The River of January

The beauty of Brazil, Rio de Janiero, was built up by billionaires, bomb-shelled by poverty-driven crimes, and populated with the entire spectrum of humanity: slum lords to silver spoons. It's pretty crazy, I guess is what I'm saying.

Our Boeing 747 hovered over the unquestionable wonder of the world. Its landscape exploded with living mountains. Of all luring environments, Rio de Janiero stands out as South America's glittering jade in the sand. Also as it's cash cow, which is wearing jade.

We taxied to the airport after landing; old broken airplanes lined the grassy medians - relics of older times. The mountains stood confidently from ground-level, striving, despite the expanding life below them. Clouds hovered above. The postcards hadn't lied.

As is the nature of travel, only a brush stroke of a masterpiece can be seen on my brief journeys. Yet, this stroke inspires a striking curiosity, a spirit of hopeful adventure, and an excuse to drink a lot of the local alcohol and call yourself cultured. Three days was my brush stroke and I crave to return to fill in the clouded background – as well as refill my cup of caipirinha – cane alcohol mixed with your choice of fruit.

Our cab driver didn't know our hotel and circled the streets. I took the opportunity to watch the local life: the old hairy men wearing nothing but stretchy Speedos, the women in less than modest beach clothing, the coconut vendors and shirtless trash collectors with their wooden carts. Though mildly dirty, the tacky atmosphere known in most beach towns was absent. Instead, the scents of wilderness lingered, capturing the ghosts of the first colonies, of disorganization and a slight apprehension, yet compelling in its imperfection. Oh, and did I mention Speedos?

Nathalie, her two French friends, Dimitri and Fabianny, and I met to grab lunch off of Copacabana Beach. Walking down the street opposite the ocean, I snapped photos of trees growing sideways out of the sidewalk – natural benches for the local artisans whose artwork was displayed in a little tented market. The blue horizon blurred, ocean with sky. Across the four-lane road, dark-skinned locals played soccer-volley ball intensely. Although hungry from the trip, I still felt an urge to walk on the sand and gaze thoughtlessly at the powerful picture in front of me. Of course my urge to gorge myself on a seafood buffet was greater and we soon made it to the restaurant.

In three days, the four of us saw five major tourist sites.

1. The Beaches: Copacabana and Ipanema.
2. The lagoon
3. The fort
4. The big Jesus
5. As many restaurants and bars as there are meals in a day.

Merely a glimpse of Rio was all I was allotted on this trip. I spent the majority of the time watching the French speak French, the Brazilians speak Portuguese, and the Spanish wonder what happened to their language.

I had no big adventure, no major epiphanies, no hassles, hang-ups, or hangovers. It was moderately marvelous. I feel like I missed something though, like the party was just about to start. The calmness seemed almost inappropriate for the awing location. It was too luscious to be so serene. Too warm to cause such laziness. Too picturesque to be so populated. It was as if I were visiting the idea of Rio. It's imagined hills, covered in favelas. It's rumored lagoon, circled with joggers and bikers, kids in go carts and fruit vendors on the side. Surreality surrounded me atop the mountain, standing beneath the large Jesus, watching the fog come in and fade his image into a mere shadow. The speckled landscape below became smudged and blurry, blocking any formation of memories. As if Rio preferred to be a forgotten thought, savored only in the moments of being experienced.

On the third night, a monstrous thunderstorm moved over the city as Nathalie and I headed to the airport. The flights delayed a couple hours as the torrents of water washed away all traces of my stay. It could all have been a false memory. It was too perfect to be real. One day I'll go down the looking glass, through the wooden wardrobe, across the river Styx, tackle the jade wearing cash cow, and demand a more realistic vacation.