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Last Night in Rio

I woke up the next afternoon before the sun went down. I'd made a choice after the beginning of the trip, and realized late parties would prevent any chance of appreciating Rio under the sun. I missed breakfasts, lunches, and all of the basics most people enjoy during daylight.

I opened the mini-fridge in the apartment, found only water, juice, and crackers—no beer. For once, I felt relief finding the fridge without beer. We had partied the past ten nights and early mornings. Time to slow down and soak in the city. The guys collected without many words until I asked if I missed anything after leaving the esplanade the night before—no, wait, that morning, or . . . damn, head hurts. Where the fuck are my shades?

Wondering aloud what to do the last night of the trip, the boys handed it over to me. Your choice, Ari, lead the way. Step one—sandals, wallets, and keys. Step two—hand our room keys to the staff at the front desk with a casual nod and smile. Pointless to say good morning at sunset. Step three—quick stop at the store across the street to grab a big bottle of water for a walk to Copacabana. We'd already begun strolling downhill, so gravity narrated the rest of the tale for the evening.

Just stroll with the flow downhill, and we were pulled right back to our regular locations. We headed straight to the same terrace of the same restaurant, with the same professionals pulling out chairs and arranging a table for us. Don't recall what the other dudes ordered, but I asked the waiters for suggestions along the line of mariscos, and dined on fruits of the sea I'd never seen, studied, nor dreamed. I thought about one last caipirinha, but no need for that. Just beer, sangría, and water sufficed.

A special peace settled on the streets and beach of Copacabana that evening. No hurry, I just wanted to soak it all in. Skipping dessert and coffee, we strolled across the street to our regular baizharinha. I would hesitate to label us regulars, since we only visited the location for ten days and nights. The people offering service and the locals hanging out alongside made us feel like we were sharing a community living room.

Then the band appeared. Never noticed them setting up, only felt the drums and heard the guitar strings. I wondered aloud if someone had a good stereo in a taxi passing by. Then I wondered aloud if it was an axè, or one of the other Brazilian genres I noticed in a local music paper. Then Doug asked why I always wonder aloud.

The rhythm, the melody, the tune, and the atmosphere all felt exactly like what I expected for a Rio experience. This was why we ran around the town in a taxi trying to hunt down the spots we discovered in every travel book, rumor, and website. All along we had no need to hunt for anything. We only had to wait patiently, take it easy, and Rio brought us what we wanted.

The bossa nova hippies played on, and we chatted with one of the dudes who was picking up cans for income. I asked if he could drink on the job, and he laughed. So I bought him a beer. The one musician who played some funky mix of bossa nova and reggae handed his guitar to the sound man. He walked right over to us and smacked hands with a snap and a knock. We stood stage left, so he probably had a good view of us kicking back and digging his music for real, something unique and forceful we'd never experienced, but which we knew waited for us in Rio.

Sabrina, our favorite waitress, laughed at us travelers trying to revel in the local cool. The soundman took the stage, and the locals began shouting out requests. The guy looked like a generic middle-class old guy who would fit in better on an American softball team. He fomented the emotion of the people as they all danced and sang along with the music of their lives. I had no idea if he played standards or modern hits of bossa nova or folk songs, but the people enjoyed the vibe, and we felt good.

But the musicians could not play forever, and we could not stay much longer. We had plane tickets and stupid jobs back home. We were travelers, picking out our clichés of choice. The band possibly moved down the beach to play for another crowd of revelers, or simply headed home. Sabrina sat down with us after the crowd left, and shared some details about her life. She lived alone, somewhere in the favelas. All of her family lived back in the nordeste, Northeast of Brazil. I forget what town or state she mentioned, but knew it must have been more remote than Recife or Salvador d'Bahia.

I expressed my emotions as best I could, and the boys encouraged me. I said no way, not cool. But these cats have a pact to indoctrinate new friends into their fold by pushing them into doing something out of the usual mode. Egan, Doug, and Steve built an Egyptian personhood of sorts while in school in Colorado. They choose hieroglyphs rather than Greek letters in order to differentiate themselves from the frats and sors—fish-eye-guy going like that. . .

Feeling bitter, I took the push and asked Sabrina out for a dance after she checked out of work that night. She told me she was only going home to sleep alone, so nothing was going to happen. Unhappy getting pushed into that corner spotlight, I wondered aloud for another round of beer. Nobody refused, so we enjoyed our last white sunrise in Rio. I'd traveled there looking for nothing less than an epiphany, a life changing experience in a legendary city, maybe meet a woman made of dreams.

I must admit I fell in love with one of the Finns we met on Copacabana the sunrise of Ash Wednesday. I moved to Helsinki the next year, and eventually met my Finnish family I had never had much contact with previously. The relationship did not work out, but my life in Helsinki goes on. I have my friends, family, and contact with the planet Earth I could never feel in California. I now have certified world citizenship. I demanded a life changing experience from Rio, and she delivered as promised. Blame it on Rio, baby—she can make it all dance.

Labels: brazil, copacabana, rio, travel

posted by Gabacho Chingón @ 11:47 AM