Am I really that nostalgic that I am listening to, and quoting, Sade? Every time I return from a trip overseas, I think of that headline from The Onion - and I’m paraphrasing here - “Tourist on Vacation Thinks, ‘Hey, Maybe I Could Live Here!’” The trip, like any, was eye opening, beautiful, inspiring, very reflective and alone at times, and jarring.
While driving through a favela in a cab, I resisted the urge to take my camera out. I don’t want to contribute to misery tourism. It’s exploitative and feels like one of those episodes of Vice TV. We were driving through, so it wasn’t that bad of a favela. They’re located far from the south side of Rio, outlining the hills. This favela was in Cabo Frio, right next to the posada (inn) where we stayed. Perhaps this was why the rooms weren’t fully booked.
It was nice to get out of Rio - although I can never get my fill of Ipanema Beach (post 11 was my favorite), seeing the countryside and the way a different town operates was what I really needed.
The trip back from Cabo Frio during was particularly beautiful. So many amazing colors from that strong Brazilian sunshine, behind the outline of Jacaranda trees.
Nothing is described as “weak” in Brazil. Everything is described as “strong.” Strong coffee, strong men, strong football team. The word “weak” is barely ever uttered - very telling of Brazilian attitudes.
I left Rio last night. Travel-nervous and American, I couldn’t help but be slightly panicked before the 2.5 hour ride back. A helicopter pilot gave us a ride, and he was behind the wheel of a very fast car. He drove like a pilot, too. We sped into Rio with time to spare.
In Charlotte, NC I was stopped at security and felt up by a TSA official. They really get in there! The security chick mumbled her canned speech that she was going to use the front and back of her hands. I agreed to everything quickly. Just get it over with, like a scoliosis test.
Two creepy TSA dudes afterward dug through my panties and swabbed down my new Havaianas. They asked me all about the beaches in Brazil, my tan/sunburn, what’s cool in NY, and if I worked out. The bald one grilled me, “Nice arms! Do you do Zumba? Core Fusion?” No, Tracy Anderson. Ugh.
They asked what the giant plastic bag was in my luggage, so I showed them the records I bought: Sade’s Modern Love (I can’t believe I didn’t own it), A Festa Do Bolinha - Trio Esperanca (some early 1960s samba), some awesome 1960s band called The Terribles, and a compilation of Italian 1960s go go songs. I didn’t tell them about the Joao Gilberto record I almost bought for 80 reais - which is about 50 overpriced US dollars. I don’t need vintage records that badly.
Tracks, the record store where I bought these wonderful pieces of plastic, took up most of my afternoon on my last day in Rio. While I was flipping through the stacks in the windowless upstairs area of the record shop, sitting crosslegged on the carpetted floor, I thought about seeing Christ the Redentor, or Sugar Loaf - two of the more famous tourist attractions. It was an amazing afternoon, with perfect weather. But then, I figured I could always come back to Rio. And I will. But in the meantime, I’ve seen City of God.
