Rio

We landed shortly after six. The sun had already set and so we were sent to scurry through Santos Dumont airport in search of a cab. One of the few pieces of advice I had been given by colleagues currently living in Rio de Janeiro was bypass the press of cabbies trying to hustle you before you get to the taxi stand and go straight to the street which is what we did.

I had seen pictures of the Rio cityscape before so had an idea of what it would look like, but anytime you arrive somewhere new by night, its true form remains a mystery until the next morning. As we drove the streets of Rio by night, from the airport to our hotel in Ipanema, the city looked like any other city, roads, building and bright orange street lights like those in Brasilia, much more orange than street lights in the U.S. and much less expansive, their glow localized to a small orb that barely lit a few square feet of sidewalk. As we drove the streets of Rio by night it looked like any other city until we saw him, a burst of light between two skyscrapers as bright as a camera flash and silver like moonlight, Christ the Redeemer. I had no idea he would be that bright and the first time I saw him reminded me of the first time Elise and I saw the Eiffel Tower sparkle like a thousand paparazzi flashbulbs popping. It was that magical.

We checked into our hotel, threw our bags on the bed and immediately headed downstairs. Our hotel conveniently and not-so-coincidentally was directly upstairs from Devassa, a chopperia. We quickly downed a few India IPAs and off into the cool winter night (by Rio’s standards) for Zazá Tropical Bistrô.

In Rio, it truly feels as though the jungle grew around the city or the opposite. Giant trees line the streets, palms poke through and crack the sidewalks everywhere and vines hang in front of shop fronts and bars. We disappeared into the darkness, remerging a few blocks away, in front of an old colonial house, bright robin’s egg-blue under the streetlights, decorative wrought iron bars on the windows, screened door on the porch and multi-colored Christmas lights draped over the railing. We were taken upstairs, asked in Portuguese to remove our shoes and padded across a lush shag carpet to a table that was no more than a few inches off the floor. We slid into a low booth next to each other and a window and were soon sipping red wine, romantically tucked into one another like two pieces from a jigsaw puzzle. Woodwork fairies with plastic wings hung from the stucco ceiling and carried small, airplane bottles of Absolut through the air.

The next morning, Rio revealed itself. We were two blocks from the sea, but the mountains appeared and we could spy a sliver of ocean between the balconies of two buildings. We hurried, saving showering for later when we knew we would have to rinse salt from our skin. We hailed a cab and were driven by Lagoa, and sunlight streamed through the palms and twinkled off the surface of the lake. Joggers made circuits of the perimeter, as did bicycles and baby strollers, in front of apartment buildings in front of mountains in front of a cloudless deep blue sky.

At Cosme Velho train station we breakfasted on pão de queijo as we waited for the cog train to take us up to Corcovado and Christ the Redeemer. Fortunately or unfortunately, pão de queijo is ubiquitous in Brazil. A colleague of mine recently commented that there are some days that he feels as though he couldn’t stand to eat another pão de queijo, warm fluffy balls of dough around a gooey cheese core, and that there are other days he feels as though he can’t get enough. This trip, Elise and I definitely couldn’t get enough and were eating them wherever we could get them, the airport, the train station, off the street.

That morning, on Corcovado, something kept happening to trump the amazing thing that had just preceded it. We took the train forty-five degrees straight up into the jungle. Soon a samba band started playing. Then, the train stopped and the conductor got out to look at a coatimundi curled up in the trees. At the top of Corcovado, an ultra-light buzzed our heads, threatening to fall from the sky, and helicopters swooped in so close, I thought Christ was going to reach out and pluck one straight from the air. Monkeys bounded about in search of cookies. They were very well-fed monkeys and certainly soon to be diabetic.

We took the train down from Corcovado and hopped into a cab headed for Leblon Shopping…and Starbucks! As I have written before, Starbucks holds a special place in our hearts for many reasons, and the opportunity to go to Starbucks after 6 months without was too good to resist. We added a Rio mug to our ever-growing collection of Starbucks mugs from all the places we have lived or visited. I ordered a java chip frappacino. Elise ordered a vanilla latte. Ordering Starbucks in Portuguese is even trickier than ordering in English. Whereas ordering Starbucks in English is already a multi-lingual exercise combining English with Italian (“Venti”) and French (“Café au Lait”), ordering Starbucks in Portuguese throws a fourth language in the mix. I soon discovered that cake-pops in Portuguese are, “cak-ee pop-ee-s” (they were for Sam, but were poor substitutes for his beloved sprinks donuts). Also, it was easier just to leave off the many qualifiers that Elise and I usually use since I don’t know how to say “skim milk” in Portuguese (“leite light-ee”?) or “frappacino with an extra shot of espresso”. I even forgot to ask for the frappacino without whipped cream, but since it is probably the only frappacino I would have all year, I let it go and tried not to feel too much like Britney Spears.

We ran back to the hotel to change into our bathing suits and skipped to Ipanema beach. We immediately stood out. Not because Elise or I don’t look Brazilian, but we definitely weren’t dressed for the beach like your typical Cariocas (slang for Rio-dwellers). I didn’t have a sunga (“speedo” or “banana-hammock” in American English) and Elise didn’t have a bikini. We lounged among the natives, quickly learning why the beach is the social nexus of Rio. I plunged into the Atlantic. Elise curled her toes in the too-perfect sand, sand the texture of talcum powder.

As the sun started to duck behind condos, a happy hour snack was in order and we shared a plate of fried fish and two ice-cold cans of Bohemia beachside from one of the many quiosques lining the sand, ready to rehydrate the masses. The proprietor of the quiosque proudly displayed his English proficiency as he convinced us that his fish was the best fried fish…not in Rio…not in Brazil…in the WORLD. He was very nearly correct.

Saturday evening, I had grand plans of taking Elise up to Santa Teresa, a bohemia neighborhood in the hills above Botafogo, for dinner in a restaurant with views of Pão de Açucar from tables nestled in tree houses, but the last thing either of us wanted to do at this point was climb into another cab. I go into so much detail here so as to whet Elise’s appetite for the next time we are in Rio. Trust me. There will be a next time. Elise just about signed me up to process visas at the consulate on the spot. If nothing else, we now know I can use our Portuguese to bid Rio in the future.

Instead, we did what Elise and I do best, wander until we find someplace sufficiently cool. That place was ¡Venga!, a Spanish tapas bar. I tried my first Estrella, a Spanish beer, which was more than adequate. Now I know if we ever go to Madrid or Barcelona, I won’t go thirsty.

Sadly, our adventure had to come to end, our batteries recharged, our bellies full, our romance rekindled (as if the flame had ever suffered), and I will not soon forget my lips on her curls or my beard on her shoulder, smelling her and the ocean at the same time and remembering how lucky we are.