Bom dias; piles of food; danger waves

22-24 Jun 2009

Sucked down the vortex of transit, we've finally arrived in a comfortable spot in Rio. The pounding surf sooths feet and ears, both weary from extended travel. The sea breeze is cool and refreshing, and the lights of the city twinkle on as a few final stragglers finish evening jogs and thought-clearing strolls.
To the north, island mountains resist the tide, majestic and aloof. A freighter skirts a reef, aided by a lighthouse. Far out an oil rig glitters to life, marking the horizon with the glow of industry.
The ocean calls to me; beckons and heralds adventure. More and more my resolve thickens to join a maritime crew for an era. Who knows if I'll ever follow through?
After a night spent on the uncomfortable confines of hard plastic chairs in the terminal--a power-tripping security guard felt the need to wake me up off the floor to enforce his rules--we finally figured out the Portugese cash machines and found a bus to Rio de Janeiro. Portugese is a gorgeous language, mixing the flowers of French with the rigor of Spanish, some Italian charm, a dash of German and the shh of something ancient.
Darkness falls over Copacabana beach backlit by streetlights, and night awakens in Rio. There's a life and vibrancy about port towns that appeals to me, perhaps in a similar vein as the amorphous zeal of academia: the ocean does not allow stagnation. I'm beginning to fall in love with Brazil...

The graceful bulk of Christ the Redeemer statue rises up over Rio with arms extended in welcome. Enormous in proximity, it's an imposing feature atop a sheer hill in the middle of the city. Overlooking the busy beaches and bustling Rues, it's the center of a thriving tourist industry with 30-degree train tracks chugging up through jungle verdure.
Old and young crowd together for a multitude of reasons from pure curiosity to deep religious devotion, and the outspread arms of Jesus envelope all with (we hope) no predispositions. The wind buffets this exposed peak, and far below, Rio spreads peacefully.
It's a city I could grow to adore, with beautiful beaches, gorgeous women, and a lovely language, organized well and lacking much of the hopelessness of many South American cities. People work here; salesfolk let their wares sell themselves; and a greater variety of goods abounds.
Of course, there is still crime, and we were accosted on the beach in the evening by a "jogger" who turned out to be strapped. Fortunately we had been wise enough to bring only flipflops and books, neither of which hold much appeal for such slimy limbless leeches.
If I could find a source of income, I could easily pass many happy days here. I wonder how many times I've written a variation of that sentence in this book.

We head to an all-you-can-eat spot for dinner with some folk from the hostel, which proves to be my best meal yet in SA. Waiters scoot around with skewered meats, stopping by to carve slices. Beef, elk, chicken hearts, sausage, lamb, and various others vie for space with creamy vegetable dishes, cheesy rice, sushi rolls, okra, eggplant, marinated hard-boiled eggs, stews, fried bananas, and more. My mouth waters thinking about the gluttony-appeasing spread, and I long to overindulge myself once again.

On Copacabana beach, Marco of Sweden and I try body-surfing on the large waves until the roiling breakwater deposits me face-first into the hard sand. It looks like I've been punched by a south-paw, and Jess promptly makes fun of me for mirroring BMock. While I stifle a headache, we stroll along toward Ipanema beach, which is not as nice because the buildings are closer to the water.

Marco has a conversation with an Argentinian expat who no longer speaks much Spanish and very little English about buying a sailboat to sail across back to Europe. Rune of Norway talks about finding an apartment in Rio on his next vacation from his job as a money transporter. His charges have self-destructed twice during his career. He's now on his way to a Magic: the Gathering tournament, which after his description sounds like something I should check out again.
Marco convinces me to look into teaching English in South Korea, which he did for four months (and not even a native speaker!). He's perhaps served my salvation from languishing at home either broke or as a waiter, both tail-tucked capitulations. Eff that!