Fourth of July

Since Ben and I arrived in Brazil, everyone has been as gracious as grandmas in sharing their culture -- particularly their country's food. From street meat to home cooked beans and cachaca liquor to skewered chicken hearts, the foods they feed us have proven to be just as unique as the Brazilians who love them.

With so much food filling our bellies, Ben and I had been wanting to reciprocate some of this hospitably and cook a dish for our friends -- and at their request, to make something really "American!". But short of taking them to McDonald's, we didn't think we had many options. What foods are exclusively American? I mean, we can hardly call pizza, Mexican food and Chinese take-out our own.

But as the calendar flipped toward July, we found the perfect occasion and inspiration for our feast. And on the Fourth of July, we rang in our country's independence thousands of miles away from it by serving some of our culture's cuisine. Because really, what says "America!" better than a good old fashioned barbecue picnic?

We had the will -- next all we needed was a way to make the dishes. There's a reason Brazilians don't know much about American food: they don't have any here. No ranch dressing, no pancake mix, not even peanut butter. Ben and I needed to see what we could whip up with the limited selection of familiar ingredients available. Things were looking pretty grim, and I began to wonder if McDonald's was the only taste of the USA we could provide.

But then the chefs from above waved their magic spatulas and shined hope upon us. About a week before the big day, as Ben and I wandered through a random Japanese market in Sao Paulo, we spotted a jar of Skippy peanut butter. I could have sworn I heard angels singing ... although it was probably just our stomachs growling in harmony at the sight of that simple taste of home. So what if it cost R$15? It was enough to get our USA party started.

With Skippy and Sriracha hot sauce, we were happy enough to take a picture.
Does that make us fat kids?

With the peanut butter, we decided to make PB&J sandwiches -- a snack Brazilians have only heard about like a legend in the movie. Later we found an elusive jar of barbecue sauce, as well as some pickles, which too are hard to come by. From there we finalized our "exotic" menu: bbq chicken with cheddar cheese on top (my family's favorite recipe), potato salad (with homemade relish), deviled eggs, Doritos (which are common here but pretty expensive), bite-sized PB&Js, mashed potatoes (just for fun) and chocolate chip cookies (also very rare here). I also created a fruit salad with alternating rows of strawberries and bananas shaped like the stripes of the American flag. Because hey, if you're throwing an American party, you might as well go all out.

Maria, my friend from Spain who just arrived a few days ago, was a huge help in preparing for the party the day of. We couldn't find any party supplies in town, so she had the idea to make our own streamers by cutting and taping together paper, and coloring them with red and blue stars. Perfect! I found a deck of American-themed playing cards with national monuments and American flags, as well as some dollar bills, which we also taped to the walls. Top that off with hand-drawn fireworks and patriotic eagles, and we were oozing red, white and blue.


During the party, we served our friends the medley of random American foods. Sure, we wouldn't typically serve peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with mashed potatoes, but no one complained. It was all new to them, and they were happy to taste something different. In the end, everyone decided the bbq chicken and potato salad tied for second place, while the PB&Js took first as their favorite food. I guess I sometimes forget how delicious that simply sandwich really is.

I asked everyone to wear red, white and blue to the party. Don't they make great Americans?

As we were cleaning up after the party, Ben and I realized that was the first Fourth of July party we'd ever hosted ... and we weren't even in our own country. But we were happy to share a taste of our home. And it was a good reminder that even though movies and TV make American culture seem pretty mainstream and unexotic to most of the world, there are still some surprises -- many as simple as a PB&J sandwich -- that can impress a culture even as rich as Brazil.

Buses

Much like a washing machine, hair dryer and Ranch dressing, having a car was something Ben and I knew we'd be giving up by moving to Brazil. But having relied solely on public transportation in the past (Australia and England), I knew it wouldn't be too bad. And it really hasn't been. Brazil has enough buses running to get us pretty much wherever we need to go.

But that's not to say Brazilian buses are ordinary. No, in the country that always marches to the beat of its own samba drum, the buses -- like everything else -- offer a one-of-a-kind experience that never fails to make for a good story.

The adventure starts with the bus stops. Unlike other countries that have an overhang or bench noting where you can be picked up, here you just have to look for crowds of people standing around looking like they're waiting for something. The city hasn't devised any sort of timetable for these routes, either, so you just press your luck and hope your bus chugs by. When you do see your bus, you have to vigorously flag it down by sticking out and waving your arm. If you don't, it won't stop (which Ben and I learned the hard way).

Getting on the bus, you board at the back and climb up some stairs to a cashier in a chair. After paying, you have to squeeze through a turnstile -- which is fitting, considering the roller coaster of a ride that's in store.

The first time Ben and I rode a bus in Brazil definitely set the tune for all the rides to come. There weren't any seats, and the only space to even stand was in the very back. It was still summer, and there isn't any AC, so we were baking in heat while surrounded by sweaty people with their arms in the air. Nice. But once the bus started moving, it was hard to concentrate on anything other than holding on.

The driver floored it, sending everyone flying back in their seats like a rocket launch. Then, only a few seconds later, we all flew toward the front of the bus when the driver came to the first stop light. We were violently thrown back and forth like this the entire way. But that was only part of the fun. The driver swerved in and out of traffic like he was behind a motorcycle rather than a giant bus. And being in the back, Ben and I were literally bouncing off our feet in the air with every bump. It was honestly a more thrilling ride than almost any roller coaster I've been on. Just imagine the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland ... except without handle bars, and instead just the actual threat of death. Of course, I loved it.

While we've had a few smoother rides during our time here, each bus seems to be about the same. Ben and I have seen that the drivers will actually race each other from stop to stop, sometimes smiling and joking as they go, other times yelling and shaking fists at each other through open windows. Once our driver even did a burn out when the light turned green. And like the rest of the drivers in Rio, the street laws are optional. Sometimes they stay in their lanes, sometimes they don't. If a car is trying to merge, we don't slow down. He can break if he wants. While Ben and I haven't gotten in any (known) accidents while we were in the bus, we've seen two bus crashes happen before our eyes while walking down the street. None were serious, and everyone acted like it was just another day on the road.

Inside makes from some great people watching, too. Because people can bring beers anywhere they want in Brazil, there always seems to be a group of drunk men riding along with us. Other people listen to headphones -- some of whom choose to sing aloud as they do. My favorite was a young guy who was probably high on drugs (or just high on being a teenager) and sang out loud each word of his music. The best part was that the song was in English, so I got a kick out of hearing how he interpreted the words. Another one of my favorite bus rides was at night leaving the bars. Someone was playing a guitar, and the entire bus, including the driver, sang along.

I wish I could take a picture and showcase the inside of the buses here ... but I was vehemently warned against it. My Brazilian friends told me, and I also read, that buses are a haven for thieves. If a crook sees that you have something nice, like a digital camera, he'll pull a gun and hold up the entire bus. Welcome to my life. It's too bad, because I would love to capture how exciting these rides can be. I guess it just adds to the mystic of it all. Even the buses are exotic in Brazil.

Cristo

Cristo is someone everyone in Rio want to meet up-close.

Cristo -- aka Christ the Redeemer -- is the symbol of Rio, if not the entire country of Brazil. The 100-foot-tall statue is the highest point of the city, and can be seen from almost anywhere in the region. At night, he's illuminated with bright floodlights so he sometimes looks like a man floating in the clouds.

Tourists usually take a tram up the 2,300-foot granite peak to meet him. Locals save some money and drive themselves to the taxi point just below the summit. But Ben and I, we decided to do things a little differently when it was our turn to meet Cristo. We were going to hike to him. Our Brazilian friends told us it couldn't be done, that they've never heard of anyone doing it. But a small sentence or two in my travel book noting the path, as well as a tiny painted sign I'd seen pointing up the mountain, gave us all the confidence we needed.

Our adventure started in Parque Lage, the amazing gardens/natural jungle sprouting at the foot of Corcovado mountain. We'd seen the trailhead before: a tiny wooden post nailed to a tree with "Corcovado" written in paint. Sunday, we finally walked where the arrow was pointing, into the dense jungle of the Atlantic Rainforest.

The sign that started it all.

The first half of the hike -- which was described as "strenuous" in my book -- wasn't bad at all. It carried us on a slight incline, but nothing to put me out of breath. Plus there were beautiful and serene waterfalls trickling all along the way. The only obstacles at this point were a few fallen trees across the path, which we climbed over before carrying on our way. All the while we continued following the sporadic wooden signs, which soon became just spray painted arrows on trees.

About halfway up the mountain, we came to a steep rock with an arrow pointing up right next to it. With a few heaves I was able to get myself up the mini cliff, and expected to continue on the pleasant path. Oh, little did I know that climb marked the end of easy on this adventure. Soon we were climbing mountain sides that were so steep we had to crank back our necks to see where we were going. The tree roots made natural steps, which were giant strides apart. It pretty much became an endless stair master up the side of a cliff.


Needless to say, I was having my ass handed to me. Ben, who has been working out this entire trip, stood ahead of me trying to be encouraging. But my I-don't-want-to-workout-in-Brazil attitude had caught up to me, and heaving my Brazilian beer belly up the mountain was proving to be quite the challenge.

I'd stop to take breaks whenever Ben would let me ... but he said pain comes in waves and I just have to power through ... or something. Luckily there were a few natural stops along the way, including when we were followed by a troupe of monkeys. We'd heard something in the trees, and I was paranoid it was the robbers (which my book had warned me about). After freezing in place to listen, we realized the sounds were coming from overhead, made by monkeys dropping fruits and sticks around us. We said hi to them and took a few pictures. They must have liked it -- or liked making fun of us -- because they followed us all the way up a portion of the trail, literally jumping from vine to vine through the trees.

Later, another kind of smaller monkey provided a welcomed break for us, too. We came across a group of guys hiking back down the hill who had stopped to feed the little monkeys some fruit. They could see we were into the "mikos" too and offered us from fruit to feed them. Now I know you're not supposed to feed wild deer or racoons or bear ... but I think monkeys are OK, at least just once. Ben was even brave enough to reach out and pet one of the little guys, who didn't even seem to care. (I, on the other hand, resisted petting the monkeys with words like "rabies" and "outbreak" and "clawing your face off" flashing in my head).




When the monkeys scampered away, Ben and I continued to summit the side of Corcovado. Right when I was really starting to complain, cuss and generally hate nature, we reached a clearing in the jungle. It was the tram railway -- a supposed tell-tale sign we were getting close to Cristo. But just because we'd reached some civilization didn't mean the hike got any easier. Instead of dirt, we were now scaling a mountain of loose gravel as we continued trudging toward the peak.


Finally, after spiraling around the top of the mountain, we saw the end of the trail: the tram platform. Suddenly it seemed very unauthorized for us to be on the tracks where we were, but we didn't really have much of a choice at this point. We hopped up on the platform right after a tram pulled into the station. We'd made it to civilization!

It was a very strange transition, moving from the exotic and solitary trail to the concrete jungle of tourists and cameras. I told Ben I felt like a castaway who'd just washed up on Cancun beach during Spring break. We were panting and sweating and probably smelly, I'm sure they wondered what was wrong with us.



But soon, all the hard work and awkward moments were worth it when we saw Cristo outstretched above us.



It was amazing seeing him up-close, being able to decipher the details in his face and hands, which are usually just a silhouette in the sky. We also got to see tiny details that can only be discovered in person, like a thin Mohawk of spikes coming out of his head to keep the birds away. The statue towered in the center of platform that you can walk around to get a 360-degree view of Rio. I would have liked to spend a lot longer admiring the statue, view and park ... but the sea of tourists was making me queasy. There were so many people and outstretched cameras it was hard to move at all. After taking a tour around the statue, we ate our packed lunch and started heading back down the mountain.


I wasn't really sure how we were supposed to get back down. The limited literature and advise on the hike did not elaborate on the return. I assume most people hike back down the way they came, but we were too tired, and it was getting dark. So we began trudging back down the paved road of the mountain. About a half hour later we reached the point where public taxis were permitted to drive. We asked for a ride, but they wanted something like $50 just to get down the mountain. I stubbornly said no and told Ben we would just walk. Poor guy.


Well sure enough we started getting tired of walking and nervous about the cars whizzing by. But what choice did we have? That's when Cristo smiled upon us. Out of nowhere two men on motorcycles pulled up next to us. They said they could give us a ride back down the mountain for just $20. Usually, taking rides from strangers is a no-no, especially in a country like Brazil that's known for violent crimes. At first Ben said no and kept walking ... but I was so tired, and the men we persistent in trying to convince us they weren't going to kill us (the did this by lifting up their shirts to show they didn't have guns, and later showing us their taxi licenses). Finally, Ben gave in. The drivers gave us each a helmet before we hopped on the back of their motorcycles.

At first I regretted my decision, and figured they were going to take us down a dirt road and indeed kill us. But after a few more turns, once we started reaching the city again, I figured we would be OK. Then I could enjoy the winding ride down the cobblestone street. After watching the sun set on the city, we reached Lapa at the bottom of the mountain. The guys let us off right where we asked them, and even let me take a picture before whizzing off on their merry way.


As Ben and I sat down at a bar for a celebratory beer, we could not believe the adventure we'd just had, and all we conquered. It was a feeling better than any air-conditioned tram ride or taxi could ever give.

Football

To say football isn't a religion in Brazil is nearly blasphemous itself. This game (known as soccer to everyone Stateside) is sacred to this country. Fans wear their favorite team's jerseys with the same holiness as a cross around their necks. They use plastic chairs instead of church pews, worshiping the game's broadcast from bars every Wednesday and Sunday night. And when their team wins, the fans rejoice like they've just made it into heaven.

Our Brazilian friends have told us about the country's obsession with the sport since we arrived, and described the fervor of the fans. Beyond politics and music and celebrities, nothing stirs patriotism in the country the way football does. It makes grown men openly weep with pride, and is the only reason citizens learn the national anthem -- so they can sing along before each game.

And this lifestyle carries far beyond the field. Your team of choice can define lifelong allies or enemies among strangers, friends and even countries. If someone else is a fan of your team, no matter how rich or poor he may be, you'll become best friends during the match. On the other hand, an insult toward one team will often be answered with physically retribution by the offended fan, whether he's a passerby or your own boss.

Games played abroad define international relations, too. I asked Sabrina about Brazil's relationship with Argentina, a country Brazilians always seem to snub their noses at. I asked if it was the history of wars against each other that's led to this disdain. She said no one cares about the battles. Instead, the resentment grew from one country's football team beating the other during some important match years ago. The countries have been rivals ever since.

Last week, Ben and I got to sneak a peak of some of this zeal after one of the biggest games of the year, the Cupo do Brasil, or Brazil Cup. It was down to just two teams: Coritiba from the south and Rio's own Vasco.

We were at Sabrina's house for a birthday party, and like every other house in the country, their TV was on and tuned in to the game. I wasn't watching much, but I didn't need to have my eyes on the screen to know when a goal was scored. Not only did the announcer light up with the famous "gooooooooooooooal!", but the entire city literally began cheering. It sounded just like we were there at the stadium. People ran out on their balconies to scream "Vasco!" as loud as they could while others sprinted down the streets, shouting and waving flags. The only thing that could drown out the cheers were the celebratory fireworks booming in the air all around.

Ben and I had to leave before the end of the game. But even though we were on the bus, we knew the minute the game was over. Suddenly, the streets filled with seas of people, all screaming and waving Vasco flags in the air. They ran, cheered, clapped, kissed and jumped all around us. Even the bus driver got in the action, tooting the horn with rhythmic honks as we drove through the crowds. It was a little scary, seeing these flash mobs come to life seemingly out of nowhere. Still, maybe I should have made like a true Brazilian and joined in the fun.

Dogs

One day at a local beach bar, while sipping a beer and eating a snack, I felt something brush by my leg. I looked under the table to find a dog starring back at me. I'd seen this pooch earlier that day, running up and down the shore through the waves. He was pretty cute, with blonde fur and a curvy tail. But one thing was missing -- he didn't have a collar. And if a dog doesn't have a collar in Brazil, it means it doesn't have a home. He was a street dog, one of the hundreds Ben and I have seen in the country since we arrived.

While we're surrounded by beauty and culture in Brazil, the troves of homeless animals are part of the country that isn't advertised in travel brochures or send home on postcards. Like in Mexico or parts of Europe (and probably lots of other place I haven't been to yet), there are tons feral animals living in the city.

The most common of these street-bound critters are dogs. Most are medium-sized and so mixed you can't tell what kind of breeds might be in them. There are also a lot of cats. Sadly, it's not uncommon to see these guys rummaging through garbage cans, sleeping in the shade or roaming the streets.

This kitty was in Lapa in Rio.

Yet furry animals aren't the only ones living without a home. The strangest street animal I've seen was a big, pink, feral pig. I thought I was crazy the first (and only) time I saw him rooting through the trash. At first I thought it was a giant, ugly dog, but then I caught a glimpse of its squished face and curly tail just before the bus passed it completely. Sabrina confirmed I wasn't crazy - phew - and that the pig is part of a hog colony that's been living in the neighborhood for more than a decade. They're just another type of animal that got away from its owner and learned to live on the street.

It's a sad situation that, at first, I thought Brazilians were cold-heartedly indifferent to. But soon, I was happy to realize that just because these animals don't have an owner doesn't mean they're not loved.

The five street dogs living in a pack behind a friend's apartment have a village of wooden dog houses the neighbors set out for them. At one abandoned house where a cat's been living with her kittens, someone provides food and blankets for the furry family. And I constantly see people at restaurants casually throw passing pooches bits of their food, including the restaurant workers.

Feeding some of our furry friends.

And the animals seem to love people right back. I've gotten to know some of the dogs in my neighborhood, which will trot up to my side and brush by me for a pat on the head before going along their merry way.

While I know the animals would have a better life with an owner -- and that their lives aren't easy or without trials -- I don't know if their lifestyle is quite as doomy and gloomy as I first suspected. If the homeless street dog at the beach is any comparison, they might even be happy.

After I found the dog sitting under the table, I said hello to him. He must have liked the attention, because he then plopped his head right in my lap. He wasn't begging for food, but instead just saying hi back. Ben and I fell in love, of course, and gave lots of pets, a bit of our food and a name: Seabiscuit.

Later, while we were walking back to the bus, we realized the dog was following us. Soon he was trotting right by our side. We thought he'd fallen for us, too. It was right around the time we were deciding how we could keep him and bring him home with us that Seabiscuit veered across the street toward the police station.

A few of the officers had come outside and were already down on their knees petting and playing with the dog. He gave them kisses on the face and wagged his tail like they were his best friends. A few minutes later, the dog was met by a passing surfer with the same shared enthusiasm.

Seabuscuit and his friend playing at the beach.

Now, we see Seabiscuit every time we go to the beach. And every time he's jaunting from person to person, saying hi and getting pets, before running back to play in the waves.

Itacare

Right when the world was about to end -- the day before Harold Camping had slotted for the rapture -- Ben and I found paradise. It's in Brazil, in the Northern state of Bahia, in a small town of 20,000 called Itacare. We arrived one day before the predicted judgement day, but it didn't take long for us to wonder if we'd already died and gone to heaven. With curvacious palm trees growing in white sand, and freshwater rivers babbling down waterfalls into the crystal ocean, the place looked like a too-good-to-be-true photoshopped postcard.

We were lucky Sabrina and her friend Carol let us in on the secret of this paradise. Itacare hasn't been established as a major tourist spot, and is even off the map for most Brazilians. I'm not sure how Sabrina and Carol knew about it. But when TAM airlines was having a sale to the region, they said we MUST to go with them. They squealed when we hit the "purchase" button, like they'd just won tickets to Hawaii. Little did I know it was even better than that.

The four of us arrived to Iheus, Bahia, into a small airport. We rented a car and were soon driving out of the city, over rivers and finally along the palm-tree clad coast. After an hour 1/2 of roads that rivaled a roller coaster, we turned on the main drag (and one of the only streets) of Itacare.

Our first taste of paradise was the pousada, a Brazilian bed and breakfast, where we decided to stay. Walking through the wooden gate revealed a little Eden of its own, with lush palm trees and flowering plants draping leaves over a pool and sun chairs. Our room had a balcony with a hammock, where we could hear the chatter of tropical birds throughout the day and night. It was a fitting home base between all the beautiful beaches.

The first of the line-up of heavenly shores was Resende beach. A small path led through towering palm trees to the secluded cove. There wasn't anyone there, except one or two women laying down in the small waves to sunbath (or just look sexy). Standing on a few nearby rocks and tidepools, we had a perfect view of two other small palm-treed beaches. Without much time before the sunset, we drove back to Concha beach, about two blocks from our pousada. We took a dip in the warm ocean waters before enjoying a beer and watching the sunset from a look-out point over the sea. And that was only the first hour or two of being in Itacare.





The rest of the weekend led to one breathtaking beach after the next. We spent most of Saturday at Patizeiro beach, a seemingly endless stretch of black and white sands -- which blew over each other to create swirly patterns -- all set between the rhythmic ocean and lush jungle. The highlight of this paradise was the freshwater waterfall tucked in the corner of it all. Clean water trickled down the black rocks in a fountain more beautiful than you could ever make by hand.




While not every beach had a waterfall, there seemed to be rivers flowing at just about every one we went to. One of them had a reddish orange tint, which Ben said was dyed from the plants in the water, while another one was so deep at points you could dive in. Not only were these rivers gorgeous, but we had a blast splashing in the ocean and then floating in the freshwater.


Along with the first smallish waterfall we found, there were plenty of big ones in the area, too. Cachoeira do Tijuipe was a massive, broad fall in the jungle just near the beach. We heard the roar before we actually saw the water, but it wasn't enough to scare us from jumping in. There was a rope leading across the bottom of the falls. In certain places we had to hold on tight so we didn't wash down the rest of the river. Other parts were more calm, where we could sit on a rock right under the crashing water or jump into a deep pool.




On our second full day in Itacare, the four of us ventured on a "short" hike along a three-beach melody. But this jaunt proved to be an adventure in itself. The path lead us along a river (and a waterfall, which we later played in, of course). It then curved into a windy, narrow path along an ocean cliff. I might have been nervous by the view if I wasn't looking at my feet the whole time. Because of recent rain, the entire dirt path was turned to a muddy slip 'n' slide that had me tense with every step. I took off my sandals for better traction, but had to endure goop so deep it squished up to my ankles. Some surfers had laid palm fawns along the way, but these only added to the icky textures of the journey. It was gross -- but I loved it nonetheless. And it made the end of our hike even that much more rewarding.



About an hour later we were at a private beach. The only people there were a few surfers in the waves and a woman selling coconuts. We spent the morning and afternoon swimming, drinking from and eating coconuts and exploring.


After these long days in the sun, we relaxed at night with walks down Itacare's main drag, which was full of craft shops, restaurants and bars. We ate delicious food for next-to-nothing, and drank huge caiparinha drinks made from fresh fruit on the spot for just a few dollars. The locals didn't speak any English, but in true Bahia style everyone was so friendly and relaxed it's amazing they get any work done at all.



The only downside of our trip was that it did rain a lot. About half the day was sunny and then pouring showers. We didn't let it stop us for a second, though, and would just swim in the ocean (where we didn't care about getting wet) until the sun came out again. The weather was to be expected during the winter off-season, but it was definitely worth fairing. Because when the sky cleared, the sun lit up the amazing oceans, beaches, waterfalls and sand -- which we had all to ourselves. Our own paradise.

Samba

Like French fries and ketchup or cookies and milk, Brazil and samba go hand in hand. Yes, you can enjoy the country without it, but the gyrating dance and snappy music add the extra spice that makes it all so delicious. And Brazilians make sure there is always plenty to go around. From the samba groups taking to the streets during Carnival to the elderly couples shaking their hips on a porch, the music and its lifestyle are everywhere. Yet if samba is the blood pumping through the city, the heart beating the way is in Lapa. This Rio barrio is the hangout for all the of the city's artists, musicians, dancers, partiers and all-around interesting characters, who fuse together to create a samba explosion almost every night of the week. It's a delicacy of the country I got to experience firsthand Friday when Ben and I decided to spend the weekend in the famed neighborhood.

With Lapa about an hour and a half away from Itaipu by bus, we decided to book a hostel to fully kick back and enjoy the night. Not only did the cheap stay give us a great home-base, but it also introduced us to some other fabulous gringos to enjoy the festivities with. We met Ericka from Phoenix and Annali and Terry from New Zealand while relaxing by the pool, and quickly made plans to spend the night hitting the streets together. As with every calm before the storm, the night started off quietly with pizza and beer at a downtown boteco (the inexpensive neighborhood bars you can find on nearly any corner in Brazil). After dinner we found ourselves at Lapa's Friday night street fair, filled with beer and meat vendors galore. By now the streets that were hushed only hours ago were raging with people of all ages, colors and styles. The roads were closed to cars, letting everyone meander, with drinks in hand, to surrounding bars or simply to others socializing in the street.

The street fair under the arches

It was outside the famed Boa Bar that we found our first samba experience. The corner bar had its ceiling-to-floor windows open all the way, where passersby could stop and enjoy the live music without paying to go inside. Being the budget travelers we are, we grabbed a spot within earshot of the band, bought a cheap bucket of ice and beer and were swept into the samba scene. Next to us, two girls in their 20s danced with a bald guy in his 50s. These odd pairs kept popping up all around. With samba, it doesn't seem to matter your age or creed -- but instead just how quickly you can move your hips and feet.

The music has a fast but steady tempo that people seem to try and hit note-for-note with their bodies. One foot taps forward and back around with the other quickly following suit. It almost looks like the dancer is trying to smooch an oncoming army of ants, but all with a rhythm that flows up swiveling hips to a smiling face.

After the band finished its set, our group left the bar to fill up on beer. There, under the city's famous white arches, we ran into an impromptu samba performance. It was just a few men and their drums, but the sounds lassoed a few hips into swinging right there in the street. That's when one of these dancing passersby, a short middle-aged Brazilian, grabbed my hand and pulled me into the mix. I didn't even have time to hand off my camera or beer before he was swirling me in circles and showing me how to move my feet. I tried my best to mimic his ever-changing moves. I've never had much coordination, so I can't imagine I was very good. But my dance partner didn't care, so I didn't either. Before I knew it, another gentleman came over to grab my hand and show off his samba swivel. Moments later a woman from the growing audience threw her husband her purse and sent her feet into a frenzy faster than any I'd seen that night. The music spread like an intoxicating cloud that soon had everyone literally dancing in the streets.

Above: Our samba guys just getting started.
Below: What their following grew to later that night.

We finally needed a break to cool down, and Ben, the gringas and I were pointed toward a side street we hadn't yet explored. Here we found a whole extension of the nightlife that seemed tucked away like a secret only the most locals of locals would know about. The narrow street had cobblestone under foot and strings of flags overhead. To our sides were shabby Victorian homes, colorful graffiti and street art. It was all lined with a market of vendors selling drinks, people playing music and everyone living life in the moment.


Weaving our way through the stream of partiers, we found a site I'd hoped to see during the day: the Escadaria Selaron. This steep staircase is a colorful mosaic work of art. But that night, all we could see were the faces of people decorating the steps all the way to the top. Our group found a perch on a tiered planter by the side of the staircase. We sat there for hours watching this crazy ocean of people flow below us. A steady beat of live samba was played from somewhere in the crowd the entire time. None of us could believe where we were at that moment in our lives. Not only did we find ourselves in Brazil, but among this scene we couldn't have imagined if we'd tried. It's nights like that that spark the dreams of travel in the first place.

Our perch on top of the world