh hotel, where the front desk handled the transaction with my visa quite rapidly. My credit card statement came back with the hotel restaurant as the location billed. As if I would let my wife look at my finances.
