Of all the locations I’ve set out to write about in these travel posts, Rio de Janeiro has been the most daunting. And it's not just that I have some sense of duty to the city, to "do it justice." It’s simply impossible to talk about Rio without saying something that’s already been said by someone, somewhere.
For centuries, explorers have praised its natural beauty—pristine waves swimming against the ancient stone mounds that make up the iconic coastline, the curves of the bay (which, once mistaken for a river, earned the city its permanent name). And long before the arrival of the Portuguese, “indios” (so called, to this day, because of another hemisphere-sized misnomer) told stories of how those miraculous formations came to be.
For decades, too, its beaches—with names so sonorous they beg to be written into poems and songs—have served as the setting for some of Brazil’s most widely appreciated culture. (Seriously. Just try saying “Ipanema” out loud, or “Copacabana,” whose name is a poem in itself.) Rio de Janeiro is responsible for the only Brazilian song you probably know. Don’t think you know one? Think of a movie scene where two people in an elevator awkwardly don’t talk to each other. The song that’s playing in the background—the softly-swinging lounge tune sung by a beautiful-sounding woman—is “Garota de Ipanema,” or “The Girl from Ipanema.”
But it doesn’t take much time or effort to realize that Rio isn’t just an infinite boardwalk patterned in undulating black and white waves of stones, overlooking hundreds of golden bodies illuminated by an eternal sunset. While Rio’s postcard face of bossa nova, baía, and bunda certainly represents Rio to the world, it’s a small fraction of the cities diverse realities.
The rest of Rio that I experienced in the very short time I was there seemed a bit like the off-hours of the life of a stage performer: still eccentric, but decidedly less glittery, and while still interesting on its own terms, surprisingly normal. Even quite ugly in a lot of ways, but not without its own authentic, unrehearsed beauty, too.
There are several reasons I’ve never been perfectly happy with my uptown high-rise living situation in Belém. But the opportunity to live in one of Rio’s favelas during my brief time there really rubbed the sunburn of regret over having signed a nine-month contract in a finely-furnished apartment that feels so disconnected from the life of the world.
One of the best parts of the week and a half in Rio was Josh, a fellow American and friend who had been living in Rio for the last year and a half or so (he recently finished his Masters and returned to the States). A highlight moment: sitting on a formation overlooking the bay and watching the sun go down behind Christ the Redeemer while sharing a fifteen-year-old bottle of wine. The probably-Portuguese man we bought it from admitted it was probably so cheap (about eight dollars, I believe) because it had been sitting on the shelf for the last fifteen years, and offered to refund it if we hated it. It was absolutely excellent, and inspired the question "Who were you fifteen years ago?" which took care of about fifteen years' worth of counseling sessions either of us had been missing out on. It was unbelievably refreshing to spend so much time with someone who sees eye-to-eye about Jesus, poverty, wealth, disparity, and Brazil. Josh was an invaluable guide and mentor, making an effort to connect me with people, places, and information that might help my efforts in potentially moving to Rio in 2015.
I'll be the first to admit, I left plenty of things in Rio undone: actually visiting the Christ the Redeemer statue, finishing the trip up to the larger Pão de Açúcar, the Cartola samba museum—plenty. I'm not even remotely concerned, though; I'm confident I'll be back someday—and likely sooner rather than later.
For centuries, explorers have praised its natural beauty—pristine waves swimming against the ancient stone mounds that make up the iconic coastline, the curves of the bay (which, once mistaken for a river, earned the city its permanent name). And long before the arrival of the Portuguese, “indios” (so called, to this day, because of another hemisphere-sized misnomer) told stories of how those miraculous formations came to be.
For decades, too, its beaches—with names so sonorous they beg to be written into poems and songs—have served as the setting for some of Brazil’s most widely appreciated culture. (Seriously. Just try saying “Ipanema” out loud, or “Copacabana,” whose name is a poem in itself.) Rio de Janeiro is responsible for the only Brazilian song you probably know. Don’t think you know one? Think of a movie scene where two people in an elevator awkwardly don’t talk to each other. The song that’s playing in the background—the softly-swinging lounge tune sung by a beautiful-sounding woman—is “Garota de Ipanema,” or “The Girl from Ipanema.”
But it doesn’t take much time or effort to realize that Rio isn’t just an infinite boardwalk patterned in undulating black and white waves of stones, overlooking hundreds of golden bodies illuminated by an eternal sunset. While Rio’s postcard face of bossa nova, baía, and bunda certainly represents Rio to the world, it’s a small fraction of the cities diverse realities.
The rest of Rio that I experienced in the very short time I was there seemed a bit like the off-hours of the life of a stage performer: still eccentric, but decidedly less glittery, and while still interesting on its own terms, surprisingly normal. Even quite ugly in a lot of ways, but not without its own authentic, unrehearsed beauty, too.
There are several reasons I’ve never been perfectly happy with my uptown high-rise living situation in Belém. But the opportunity to live in one of Rio’s favelas during my brief time there really rubbed the sunburn of regret over having signed a nine-month contract in a finely-furnished apartment that feels so disconnected from the life of the world.
One of the best parts of the week and a half in Rio was Josh, a fellow American and friend who had been living in Rio for the last year and a half or so (he recently finished his Masters and returned to the States). A highlight moment: sitting on a formation overlooking the bay and watching the sun go down behind Christ the Redeemer while sharing a fifteen-year-old bottle of wine. The probably-Portuguese man we bought it from admitted it was probably so cheap (about eight dollars, I believe) because it had been sitting on the shelf for the last fifteen years, and offered to refund it if we hated it. It was absolutely excellent, and inspired the question "Who were you fifteen years ago?" which took care of about fifteen years' worth of counseling sessions either of us had been missing out on. It was unbelievably refreshing to spend so much time with someone who sees eye-to-eye about Jesus, poverty, wealth, disparity, and Brazil. Josh was an invaluable guide and mentor, making an effort to connect me with people, places, and information that might help my efforts in potentially moving to Rio in 2015.
I'll be the first to admit, I left plenty of things in Rio undone: actually visiting the Christ the Redeemer statue, finishing the trip up to the larger Pão de Açúcar, the Cartola samba museum—plenty. I'm not even remotely concerned, though; I'm confident I'll be back someday—and likely sooner rather than later.