The night I wrote the following was a blur of emotions. I'd had an argument earlier in the day. It still resonated in my ears.
I tried to sleep, but couldn't. When this happens, the only thing to do is curl up in bed and rewatch "Breakfast at Tiffany's". Yet I had exhausted it, watching the film twice in as many months. On to the other option to cure the mean reds, "Midnight in Paris".
The opening scene of this movie is perfection. It is idealized in the way that memories are. The rain and the streets swept me back to traveling. To being in Paris for the first time. To the writing I hadn't been doing.
I rolled over and wrote the first thoughts that came to my mind. It was a confusion of emotions, with my anger breaking through at times. The things I didn't understand are evident, though not exactly articulated. I tried to make sense of the confusion of group travel that I had never before experienced.
*****
Group adventures are different than solo ones. You are bound by those around you. Conversation is dictated, yes, but also the method of transportation and the activities. Instead of the glorious stumbling I am used to the surprise glances that show la Tour Eiffel and the Louvre, things here are planned in advance. Spontaneity doesn't exist, even the hour of dining is restricted by the desires of others.
I can't say I hate this. My time here is an undeserved gift and I am here, in a glorious city I never imagine visiting. I have seen, up close, vistas I had never imagined. Walked in sand in a country impossible to me two years ago. Yet I am here. Longing to explore. But kept from it.
Rio is dangerous, you know. The favelas, they are armed. They have grenade and ground to air missiles.., but actually, let's drive through Rocinho. You should, after all visit the favelas while here.
Let's go on a walk by the beach... Only you can't. It's dark. It's not a matter of being robbed, it's a matter of murder. Though this rate is at the lowest it's been in years.
Don't you want to go to the beach. No, not really. I'd rather go shopping. But Rio isn't for that. If not for exploring different barrios, what is a city for. You can't stay cooped up, in a hotel with the view of a white washed wall. You can't keep looking from behind tinted windows. It's oppressive, only traveling in a group of 9 or 11. The freedom is gone, as you suffocate under a language that isn't
yours.
Yet still, from the snapshot I've seen, I love it here. More than any other place. It's not just the summer, it's the grown up beach, the international community you see, the transient quality that doesn't rely on Americans. It is unique, as lunch today tells.
A Marley enthusiast sang us bossa nova, while explaining world peace. Children offered us gum, while we gave them food. A family of Dutch sat across from us. Their 11 blondes tempered by our array of Brazilians, Argentinians and myself. French walked by, babbling away. Rich men in suits strolled by ripped and dirty street vendors. The clash was beautiful. Integrated and respectful.
Each monument shows a view. This is what the city is about. Going to Cristo Redentor is not about the statue, it's about seeing Copacabana and Ipanema from afar, while marveling at the stadium and noticing the stables and horses trotting in the middle of the city.
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| The view from Cristo Redentor. |
Pão de Açucar wasn't about the hills. It is walking along unlit paths, marveling at the lights, the expanse of the favela pouring over a mountain.
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| Pão de Açucar from the plane. |
From every point in Rio, you look out, and you see the rest. In a way that other places cannot compare.
